all we see is light - mslilylashes (2024)

Chapter 1: you will be found

Chapter Text

We may not yet have reached our glory,
but I will gladly join the fight.
And when our children tell their story,
they’ll tell the story of tonight.

Have you ever felt like nobody was there?
Have you ever felt forgotten, in the middle of nowhere?
Have you ever felt like you could disappear —
like you could fall, and no one would hear?
Found/Tonight — Ben Platt & Lin-Manuel Miranda

Wide blue eyes gaze up at Dean from the photo pinned to the folder that Charlie has just dumped unceremoniously on his desk. He blinks sleepily at the grainy image of the haunted-looking omega holding a placard with his identification number on it just below his chin. It looks like a mugshot, which is depressingly appropriate.

‘Good morning to you too, Charles,’ he says dryly, reaching for the coffee cup she deposits on his desk next, now that she’s startled the sh*t out of him with her abrupt entrance. Dean’s known her long enough to know that if she’s made him coffee, it almost always means she’s about to ask for something big. Ten years as best friends, the last six working closely together at The Roadhouse, his family’s business, means he’s had more than enough experience with the doomsday prepping necessary to withstand Hurricane Charlie. ‘You know we’re not due to review intake profiles until the end of the month… you’re two and a half weeks early here, kiddo.’

He sets his mug back down a bit too abruptly, causing the coffee to slosh up over the rim. Charlie huffs when she sees him start wiping it up with his sleeve, then seems to magic a bakery bag from thin air, which she deposits next to the coffee mug.

Dean groans and salivates in equal measure when he peeks inside — it’s a cherry pastry from the good bakery across town, which means this is not only something big, it’s something pain-in-the-ass-about-to-take-over-your-entire-life big. A waterfall of crumbs cascade down onto his shirt from the resigned bite he takes, but he just brushes them away with a distracted hand before picking the file back up and continuing to skim the paper clipped pages.

‘He might not have another two weeks, handmaiden,’ Charlie says, impatiently pulling the packet of papers from his hands and flipping to a page about halfway back. She points to the part of the intake form that says HISTORY in bold letters.

Suddenly no longer tired, Dean’s eyes fly across the page, the few bites of pastry he’d crammed in his face turning to lead in his stomach.

‘The only survivor?’ he asks weakly once he’s finished reading the blue-eyed omega’s truncated history. How the intake team managed to fit an entire horror show into just a few brief sentences, he’ll never know. Part of him hopes they’d done it on purpose, exaggerated the circ*mstances to make it seem more dire and try to convince him to take on a special case, but deep down, he knows they wouldn’t. Deep down he knows that the world is exactly as cold and cruel a place for omegas as the words on the page describe.

Charlie nods grimly. ‘And that’s only because he was lucky enough to have been locked outside in the woodshed when the brothel burnt down. Apparently he’d been out there for several days… When emergency services finally showed up and searched the premises, he was chained to the floor and half-dead. That’s what’s taken so long — our people have been fighting with the Department of Equity and Assets,’ the look on her face when she says this is pure disgust, ‘to try to negotiate the sale, because he’s been seriously f*cked up and in the omega centre’s sick ward. Pamela had to go in kicking and screaming and with your brother on speed dial to keep them from euthanising the poor guy.’

Dean feels sick. ‘Jesus,’ he says, forcing back a wave of nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. He pushes his breakfast away from himself. He has a strong stomach — he has to in this line of work — but this is definitely one of, if not the worst case he’s ever seen. ‘Do we know anything else about him? Any family lookin’ for him?’

His heart sinks when Charlie shakes her head. ‘I tried hacking the Fed’s records, but what little I could gather is spotty at best. He first appeared in the system about ten years ago, and he was eighteen at the time, but other than that, it’s like he’s a ghost. His profile with the DOEA says his name is ‘Steve Allen’, but when I cross reference that with the Omega Registration database, there’s no omega with that name and birthdate. If I had to guess, I’d say someone created a fake identity for his bill of sale, and you know what that means.’

Dean does know what that means. Omegas in the system with fake names and birthdays and other identifying information were usually sold illegally — either before the legal age of eighteen, or because they were kidnapped or trafficked. The frequency with which they see cases like this is both infuriating and heartbreaking.

‘Well, alrighty, then,’ he says, looking down at the photo of the omega again, this time really taking in how utterly, utterly defeated the man looks. ‘What d’ya need from me? Approval for an off-cycle intake? That’s probably more Ellen or Jody’s call than mine.’

‘So… here’s the thing…’ Charlie shoots him that look that means she knows she’s about to say something he’s not going to like. ‘I already got the boss ladies’ okay for intake, but the problem is that since it is an off-cycle case, there isn’t space for him at The Roadhouse. We’re at max capacity, and after the most recent round of refugees from the last firebomb attack, even the contingency safe houses are filled to capacity. We literally can’t take another single person, or we’ll be fighting the fire department, Department of Health, and every pro-slavery institution who’d love to nail us for a code violation. You know that asshat, Zachariah Adler, has been looking for any excuse to cause trouble and shut us down.’

‘Okay…’ Dean says slowly, still not understanding what she’s leading up to. ‘So I’ll ask again: what do you need from me?’

There’s a few beats of silence that Dean doesn’t care for at all, before Charlie shoots him a sidelong glance and asks casually, ‘Well… you never did end up getting a roommate after Sam moved out, did you?’

Dean groans.

Chapter 2: dirty hands, open graves

Chapter Text

It takes all of thirty seconds for Dean to decide that he hates the omega centre — he imagines that if he believed in Hell, this is exactly what it would look like.

The whole place is dark and dreary, cinderblock walls painted dishwater grey, and the entire place reeks of pain and sickness and despair. It’s no wonder that most of the guards are betas — layers upon layers of the smell of unhappy omegas is enough to make Dean need to fight the urge to vomit the moment he steps through the prison-grade security doors.

Despite the very obvious atmosphere of misery, the entire space is deathly quiet. It takes Dean a minute to realise that that is likely because the rooms are soundproofed, and he gets sick all over again imagining why.

‘Ah, Mr… Winchester, was it?’ Dean hears from somewhere behind him, along with the sound of approaching footsteps that might as well be gunshots in the eerie silence of the omega centre’s vestibule for how they make Dean jump.

Recovering as quickly as he can, Dean plasters a look of bored indifference on his face that makes him hate himself a little, and turns to face the newcomer. He assesses him coolly, hesitating just long enough before replying to give the other man time to squirm in his cheap suit and department store shoes. ‘Indeed.’

He doesn’t offer more than that, leaning into the arrogant alpha persona that is so vital in situations like these, and it seems to work. The man visibly swallows before forcing a nervous, but schmoozy smile on his face.

‘Bartholomew Harrington, Mr Winchester,’ he says, extending his hand towards Dean, clearly trying to win Dean over with his smarmy used-car-salesman charm. ‘So very pleased to meet you.’

‘Hm,’ is all Dean says in response, but he does shake the man’s hand, squeezing just a bit harder than he normally would. He smirks when he sees Bartholomew shake his hand out a little once Dean lets him go. ‘I trust my secretary sent the details of my request ahead of time?’

(Charlie would kill him dead if she ever heard him refer to her so dismissively. Dean eyes the tablet in Bartholomew’s hand, wondering what the chances are that she’s hacked her way in and is watching them right now. He figures they’re about 50-50.)

‘Oh, ah- yes, of course. Omega 9180401,’ Bartholomew says, consulting the tablet. ‘He’s been brought to the inspection room, though I should warn you ahead of time — he’s quite a bit older than most of our inventory, and he does have several physical defects. All cosmetic, I assure you — nothing that would interfere with his functionality — but some of the scarring on his back is rather… unsightly. You might prefer one who’s fresh on the market. We have several newly presented-’

Dean bristles at the way the man’s lip curls in disgust as he says this — as though the omega having scars is something to hold against the poor guy. ‘I think I’ll be the judge of what I do or don’t prefer, thanks, Bart,’ he interrupts, holding up an impatient hand. ‘Just show me St- Omega whatever-the-hell-number you just said.’

‘Yes, sir, of course,’ Bartholomew says, ushering Dean towards a glass door off the main lobby area.

They step through one set of doors into a small waiting room-type area with a few chairs, a table, and a television monitor hanging in the corner, showing a split-screen view of the next room from several different angles. On the opposite wall, there’s a tinted window that looks into the same room, which appears to be a mix of a doctor’s office and a medieval torture dungeon.

‘Two-way mirror,’ Bartholomew explains, when he notices Dean taking in his surroundings. ‘It’s a bit redundant, considering the cameras, but in certain situations, we can administer any punishments or procedures right in the inspection room. We’ve found that many buyers prefer to watch live and in colour, rather than through a screen.’

Sick f*cks, Dean thinks venomously, but what he says instead is, ‘Well, when are you going to bring him in?’

‘Oh, he’s ready and waiting for you,’ Bartholomew informs him, pointing through the window to what appears to be a f*cking cage off to one side of the room that's been bolted to the wall and floor, as though any poor schmuck stuck inside would have any chance of escape otherwise.

Dean squints and sees that there is, in fact, the vague outline of a man hunched over inside the too-small space.

Jesus.

‘Well, let’s not keep ’im waitin’, then, I guess,’ he says gruffly, going to wait by the second set of doors. Hurrying over, Bartholomew opens it with his keycard, and then they’re inside, Dean already bracing himself for whatever new hell is about to unfold.

The moment he steps into the ‘inspection room’, however, something inside him shifts; an earthquake in his bones, the aftershocks leaving him momentarily breathless. He wonders if it’s like this every time for Benny and Bobby and Jody when they facilitate a sale. If it is, he owes them all a drink. Several, in fact, because this is f*cking awful.

There’s a guard in the room already, and at Bartholomew’s command, he unlocks the cage and barks a few harsh words. A moment later, a trembling, emaciated figure emerges, crawling out on his hands and knees like a goddamn dog. He doesn’t look up once, just passively crawls over to where Dean and Bartholomew are standing, pausing only long enough for the guard to roughly cuff his hands behind his back, then settles into a kneeling position, head still bowed.

The first thing Dean notices about the omega (after he pointedly does not think about how very, very broken the poor guy looks), is the outline of the gigantic black angel wings tattooed on his back. He’s seen omegas with tats before — everything from intricate, swirling designs meant to make them seem exotic and alluring, to downright obscene and offensive words inked into their skin as a permanent reminder of how dehumanised they are, as though anyone would ever need to be reminded.

Dean’s buddy, Benny, is an ex-slave himself — one of the rare alphas who’d been forced into the trade —and works with The Roadhouse as a reintegration specialist to help omegas regain their personhood and rejoin society as free people. He’s also made quite a name for himself as an incredible tattoo artist, and once a month, he donates an entire weekend to The Roadhouse solely for tattoo coverup or removal. Benny’s a goddamn wizard when it comes to sh*t like covering up scars or tattoos that remind the omegas of the horrors they’d survived, so much so that an entire wall of his shop is plastered floor to ceiling with photos, cards, and letters of thanks from omegas who have sat in his chair.

Even Benny wouldn’t be able to do anything to cover these tattoos, though, because they’re enormous. The wings start between Steve’s shoulder blades, arcing up to his shoulders, then stretching down to the waistband of the pitifully flimsy scrub-like pants that the omega is swimming in — the only clothing that the compound allows the omegas to wear.

Dean has to admit that the tattoos are beautiful, the outline of each feather delicate and precise. Even though they’re not shaded in, they’re still so realistic that Dean’s almost surprised they’re not rippling in the breeze from the compound’s AC that seems to be going full friggin’ blast, despite the fact that it's only early spring and still pretty chilly outside. Dean’s nearly shivering himself, so he can only imagine how cold Steve must be.

The most heartbreaking part, however, is how much the damage tattoos have sustained, their intricate artwork interrupted by the thick or shiny white skin of healed scars. There are so many that litter the expanse of the man’s back that it’s almost as though the wings have been shredded. Dean hates to admit it, but Bartholomew hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that there was substantial scarring on the omega’s back. It makes Dean want to light the entire place on fire, as ironic as that may be.

Trying to tamp down on the electric current now coursing through his veins, Dean forces his face to remain impassive as Bartholomew immediately begins listing Steve’s ‘skills’ with obscene transparency. Steve doesn’t move a muscle, makes no indication he’s heard anything at all, even when the slimy son of a bitch asks Dean if he’d like to ‘sample’ any of these ‘functions’ before finalising his purchase.

‘He doesn’t speak much, but he’s not a modified mute,’ Bartholomew explains, walking over and cruelly nudging Steve with the toe of his shoe. ‘Think he’s just a goddamn idiot, to be honest, though if you’d like, we’d be more than happy to perform vocal chord alterations before releasing him — or any other procedures you might be interested in, for that matter. Our on-site doctor is one of the top omega modification specialists in the state.’

‘Abso-f*cking-lutely not,’ Dean snaps, before he can help himself. At the look of surprise on the other man’s face, he forces himself to plaster that asshole expression back on, though this time it’s considerably harder to maintain. ‘I mean- I like the noises they make when I- uh- you know.’

This is very quickly becoming a goddamn disaster, so he tries to look a bit bashful, and hopes that maybe that’ll convince these asshats that he’s just bedroom-shy or something. He pointedly does not look at Steve when he says this, because if he sees the omega reacting to his awful, disgusting words, he just might lose his nerve.

‘Of course, of course,’ Bartholomew says, giving Dean an honest to God lecherous wink, like they’re friggin’ locker room buddies or some sh*t. ‘Well, in that case, let me show you what you can expect from this one. Present, omega!’ he barks.

At Bartholomew’s order, the guard shoves Steve forward, even as Dean’s shaking his head, profoundly uncomfortable with the entire situation, because this is not what he’d intended to happen. Steve struggles to comply, spreading his knees further apart, but still unable to regain his balance without the use of his hands.

Dean wants to point this out to these idiots, but before he can say a word, the guard presses a button on what looks like a key fob, and Steve lurches forward, somehow still on his knees, but only just. Dean sees the wasted muscles of his arms flexing against the cuffs around his wrists, the scent of sorry sorry sorry filling the small space like one of those stupid ‘Axe-bombs’ that Sammy used to throw into Dean’s bedroom when they were kids. It’s not until he hears the quiet, keening noise escaping from behind the omega’s clenched teeth, and sees the way he’s nearly vibrating at his feet that he realises that the guy’s been fitted with a goddamn shock collar.

‘Are you f*cking crazy?!’ Dean snaps before he can help himself, yanking the remote from the guard’s hand and pressing the red X button that he hopes turns the wretched thing off. ‘He’s got on metal f*cking handcuffs.’

‘He’s being disobedient,’ the guard grunts, not bothered in the least. He winds one of his stupid, meaty hands into Steve’s hair, yanking him upright again. Dean imagines wrapping his hands around this douchenozzle’s throat.

Dean means to tell the guy to stay in his lane, to leave discipline to him, or whatever other asshole rich-bitch nonsense some piece of sh*t who buys slaves would say, but instead what comes out is a low, dangerous growl and the word, ‘mine,’ laced with every bit of feral, possessive, alpha energy he’s tried to suppress his entire life.

He freezes, blinking in surprise at himself, but the guard and Bartholomew don’t notice the break in character, because they’re both backing away with their hands in front of them, palms out — a clear attempt at showing they’re no threat… to him. He scoffs.

‘I want the Transfer of Ownership paperwork and the release code for that bullsh*t collar in my hands in the next ten minutes,’ Dean demands, raising his chin just enough that he’s looking down his nose at these weak, sycophantic little men like the scum they are. He even shows his teeth in what is clearly not a smile, positive that his eyes have gone red, because by now, even he can smell the rage wafting off of him in waves.

It all wraps up fairly quickly after that.

Once Dean signs the bill of sale and the omega is officially his ‘property’, his fingerprints are scanned into the DOEA’s database. The fact that his name has now joined the long, long list of assholes who think it’s okay to own another human being makes him feel ill, but he tries to remind himself it’s just a means to an end.

Finally, finally, finally, all the T’s are crossed and I’s dotted, and they leave Dean the f*ck alone with ‘his’ omega. Still trying to avoid suspicion, Dean doesn’t say too much directly to him, other than asking him to bow his head to give Dean access to the fingerprint scanner on the back of that hateful shock collar.

Steve obeys without hesitation, though Dean does notice the way his breathing quickens. It doesn’t slow again, even after Dean has swapped the shock collar out for a simple leather band. He doesn’t think about the fact that the damn thing will only unlock by scanning his fingerprint or that it’s his information loaded into the embedded microchip, making it far too similar to the omega centre’s shock collar for his liking.

He has to lead Steve out of that hellhole on a leash, but at least he’s able to allow the man to walk out like a human f*cking being, unlike how he’d been made to crawl around the inspection room like a dog, because like it or not, Steve now belongs to Dean, and Dean wants to give the poor guy at least a sliver of his dignity back. He doesn’t miss the way Steve immediately goes to wait by the trunk of the Impala when they reach his car, nor the way his face betrays his surprise when all Dean does when he opens it is unclip the leash, unlock the handcuffs, and throw them both inside, wishing he could throw them right in the goddamn lake instead.

Eyeing Steve’s bare chest and feet, and the way he’s trembling in the cool air, Dean pulls a t-shirt from one of the duffles he takes to the gym on the rare occasions he goes and awkwardly holds it out to Steve. ‘Uh… sorry, this is all I got on me right now,’ he says, embarrassed. ‘I didn’t, uh- I thought they’d at least let ya- I mean- Couldja just throw that on for me for now, ’n once we get home, I can getcha into somethin’ more comfortable? I’d offer ya my gym socks too, but, uh- ain’t nobody wanna be forced to suffer through that. Maybe I can find a blanket or somethin’ for ya to wrap around your feet for the time being…’

Impervious to Dean’s babbling, Steve just nods and accepts the shirt, slipping it over his head without question. He somehow manages to not make a face, even though Dean’s positive that the thing don’t exactly smell like a bed of roses.

Dean shifts uncomfortably in place for a moment, but the omega still doesn’t say anything, so he sighs and leads Steve around to the passenger side of the car, unlocking his door. Realising that he needs to give the guy at least a little more to go on, he gestures towards the car and says, ‘Just, uh- go ahead and climb in; I kind of can’t wait to see this place in my rearview mirror.’

Steve hesitates, like he’s unsure of what to do when faced with the open car door, but then he takes a tentative step forward and begins to fold himself down into the footwell. It should be far too small a space for a grown man to squeeze into, and the fact that Steve seems to not only fit, but to be familiar enough with the action to make it seem natural makes something in Dean’s chest ache.

‘Oh wait, no,’ Dean says. Steve freezes, fearful blue eyes flicking up to meet his just for a split second before flying back down to the ground. Dean hurries to add, ‘You don’t gotta do that,’ making a vague gesture towards the floor of the car. ‘The seat works just fine, s’long as you make sure you, uh- y’know, buckle up for safety or whatever.’

He sounds like an idiot and he knows it, but there’s nothing he can do about that now. He just wants to get the hell away from this awful place, so he waits for Steve to nervously scoot up onto the seat and reach for the seatbelt before he carefully closes the door and makes his way around to the driver’s side.

Forcing himself to take a deep, steadying breath before climbing inside, Dean reminds himself that this is all just temporary. They just gotta get through the next two weeks, and then the guy can move into The Roadhouse. Dean can last two weeks.

He hurries to turn the car on so the heat can get going, then reaches into the backseat to grab his ‘security blanket’, as Charlie calls it, from another duffle. Making a mental note that he really needs to make time to clean out his damn car, he drags the quilt up front.

(Regardless of Charlie’s teasing, it genuinely is one of Dean’s most prized possessions. A few years back, the groundskeeper at The Roadhouse, Cain, and his wife, Colette, had given it to him for his thirtieth birthday. It was extra special, because Colette had made it for him herself, and each panel was designed by staff and both past and present residents. There were a lot of music and car references, but also some books and movies. Right in the middle was a square made from one of John’s old shirts that Sam had brought in, and Colette had embroidered lyrics from Hey Jude, because that had been Mary’s favourite song, the one she would sing to Sam and Dean when they were little. It’s one of the most special things Dean’s ever been given.)

‘Uh, here,’ he says, handing it to Steve and thanking his past self for the all-nighters he’d pulled at The Roadhouse last month that had him sleeping in his office. The quilt had stayed packed in his ‘go bag’ that had never made it back into the house, and even if it could also probably use a wash, Dean figures it’s better than freezing in bare feet and arms. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and cover up with that for now, then we’ll figure out what to do with ya once we get back to the house. S’not too far of a drive.’

Steve doesn’t say anything in response to that, but he does accept the blanket and spreads it nervously over his lap, darting fearful glances over at Dean at every move, like he’s scared to death of making a mistake even with this simple task.

‘Thanks, man,’ Dean says, which sounds kind of stupid to his ears, but when Steve uncoils just the slightest bit, Dean promises himself that if just those two little words provide the guy that much relief, he’ll thank him every time he wipes his ass or puts one foot in front of the other.

‘And we’re off, like a herd of turtles,’ he adds as he shifts the car into drive. From the corner of his eye, he sees something in Steve’s expression flicker, like he might have something to add, but when no response is forthcoming, he just lets out another small sigh and pulls out of the parking space, grateful to be leaving this hellhole behind.

Chapter 3: less of me

Chapter Text

Castiel is terrified.

Purgatory had been… hell, to say the least, but at least there he’d known what to expect. The rules were clear, the consequences clearer. He’d understood his place and his purpose, and he’d understood what fate awaited him once both were deemed no longer necessary.

This new alpha, though… Castiel doesn’t understand him at all. He’d seemed indifferent during the inspection — so much so that Castiel had been certain that he was about to be rejected and sent back to the holding centre. He’d been bracing himself for the inevitable ‘lesson’ from the trainers for failing to appeal to the potential new master, and wondering if he was healed enough to avoid being sent back to the centre’s ‘sick ward’ afterwards.

Only then, the alpha had growled when the guard set Castiel’s collar off and called Castiel his with enough possessive ferocity that not only did the sale go through, but it was finalised minutes, rather than hours.

This in and of itself should have immediately set warning bells off in Castiel’s head, but before he even had time to process that turn of events, Castiel’s new master was removing the shock collar and replacing it with a plain, soft, leather one, and giving him a shirt to wear. It was one of the alpha’s own, judging by the scent of cedar and cinnamon clinging to the fabric — not to mention being allowed to cover up with a blanket, a luxury Castiel hasn’t been granted in years.

Castiel knows he’s done nothing — nothing — to deserve that privilege, so now he has to worry about what kind of sick game his master is playing with him. He’s clearly trying to lull Castiel into a false sense of security, but the problem is that Castiel has no idea why. It’s not like Castiel poses any threat to him at all; the alpha is tall, strong, fearsome, and very obviously wealthy. He could likely afford any slave he wanted, yet he chose one who was cheap, old, and damaged. This doesn’t bode well for Castiel’s longevity — both in the master’s household, as well as on this earth. And that is what has Castiel wound tighter than a two dollar watch.

He doesn’t want to die.

Back in Purgatory, at the very end, he’d been so certain that he was going to die in that woodshed, that he’d finally outlived his utility, and his former alpha was going to leave him out there to either freeze or starve to death. He’d been so dehydrated and feverish that when the first responders team had found him out there, chained to the floor and half out of his mind, he’d thought he was already dead, and that the paramedics were some sort of sentries sent there to guide him into the afterlife.

(It wasn’t until he’d overheard the argument between the omega centre’s doctor and an incredibly loud, angry woman threatening to ‘rain holy hellfire down upon them’ if they ‘put that poor boy down’ that he realised he wasn’t dead yet. In the next breath, he also realised that that might not be the case for long.

He’d listened, paralysed with fear, while the woman called her lawyer and had him threaten to drag the whole institution through what he promised would be a lengthy and widely publicised legal battle, until finally the doctor relented and agreed to not have Castiel killed… yet.)

He’d been well aware that his life was hanging in the balance when they’d told him an alpha was coming to inspect him that day, and that every time a master rejected him, his chances of survival would become slimmer and slimmer.

When they’d first thrown him into that cage in the inspection room, he’d kept himself calm by reminding himself to do whatever the alpha said, no matter how- how painful or degrading or difficult. That there was a very good chance that even if the potential new master was unkind, at least he probably wasn’t evil like Purgatory and its staff and customers, and- and him, Castiel’s last master. That the good about having been found and ‘rescued’ when he was already at rock bottom meant that whatever came next had to be an improvement.

But then he’d been ordered to present, when the alpha said he didn’t want Castiel’s vocal chords cut because he liked the noises omegas made when he f*cked them.

(Okay, so he hadn’t used those exact words, but the meaning was certainly clear enough.)

Castiel had tried to obey, he’d wanted to be good, to show the alpha and the centre that he still had some value, that he was worth keeping alive, only his bound wrists made moving a challenge. Before he could regain his balance, the guard had set his collar off. Still, he’d tried to maintain his posture, even as every nerve ending screamed in protest.

For some reason, though, the alpha didn’t like seeing Castiel punished like that, which is yet another thing that Castiel doesn’t understand. The only reason he can think of is that maybe the alpha prefers to oversee all punishment personally, which almost always means something extremely painful or extremely… strange. Castiel isn’t sure which one to hope for.

And then… then the alpha had called Castiel his, and not half an hour later, Castiel was.

He chances a glance over at his new master from the corner of his eye, and even though he’s had his gaze trained on the floor mat the entire ride, it’s still so surreal to be able to see the master at all. He’s used to being kept in the trunk — with or without a cage — when being transported, save for the few times a master or customer had wanted to use Castiel during the ride.

(Though it hadn’t necessarily been a common occurrence, he’d definitely heard more than his fair share of horrible car ride/sexual ride jokes. In those circ*mstances, Castiel was almost grateful to have been unable or unpermitted to speak.)

This master doesn’t seem to want that, though — at least he hasn’t ordered Castiel to service him while he drives, which Castiel is immediately grateful for.

‘Hey, you don’t get carsick, do you?’ the master asks suddenly, his voice cracking across the tense silence of the car like a whip.

Castiel suddenly feels as though all the moisture in his mouth has evaporated, and all he can manage is a dry, wheezing noise. He has to answer his master’s question, he knows this, but it’s like there’s a lock on his voice box that’s making it impossible. He worries that if he doesn’t respond — and soon — his master is going to regret not rendering him permanently mute, if Castiel isn’t going to show appreciation for the privilege of speech.

(It’s not that he can’t talk — he can. He was once a very good conversationalist, actually, but it’s something about being in an unfamiliar car with a new master that is sending him back to when he was first thrown into the trade. Back when he was still fighting, still convinced someone would find him, save him. Back when his fabricated backstory was literally beaten into him, and every time he was asked ‘what is your name’ and he answered ‘Castiel Shurley’ instead of ‘Steve Allen’, his head was held underwater for longer and longer intervals, until he became convinced that if he didn’t give the trainers what they wanted, they would actually let him drown.

Over time, his fake past life and real past life seemed to blur into one confusing fever dream, so he found it easier to simply not speak. Most masters seemed to prefer that anyway.)

Just as Castiel is beginning to properly panic, already anticipating the alpha’s anger at what can only be seen as obstinance, his master lifts a hand from the steering wheel, but rather than strike Castiel, he smacks himself in the forehead.

‘Oh, sh*t, dude, I forgot what that douchebag at the centre said, my bad,’ he says, sounding almost apologetic. ‘Somethin’ ’bout you having trouble talkin’ or whatever… uh, well- you can always just, like… nod or shake your head if you want. I’ll try to remember to use yes or no questions.’ He lets out a gusty sigh, then asks again, ‘Do you get carsick? I was, uh- just asking’, cos I meant to say if you do, you’re welcome to roll the window down is all. My little brother used to get wicked motion sickness ’n has barfed in this thing more times than I care to remember.’

Still not quite believing that he hasn’t been beaten for failing to answer his master the first time he asked, Castiel gives his head the tiniest shake, relieved when he sees the way this makes the alpha relax slightly and even shoot him what could reasonably be called a reassuring smile.

‘Well thank God for small mercies or whatever the saying is,’ he says easily. ‘I know we don’t know each other all that well, but this car here’s my baby — the only lady who’s stuck by me all these years. I try to keep her dent, damage, ’n puke-free if I can help it.’

Castiel nods his understanding — don’t make a mess in the master’s car, or face severe consequences — and the alpha sighs again, though this time in something closer to contentment. They drive in silence for several more miles, until finally they begin turning onto smaller side streets, eventually pulling into the driveway of a modest, but clearly expensive two-story house.

‘Andddd, we home,’ the master says, then wrinkles his nose in an almost childlike gesture of self-deprecation. ‘My Grandpa Henry used to always say that when we’d get back home. Same with that ‘herd of turtles’ thing. Not a clue why — probably just an old guy thing, to be honest — but I still do it every time. It’s stupid, but it just comes out.’

Unsure of what to do with this information, Castiel nods again, but tries to smile — or at least look like he appreciates being given this information, and is not scared to death of what is going to happen to him once they walk through the front door. He’s slightly less convinced that this alpha has purchased him as a disposable toy, but not entirely. He’s been fooled before, and the disappointment and shattering of hope when being proven wrong has hurt more than any physical damage ever could.

The master pulls the car into the garage and presses a remote on the sun visor to close it again. Castiel tenses involuntarily at the memory of the shock collar, shivering slightly from the phantom pains of being electrocuted.

Unfortunately, even this slight movement draws the alpha’s attention, and he quickly unbuckles his seatbelt while asking, ‘Oh, crap, are you still cold? Here — let’s get you inside so you can get cleaned up and get out of those clothes. I’m sure being stuck wearin’ my smelly gym shirt ain’t exactly a good time.’

He clambers out the driver’s side door and jogs around to the other side. Castiel panics, unsure of what he is supposed to do next — get out or stay put. On one hand, he certainly didn’t expect his master to wait on him like some pampered, spoiled house omega, but on the other, the master had made it clear that his car was precious to him, so he probably doesn’t want his slave touching it.

While he’s frantically trying to figure out what the right move is, his master just opens the door for Castiel like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

This surprises Castiel, but he’s grateful. He hadn’t wanted to make the wrong move before he was even allowed inside the house — that would have been a great way to get himself to not be allowed to set foot inside, and instead left chained up in the yard like a untrained dog.

His master closes the car door behind Castiel, then turns to head into the house without another word. Castiel assumes he’s supposed to follow — the alpha had said he wanted Castiel to go inside to clean himself and strip, presumably to be put to use immediately.

As he follows the other man inside, he sternly reminds himself to just be good for once. He’s being given a fresh start, which is more than he ever imagined he would get, and certainly more than what the omega centre wanted to give him. Provided the alpha doesn’t intend to use him until he breaks, whatever situation Castiel is walking into can’t possibly be worse than Purgatory, and he’d do well to remember that.

‘Home sweet home,’ the alpha mutters with a content sigh when he walks through the door and bends down to begin untying his boots.

Embarrassed to have forgotten even the most basic functions of his training, Castiel hurries forward, the mantra just be good running like a ticker-tape through his mind. He slides to his knees as gracefully as he can and begins removing his master’s shoes for him, hoping the man won’t hold this oversight against him.

‘What the-!’ the alpha begins, taking a step back and staring at Castiel like he’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen. ‘Dude. I can take my own friggin’- I mean- you don’t gotta do- that. That sh*t is not what you’re here for.’

Oh.

There’s always a bit of trial and (usually painful) error when being sold to a new master, and it appears that this alpha doesn’t expect Castiel to perform all the duties he’d had drilled into him at the training centre. The master takes a step to the side and hurriedly finishes loosening the laces of his shoes, body turned slightly away from Castiel. It’s as though he’s trying to preserve his modesty, which is incredibly odd, because most alphas usually hold their slaves in the same regard as furniture or some other inanimate object when not in use.

When his master turns back around, however, they’ve reentered familiar territory. He plants his socked feet firmly on the ground, and looks down at Castiel, who is still on his knees. From Castiel’s vantage point on the ground, the alpha looks huge and intimidating, striking an imposing backlit figure in the small entryway.

He takes a deep breath and crawls forward, closing the space between himself and his master.

At least here, Castiel knows what his purpose is.

Chapter 4: who am I to be blind

Chapter Text

I’ve been a victim of a selfish kind of love —
it’s time that I realise
that there are some with no home, not a nickel to loan…
could it be really me, pretending that they’re not alone.

A willow deeply scarred, somebody’s broken heart,
and a washed out dream.
They follow the pattern of the wind, you see,
cos they got no place to be —
that’s why I’m starting with me.
Man in the Mirror — Michael Jackson

After the most awkward forty minute drive of Dean’s life — including that time he’d gotten sprayed by a skunk while camping, and Dad had made him strip down to his boxers and sit on a tarp in the backseat — they’re finally back at his place.

The omega — Steve, Dean reminds himself — hadn’t said a word the entire drive, which Dean’s supposes is to be expected, considering what f*ckface McGee from the omega centre had said about him not talking much.

(Dean’s blood still simmers with low-level rage when he thinks about that f*cking guy and that f*cking place, so he does his best to force his thoughts to go down literally any other road, because the last thing he needs is to freak Steve out even more by smelling pissed off for no reason.)

But of course, Dean, the big f*cking idiot, had totally forgotten that the poor guy was in nothing but a smelly t-shirt and paper-thin scrub pants under the quilt, so when he notices Steve shivering in the garage, he hurries to usher them inside.

He’s just getting ready to kick off his boots and give Steve the grand tour of the place, when the guy sinks to his knees and begins taking Dean’s f*cking shoes off for him.

‘What the-!’ he yelps, but then remembers he’s trying to not give off unstable rage-monster vibes to someone who already seems scared as hell, so he quickly adds, ‘Dude. I can take my own friggin’- I mean- you don’t gotta do- that. That sh*t is not what you’re here for.’

Retroactively, he realises that maybe he should have forced conversation during the drive and clued the omega into what little he could divulge about what the hell was going on with the ‘sale’.

(Just thinking the word makes Dean feel gross. He now owns a human f*cking being, which makes him nauseous when he thinks about it, so he adds that to the growing list of things he is choosing to ignore.)

What he shouldn’t have ignored, however, was the fact that Steve clearly has no clue what’s going on here, which is totally fair, if not incredibly heartbreaking. Dean is just mentally berating both himself for being a Grade A moron, and Charlie for roping him into this insanity in the first place, when Steve crawls forward a few feet, until he’s close enough that Dean can feel his jackrabbit-quick exhales against the fabric of his jeans.

Before Dean can ask what the hell is happening now, Steve raises his eyes almost to meet Dean’s — the difference is minute, but Dean notices anyway — and blinks slowly up at him. Dean finds himself frozen in place by the magnitude of the hopelessness in their depths, and that primal urge to protect protect protect simmers through his veins again.

Something in his scent must change then, because Steve releases one final shuddering exhale, then lurches forward, still on his knees.

The move is practiced, but graceless, his unsteady hands reaching for Dean’s belt as he nuzzles his face into Dean's jean-clad thigh. The stale, sickly scent of scared omega permeates the air around them, making Dean fight the urge to gag.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, man, what the hell!’ This time, Dean jumps backwards so violently that he almost knocks the poor guy over in his haste to get away.

Steve sways precariously on his knees, but steadies himself at the last minute. His brows knit together, and his head co*cks slightly to the side in confusion, reminding Dean for all the world of a confused puppy, the sweetness of the expression at odds with the giant clusterf*ck they’re in the midst of at present.

A moment later, however, it’s like Steve remembers where he is and who he’s with, and Dean watches as the omega’s shoulders curl inward. He seems to be bracing himself, but he still tilts his chin upwards, baring his throat to Dean in a crystal clear sign of submission.

Even from where he stands, now several feet from the trembling omega, Dean can see Steve’s pulse thundering away in his throat. A single low whimper escapes the omega as he grits his teeth and appears to hold himself in place by sheer force of will.

‘Hey- hey, now, I’m not- I ain’t mad at you, Steve,’ Dean tries awkwardly, shoving his hands into his pockets and leaning as far back as he can, giving the man kneeling at his feet as much room to breathe as the small space will allow. ‘I just, uh- I don’t want… that from you, like… ever, alright? I know this whole situation’s kinda f*cked — believe me, do I know — but, ah, that also ain’t why you’re here, understand?’

Clearly, he doesn’t. Dean watches the way the other man’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows several times, his tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. Even though Steve still hasn’t uttered a single word the entire time he’s spent in Dean’s presence, Dean waits patiently to see if he’s about to speak.

This is apparently the right move, because after several more moments and failed attempts, Steve manages a creaky, ‘I don’t-’ but then he breaks off into a dry coughing fit that doesn’t subside for several minutes.

Dean hurries into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water, which he holds it out to Steve, but the omega just stares at the proffered glass as though it might contain actual poison, still coughing. Dean sighs.

‘It’s just water, man, I swear,’ he promises. When Steve still makes no move to accept it, he takes a drink from the glass himself, dribbling some water down his chin in his haste. ‘See?’ he asks, wiping his mouth and throat with the back of his hand. ‘Just good old-fashioned H2O on tap here.’

Dean lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding when he offers the glass a second time, and after a split-second’s hesitation, Steve nods jerkily and accepts the cup, eyes trained somewhere in the middle distance. Despite Dean’s demonstration and reassurances, he still seems to steel himself before taking a small sip and setting the glass back down on the floor in front of him. Dean watches the water in the glass rocks back and forth, then eventually settle back down into stillness.

(The word meniscus pops into his head, along with the memory of when Sammy’s dorky little science kick coincided with his dorky little magic kick. He hasn’t thought about it in over a decade, how Sammy’d had some magic ‘trick’ about putting a pencil into a glass of water to make it appear broken. Of course the damn kid had clearly never heard that bit about magicians never revealing their secrets, because he’d then treated everyone to a lecture about water density or some sh*t.)

Dean eyes the trembling omega kneeling before the glass of water now, wishing more than anything that what seems broken now would also turn out to be an optical illusion, but he knows nothing about this situation was ever going to be that simple.

‘I… don’t. Understand, I mean. I- I’m sorry, Master.’

Steve swallows hard again and closes his eyes, very clearly bracing for punishment. The fact that he appears resigned to the knowledge that mere confusion at an inarguably confusing situation will result in pain makes Dean want to blurt everything out, to assure him that the plan is to free him, not hurt him. He grits his teeth and reminds himself that Sam and Benny have drilled into his head that that kind of information overload would have the exact opposite effect, and make it even harder for him to gain the omega’s trust by claiming something so unbelievable.

Dean sighs and rubs the back of his neck, wondering for the hundredth time why in the hell the others thought that caring for one of the worst abuse cases they’ve ever seen was something he could handle. ‘I get that, I mean- s’not like I gave ya all that much to go on, but… basically, just- don’t try ’n do, y’know, any of that- that hanky panky sh*t while you’re here, alright? That ain’t what you’re here for, ’n while you’re a good lookin’ fella ’n all, I don’t, uh- I’m not lookin’ for anything like that right now. Does that, uh- make any more sense?’

Steve blinks and takes another sip of the water before he nods once and says, ‘Yes, Master. Thank you, Master.’

At this, two visceral reactions fight for top billing — the primal beast that’s taken up residence in Dean’s stupid brain preens itself when the omega drank the water that Dean provided for him, unprompted this time, but another larger part of him feels ready to puke at being called ‘master’.

‘Uh- don’t. Please. Don’t call me… that. Just, uh- just call me Dean, alright?’ Before Steve can worry himself into another panic over this non-misstep, Dean quickly adds, ‘but anyway- I’m pretty hungry, so I’m sure you gotta be starving by now.’ He winces at how insensitive these words must sound and fights the urge to smack himself in the face for his own tactlessness. ‘I just meant… how’s breakfast for dinner sound?’

Steve’s brows knit together in concern, head tilting to the side again with wary confusion, but he clears his throat and asks, ‘If you would like me to refrain from… from servicing you sexually, how do I earn meals, Mas- Alpha- Dean?’

Jesus Christ. The sour smell of Steve’s fear and anxiety is now so potent in the small mudroom that Dean has to close his eyes for a moment to force down the bile making its way up his throat. He has the selfish thought that if this is how the guy is gonna be, Dean has no idea how they’re going to get through the next few weeks until a bed opens up at The Roadhouse. Then, of course, he immediately hates himself for it, because what the hell, Winchester, can you think of someone other than yourself for two damn minutes?!

He takes a deep, slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth, wincing again at how the fear-scent makes his stomach turn, then gives himself a good mental kick in the ass before answering. ‘You don’t ‘earn’ meals here, dude. You just eat when you’re hungry, okay?’

The omega shoots him a skeptical look, but nods again. ‘Yes, Dean.’

Dean had never realised how very much his name could sound like ‘master’ until that moment, but he tries to control his reaction. He clears this throat and asks again, ‘So… breakfast for dinner?’

‘Yes, Dean. Thank you, Dean,’ Steve replies immediately. Dean closes his eyes again and forces himself to take several more deep breaths so he doesn’t snap at this bizarre overuse of his name.

‘Alrighty, then,’ he says with forced cheer. He extends a hand to Steve to help him up, choosing to ignore the other man’s flinch at this action. ‘C’mon — up with ya, and I’ll give you the White House tour of the place, then if ya wanna hop in the shower, I can get dinner goin’.’

Tentatively, Steve places his hand in Dean’s, and Dean feels that same strange shift in gravity that he’d experienced at the omega centre earlier that day. He tries to shake it off as he gently pulls Steve to his feet. Maybe he’s getting sick or something.

‘Alrighty, then,’ Dean says again, desperate to regain his bearings. He clears his throat and gestures for the omega to follow him. ‘Lemme show ya ’round the joint, I guess.’ He opens the door separating the kitchen and the mudroom, waiting for Steve to follow him in. ‘So, uh- obviously, this here’s the kitchen… don’t tell anyone, but I actually really love to cook ’n I don’t half suck at it, so pretty much this is where I dumped all my money when I bought the place. If anyone asks, I tell ’em I spent the home improvement fund on a tricked out garage/home gym/workshop though, so don’t go blowin’ up my spot.’

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to punch himself in the face for the jackass way he just worded that to the friggin’ lone survivor of a firebomb attack, you unbelievable bag of dicks, Winchester. Thankfully, it seems like Steve doesn’t notice that he’s sharing oxygen with a complete f*cking asshole, and instead just nods seriously.

‘I won’t Dean,’ he responds, voice still sounding raspy, like he’s not really used to using it again yet. ‘I would never damage your property.’

Dean sighs, wondering if the ‘being overly literal’ thing is a slave-thing or a Steve-thing, but immediately feels like an even bigger piece of sh*t. Who the hell is Dean to be feeling any kind of way about the omega’s social skills — or lack thereof — when they’re standing in his warm, cushy, bomb ass kitchen, hours after Dean’s picked Steve up from a place that wanted to surgically alter and/or put him down like a rabid animal. It’s not often that Dean considers himself an out-of-touch, spoiled alpha brat, considering the way he and Sammy grew up, but he sure as hell does now.

Vowing to do a better job at keeping some goddamn perspective going forward, Dean jerks his head to the side, gesturing for Steve to follow him into the living room. He doesn’t miss the way Steve flexes his toes against the thick carpet when he steps into the room, and suppresses a smile at the omega’s barely audible contented exhale. He’d picked this carpet because the sales guy had claimed it was ‘like walking on clouds’, which turned out to be a pretty apt description.

‘This’s the living room,’ he says, in case the sofa and TV wasn’t enough of a friggin’ clue. ‘When I have company over for LAR- I mean- to hang out, or whatever, we usually chill in here because- well, okay, fine, I’ll admit it. This is usually where my friend, Charlie, hosts her LARP events, since the space is so big, and her people usually have, like, lightsabers or longbows or whatever. One time they even tried jousting after too much mead, but, uh- it didn’t work out so great. It’s how I lost almost all of my Grandma Deanna’s Precious Moments collection, but — between you and me — it was definitely a blessing in disguise. Have you ever seen those things? They’re all, like, Jesus and angels, or whatever, but I’m pretty sure they’re possessed by the devil. I only kept ’em in the cabinet, cos it felt wrong to toss ’em, but I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when my buddy, Garth, put a lance through the damn thing, and took a bunch of ’em out. I’m tellin’ ya- people in the eighties and nineties had too much money, if that was the sh*t they were spending it on, ya know?’

‘Yes, Dean,’ Steve replies obediently. Just like in the garage, he looks like he might want to add something more to it, but simply falls silent instead.

A few more moments of awkward silence pass before Dean just shrugs awkwardly and moves on. He shows Steve the formal dining room off the living room that only gets used once or twice a year when it’s his turn to host a big family event, then what’s behind the rest of the doors on the the first floor — the walk-in pantry, the half bathroom, the large hall closet, the basem*nt.

(He doesn’t miss the way Steve shrinks back when he hears Dean explain where that door leads, and he feels himself getting pissed all over again when he takes a moment to consider why.)

He can tell the scent of his brewing anger over the idea of Steve being kept in a damn basem*nt is putting the omega on edge, so he forces himself to stop thinking about it and move on. ‘Ready to hit the upstairs?’ Steve just nods docilely and follows him up the back staircase.

When they get to the top of the stairs, he points to a door directly to their left and says, ‘Uh- this door over here goes to my room, but since ya won’t have reason to be in there, I guess we don’t really need to worry ’bout gettin’ you acquainted,’ Dean says, pointing, hoping this helps put the omega’s mind at least a little at ease. ‘Ain’t too much to it, anyway — all I do is sleep there. If I’m lookin’ to kick back and relax or whatever, I usually just hang in the living room or the Dean Cave.’

Steve nods, but Dean hasn’t missed the way the look on his face had flickered from relieved to alarmed to resigned, before returning to a blank, subservient stare, and he realises that he’d managed to undo the point he’d been attempting to make without even trying.

‘I didn’t mean that, like…’ he starts helplessly, but there’s no good way for that sentence to end, so he lets it just trail off into yet another awkward silence.

He runs a hand through his hair, realising that he’s done that so many goddamn times already this night, that he probably looks even more deranged than he feels. Sighing, he jams his hands back into his pockets in a half-hearted attempt to prevent himself from f*cking up his hair even more, and ushers Steve a little further down the hall.

‘Well… movin’ right along, I guess, uh… here we got the laundry room ’n the linen closet,’ he says, pointing to each in turn, ‘the washer ’n dryer’re those fancy ass ‘smart’ appliances, so I mostly set everything up on my phone, but if I’m not around and ya gotta run a load, you can just scroll through the menu on the touch screen- oh.’ He hesitates, unsure of how to phrase the question that's just popped into his head in an inoffensive way, but when he comes up empty, he just blurts out, ‘Do you know how to read?’

Steve hesitates, blinking at him in silence for several long seconds before he seems to catch himself and quickly drops his gaze back down to the ground. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment before saying, ‘Yes, Dean,’ in a guilty whisper.

Dean frowns at this, wondering why the omega is acting as though he’s confessing to a dirty secret, until he remembers that there’s a whole section of the alpha population who’re backwards knotheads that believe that archaic sh*t about omegas being seen and not heard, and kept naked and uneducated because their only purpose in life is to cater to their alpha’s every whim. His lip curls in disgust, and he knows he’s stinking up the hall with his contempt even before Steve’s hurried, ‘I’m sorry, Dean,’ as though being friggin literate is something Dean would fault him for.

‘No, no, that’s great. Love that. Reading’s great.’ Dean knows he sounds like a first class moron, but wanting Steve to understand that he has zero problem with him knowing how to read. ‘D’ya got a, uh, favourite book or anything?’

Steve stares at him again, looking something close to exasperated this time, which Dean almost considers a victory, but before he can say anything about it, Steve catches himself again and mumbles, ‘No, Dean, I- I was not permitted to read when I was… in my previous master’s care.’

The tentative hope that Dean had begun to cultivate that they might be taking a step in the right direction shatters, and he feels his cheeks heating up at his own stupidity. Of course the guy hadn’t been allowed to kick back with a book when he was forced to work in a f*cking brothel, Winchester, you gigantic idiot.

‘Well- There’s plenty’a books all over the damn place here if ya ever, y’know, get bored ’n wanna check ’em out…’ he offers.

Steve nods demurely, eyes back on the ground. ‘Thank you, Dean.’

For the love of God- Dean knows that he’d told the guy not to call him ‘Master’, but he’s beginning to hate the sound of his own name, and they haven’t even survived a full twenty-four hours together yet. He tries very hard to control any hint of irritation, and instead gestures for Steve to follow him over to the most important room in the house.

‘The Dean Cave,’ he announces, arms sweeping out in a very Vanna White-esque gesture at the closed door. ‘The crown jewel of Casa de Dean. Most folks say the bedroom is where the magic happens, but I’m man enough to admit that this here’s the true star of the show.’

He only realises he’s making sh*t weird yet again, when Steve shudders with the faintest hint of a whimper that he abruptly cuts off, and Dean could kick himself for his complete and utter lack of any sort of brain-to-mouth filter. The poor guy probably thinks he’s about to show him some Fifty Shades of Bullsh*t type Red Room of Pain or something.

‘Not- not like that,’ he hurries to add when Steve notices him watching and quickly rearranges his face into a carefully blank expression. ‘I mean, here- look.’

He quickly opens the door to the Dean Cave and flips on the light, then steps back to give Steve a chance to peek inside and see his second pride and joy (the first, of course, being Baby.) He watches with a sort of childish pride as Steve glances cautiously around, taking in the vintage Star Wars posters on the walls, the floor to ceiling bookshelves packed full of battered paperback books with cracked spines, the old-school Ms PacMan machine in the corner. There’s a gigantic, ancient armchair that looks like it would be right at home at Fraiser Crane’s dad’s house, which is to say — the thing is gigantic and hideous, but Dean loves it.

‘There was a time that my brother and I didn’t even have our own rooms, so the whole time we were on the road when we were kids, I spent hours imagining a space just like this, so when I was finally able to buy the house, it was the first room I worked on after the kitchen was taken care of,’ Dean admits, feeling like a spoiled asshole all over again when he remembers that Steve doesn’t even have ownership over his own body, much less a glorified playroom for him to hang movie posters in. He feels himself blushing and clears his throat. ‘Anyway… this is where the books’ll be, if you ever get bored ’n wanna see if there’s somethin’ that catches your eye. There’s no rhyme or reason to how they’re organised, ’n I cannot be held responsible for what you might find if you ever go through ’em — Charlie likes to sneak her faves over and casually ‘forget’ that she’s left ’em on my shelf in hopes I’ll be her ‘fandom bestie’ for all the sh*t she’s into… like she hasn’t already taken over basically every other facet of my life. In fact, she’s the the reason why-’

In a rare show of sensibility, he cuts himself off before he can say the words you’re stuck here with me, because Lord only knows how Steve would take that

‘-the reason why I’m into as many, uh- things as I’m already… into,’ he finishes lamely instead.

Steve again looks like he wants to respond, but doesn’t know what to say, so he simply nods. Dean forces a tight smile. ‘Ready for the next, then?’ he asks, waiting for Steve to again nod his assent.

‘Alrighty… last stop for this crazy train is your room,’ he says when they reach the last room at the opposite end of the hall. ‘Just so ya know — if you catch a whiff of moose, that’s cos it used to be my smelly-ass brother’s, back when he lived here, but he recently moved in with his girl, Eileen, across town. You’ll probably meet ’em at some point in the not-so-distant future, but all you gotta know goin’ in is that she is way, way outta his league. You should take every possible opportunity to remind her of that fact, actually.’

Dean almost misses the way Steve pales at this, but again nods his understanding. He looks as though he is dying to say something, but remains silent.

Feeling unnerved and unable to contain it any longer, Dean can’t help but nonsensically glance over his shoulder, like he expects to find whatever bug’s crawled up the omega’s ass to magically materialise behind him and let him know what the hell is going on. ‘What’s up?’

Steve visibly swallows, still looking as though he is debating speaking up at all, then asks, ‘Will he… find that… vexing?’ When Dean shoots him a questioning look, he adds in a hoarse whisper, ‘when I- when I inform your sister-in-law of your brother’s… inferiority, will he-’ He stops speaking and lowers his gaze back to the ground. ‘Apologies, Dean. I didn’t mean to question your orders. I will give… Miss Eileen the reminders you requested.’

‘Jesus Christ.’ Dean scrubs a hand down his face in frustration that he knows is not at all fair. ‘Dude. I was just- I was just bein’ an asshole. I mean- first of all, no, Sammy wouldn’t think anything of it if you were to call him a whiny dick to his face — in fact, he’d probably apologise to you and wanna know what he’d done that upset ya — but also, I was just bein’, like- facetious, or whatever. You don’t actually gotta talk smack about anybody if you don’t wanna.’

‘Oh.’ Despite Dean’s fumbling reassurances, Steve looks desperately relieved at this. ‘Thank you, Dean.’

Dean takes a moment to remind himself that he has no right to be sh*tty about the guy’s lack of… well, calling it ‘social graces’ seems unbelievably insensitive and out of line, but it’s the best phrase he can come up with at the time.

‘Listen, don’t be- I mean, if you ever don’t understand something, just tell me to slow my roll ’n explain myself better,’ Dean tells him as gently as he can. ‘Everyone’s always tellin’ me that I gotta use my words — or use more words — cos sometimes my brain just jumps ahead of my mouth, ’n things come out sideways. So don’t worry ’bout offending me or hurtin’ my feelings or anything, cos I’m definitely aware of the issue.’ He scratches the back of his head and steals a glance over at the omega who looks, if anything, even more confused than he had before Dean had started talking. ‘Does that make any sort of sense?’ he asks, trying to keep the note of desperation from his voice.

Steve hesitates and wets his lips. ‘I… it sounds as though you are giving me permission to request clarification when I am unable to comprehend an order?’ he replies, his voice still somewhat hoarse and shaky.

‘You got it,’ Dean answers eagerly, hoping this does something to ease the poor guy’s mind, seeing as Dean’s doing an awfully good job at f*cking everything up so far. ‘For real, dude, I’d much rather have ya ask first when somethin’ seems off, and I promise I won’t ever get mad about it or anything. I’m used to being asked lots of questions anyway — my brother could never shut the hell up when we were kids… he’d ask ya why the sky was blue or what made water wet, ’n I’d have to come up with some stupid sh*t to say, like- the sky’s blue cos if we had green sky ’n green grass, then no one’d know which way was up. Didn’t take too long for the kid to figure out how full’a sh*t I was.’

For a moment, Dean can’t help but let himself get lost in those bittersweet memories. It hadn’t been an easy life by any means, but there was no denying that it was, at times, a simpler one. Just him and Sammy and Dad against the world, drifting from town to town… they hadn’t had much, but they’d had each other, and at the time, that had been enough.

He takes a moment to get a grip, forcing himself back to the present and the omega by his side who seems to be getting increasingly uncomfortable with Dean’s melancholy silence, so he shakes his head and steals a glance at Steve.

He has that look on his face again like he’s dying to say something, but doesn’t think he’s allowed, even though Dean’s just told him to always ask questions if he has them. To be fair, Dean figures a decade’s worth of abuse sure as sh*t ain’t gonna get erased by a few nonsensical sentences from a stuttering idiot, so he offers, ‘Didja have any questions or anything? I know it’s been kind of a lot thrown atcha all at once, so if you ever need me to slow down or whatever, definitely feel free.’

Steve hesitates for a moment, but then he seems to steel himself and says, ‘When you say this is… ‘my room’… what does that mean?’

He does honest to God air quotes around the words ‘my room’, and fits so perfectly with that baffled puppy expression on his face, that, despite everything, Dean can’t help the stupid, goofy smile that threatens to take over his own face.

‘Exactly what it sounds like, man,’ he replies, making the same sweeping gesture with his hand that he’d done in the Dean Cave. ‘Everything the light touches is your kingdom ’n all that. Ya just gotta let me know if you need anything — Sammy was always bitchin’ that the mattress wasn’t any good for his back, but I think that’s just cos he was big mad that I splurged for the memory foam for myself, but I mean- the guy was in friggin’ Cali for school for most of the year at that time anyway. Plus, s’not like the dude didn’t have his own money he coulda gotten himself the good stuff with…’

He’s rambling again about stupid privileged alpha bullsh*t again, and he can honestly only imagine what Steve must think of him. On one hand, he’s just about positive that he’s leagues better than the owners the omega has had in the past, but on the other, he knows he’s sounded like a complete f*cking brat since the second they’ve stepped through the door of the house.

‘My point is,’ he says, just desperate for to wrap the whole song and dance up so he can retreat to the kitchen and start dinner, ‘is that while you’re here, mi casa es su casa. The, uh- the door on the left over there is the bathroom if ya wanna hop in the shower, ’n the door on the right’s the closet… There’s a few pairs of sweats ’n hoodies ’n stuff in there, but I’ll be honest — the selection ain’t that great, cos, uh… all this came about pretty quick ’n I, uh- didn’t know your sizes or preferences or whatever, so unfortunately you’re gonna hafta just rock the 8 Mile look for a minute.’ He scrubs a hand down his face, sick to death of the sound of his own voice, and mumbles, ‘So, uh… knock yourself out ’n I’ll go start on the food.’

With that, he takes a step towards the door, but then remembers he forgot to warn Steve about the stupid shower, so he stops abruptly, smacks his forehead, and turns back around.

‘Oh, one more thing before I forget.’ The air suddenly seems charged with the scent of Steve’s anxiety over the fact that Dean is not leaving his room, so Dean hurries to add, ‘No, it’s nothing bad, just- the guest bathroom’s f*cked up. The faucet’s a real pain in the ass — it looks like you turn it to the right for hot water, but it’s actually the opposite, because some dipsh*t installed the knob backwards ’n then went ‘f*ck it’, rather than fix the damn thing, cos it was just my brother’s bathroom anyway, and, well- I am the big brother, so obviously I had to leave it that way so he’d freeze his ass off for the first few times. Joke was on me, though — the first time he showered here was when he’d just gotten in from a red-eye flight, ’n snuck in real late, so guess who got woken to six feet of Sasquatch screamin’ like a teenage friggin’ girl at four AM…’ He’d give about a million dollars to get the bullsh*t spewing from his mouth stop, because now Steve’s staring at him like he’s either insane or a sad*st, which he supposes is valid. ‘Anyway, all’s that to say — watch which way you turn the knob, unless you wanna freeze your balls off.’

Steve co*cks his head to the side again in that ‘confused puppy’ look, which should not be as adorable as it is. ‘So… you would allow me to use the hot water to- to clean myself, Dean?’ he asks hesitantly. ‘I… I apologise, I fear I’m not very- I don’t understand what you’re asking of me, and you told me to ask for clarification if I was unsure.’

‘I- what?’ Dean asks, taken aback. ‘Dude. Of course you can use hot water to shower. Well, unless you’re one of those ‘shower in cold water for better circulation and to save the whales’ people like Sammy’s granola-head college roommate — which is fine if you are, I mean. When I went to visit ’em in Cali back in the day, the dude had turned off the hot water tank to save Mother Earth or whatever, which Sammy conveniently neglected to mention… probably because of what I did with the guest bathroom, actually. Huh. Never put two ’n two together like that before..’

Good lord, if a friggin’ meteor would just come strike him down right now, it’d be doing a service to society, considering all this noise pollution he’s producing with his rambling bullsh*t. He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a moment, feeling a gnarly headache brewing. ‘Sorry, man, I guess I’m just more tired than I thought. My point is — shower however you want. Towels ’n washcloths are are under the sink, shower gel ’n shampoo’s in the tub. I’ma go get started on dinner… just holler if ya need anything.’

He chooses to ignore the quiet ‘yes, sir,’ that follows him out as he closes the door. Once safely out in the hall, away from Steve’s painful confusion and big, scared eyes, he leans back against the wall and just breathes for several long moments.

After seeing how freaked out Steve is, every alpha instinct Dean has is telling him to stand guard right here, outside the door to the bedroom like a friggin’ creep, to make sure the omega is safe. From what, Dean has no goddamn clue, but when he thinks of the way Steve’s hands shook when he reached for Dean’s belt, he wants to burn the entire world to the ground to find the sick f*cks made his omega so afraid.

That thought stops him in his tracks, and now he needs to catch his breath for a whole new reason, because where the f*ck did that come from? It’s that same primordial thing inside him that had him growling at the dickwad at the omega centre like a feral friggin’ animal when he’d set off the shock collar. While Dean can definitely understand feeling anger at any f*cker who thinks it’s okay to use and abuse another living creature like that, he has no clue where this gross possessiveness is coming from.

He shakes his head, like that might help dislodge these caveman mindset from his exhausted head, and pushes himself off the wall just as he hears the shower turn on. God, does he hope that Steve’s using hot water to shower — it would have never occurred to him that that would be something he’d have to specify, but he also hadn’t thought, for whatever reason, that he’d have to convince the omega he wasn’t intending on raping him the second they stepped inside the door.

Suddenly, everything feels almost unbearably overwhelming. He is not someone who should have ever been trusted to handle such a delicate situation with anything even close to grace.

Even though he knows it’s stupid and childish, he wishes he could just- just wave some sort of magic wand to make all the sh*t that the omega’s been through simply disappear, and it pisses him right off that he can’t. All he can hope for at this point is that he doesn’t do anything to f*ck the poor guy up worse than he already is.

Well, that, and make Steve best damn pancakes he’s ever had in his life.

And so, with this pitifully inadequate goal in mind, Dean stumbles off to the kitchen, wishing more than anything that a hot shower and good meal was enough to make a difference.

Chapter 5: shadows of my yesterday

Chapter Text

Castiel steps into ‘his’ bathroom and cautiously turns the shower knob to the left, remembering Dean’s warning. He half-expects freezing water to turn on anyway, to find that Dean’s whole story about the backwards nozzle might turn out to just be a sad*stic ruse, and that his options are to freeze or to not be clean at all. It had been that way for nearly his entire time in Purgatory, after all.

Within seconds, however, the room begins to fill with steam from the torrent of gloriously hot water pounding down from the fancy shower head. It beats a steady pitter-patter against the wall and floor of the tub, and for a moment, all Castiel can manage is to blink dumbly at his reflection in the vanity mirror that is rapidly being obscured by the fog creeping across the glass. The last thing he sees before the glass is completely covered is the wild, bewildered look in his eyes.

He’s getting water all over the alpha’s floor, and that won’t do at all, so he strips mechanically and forces himself to take a deep breath before stepping into the tub and pulling the curtain closed behind him.

The hot water feels like heaven.

He can’t remember the last time he was permitted a hot shower of his own free will and without having to humiliatingly debase or service an alpha in all manner of ways — sometimes in the shower — to earn the privilege.

The washcloth clutched in his hands is now saturated with water, so he knows it’s probably in his best interest to stop acting like this is a day at the spa and simply follow his alpha’s orders, but the urge to just bask in the luxury of the hot shower is painfully strong.

Turning to get the rest of his hair wet, he sternly tells himself to f*cking focus so he doesn’t ruin what seems to be a pretty good thing so far, then darts a nervous glance at the matching bottles of shampoo and conditioner and shower gel lined up on the edge of the tub. The rich scents of musk and mahogany and teakwood fill the bathroom when he pumps some of the shower gel into the washcloth, and he can’t help but think that perhaps ‘spa day’ hadn’t been that far from the truth. While it’s definitely an overwhelmingly ‘alpha’ scent, the quality of the products is evidenced by the thick, luscious lather that’s produced when he drags the soft washcloth over his body.

Castiel can’t help the quiet groan of contentment that escapes his lips at this, because the feeling of being properly clean is so amazing and foreign that he feels tears pricking his eyes when he moves on to washing his hair that have nothing to do with the shampoo running into them. He even considers using the conditioner as well, but something about it feels almost too indulgent, like maybe he’s being tested.

(For what, he doesn’t know, but he skips it anyway, just in case.)

By now, it feels as though he’s allowed himself to luxuriate in the decadence of the hot shower for far too long, so he quickly rinses the remaining suds from his hair and body and turns the water off — to the right, which does feel kind of weird, and reminds him all over again of how strange it is to be given such a privilege without even having to do so much as give the alpha a blowj*b.

Part of him worries that something even worse might be on the horizon, but the other half wants desperately to believe the alpha when he says he doesn’t want ‘any of that’ from Castiel.

The problem is, if that really is the case, then Castiel has no idea what his master does want. It’s clear from the house, modest though it may appear, that the alpha has money. He’s also young, reasonably attractive, and (at the very least) able to at least keep up the appearance of being a halfway decent man, so Castiel genuinely can’t figure out what game the alpha is playing, which makes him feel incredibly unsettled.

He wonders why, if the alpha is everything he claims to be, Dean isn’t already mated or at least dating someone. Castiel hadn’t smelled evidence of anyone other than Dean living in the house, not to mention the fact that the impression he’s gotten so far from Dean is that if there was someone significant like that in his life, he likely would have talked about them — at length.

Castiel ponders these things while running a towel through his hair, but when he catches sight of the blurry blob in the fogged mirror, he’s shaken back to the present and exhales in an exasperated burst of air. Mere weeks from the day he’d been found chained in that woodshed outside Purgatory, and he’s acting like he thinks he’s worth something.

Now that he’s done in the shower, Castiel remembers that the second half of his master’s orders was to choose something to wear from the selection in ‘his’ closet. He wraps one of the huge, fluffy bath sheets around his shoulders like a small child at the swimming pool, picks up Dean’s shirt and the omega centre’s pants from the bathroom floor, and approaches the closet with caution, as though he’s making his way across an active minefield.

The walk-in closet is several times larger than the space Castiel occupied in Purgatory, but he supposes that doesn’t mean too much, given the fact that he basically lived in a kennel when not ‘in use’ or ordered to his former master’s quarters. Still, even when he thinks back to- to ‘before’, he’s pretty sure it could still be considered an impressive size.

It’s large enough inside that there’s space for hanging racks on both sides of the closet and a large chest pushed against the opposite wall that has a pile of neatly folded clothes stacked on its lid with a hastily scrawled note declaring FOR STEVE.

Despite not being his real name, Castiel swallows hard at this — it’s been so long since items not meant to hurt or humiliate were intended for him, and longer still since he’s seen anything like- like a gift tag, clear cut proof that something nice was chosen with him in mind.

He again forces himself to get the hell over himself, to just do the right thing and be good for his master, because if this is all real, he’ll be damned if he allows himself to ruin it because he’s too busy being a dramatic bitch about it all.

With shaking hands, he folds the soiled clothes and sets them carefully on the floor in the corner of the closet. For some reason he can’t explain, he doesn’t want the pants from the centre get too close to the new clothing, which makes no sense, but something in him seems to howl not right, not right, not right at the very idea of it, and he’s in no position to spend any more time considering it.

Finally, he pulls the towel from around his shoulders, folding it neatly as well, but this, the stupid voice in his head allows to be set on the floor in front of the chest before he straightens back up and examines the clothes that his master left for him.

Dean hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d said that the clothes he’d left for Castiel didn’t offer an especially wide variety of options, and everything does appear to be a size or two too big for him. However, none of that matters at all when Castiel slips the one of the hoodies over his head, and the soft, warm fleece touches his skin. He finds himself near tears again and decides that he doesn’t care what he has to do to earn permission to keep it — he’s sure he’s done a lot worse to earn a lot less.

The rest of the clothing pile is just as nondescript, but no less luxurious, in his opinion. He picks up a pair of soft, albeit large, sweatpants, and is about to slip them on, when he notices the most stunning thing of all.

The alpha… has left socks and underwear for him.

Castiel just stares at the plastic-wrapped packages, as though he’s never seen anything quite as extraordinary as Fruit of the Loom boxer briefs and crew socks. There was a time when his younger, fussy self would have scoffed at the box-store brand, but it’s been over a decade since Castiel’s been gifted with undergarments that were meant for functionality, not just so his ‘clients’ could have the savage pleasure of ripping them off of him. His purpose was simply to be a ‘sexy’ and ‘slu*tty’ and ‘tempting’ hole for them to f*ck, after all.

There is nothing sexy about these grey cotton boxer briefs and plain, white, gold-toe crew socks, though, unless the alpha has a kink for, well- basically any generic human out there. There’s nothing remotely remarkable about these items that Castiel has been given at all, and that, in and of itself, is what makes them remarkable.

Castiel slides the boxer briefs up over his hips, and while they’re not exactly comfortable, simply due to being so large on him, the socks… well, the socks feel like the most decadent thing he’s ever experienced. His feet are warm, encased in soft cotton that feels almost bizarre when he flexes his toes inside them.

The sweatpants go on next, and it only takes about ten seconds for Castiel to decide that they’re probably the best thing he’s ever worn in his entire life. There was a time — before — when even his jeans were bespoke, created to his exact specifications and measurements by the Shurley family’s private tailor, but all the luxury clothing in the world couldn’t compare to the softness and warmth and inherent feeling of comfort he feels when he ties the drawstring on the oversized grey sweatpants that Dean has provided for him.

Now fully clothed, swaddled in thick, warm fleece like a damn newborn, Castiel hurries back out to the kitchen, grateful he remembers the way through the large house. The last thing he wants to do is get lost and have the alpha think he is intentionally disobeying or snooping.

As he nears the kitchen, he hears his master singing along to some sort of rock ’n roll song playing in the background over the sizzling sounds of cooking food. Maybe it’s being clean and warm and clothed, with at least the prospect of being allowed a meal, but despite himself, something in Castiel’s chest unwinds just a little.

He slips into the kitchen and sinks silently to his knees just inside the doorway, waiting for further instruction, but the alpha doesn’t look up from the pans on the stove where he’s flipping pancakes and cooking eggs. He just keeps singing along with the music, at one point spinning in place, and singing into the spatula like a microphone.

The scene is so wholesome and sweet, that Castiel can’t help the quiet huff of laughter that bubbles up inside of him, which immediately draws the alpha’s attention. Both men freeze — Castiel in fear that his master will take offence at being laughed at, and his master at being caught mid-performance.

Castiel is moments away from prostrating himself with apologies yet again, when his master grins sheepishly and offers weakly, ‘What’s that about dinner and a show?’

‘Thank you, Dean,’ Castiel says, unsure of what the correct response is, but assuming gratitude can’t possibly go amiss, though when he sees his master close his eyes for a moment and take a slow breath, he thinks perhaps he was mistaken.

‘Don’t thank me ’til you taste my world famous pancakes,’ the alpha warns, but he’s smiling again and doesn’t sound at all displeased, despite the momentary flash of irritation.

It doesn’t look as though this is a true order, so Castiel chances a small smile as he nods his understanding, which seems to thrill his master, who beams back. Castiel feels the surreal urge to laugh when he realises they’re two strangers, grinning awkwardly at each other over a lame joke about pancakes.

Scrambled eggs and pancakes sound amazing, though Castiel can say he’s honestly never had them for dinner before. Back when he was free, dinner had always been something of a formal affair — him and his brothers placed strategically around the long dining room table with his parents at either end, and a constant flow of household staff sweeping in and out with beautifully plated meals of small portions with fancy names.

(It hadn’t been until Castiel had been in high school and gone over to one of his best friends, Meg’s, house for dinner, that he learned his favourite dish was called ‘mac and cheese’, not ‘pasta al gratin’, like the home chef at the Shurley house called it. She’d nearly laughed herself stupid when he discovered how much he enjoyed the Kraft macaroni and cheese that came in a blue cardboard box, compared to the gourmet fare served at home. From then on, when he and their other best friend, Balthazar, would come over after school, the three of them would make mac and cheese and watch corny sitcoms in her unfinished basem*nt. They were some of the best memories Castiel possessed.)

By now, it’s been years since Castiel has had mac and cheese. Meals in Purgatory were hard-won and even then, consisted of some sort of oatmeal-like substance or hard, round flatbread discs, and a regimen of multivitamins that always made him nauseous, but apparently provided enough nutrition to keep everyone from dying of starvation — barely.

The food his master is making, however, smells incredible — so much so, that Castiel feels his stomach clench from how much he wants to believe the man when he’d said that Castiel would be allowed to eat here.

When the song the alpha had been singing along to ends and the next one comes on, Castiel frowns. It seems to be poking at something in the very deepest recesses of his brain, some half-formed, long-forgotten memory.

‘Hey Jude, don’t make it bad… take a sad song and make it better…,’ Dean half hums, half sings under his breath, his attention back on the stove as he slips the spatula under one of the pancakes in the frying pan. ‘Remember to let her into your heart… then you can start to make it better….’

Castiel notices his master looks… sad, which is kind of ironic, considering the words he’s just sung. He tries to remember why this particular song seems to bring about a feeling of sadness within himself as well.

The band… is called the Beatles, he recalls after listening to Dean sing a few more lines. Castiel’s aunt, Amara, had loved them — played them constantly when she’d come to visit. She’d been a fierce, brilliant, severe-looking woman, feared by everyone she encountered… except Castiel. For some reason, she’d always had a soft spot for him, and would often come into town to spend time just with him.

They’d do cool things together — go to concerts or museums or ice skating or even to the cinema, which was normally forbidden — and Castiel had adored her. So much so, that as part of the bedtime prayers his parents demanded he perform, he’d silently ask whatever God or god was out there, that some day Aunt Amara could be his mom, and they could go live at her home in Iceland, leaving his branch of the Shurley family tree far behind.

(Unfortunately, that day never came to pass. Aunt Amara had been flying over to visit for his tenth birthday when her private jet had gone down over the Atlantic. Castiel had been utterly, utterly heartbroken.)

The realisation that this is the first time in years that he’s so much as thought of his beloved aunt startles him, and for a moment, it’s like losing her all over again. For so long there’d been no time, no space in Purgatory for that kind of grief, not when there were so many other forms of misery to contend with.

He knows he’s veering down a dangerous path by continuing to allow his mind to wander back to- to before, because it’s been repeatedly, excruciatingly, painfully drilled into him that there is no before, not if he wants there to be a tomorrow. His very survival has depended on keeping those memories locked up tight, and the fact that they are resurfacing now is both incredibly surprising and incredibly, incredibly stupid — not to mention dangerous.

Some of this must show on his face, because Dean glances his way and stops singing, which makes Castiel freeze again as though he knows he’s been caught doing something wrong.

It’s only when Dean’s cheeks flush and he mumbles, ‘Sorry… know my singing voice leaves much t’be desired,’ that Castiel realises Dean isn’t upset with Castiel, he’s embarrassed, which is so bizarre that Castiel can’t stop himself from speaking in surprise.

‘I- It wasn’t- Your singing is lovely, Dean,’ he stutters, still unaccustomed to being allowed to speak without the risk of being electrocuted by the shock collar. His voice has always been deep and gravelly, but there’s a hoarse croakiness to it now that he has to assume comes from the disuse. He clears his throat. ‘I was just- The song. It’s… familiar.’

‘It’s the Beatles, dude,’ Dean replies, disbelief overtaking some of the embarrassment etched on his face. ‘Hey Jude’s a classic! It was my- my mom’s favourite song. She used’ta sing it in the kitchen when she cooked — which was next to never, to be fair… the woman could burn water without breakin’ a sweat. Still… if I was ever, uh- y’know, sick or whatever, she’d pull it together enough to make me tomato ’n rice soup, ’n she’d always be singin’ that damn song. Said it made her feel calm, but now that I think of it, it might’ve just been to try to make herself focus ’n not start a fire, actually. Dad was a firefighter for awhile, ’n-’

Dean cuts off the story of his family history abruptly, a pained expression on his face. This is the fourth or fifth time that Dean’s mentioned or told a little story about a family member, so it’s clear that family is incredibly important to him, but the mentions of his brother or grandparents didn’t prompt this sort of sorrow. It’s so profound that his scent goes heavy, almost cold, like a forest in the dead of winter when nothing is growing, just surviving and waiting for brighter days.

‘Anyway…’ Dean clears his throat and surreptitiously swipes the back of his hand across his eyes.

Castiel blinks, his brain struggling to process what he’s seeing, that the man is- that he’s an alpha, and he’s nearly crying. By the time Castiel has the thought that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen this kind of- of humanity from anyone who holds the sort of power that Dean has, the man is already rambling again in that way of his that is already beginning to feel familiar.

‘... I, uh- didn’t know how you’d like your eggs, but I figured everyone likes a plate of good, old fashioned scrambled eggs and pancakes, so that’s what I made. If ya got big feelings ’n would prefer somethin’ else, I can always make ’em another way, though. The only one I’m truly sh*t at’s the one where ya dump the egg into the hot water ’n swirl it around or whatever… always manage to make a huge goddamn mess with that one. Forgot what they’re called, though.’

‘P-Poached.’ Castiel coughs a little as the word rasps its way out of his mouth before he can think better of it. His mind races for anything, anything at all to add to it, but he keeps coming up blank. It seems that after having gone so long without being allowed to speak, he’s apparently forgotten how to hold anything even remotely resembling a passable conversation.

Just that single word appears to be enough for his new master, however, because the alpha smacks his hand down on the counter in triumph and says, ‘Yes, that’s the one!’ Castiel doesn’t quite manage to hide his flinch at the man’s volume, but he doesn’t seem to notice, too pleased at having found the solution to the egg mystery. ‘My brother was really into those for a while after seeing some fancy douchebag on TV make ’em that way, but he could never get the egg to stay together in the water, so he learned this so-called ‘life hack’ where you put them in a plastic baggie while they’re cooking, but all that happens then is you end up with bag shaped eggs, ’n dude, there is nothing appealing about an egg with friggin’ wrinkles in it.’

For what must be the sixth or seventh time that night, the alpha’s scent abruptly goes sickly sweet with embarrassment, which Castiel still doesn’t understand, but this confusion isn’t something he feels as though he can articulate, even though his master claimed he was allowed to ask as many questions as he wants. Alphas don’t get embarrassed, and especially not in front of their slaves. Castiel has less value than the majority of the incredibly expensive furniture and trinkets that his master has displayed in his house — if he’d had any doubts about the man’s wealth, they’ve all been sufficiently squashed during the ‘tour’ of his home. Everything in the entire house is worth far more than Castiel, a fact of which he is painfully aware.

He just… doesn’t understand the man. He doesn’t understand much, it seems, but he’s a little less worried that his master (Dean, he sternly reminds himself — no reason to begin causing upset already by referring to the alpha improperly) has purchased him so he can quite literally f*ck him in to the ground, which he supposes is a good thing. He still doesn’t quite comprehend what purpose he is meant to fulfil here, but the house is quite large, so he figures at the very least, he’ll have his work cut out for him when it comes to cleaning and maintaining the household if Dean decides Castiel can be trusted to touch his things.

‘Hey,’ the alpha mumbles, jolting Castiel back to the present. He rubs the back of his neck, which Castiel notices he seems to do when he’s feeling uncomfortable. ‘Just so you know, I’m not- I know I keep saying these spoiled asshole things, but I swear, man, I don’t mean anything by it. There was definitely times growin’ up when me ’n my brother didn’t have two nickels to rub together, ’n I guess now that I’m grown, I just take sh*t for granted, but I really don’t mean to, ’n I really don’t wanna make ya feel any kinda way, ya know? Definitely feel free to call me out on that sh*t if it does gets to ya, okay? I swear I’m not tryin’ to make sh*t weird, I’m just- really good at doin’ that, I guess.’

Castiel doesn’t know how to respond to this at all, mostly because he has no idea what Dean’s talking about, so he just nods. Bizarrely, Dean looks relieved at this, and returns his attention to finishing preparing the meal, any talk of eggs forgotten.

Belatedly, Castiel has the realisation that he should have probably asked Dean how he can help with the task at hand, but he’d been so thrown off by the strange segue into the Beatles and Dean’s parents and then Dean’s long-winded rambling about eggs and his childhood, that he’s forgotten himself. He opens his mouth to apologise for the oversight and ask what Dean would like him to do, when Dean turns the stove off with a flourish and begins dumping eggs onto two plates that are already piled high with fluffy, brown pancakes.

It’s more food than Castiel has seen in years, and (theoretically) one of those plates is intended for him.

For a moment, he has the horrible thought that maybe overfeeding him is the alpha’s intention, but that thought gets pushed out of his head just as quickly as it came when he sees Dean set both plates down at the kitchen table, then glance over to Castiel expectantly. He makes a jerking motion towards the table with his head, then opens a drawer, pulls out a couple forks and knives, then heads over to the table himself.

Uncertain, Castiel rises to his feet and goes to stand next to the chair his master has just sat down in. He hovers awkwardly for a few moments, but when no orders are issued, he lowers himself to his knees, clasping his wrists behind his back and keeping his eyes trained on the patch of floor in front of him while he waits for further instruction.

He can feel Dean’s gaze shift to land on him, and he fights the urge to squirm under the alpha’s scrutiny, instead forcing himself to maintain his waiting position.

Several heavy beats of silence pass before Dean clears his throat and asks, ‘Uh… Do you, uh- d’ya wanna, grab a seat, or…’

His voice trails off, and hints of sour confusion and discomfort swirl into his cedar wood scent, making it take on an almost manufactured or chemical edge, like a pine tree air freshener, rather than the natural, woodsy scent Castiel is already becoming used to.

‘I…’ Castiel blinks up at Dean, trying to figure out if that was an order or not. Dean blinks back, brows knit together and forehead creased in uncertainty. He opens his mouth at the same time Castiel does, then they both snap them shut, nearly in unison.

It’s all so awkward and awful, but in a where to sit in the cafeteria on the first day of school way, rather than a if I dare to move, my master is going to lock me in the basem*nt way, that when Dean bursts into self-deprecating laughter, Castiel can’t help but join him. It’s quick and quiet and nervous, but there are definitely a few chuckles before he quiets himself, just in case Dean doesn’t find Castiel’s amusem*nt quite as acceptable.

He doesn’t have time to think about the fact that this is the first time he’s laughed in literal years before Dean’s groaning, ‘I’m so bad at this.’ He scrubs both hands down his face, his next words coming out muffled. ‘I’ve never, uh- never had a- you know, before, so I don’t…’ He trails off again, but then swallows audibly and seems to steel himself for his next words. ‘Okay, listen, Steve — tell it to me straight, alright? For sh*t like this, when it gets all…’ he makes a vague, helpless gesture in the space between himself and Castiel, ‘is it because you’re- you’re, like- waitin’ for me to tell ya exactly what to do, where to sit, whatever?’

He seems so put off by this possibility that Castiel hesitates a moment, trying to phrase his answer in a way that isn’t going to upset the alpha further. ‘I- I was just… waiting for orders, ma- I mean- Dean. I’m sorry, I just- I don’t…’

To his horror, he feels himself getting choked up as he tries to explain his actions, since his master clearly has a problem with what he’s doing, how he’s behaving, and he hates that he’s already managed to mess up a good thing by being such a f*cking idiot. For one wretched moment, he almost laments the fact that he’d been purchased by a private buyer, rather than another brothel… at least in that environment, his purpose and orders would have been blisteringly clear.

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Dean says quickly, sliding out of his chair and onto the kitchen floor so he and Castiel are eye to eye. ‘Hey, now, Steve, none’a that. I’m not blaming you for any of this, I’m sayin’ that I got no idea what the hell I’m doin’, in case ya couldn’t tell. I’m just sayin’… would it be easier on you if I were to,’ he looks vaguely nauseous, but clears his throat and continues, ‘give you… ‘orders’ or whatever, so ya know exactly what to, uh- what to do?’

Relief washes over Castiel, both at the fact that his master is not, in fact angry with him or openly regretting purchasing him, but also because being given clear-cut orders would help a lot in adjusting to this new environment, especially since his master seems uninterested in using Castiel for his primary function.

‘Yes, please, Dean,’ he answers, desperation and gratitude saturating his tone and scent. ‘I just want to… to make sure I’m doing the right thing. Thank you, Dean.’

‘Yeah, well-’ Dean stands, then clears his throat and says, ‘I would like you to- to sit at the table and eat dinner with me, please, Steve. If, uh- if you don’t mind,’ he adds at the end, as though he can’t help it.

Castiel rises to his feet as well, and tentatively pulls out the chair next to Dean’s. Just in case, he keeps his eyes trained on his master the entire time, waiting for any sign that he’s doing it wrong, but Dean just smiles encouragingly. His scent loses some of the synthetic-pine edge and shifts back to the warm cinnamon undertones that Castiel caught a hint of earlier when the alpha had been fondly reminiscing about his brother, so Castiel takes this as a sign that he’s doing something right.

Even though he knows that this is what his master has told him to do, being on the same level, sitting at the same table, in a chair, like- like equals, like Castiel thinks he’s a regular person… it just feels wrong. Castiel’s entire body remains tensed, braced for a beating that he’s not entirely convinced he doesn’t deserve. He’s so wound up and afraid of making a mistake that his hands are shaking. He hides them in his lap while Dean gets up to get drinks for them both.

Now that he has a moment to get a grip, he looks down at the plate in front of him that’s piled high with food that smells so good, it’s making Castiel’s stomach hurt. He counts four pancakes glistening with melted butter and drizzled with sticky syrup, stacked next to a hearty serving of scrambled eggs on his plate. Everything looks so tempting that it almost feels cruel.

Masters have used delicious-looking food to punish him in the past, forced him to watch rich, gorgeous meals get consumed while he knelt in the corner, dizzy from starvation. He wants so badly to believe that this master isn’t about to do the same thing, but it’s nearly impossible, because he can’t think of any other reason for this extravagance.

What makes his breath catch in his throat, however, is the he realises that Dean has set a knife and fork on either side of his plate, then turned his back and walked away to retrieve drinks, as though he’s not at all concerned that he’s just provided his slave with weapons.

If Castiel wanted to, he could take that knife — or even the fork, really — and use it to threaten his master into unlocking his collar, to dig the tracking microchip out of his arm, then leave.

He could leave, could run away, and as long as he kept a low profile and took care to avoid the capture cops, there’s nothing that says he wouldn’t make it, at least for a little while. He could feel the sun on his face, be out in the world again, almost like- like a real person.

He could be free.

Another second passes. Another thundering beat of his heart. This is the chance he’s been waiting ten long years for, a chance that might never come again.

His hand inches towards the knife.

Chapter 6: pieces of my soul

Chapter Text

Castiel’s hand inches towards the knife, still unsure what he’s going to do with it, if anything, when Dean calls, ‘Hey, Steve?’ over to the table, his head still buried in the open refrigerator.

Castiel freezes.

‘Y-yes, Dean?’

The words come out strangled, like his fear and guilt have taken a corporeal form that is trying to choke him. His hands fly back to his lap under the table.

‘Uh… So… it looks like I don’t got a whole lot in terms of beverages…’ Dean says, closing the refrigerator and leaning against the counter sheepishly. ‘I’ve kinda been rockin’ the bachelor lifestyle since my granola-head brother moved out, so basically right now, I got beer, tap water, or two-weeks-past-the-expiration-date milk that I just took a whiff of and do not recommend puttin’ in your body. I’m assuming alcohol is currently a no-go for ya, so is water alright? Sorry, man, I coulda sworn I had some orange juice in there, but I think Charlie mighta got to it the last time she came over. Girl is cuckoo for Coco Puffs when it comes to mixin’ her screwdrivers of death cos she knows I buy the good booze.’

Castiel only understands about half of what Dean’s just said, but it sounds like the general idea of his rambling diatribe is asking if Castiel minds drinking water with dinner, which he seems to be apologising for.

‘I- Water is- great. Thank you, Dean,’ Castiel says, hoping he’d interpreted the question correctly.

He eyes the knife next to his plate again, but the opportunity has passed. His heart sinks in his chest, and he just prays that he doesn’t end up looking back at this exact moment and regret not having taken the chance because he was too slow and stupid and scared to make a move.

As though he can hear Castiel’s self-flagellation, Dean sighs quietly, which makes Castiel’s heart beat a little faster, but when the alpha returns to the table with a glass of water in each hand, he doesn’t seem upset at all.

‘Well, dig in,’ Dean says, setting a glass of water down in front of Castiel and reclaiming his seat across from him. ‘Bon appetite ’n all that good stuff.’

Castiel assumes this means he has permission to eat, so he nervously reaches for the fork next to his plate, ignoring the knife altogether, as though worried that once he picks it up, he won’t want to let it go again. The utensil feels foreign in his hand, delicate and cumbersome all at once, like it doesn’t belong there. Like Castiel doesn’t belong there.

(He remembers silverware — he swears he does. He was once raised to know the difference between a salad fork and a fish fork and a seafood fork (which is apparently somehow different from a fish fork), even though back then, Castiel would have happily just used one damn fork for the whole damn meal. Dinner in the Shurley household almost always meant no fewer than half a dozen pieces of flatware per setting, each polished to perfection, but now, all these years later, it’s like he’s never seen such a strange and unusual thing before in his life.)

It’s a number of fumbling starts and stops before he manages to use the fork to pick up a bite of eggs. Somewhere in the far distant corners of his memory, he gets a flash of a brown cartoon animal trying to learn how to use silverware while a pretty, doe-eyed cartoon girl watches in fond amusem*nt. He tries very hard not to think about how incredibly similar to a feral beast he must look right now.

Apparently his lack of etiquette does not go unnoticed, because Dean says a moment later, ‘Uh… if the fork’s givin’ you trouble, I could always getcha a spoon? Or, uh- I mean- ain’t nobody fancy in this house; feel free to finger-food this bitch. Make it, like- one big McGriddle — those are the bomb.’

Castiel has no idea what the hell the man is talking about, other than the fact that he’s picked up on the fact that Castiel hasn’t eaten a meal like a civilised human being in what feels like half a lifetime. He flushes in embarrassment and grits out, ‘Thank you, Dean, but I’ll manage.’

It’s slow going, but he does manage to get the food from the plate to his mouth the majority of the time.

Even so, twenty minutes later, he’s only about a quarter of the way through his plate, because there is simply so much food here. Still, the last thing he wants to do is insult his master or appear ungrateful, so he forces himself to scoop up another forkful of the now cold eggs.

Try though he might, he can’t contain the low whine that escapes his throat when he brings the utensil to his mouth, nor the tiny grimace when he begins to chew. He is so full, and the food has been so rich, that he’s beginning to be genuinely worried that he might vomit.

Just when he’s beginning to wonder if this is what his master had intended for all along — for Castiel to gorge himself until he becomes sick to teach him the dangers of gluttony or something — Dean’s head pops up like an animal scenting danger, and he freezes.

‘Uh… Steve?’ Dean says, a look of mild horror on his face. ‘Are you… uhm- Are you full?’

Castiel lowers his eyes to his plate, ears burning, body braced for punishment. ‘I’m sorry, Dean,’ he whispers, ashamed. ‘I just- I just need a moment, but I- I’ll finish, I swear. It’s just a- a considerably larger serving than I’m accustomed to, but I- I don’t mean to be- I am grateful for your generosity, I really am. I’m sorry-’

‘Oh my God.’ It’s Dean who looks like he might be sick now, which confuses the hell out of Castiel. Dean makes an aborted gesture, like he wants to snatch Castiel’s plate away, but he stops himself at the last moment. ‘Dude, no. Don’t force it, or you’re gonna make yourself puke. sh*t, that’s my bad; I’m used to cooking for me ’n Sammy, ’n that kid could eat me outta house ’n home and still have room for dessert. My dumb ass shoulda remembered that normal people don’t wanna eat their weight in carbs every meal.’

Castiel is beginning to realise that Dean has an uncanny ability to turn every order into a story about his family — and usually throw in some unflattering comments about himself for good measure. His fork hovers mid-air, another scoop of cold eggs balanced precariously on the tines, like his body is still trying to follow the order to eat while his brain is trying to decide whether or not Dean has just told him he’s allowed to stop.

Dean must either sense — or smell — his confusion, so he reaches across the table and uses his hand to block Castiel’s view of his own plate. ‘Okay, listen. New rule: for all meals going forward, I want you to stop eating whenever you feel full, even if some dipsh*t packed half the fridge on your plate, alright?’ He raises his eyes to look right at Castiel, then slowly reaches his other hand around to guide Castiel’s fork back down to his plate. ‘Same goes for if you do clear your plate and you’re still hungry… There’ll always be more where it came from, I promise. As long as you’re in this house, you are in charge of how much food goes in your body, capisce?’

‘I capisce, Dean’ Castiel replies, even if he’s still dubious. He’s just glad his master isn’t offended by this show of ingratitude. ‘What should I…’

He glances down at his plate — it’s still so much food, that even if Dean is like the Shurleys with the well, if you’re not going to eat your dinner, you can have it tomorrow morning for breakfast mentality, he’d be set for several more meals. Despite his current lack of hunger, he still can’t shake the feeling that he’s committing an unforgivable sin by refusing food, something he would have never dreamt he would ever do. He just hopes that his master won’t use this as a reason to not allow him to eat again in the future, despite Dean’s reassurances.

Dean just waves a dismissive hand, though, and says, ‘If ya liked the pancakes, I’ll wrap ’em up for tomorrow, but I’ll probably just toss the eggs… reheated eggs suck.’ He pauses, glancing back at Castiel, this time looking almost shy and says, ‘So… did you like the pancakes? S’totally okay if they weren’t your thing, I just figured that, y’know, they’d be pretty mild for your stomach, but I probably could gone a little lighter on the syrup ’n butter, I guess wasn’t really thinkin’, so actually, maybe they weren’t that great for y-’

‘They were wonderful.’

For a moment, Dean and Castiel just stare at each other, Dean in surprise, Castiel in abject horror. He’s just interrupted his master, and not only that, but he’d done so to be contrary, to disagree with him. After the trainers at the training centre had sufficiently beaten the fact that he was no longer a person into him, the next thing they moved onto was that slaves do not have opinions. There is only the master’s beliefs, and the master is always right.

Castiel opens his mouth to apologise, beg, grovel, whatever it takes to convince his master that he hadn’t made a mistake when he’d allowed Castiel to keep his power of speech, when Dean breaks into a wide, boyish grin, and the space fills with the scent of cinnamon and balsam, reminding Castiel of being curled up by the fireplace with a mug of hot cider in December.

‘Ya really liked ’em?’ Dean asks, definitely sounding shy now. He glances down at Castiel’s abandoned plate, a look on his face like he’s trying and failing to stop smiling. ‘I’m glad, dude. Pancakes, eggs, ’n bacon was my old man’s favourite breakfast… he wasn’t too keen on me knowin’ my way around the kitchen, so I didn’t get a chance to do much cooking growin’ up, but he was crazy for my pancakes, so I- I’m glad you like ’em too.’

And that’s yet another story about his family, squeezed into a space that would have been fine without it, but somehow these little peeks into Dean’s world don’t take away from the moment, but add so much to it, Castiel thinks. He chances a small smile of his own and says, ‘I did, very much. Thank you, Dean.’

The scent of happy alpha is so potent that even Dean must be able to smell it, because he wrinkles his nose and mumbles something about it being no big deal, then takes his own (empty) plate to the sink. When he comes back to the table, he still smells content, but the scent is slightly less strong. Castiel thinks he almost misses it.

‘So… why don’t you just- just go ahead ’n get ready for bed? I mean, if I’m this friggin’ tired, I’m guessin’ you gotta be goddamn exhausted after this clusterf*ck of a day. I’ll just, uh- clean up ’n turn the lights off, ’n then hit the hay myself,’ Dean offers, already reaching for Castiel’s plate.

For just a moment, Castiel has the insane urge to hug the plate against his chest, to hide the food that’s left on it so it isn’t taken away, but he doesn’t. He keeps his hands folded, well-trained, and stands, nodding his understanding of this new order.

It’s not until he’s climbing the stairs and walking into ‘his’ room that he realises that Dean said ‘get ready for bed’, but didn’t specify which bed he intended for Castiel to sleep in — or if he would be sleeping in a bed at all, for that matter.

He reasons that Dean had made a point to mention the bed in this room, though, so perhaps he did mean for Castiel to sleep here, but on the other hand, there’s a chance he’d simply assumed Castiel knew he would be sleeping in his master’s room, because designated room or not, no object or space ever truly belongs to a slave. The last thing Castiel wants to do is give Dean any reason to be unhappy with him, because so far, it seems like he just might be the kindest master that Castiel has ever had.

Still pondering what his next move should be, he makes his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth, the feeling of cleanliness again making him feel as though he could cry.

(While he’d been grateful for the opportunity to have his hair cut or teeth cleaned in Purgatory, the slaves there had basically been treated like wild dogs at the groomer. They were strapped down, then shaved, waxed, plucked, scrubbed, and had their mouths pried open like animals for the guards to brush their teeth with coarse brushes that always made Castiel’s gums bleed. Then he’d be sprayed down with the hose head to toe and left there alone to shiver himself dry until it was time for him to be brought back to his cell — a far cry from the bright, warm, well-stocked bathroom he finds himself in now.)

The mint toothpaste feels almost spicy in his mouth, compared to what he’s used to from Purgatory, but he soldiers on, making sure to be thorough, even when he notices that the toothpaste he spits out is tinged pink. At least he’s allowed to clean himself, and there’s no one holding or hosing him down like a wild animal.

Castiel spits out the rest of the toothpaste and rinses his mouth with water from the tap, then glares sternly at himself in the mirror, giving himself a silent pep talk yet again to just be good. He grips the edge of the sink for a moment, takes a deep breath, and leaves the bathroom, mind finally made up.

Dean had given no instructions on what Castiel should wear to sleep in, so he stays in the hoodie and sweatpants Dean had provided for him. He entertains the idea of stripping down completely, but for some reason he gets the impression that that isn’t the result Dean would prefer.

He leaves his room and pads down the hall, taking a deep breath when he comes to the door that Dean had said leads to his bedroom. It’s slightly ajar, so Castiel slips inside, but pauses just inside the door, unsure of what to do next, as the alpha has made repeated comments about not wanting to f*ck Castiel. While there is still a cynical voice in Castiel’s head that insists that there’s no other reason his master would have gone to such lengths to make sure Castiel is clean and fed, if not to make sure he is in good condition to provide sexual relief, there’s a part of him that has resigned itself to believing Dean’s words until proven wrong.

Even so, Castiel knows that some masters use their slaves for the simple pleasure of having a warm body in their bed, and honestly, he thinks might not even mind that so much. The alpha is tall and strong and has a nice, soothing scent. Castiel steals a glance over at the king-sized bed in the centre of the opposite wall and notes that it looks soft and warm. He decides that there are definitely worse positions he could find himself in.

Still, he’s been trained better than to presume anything, and Dean himself had told Castiel to ask when he was unsure of something, so he chooses to simply kneel in the middle of the room and wait for the alpha’s return. Though he doesn’t necessarily think that this will be the case, there is always the chance that Dean intends for Castiel to sleep on the floor or at the foot of his bed.

(Or worse, in a cage somewhere else in the house. Castiel just prays it’s not in the basem*nt — he’s had masters whose preferred punishment would be to leave Castiel chained in a damp, dark basem*nt for days, and those were some of the worst times of his life. Shivering alone in a pitch-black cold cellar means that there’s literally nothing to distract him from his own thoughts and nightmares.)

So, in the semi-darkness of his new master’s bedroom, he kneels and waits, listening to the muffled sounds of the shower coming through the closed bathroom door. He entertains himself by pondering if the shower nozzle in Dean’s en suite bathroom is backwards as well, or if he’d figured out how to properly install the part by the time he got to working on his own bathroom. Something about Dean makes Castiel think that he’d probably made sure his brother’s living space was completely taken care of before even beginning to consider his own.

The water turns off, and a few minutes after that, Dean reenters the bedroom, hair still damp and towel slung around his hips, singing to himself again like he’d been doing in the kitchen. Castiel finds himself wondering if this is something his master typically does, almost hoping that it is one of the other man’s usual habits; the result is quite endearing and he hadn’t lied before when he’d told Dean that he has a very nice singing voice.

‘And the players gonna play, play, play, play, play. Haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate hate. I’m just gonna shake, shake, shake, shake it off. Shake it- holy f*ckin’ sh*tballs!’ Dean yells when he catches sight of Castiel. He whips around so fast that he almost loses his towel, but he manages to catch it with one hand at the last second, and frantically wraps it back around himself, looking both horrified and mortified. ‘Dude! What the actual f*ck, man?!’

Castiel shrinks away from his master’s loud voice, though he doesn’t smell angry, just startled, edging again into embarrassment.

‘I- I wasn’t sure where you’d intended for me to sleep,’ he says in a nervous rush. He’s eager to explain himself so he can soothe the alpha’s upset, mild though it may be, because until that moment, he’d felt like they’d been having a pretty nice night. ‘And- and you said to ask if I was uncertain, so I didn’t want to- to presume. I know you said, sir, that you weren’t intending me to- to service you sexually, so I wasn’t sure if you meant for me to still warm your bed, or if you’d prefer me to sleep on the floor, or- or if there was another designated spot-’

‘Yeah, Steve, the designated spot is your own f*cking room!’ Dean exclaims, but Castiel can tell for sure now that he definitely doesn’t smell angry, just… sad. ‘sh*t, man, I didn’t realise you’d need me to- I mean… I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear before, but when I said that that was your room, I meant, like, literally — your room, like for you to live in ’n sleep in ’n all that. So, uh- the only bed ya gotta worry ’bout warmin’ is your own, alright?’

‘I should sleep… in the bed? In the- in ‘my’ room?’ Castiel asks. He doesn’t make air quotes around the word ‘my’, but only just refrains. He’d assumed that Dean had intended for Castiel to use that space to clean and clothe himself, but he’d never expected that he was to always sleep there as well, much less sleep in the bed, and alone, at that.

‘… Yes?’ Dean answers, sounding confused now as well. ‘Unless you wanna take the sofa in the living room? Or, hell, if ya wanna sleep in the Dean Cave, I s’pose you could crash in there as well… plenty to keep ya entertained in there, at least, if ya can’t fall asleep. I mean- sleep wherever ya want, man, just, uh- not here, if ya don’t mind.’

He looks both earnest and helpless, like he wants to keep offering solutions to this problem that Castiel has created by being so confused and stupid. The last thing Castiel wants, however, is to create more work for Dean or make him regret not simply ordering Castiel to present on the bed, so he quickly shakes his head and backs away a few steps.

‘The- the bed in my room is- is much appreciated, Dean, thank you,’ he says, eyes darting up to his master’s and then away. ‘I apologise for my… error. It won’t happen again.’

‘S’no big deal, Steve,’ Dean says, frowning, but then he lets out a gigantic yawn. Castiel notices then that he looks exhausted and realises that it appears that the day has been as tumultuous for Dean as it has been for him. Dean grins, a bit bashfully. ‘Anything else I can get for ya before I turn in?’

‘No, Dean. Thank you, Dean.’ Castiel hurries to back out of the room, but not before he hears Dean sigh and call, ‘’Night, Steve. Sleep well.’

Once he’s back out into the hall again, Castiel lets out a long, shaky breath as he heads back to- to his room. He closes the door behind him and just stands there for a moment, staring at the queen size bed in the middle of the far wall. Suddenly, the bed, the room — it all seems unfathomably large.

Swallowing hard, Castiel crosses the room until he’s standing at the foot of the bed, then he freezes again, just looking down at it without truly seeing anything.

This is the bed his master has told him to sleep in. His orders are to get into this bed, so get in the f*cking bed, Castiel.

He doesn’t move. He can’t.

Even though he knows he’s alone in this room, he can’t fight the feeling that he’s about to be grabbed from behind, forcefully bent over the bed, and hurt, because there’s only one reason for an omega to ever be allowed in a bed.

But Dean — his master — has told him to sleep in this bed.

So… he has to get into the bed.

Deciding to just- just do it, he grits his teeth and keeps moving until he’s laying on the very edge of the mattress, entire body stiff as a board, every limb locked as he tries to force himself to breathe. This is ridiculous; it’s bullsh*t. There is literally nothing that could happen to him in this bed that hasn’t already happened to him in Purgatory a hundred times over and a hundred times worse.

He breathes. Counts the breaths. After the first hundred, he relaxes his fists. After the second, he unclenches his jaw.

After the fifth, he finally closes his eyes and tries to let exhaustion take him.

Hours later, Castiel is still struggling.

It’s just f*cking awful. Everything just feels too- too open, too big out here in the middle of the room like this. Even though he knows that the headboard of the bed is pushed up against the wall, when he doesmanage to drift off even a little, he keeps jerking awake, hair on the back of his neck standing up with the anticipation that someone’s about to grab him, shove his face into the mattress, and just take.

He doesn’t sleep. He won’t sleep, not like this.

Maybe- maybe it doesn’t have to be in the bed. Dean had technically said that he could sleep wherever he wanted… he’d just wanted to follow his master’s first order, to prove… something. He honestly can’t remember what the point was, only that it had seemed vitally important at the time. Now, hours later, his tired brain can’t remember or even bring itself to care.

After several more failed attempts, he finally surrenders, climbs out of the bed, and lays down on the floor, but even this feels too exposed. He lets out a low, frustrated growl and sits up, scrubbing his hands first down his face, then up to rub his temples. He is so tired, and for once, he’s allowed to sleep off this exhaustion… if only his stupid f*cking brain would just turn off and stop deciding every shadow was hiding some new threat.

A glance at the alarm clock flashing on the nightstand tells him that by now, it’s almost three in the morning — too late to still be awake, but too early for him to reasonably get up and begin his day. And even if it wasn’t, he realises he has no idea what morning duties he’s supposed to perform, or even when Dean expects him to wake, so there’s no point in getting up, so what he really needs to do is just follow his damn orders, and go to sleep.

Angry tears burn his eyes, which makes Castiel feel so damn stupid that he growls at himself again, slamming his fist down on his own thigh in frustration. It’s just- it’s too big. Everything here is too big. There’s so much spacearound him, it feels like it wants to swallow him whole. He never had this much space in Purgatory — he was kept in a friggin’ kennel that was smaller than the damn closet he has now.

He freezes at this realisation, plays the idea over in his mind.

The closet.

Feeling foolish as hell, but so tired he can’t even make himself care, he drags himself over to the closet and nudges the door open, peeking inside as though he’s never seen such a wondrous sight before.

The chest at the far end of the walk-in closet takes up a bit of space, but still there’s more than enough room for him to fully lie down inside. It’s a fairly narrow space, but still wide enough that if he stretched both arms out as far as they could go, he would only just be touching the walls. It’s perfect.

Castiel settles in, knowing that when he wakes up and realises where he is, he’s going to feel like a first class idiot, but deciding that’s a problem for Future Castiel, because Present Castiel is pressing his back up against one of the walls and curling onto his side, finally, finally able to drift off to sleep.

Chapter 7: the same old venom

Chapter Text

Dean had been bone-weary, dog-tired, ready-to-pass-out-still-dressed exhausted before he’d gotten into the shower, and even though the shower had woken him up a little, he’d still been craving stumbling into bed and passing the f*ck out like nobody’s business.

The last thing he’d been expecting to see when he reentered his bedroom, however, was f*ckin’ Steve, kneeling in the middle of the floor in the dark like something out of a goddamn Japanese horror movie.

It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might have had to clarify something as simple as the guy being allowed to sleep in the bed in his own damn room. Dean had just about died when Steve had offered to warm his friggin’ bed.

Crawling into his cold bed now that Steve had seen himself out, though, somehow feels wrong, like something is missing. He’s overcome with a sort of restlessness that makes him want to get out of bed and make sure Steve got into his own safe and sound, and he keeps having to stop himself from getting up just to make sure.

The whole thing is insane, because why the hell would the guy have run into any problems walking all of twenty feet down the hall, but there’s some primal instinct inside of him howling at him to go defend-protect-provide. Steve had been confused, he’d been scared, he’d been hurt, someone had hurt him, someone had hurt Dean’s omega, and all Dean wants to do is tear their throats out with his teeth.

He realises he’s growling at just about the same time as the fact that his stupid animal brain just called Steve ‘his’ again, and then he is jumping out of bed, cell phone in hand, because what the f*cking hell is this sh*t.

The phone’s ringing before he even knows what’s going on, and the one person who will definitely know how to fix this answers after only two rings.

‘Benny, ya gotta help me, man,’ Dean begs in a whisper, his desperation causing little bursts of static against the phone with every word. He hopes he’s quiet enough that Steve won’t hear Dean talking about him, cos he’s sure that’d feel pretty sh*tty, no matter what the intent or context is. ‘I’m dyin’ over here… no matter what I do, it’s the wrong friggin’ move. I told y’all I wasn’t the guy for the job ’n that Steve’d be better off with literally anyone else who’s more qualified, but noooo, everyone was all, oh, but Dean, you were sooooo great takin’ care of Sammy, y’know, when your mom was slaughtered by a raged-out alpha ’n your dad went all friggin’ John Wick over it, so he’d leave two dumbsh*t kids alone for weeks at a time in sleazebag motels so he could go f*ck off on his quest for vengeance that ended up killin’ him too, by the way, cos, you know, that’s how sane people process their grief, and-’

He’s pacing like a madman, words and idiocy and bullsh*t tumbling from his mouth so quickly that he feels lightheaded and out of breath. Luckily, Benny is more than used to talking Dean out of his anxiety death spirals.

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa, brother, wanna get a handle on them thoroughbreds?’ Benny interrupts with a low chuckle. He laughs again at Dean’s startled little sound of pathetic confusion. ‘I’m sayin’ ya need to hold your horses there, cher. I’m sure it ain’t as bad as all that… ya always were complete crap at cuttin’ yourself a break, ’specially when the sh*t starts hittin’ the fan, which — for the record — I’d say a single, unmated alpha becomin’ forced roomies with a traumatised, unmated omega fresh outta the slave trade? Definitely a giant cluster. But you were right — we all said it oughta be you, cos you’re you, boss. Like it or not, you’re one of the good ones, ’n from the sounds of it, Steve could use some’a that right about now.’

‘He tried to blow me the second we walked in the door, so at the very least he thinks I’m some horndog piece of sh*t!’ Dean’s still whispering, but now he’s definitely more on the ‘whisper-shouting’ end of the spectrum. He knows he sounds hysterical — even he can hear it — but Benny, bless him, doesn’t call him out on it.

Instead, Benny takes a few slow breaths, then says quietly, ‘Y’know that had nothin’ to do with you, though, right? All that mess’s a result’a the poor kid’s training… I bet he tried takin’ your shoes and coat off for ya the second you got home, too, huh?’

‘Right…’ Dean says slowly, remembering again that Benny had spent several years in the slave trade after being betrayed by people he’d thought were his friends. Dean had never pried into his friend’s past, assuming that if Benny wanted him to know something, he’d offer it up himself.

‘It’s one of the first things they teach ya in them damned training centres,’ Benny says gruffly. ‘How t’please your master as soon as he gets home, cos the master ain’t s’posed’ta want for nothin’. He ain’t a god, but he’s your god, so if ya know what’s good for ya, you let that fact become stone number one and build the rest of your world on it. They show ya that you’re gonna break one way or the other, so might as well choose the path that’s gonna hurt the least, cos either you leave the perfect slave or ya end up under the training centre.’

‘Ben…’ Dean’s got nothing to say to that, because there’s nothing he can say that’d make anything his best friend just said okay. Not a single part of the entire rotten f*cking system is okay, and all at once, Dean feels almost overwhelmed by the hopelessness of trying to rage against the machine.

‘It is what it is, and ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout that this very moment.’ Benny’s tone is curt, but determined. ‘All we can do is figure out how t’go about makin’ your boy feel at least a little bit more settled. Didja explain anything to him yet?’

‘Uh… I told him no funny business in the bathing suit area ’n that he don’t gotta ‘earn’ the right to eat while he’s with me?’ Dean offers, somewhat weakly. He’s entirely unsurprised when he hears Benny scoff at this. ‘Listen, man, I didn’t know what the hell to say — y’all warned me up, down, ’n sideways not to overload the guy with information, but no one said what that meant, so I just, uh… didn’t.’

Benny’s silence speaks for itself — Dean’s done f*cked up.

‘So…’ Benny draws out the vowel sound when he finally does speak, gravel-rough accent making it feel like it’s scraping over Dean’s raw nerves. ‘Think that there might maybe be the startin’ line for your problems, chief?’

‘Then tell me what the hell to say, man!’ Dean hisses. ‘I told y’all I was gonna f*ck it up, didn’t I? Why don’t you come here ’n give him The Talk since you’re so goddamn intuitive?’

It’s a sh*tty thing to say, considering Benny’s history, and Dean regrets the words the second they come out of his mouth, even before he hears Benny’s sharp intake of breath.

‘I’m sorry,’ Dean says immediately, guilt from that, from this whole damn day making him nauseous — God, he just wants to go to f*cking bed. ‘I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean nothin’ ’bout… well, anything, I just meant- I’m in the f*ckin’ weeds here, man, and I’m scared to death that I’m f*cking the poor guy up worse than he already is. I just- I don’t wanna hurt him, Benny.’

Benny lets out a long, slow breath that crackles in Dean’s ear, but he stays shut up and just gives his friend the time he needs to get over Dean’s stupid, asshole mouth.

‘Okay, well, listen,’ Benny says finally, sounding only a little bit strained. ‘I think we both knew I was gonna need to swoop in and save your inept behind sooner or later, so why don’t I swing by tomorrow after pilates, ’n help you give the boy the talk. Dunno how much good it’s gonna be comin’ from an alpha, though.’

‘Still can’t believe you go to a friggin’ pilates class,’ Dean grumbles, knowing that this is the only tiny bit of leverage he has over the other man. ‘But, yeah. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d really appreciate it, man. Maybe we can get Pam to come over too to help give the big this is the first day of the rest of your life, so carpe that diem speech? Mitigate some of the testosterone and alpha pheromones?’

Dean swears he can hear Benny shaking his head through the phone.

Even so, he still says, ‘Yeah, I’ll message her in the morning. You just- just sit tight ’n be your normal, abnormal, foot-done-taken-up-residence-in-your-mouth self, alright? Ain’t nothin’ you can do to the kid in the next twelve hours that’s gonna f*ck ’im up worse than where he came from, so all ya gotta do is just batten down the hatches ’n treat him like a human friggin’ being, even if he don’t feel like one. I’m sure you ain’t doin’ as bad as ya think you are.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m pretty goddamn sure I am,’ Dean retorts, anxiety and hysteria ramping right back up when he eyes his own bed and is immediately reminded of all the sh*t that’s gone down in this room in the last half an hour. ‘Dude snuck in my room while I was in the shower, then asked me if I wanted him to warm my friggin’ bed. I just- man, I’m not used to havin’ to play six degrees of I don’t wanna f*ckin’ f*ck you every time I say somethin’, ’n I’m just worried as f*ck that I’m gonna make some offhand comment about- about changin’ the bedsheets or makin’ an omelette or some other innocuous bullsh*t, ’n the guy’s gonna take it as a thinly veiled order to drop trou in the f*ckin’ hallway or somethin’!’

He runs a hand through his hair, considers his next words for all of two seconds, then decides he might as well admit all his sins tonight and continues, ‘And then there’s this stupid part of my brain that keeps callin’ him mine, like my omega, and what the actual f*ck’s up with that, huh? I swear to God, I never thought I was some- some mindless alpha knothead, but every instinct I got right now is tellin’ me to go right down the hall ’n into his room ’n make sure he’s happy, but I know he ain’t happy, because he’s the poor son of a bitch who ended up friggin’ saddled to a friggin’ trainwreck that hit an friggin’ iceberg inside a goddamn dumpster fire!’

He’s greeted with a total and complete silence again by the time he finishes his tirade, and this time it goes on for so long that he checks the phone to check that the call hasn’t dropped, but sure enough, the call timer’s still ticking away. He’s about to ask Benny if he’s had a stroke or fallen ’n can’t get up or something when he hears his friend’s low, quick, quiet inhales as a clear sign of life.

The f*cking bastard… is laughing at him.

‘Oh, f*ck you, Lafitte,’ he says, causing the quiet chuckles to erupt into full, booming guffaws. ‘Go ahead ’n yuk it up while I’m losin’ my goddamn mind over here. Real great friend, you are — just f*ckin’ stellar.’

‘Now, how many friends you got that’d be sittin’ by the phone all night, waitin’ on a call just like this one, cos they knew you’d been more wound up’n a long-tailed cat in a room full’a rockin’ chairs this first night, huh?’ Benny retorts, entirely unperturbed now. ‘’Specially when that mouth’a yours works faster’n your goddamn brain — assumin’ you weren’t stuck in traffic on the day the good Lord was handin’ ’em out, which — gotta say, brother — sometimes I wonder.’

‘f*ck all the way off,’ Dean says, but if Benny’s giving him sh*t again, he knows that means he’s forgiven.

‘You know I’m just messin’ with you, cher,’ Benny says, still chuckling to himself. ‘Alright, well, listen — I’ll swing by tomorrow ’round noon ’n tell the good Dr Barnes what’s up. I know she was plannin’ on settin’ somethin’ up soon anyway — she’s real invested in this case after that fight she had with Adler ’n the doc down at the centre, so shouldn’t be too hard to arrange.’

‘Thanks, Ben — I really appreciate it, man. ’N listen- I’m real sorry ’bout-’ Dean starts, but Benny cuts him off.

‘Yeah, yeah, I know,’ he says. Dean can almost hear his impatient shrug and eye roll through the phone. ‘Just go ’n get you some rest, Sleeping Beauty, so maybe we can get your elevator t’go all the way to the top floor tomorrow, alright? Wouldn’t that be somethin’…’

‘I kinda hate you, you know that?’ Dean says, laughing. ‘Alright, g’night, man. Thanks for- well, everything.’

Dean hangs up the phone, tossing it down onto his bed, and lets out a long, slow breath. He scrubs both hands down over his face, then runs them through his hair, knowing he almost certainly looks as insane as he feels right now, but not knowing what to do with the jittery energy coursing through his veins. He considers retreating to the Dean Cave, but decides against it, worried that if Steve hears him moving around the house, he’s going to freak out again and, selfishly, Dean just does not have it in him to go through another awkward conversation.

Instead, he climbs back into bed, grabs his headphones from the nightstand, picks a playlist at random, and tries with all his might to let the music lull him to sleep. Tomorrow is another day, and with any luck, he won’t f*ck anything up too badly before Benny and Pamela arrive.

Feeling slightly more hopeful, but no less inadequate, he finally, finally drifts off to sleep.

Dean wakes early the next morning, even before his alarm goes off. He’d been tossing and turning the whole night, the restless urge to go check on Steve waking him up every other hour. He’d refrained, but barely, and only because he knew if Steve were to wake up and sense a strange alpha in his room, it’d probably send him into a complete f*cking breakdown.

Groaning, Dean rolls out of bed and stretches, glaring at the alarm clock that’s blinking a number far too early for his liking, then lumbers off into the bathroom for a long shower that does exactly nothing for his nerves. He exits the shower and dresses in just as much of a fog as he’d been in the moment he woke up.

Coffee. Coffee will fix everything.

Somehow, he makes it down the stairs without breaking his fool neck, and heads into the kitchen, where he starts the coffeemaker and pops some frozen waffles into the toaster. He goes to the fridge for Steve’s leftover pancakes (boy, does he still feel like a friggin’ dumbass for not realising that the guy was trying to stuff himself silly because he thought that was what Dean wanted) and throws them into the microwave as though on autopilot.

While he waits for the coffee and food to get done, he stares blankly out the window over the sink. The sun is just beginning to rise, bringing red-orange into the blue-grey world that has no idea what’s in store.

The microwave beeps, jolting him from his ridiculously maudlin reverie, so he goes to check the food, flips the pancakes over, and nukes it for another minute just as the coffeemaker plays its little jingle to let it know that the coffee’s done brewing, thank f*ck.

He goes to the cabinet and pulls down his favourite mug (one from Charlie, shaped like Hedwig the owl) and is about to pour himself a cup of coffee, but then he pauses.

He reopens the cabinet and pulls down his second favourite mug — a cadet blue one with the words CHAOS COORDINATOR: FUELED BY CAFFEINE etched into it that he’d gotten from the staff at The Roadhouse. He pours his coffee into that cup.

Then promptly almost drops the damn thing when he turns around to find Steve kneeling just inside the doorway to the kitchen.

Hot coffee sloshes up over his hand and he hisses from the burn, hastily setting the mug down on the counter and wiping his hand on his jeans before looking back over to Steve, who now looks scared as hell. Somewhere in the background, he hears the pop of the toaster letting him know his waffles are done.

‘Mornin’,’ Dean grits out, doing his best to hide his irritation. He’s not mad at Steve, he’s mad at himself, for being such a distracted idiot, but he gets the feeling that if Steve smells anything even close to anger, he’s going to work himself up into a panic again.

Even so, Steve shakes almost imperceptibly, but he still replies, ‘Good morning, Dean. I apologise for sleeping so late; I… I wasn’t certain what time you expected me to wake, and the alarm on the clock upstairs doesn’t appear to function properly.’

‘Dude, you didn’t sleep too late; I just have a sh*tty sleep schedule, so some days I’m up at asshole o’clock ’n others I’m up at noon. It really depends on what my work week looks like, and uh… I’ve got the next few weeks off of work to help you get settled in ’n everything, so who knows what kind of weird ass hours I’m gonna be keeping.’ Dean realises he’s edging into some choppy waters here, what with mentioning his work, while still having no idea how to describe his job, so instead he asks, ‘Uh- the alarm clock… did it not go off, or did it start blaring Asia?’

‘I… don’t understand that reference, I’m sorry, Dean,’ Steve replies, brow furrowing slightly.

Before Dean can think better of it, he blurts out ‘Uh- I know I said you can call me ‘Dean’ ’n everything, but, uh… you know you don’t gotta use my name like punctuation, right? I mean- regular folks, like… they don’t use the other person’s name in normal conversation hardly at all, right? So, like- you don’t gotta be treating it like- like a title or anything, you can just, like… talk to me, y’know?’

Dean’s suppressing a groan and wondering if he’s just said ‘like’ or ‘you know’ more in that hot mess of a speech he just gave, because by the time he reaches the end of it, he’s pretty sure he’s killed about ten percent of both their brain cells. He flashes Steve a sheepish smile, about to apologise for rambling like an idiot, but is immediately distracted by the other man’s confused — and somewhat fearful — expression.

‘I- I-’ Steve starts, somewhat helplessly, but no more words come, and that’s probably just as well, because Dean’s making next to no sense.

‘I mean- don’t get me wrong, I ain’t mad about it or anything, I’m just sayin’ that- that ya don’t gotta tack it onto everything. I mean- what didja call your other, uh- the other alphas who- you know,’ Dean asks, as inelegantly as humanly possible. ‘I mean- if you got any input here, it’d be greatly appreciated, dude, cos I’m not gonna lie — I’m at a friggin’ loss.’

‘I- I would call them ‘Master’, Dean,’ Steve answers, having regained his voice and sounding almost apologetic. ‘I know you said you said you prefer for me not to use that title for you, though… If not ‘Master’ or ‘Dean’, then perhaps ‘Alpha’? Occasionally that was… preferred?’ Steve sounds nervous as hell, but Dean’s the one who can’t control his flinch.

‘I’d… rather you didn’t, actually,’ he says quickly, memories of the life he’d almost had with Lisa and Ben threatening to rise to the forefront of his mind and ain’t nobody got time for that little trip down memory lane, that’s for damn sure. ‘That’s a little too- too intimate for what we got goin’ on, I think, since I’m not really your- I mean- I’m just not real big on that one, if you don’t mind.’ He runs a hand through his hair and sighs. ‘Well… ain’t like we gotta figure it all out right now. Nothin’ says we can’t figure it out as we go, right?’

‘Yes, D-’ Steve catches himself, eyes wide and worried. He bites his lip. Dean mentally kicks his own ass for making sh*t more difficult than it needs to be — again.

Desperate to change the subject, he suddenly remembers the food and asks, ‘Hey- how does leftover pancakes ’n some fruit for breakfast sound?’

Steve keeps his eyes trained on the spot on the floor between himself and Dean and nods again, clearly worried about misspeaking. Dean remembers what the asshole at the omega centre had said about Steve not talking, and he wonders if silence is something the omega falls back on when he’s afraid. It makes sense — theoretically, you can’t get in trouble for saying the wrong thing if you say nothing at all.

(For a split second, Dean has the thought that maybe he oughta take a page outta that book, but in the next, he hates himself all over again, because Steve didn’t learn that to keep himself from sounding like a graceless idiot in social situations; he had to learn it to survive.)

God, it hits him all over again that he is not the right man for the job, not at all, because he has no idea how to handle these kinds of delicate situations. He’s definitely not what anyone would call ‘emotionally intuitive’, so to be faced with someone who needs to be handled with so much extra care almost seems insurmountably impossible.

Sighing, Dean grabs Steve’s reheated pancakes from the microwave and his waffles from the toaster, and begins plating them with some fruit salad from the fridge, sternly reminding himself that if he feels like he’s having a tough time riding these waves, then Steve is undoubtedly struggling to keep his head above water, and that’s what matters now. Dean will just have to get over himself and get it together.

When he brings the plates over to the table, he catches sight of the empty coffee mug on the counter and perks up — pun not intended. He’s about to ask Steve how he takes his coffee, but then he thinks back to the car ride from the day before, and how he’d told Steve he’d try to ask yes or no questions when he’d thought he was mostly non-verbal. He glances over to Steve now and sees that the omega has that same scared, spacey look he’d had on the drive, and something in his gut tells him that now’s not the time to push for words.

Instead, he remembers how relieved Steve had seemed at the idea of being given ‘orders’ (just thinking of it like that makes Dean’s stomach hurt, but he ignores his own discomfort as much as he can) and says, ‘D’ya think you could go ahead and take a seat at the table for me? I’ll just…’

Not waiting for a response, Dean makes a beeline for the coffeemaker, pours some into the empty mug, and brings it, the sugar bowl, and bottle of creamer over to the table where Steve is gingerly lowering himself down into the same chair he’d sat in the night before. He stares down at his plate of food, but makes no move to begin eating, as though he’s expecting it to jump up and attack him — or maybe for Dean to, Dean really can’t tell at this point.

He sets the coffee down in front of Steve at about the same time he realises that he doesn’t even know if the guy drinks coffee, but then figures in for a penny, in for a pound. ‘I, uh- made you coffee, if you want it, I mean. If you don’t, that’s cool too, totally no pressure or anything. I know some people don’t… I just thought maybe…’

Good Lord, he is bad at this.

‘… I could probably make tea if that sounds better?’ he finishes lamely.

‘Coffee is- it’s perfect. Thank you, D- Thank you.’ Something in Steve’s voice wavers just a little as he reaches for his mug. The sleeves of the hoodie he’s still wearing from last night are too long — they fall down to almost touch his fingertips, and when he picks up the coffee cup in both hands, Dean can’t help but be reminded of a small child coming in for hot cocoa after playing in the snow. It pulls at something in his chest until he forces himself to look away.

Steve brings the cup to his mouth and takes a small sip, eyes closed as though he’s having a religious experience. When he opens them, Dean sees they’re wet and bright. ‘Thank you,’ he says again, voice hoarse.

Dean’s gut instinct is to shrug it off, because it’s seriously just a cup of Folgers coffee, nothing special, but even as he opens his mouth, he gets the faintest whiff of something sweet and light that makes him stop short.

It- it’s Steve.

It’s the first time Dean’s gotten a hint of his scent under the stale layers of fear and pain and sorry that’s been clinging to him since the omega centre. At best, it’s seemed as though Steve’s been preventing his scent from spiralling out of control by sheer force of will, but even then, the sour notes of desperation have been so deeply interwoven that it’s masked anything that might have been lying beneath.

Now, though, it’s like stepping out into the sunshine after a rainstorm. And Dean can’t get enough.

He’s distantly aware that he needs to- to say something, do something, but all he wants to do is trace that wonderful scent back to its source and figure out how to make it multiply. He wants more, to gulp it down, to bottle it up and never let it fade. If a simple cup of coffee could make Steve this happy, Dean’ll- he’ll brew him a whole pot every single day. He’ll stock every shelf in the pantry, floor to ceiling, with every flavour coffee under the sun. Hell, he’ll give the guy a whole damn Starbucks if that’s what-

The sweet smell disappears so abruptly that a whine escapes Dean’s throat before he can stop himself. In its place is the prickly, peppery scent of the omega’s anxiousness over Dean’s apparent loss of all higher brain function that tickles Dean’s nose and makes him sneeze.

This, at least, brings Dean back to the present.

To the terrified omega across the table from him.

He blinks, shaking his head as though that would do anything at all to clear all that crap out of it, and realises that Steve’s breathing has gone very rapid and shallow. He’s still clinging to his mug with both hands, but the liquid inside ripples from the tremors in his hands. He sees Dean watching and quickly sets it back down on the table, his hands flying to his lap. Just before they disappear from sight, Dean sees that Steve’s too-long sleeves are bunched into his fists, again reminding Dean of a small child in a large coat.

Steve tilts his chin just slightly to the side, like he thinks he’s supposed to offer his surrender, but it’s going against his primal instincts for survival.

All at once, Dean feels shame wash over him like a cold shower… which is probably a pretty good idea, actually.

‘Uh-’ Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling like a the world’s biggest asshole. ‘S-sorry, I, uh- Shower. I’m gonna go-’ He gestures with both thumbs over his shoulder like an idiot. ‘But, uh- glad you like the coffee, man. Pot’s full if you want a refill, ’n feel free to help yourself to more fruit in the fridge or whatever, so…’ Christ, what he wouldn’t give for an anvil to fall outta the sky, Looney Tunes style, right onto his stupid, stupid head. ‘Go ahead ’n eat ’n I’ll- I’ll be right back.’

And with that, he turns tail and books it back up to his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time like the goddamn coward he is.

Two weeks, he reminds himself as he strips down for his second shower of the day. You just gotta make it through two weeks, ’n then he’ll be gone.

Somehow, this doesn’t make him feel any better.

Chapter 8: the cure for a heart

Chapter Text

Castiel wakes in stages. The first thing he notices before he even opens his eyes is how good he feels. He doesn’t know what the trainers have dosed him with this time, but for a split-second he almost doesn’t care because, at least for a moment, he’s not cold or in pain (at least no more than usual), and it’s f*cking glorious.

Even though he knows he is undoubtedly setting himself up for another punishment, the part of his brain that’s luxuriating in the foreign sensation of feeling okay for the first time in so long begs him to hold onto the last remnants of sleep before he’s yanked back into the harshness of reality — and he listens. He rolls onto his side, curling in on himself a little tighter with a content little hum, when his sleeve falls past the end of his hand and the soft, warm fleece brushes his skin.

Suddenly Castiel is wide awake.

He’s not drugged and he’s not in the omega centre, but he has no idea what time it is, so he very well might have set himself up for another punishment without even knowing it.

Panicked, he scrambles back into the- his bedroom, too frenzied to feel foolish for having spent the night in the damn closet — that’ll just have to be something he berates himself for later. Right now, he’s too busy frantically checking the clock on the nightstand the blinks eight-thirty, oh God, cursing to himself for having slept so late.

In Purgatory, on the nights he spent in his master’s quarters, he’d been expected to be up before his master, always, and was punished severely if he wasn’t. It didn’t matter that the alpha had kept unpredictable hours that changed from day to day, or if Castiel had been ‘working’ in the brothel until the wee hours of the morn the night before. Castiel had been special, he’d been chosen by the master to have the privilege of doubling as one of the alpha’s personal slaves as well, so anything less than full devotion and attentiveness was seen as disrespect and ingratitude for the master’s generosity.

This master, however (Dean, Castiel sternly reminds himself as he descends the stairs so quickly that he nearly falls), had given no indication as to his expectations of when Castiel was to wake. Even so, Castiel’s pretty sure he wasn’t meant to sleep in, especially when he nears the kitchen and hears the sounds of his master moving around inside. There’s no music or singing this time, and he worries that this might be an indication of the alpha’s displeasure.

He folds to his knees the second he gets inside, heart thundering and breath coming rapidly as he waits to be given orders — or punishment.

Only… his master — Dean — isn’t angry over Castiel’s laziness and negligence. Rather than order Castiel to strip down for a beating or lock him in the basem*nt, or even tell him that if he couldn’t be bothered to be on time for a meal, then he doesn’t need to eat, he simply asks Castiel if reheated pancakes is an acceptable breakfast, then tells him to go sit at the table, and gives him a cup of coffee.

It’s been so long since Castiel’s had coffee.

Going to the coffee shop after school had been one of his favourite things to do with Meg and Balthazar. There’d been a quiet little cafe on the way back to Meg’s house that they’d walk to and spend hours nestled away from the rest of the world, optimistically discussing everything from idle gossip to their hopes and dreams like the young, naive things they were. Castiel remembers feeling so very adult during those times, eagerly anticipating that college life would be just like that, but all the time. And it had been… for a minute.

The first sip brings genuine tears to his eyes. He keeps them shut for just a moment longer, and he can almost pretend he’s a teenager again with Meg and Bal at their beloved after school cafe. When he opens them again, he can feel them burning.

‘Thank you,’ is all he manages, but he thinks that’s probably alright, since Dean had made his strange request for Castiel to stop using his name.

Dean opens his mouth like he’s about to reply, but then he freezes and his eyes go very wide. Castiel watches, wary, as the alpha’s nostrils flare and his breathing gets heavy. His pupils dilate, and then he’s looking at Castiel like that.

Castiel knows what it looks like when an alpha wants him. Knows that predatory glint in their eyes, the way they bare their teeth, mouths watering like they want to eat him alive. He knows what it’s like for their hands to grab his nape, push him down, and take, and he’s been a goddamn fool to think that this alpha would be any different just because he’s trussed Castiel up in fleece sweatpants instead of leather and lace.

He doesn’t move — he can’t. He’s frozen, pinned in place by the weight of the alpha’s want. He knows the second he so much as leans back, away from the tsunami of longing washing over him from Dean’s side of the table, he’s going to be bent over the nearest surface or ordered to present and f*cked.

He knows better than to do anything that could instigate a chase — he’s learned it the hard way.

The moment stretches, on and on, until Castiel almost wants to just offer himself on the off-chance that maintaining the illusion of being a willing slu*t would be enough to keep his master from being too rough with him. He slowly — slowly, Castiel, oh God, please — sets his mug down on the table and bares his throat as much as the vice around his chest will allow, already bracing himself for the alpha’s teeth to pierce his skin, but then-

The heady, musky scent of Dean’s peaked interest disappears just as quickly as it came, and is immediately replaced with that same bizarre overly-ripe embarrassment that the alpha keeps exuding.

Castiel hardly has time to blink before Dean’s all but leaping back, away from the table — away from Castiel — and stuttering out some barely comprehensible nonsense about needing a shower, and that Castiel should eat during his absence.

And then he’s gone.

Dean retreats. Castiel can hear him scrambling up the stairs like he thinks the devil himself is after him. A few moments later, he hears the pipes knocking quietly and the distant sound of running water, indicating that Dean is, indeed, taking a shower.

Absolutely flabbergasted, Castiel glances across the table to where Dean’s plate sits, untouched, his chair askew from how quickly its former occupant bolted away. He has no idea what the hell has just happened.

Dazedly, he remembers his master ordered him to begin eating, so he hesitantly picks up the fork that Dean had set next to his plate. Though it still feels a bit odd in his hand, he manages a lot better this morning than he had the night before.

He’s mechanically worked his way through about half a pancake by the time Dean returns to the kitchen, hair damp and shivering slightly, but looking far more settled than when he’d departed.

‘Hey, s-sorry ’bout th-that,’ Dean says, teeth chattering, as he takes his seat. He rubs his hands over his arms for a moment before picking up his own cup of coffee, groaning in pleased satisfaction from the warmth. He takes a long swallow and sighs. ‘I didn’t- I mean, I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to scare you.’

Castiel is now so confused that it seems he’s lost the ability to speak all over again, this time with no shock collar in sight, but he manages to nod, which, thankfully, Dean seems to accept as a response. He sits there, drinking his coffee and picking at his waffles that must now be cold on his plate, still rubbing his hands together and over his arms.

It takes a moment, but then it hits Castiel that his master is shivering because he must have taken a cold shower when he realised the scent of his- his interest in Castiel had scared him.

Well, what the hell.

Unsure of what to do with this information, how to react, what to say, Castiel picks his coffee mug back up and takes another sip. Even though it’s closer to warm now, rather than hot, it’s still just as wonderful as it had been the first time.

Dean gets up from the table again, wincing when he sees Castiel flinch, but he just goes to get the coffee pot from the machine and brings it back to the table, refilling his mug. He tilts it in Castiel’s direction, as though asking if Castiel would like more, but his mug is still nearly full, so he shakes his head.

‘Uh- Didja- didja want any cream or sugar with that?’ Dean asks, clearing his throat. He reaches for the sugar bowl himself, setting it back down a little too quickly in his awkwardness when Castiel shakes his head, nearly tipping it over.

Upon closer inspection of the piece, Castiel almost feels like that might have been a mercy — the bowl has been cracked and repaired several times by the look of it, a spiderweb of splinters running through the ceramic, a small, triangular piece still missing from its rim. Some of the sugar spills out onto the table as it rocks precariously for a moment before righting itself, seemingly out of spite — it might be still broken and ugly and missing part of itself, but it’s somehow still standing, held together by sheer force of will, and doing its damn job so it doesn’t get thrown away.

Castiel has the incredibly dramatic thought that this is probably what Dean sees when he looks at him, too.

‘My Grandma Millie’s,’ Dean explains when he notices Castiel studying the piece. He ducks his head a little, scooping the fallen sugar into his hand, then brushes it off onto a napkin. ‘She got it on a trip to Europe that she took with my Grandpa Henry — you know, the herd of turtles guy? — and loved it so much that she couldn’t bear to get rid of it, no matter how many times it got broken. She, uh- she said that every crack told a story ’n that’s what made it beautiful.’ He stares at the back of his hand as though he’s looking at something that only he can see. ‘She used’ta say the same thing about scars.’

The smile he offers Castiel then is a strange thing — strained and off-kilter and soft, but still trying so hard to pantomime happiness — and Castiel, who has more scars than he’d care to count, thinks he understands.

Breakfast ends considerably more calmly than it began — for Dean and Castiel, it seems. Castiel still doesn’t finish all the food on his plate, but Dean doesn’t seem offended in the slightest.

‘I can wrap the last one back up for ya, but I don’t know how good re-reheated pancakes are gonna be,’ he muses, wrinkling his nose in a disarmingly sweet, childish way. He shrugs. ‘Well, I guess maybe I’ll put ’em in the fridge ’n if they’re all weird and rubbery when we nuke ’em again, we can just toss ’em then?’

Castiel nods, though the idea of throwing away food that is still edible makes him feel nauseous. He’s eaten some truly horrific things in his desperation, so the idea of ‘rubbery’ pancakes does not phase him in the slightest.

Just like the night before, Dean clears the plates from the table before Castiel can even ask where anything goes, as though he finds nothing at all strange about waiting on his slave. Castiel remembers Dean stuttering that he’d never had a slave before, and wonders if this is why the man keeps treating him more like a guest than his own damn property.

Dean returns to the table and pours the last of the coffee pot into his mug after checking again to see if Castiel would like any more, but just the little bit he’s drunk from his mug is enough that he feels the caffeine buzzing in his veins.

It’s strange, he thinks, to be this affected by half a cup of coffee, considering how many things he’s been drugged with in the last ten years. He remembers the ancient Health class teacher from his high school droning on about caffeine also being considered a drug, and almost wants to laugh at how ridiculous that sounds now.

His momentary mirth seems to snag the alpha’s attention, because Dean looks up from mixing the cream and sugar into his cup and offers a small, awkward smile. Castiel almost thinks that things might just be okay… until the alpha drops a huge bomb.

‘Hey, so a few’a my buddies, Benny ’n Pamela’re, gonna be stoppin’ by for a little bit to meet you… I just wanted to give you a heads up, cos, uh, well- Pam’s a beta, but Benny’s an alpha, ’n I didn’t want to catch you off guard if some strange alpha shows up outta the blue,’ he says, watching Castiel carefully, as though trying to gauge his reaction to this unexpected news.

Dread makes Castiel dizzy. He freezes, mouth hanging open for a moment, before snapping it shut and swallowing several times. ‘Am I to- to service them… Dean?’ he asks faintly.

He realises that he’s used Dean’s name again a moment too late, but at this point, he has bigger things to worry about, other than etiquette. A bitter laugh catches in his throat, because ten minutes ago, forgetting his master’s preferred title (or lack thereof), would have seemed to be a grievous error, and now he’s got two more masters to serve.

But, Dean just gapes at this, as though the idea has never occurred to him. Castiel, who has certainly been fooled by alphas playing innocent in the past, just holds his breath.

‘What? No! Oh my God, no,’ Dean says, looking ill. ‘They’re just- they’re gonna come here to, like, check you out, dude, make sure you’re- that you’re alright, cos I’m sure you weren’t gettin’ any sorta care in the hellhole you were stuck in before. Pam’s comin’ over for the physical stuff ’n Benny’s there for to, like, go over next steps and all’a that.’

Coming to check him out and go over next steps does not reassure Castiel the way Dean clearly thinks it should, but it’s not his place to question the master’s desires, so he just lowers his eyes and nods his understanding.

‘They’re good people…’ Dean adds, but Castiel has been hurt by ‘good’ people before. Dean’s brows knit together, worried. ‘I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Steve, I promise. You’re safe here.’

Castiel nods again. He wants so badly to believe this, but he’d be a fool (an even bigger fool) to let himself be taken in by the alpha’s wide, earnest eyes and concerned expression.

‘Well, Benny’s not gonna be here til some time after noon — he’s gotta go to friggin’ pilates class, if you can believe it. Big burly guy- I mean- he’s harmless, wouldn’t hurt a fly, but also- he’s a big dude — you’ll see,’ Dean says, looking uncomfortable, like he’s let slip too much information about the alpha who’s coming over to ‘check Castiel out’. ‘My point was — is — that if you wanna go chill in your room or grab a book or somethin’ from the Dean Cave — ya got time.’

For the first time, Castiel feels a flare of irritation low in his stomach at his master’s ignorance. Does he truly believe that after telling Castiel not one, but two strangers are coming to do who knows what with him, he will be able to kick back and read a novel?

He goes his best to keep his annoyance from seeping into his scent, but he’s not sure how successful he is when Dean seems to scent the air, but then — curiously, miraculously — seems to smile, like he’s pleased that Castiel is being an unappreciative f*ck in response to his offer.

‘Actually,’ the alpha says, brightening, like something just occurred to him, ‘if you are going to take a gander at the books in the Dean Cave, would ya mind doin’ me a solid? Charlie — my best friend, the LARPer, remember? — has been askin’ me to return her copy of A Court of Mist and Fury… she hid it somewhere, hoping I’d stumble upon it and ‘fall in love with the most cunning High Lord’, which, unfortunately, has not happened, mostly due to the fact that I haven’t found the damn book.’ He lets out an exasperated, but fond huff of breath, then turns his gaze to Castiel. ‘If you happen to see it, wouldja mind just settin’ it aside for me? God love ’er, but when Charlie gets a bug up her ass about somethin’ like this, the queen will not be denied.’

‘Of course, D-’ Castiel only just manages to stop himself from adding his master’s name to the end of the statement, but it feels wrong, almost obscene, like leaving half a melody unsung, or uttering a curse word in a cathedral. ‘Should I go now?’

Dean squints at the clock above the stove and shrugs. ‘Looks like it’s still gonna be a few hours before everyone gets here, so it’s totally up to you, man. Ya got plenty of time if ya wanted to shower or change, too. Not- not that there’s anything wrong with what you’ve got on now, I mean,’ he adds hastily, looking as though he regrets making the offer at all, but continues to talk, nonetheless. ‘I’m just saying that if you were in the mood for a shower or wanted to change…’

He trails off, grimacing. He looks… tired. Overwhelmed, standing there in his band t-shirt that’s still a bit damp around the collar from his shower earlier. Castiel has the sudden realisation that being so- so on, having to explain and over-explain every thought like Dean’s been doing must be exhausting.

Castiel decides to take pity on him — something he would have never thought he’d be in a position to do for his master.

‘Permission to shower is much appreciated, thank you,’ he says, and it’s the truth. He’s sure the stale scent of his fear and anxiety is still sticking to his skin, and if another alpha is going to be coming over shortly to ‘check him out’, it’s probably a good idea to get his scent as close to neutral as possible. He’s far too familiar with alphas whose brutality becomes more aggressive over the scent of omega distress. ‘I- I’ll search for Miss Charlie’s book after…?’

‘That sounds great. Thanks, man,’ Dean says, again speaking to Castiel as though he’s asking a- a friend or colleague for a favour rather than issuing orders to a slave who is legally obligated to do his bidding. ‘Hey, I forgot to tell ya- There’s spare towels ’n blankets or whatever in the linen closet if ya ever need more, ’n you can just throw your dirty clothes into the bin in the laundry room. I’ve almost got a full load that needs washing that I keep forgettin’ about, so I can run that once you’re outta the shower so it doesn’t use up all the hot water on ya. Sound good?’

‘I- Yes. Thank you.’ Castiel is immensely relieved that Dean has inadvertently answered whether or not Castiel will be allowed to use hot water for his shower again. He hesitates a moment, then offers nervously, ‘I could… I could do the laundry before I begin looking for Miss Charlie’s book, if you’d like?’

Dean looks surprised by this unexpected proposal, and for a moment, Castiel worries that he’s overstepped. Typically if a master wants their slave to do something, they will say so, and it’s not the slave’s place to decide what it’s going to do, but something tells him that Dean doesn’t follow this mentality.

It appears he’s correct, because a moment later, Dean’s offering a wide, grateful smile and saying enthusiastically, ‘Yeah, that’d be awesome, thank you, Steve.’

Castiel feels a warm sense of calm wash over him that he hasn’t experienced in years, the kind that only comes from the security of knowing that he’s pleased his alpha by being a good slave. ‘Of course, Dean,’ he murmurs for the second time today, but for some reason, this time he’s not worried about using the alpha’s name.

He lingers a moment, but when Dean just continues to grin to himself and resumes tidying up the kitchen, Castiel assumes that means he’s been dismissed.

Chapter 9: forehead to the ground

Chapter Text

Chair is stained, and I can’t stay awake —
bring forth evidence to keep me sane.
I can’t keep this riddle locked inside,
seven ways to keep my secrets tied.

Can’t believe this — I belong in chains.
Separated — it was me and someone else.
Now I’m numbing — get me out of this.
Never wanted this, never needed this.
Blue Study — Stone Sour

Castiel climbs the stairs to his room, then stops at the closet to grab last night’s towel, figuring that even if he is doing laundry, there’s no sense in dirtying another towel, especially since, even still slightly damp, it’s still nicer than anything he’s been allowed to use in years. While he’s in there, he hesitates, unsure if he should grab a change of clothing or not.

The simple yes or no question blooms into a full debate in his mind. On one hand — Dean has said that his friends are coming over, so it would make sense to be completely cleaned and refreshed for whatever use they might have for him.

On the other, he’s lived in literal squalor before, kept naked and filthy as punishment, so putting clothes back on that he’s worn less than twelve hours — several of which were spent sleeping — is in no way a hardship or sacrifice.

In the end, he decides that he’ll compromise by grabbing a change of underwear, but rewear the same pants, hoodie, and socks. As he strips, the stale scent of his own fear seems to cling to the fabric, and he almost reconsiders, but then decides against it, knowing that he’ll have to settle for just scrubbing it from his skin. Even this he knows is likely a futile exercise; with everything going on and all the unknown factors he’s about to face, it’s only a matter of time before he reeks of terror again anyway.

Still, the shower this morning feels just as decadent as the one from last night. Castiel can’t imagine there ever being a time when he doesn’t consider a hot shower to be the most exquisite thing in the entire world and, again, the urge to bask in the luxury of this reward he’s sure he hasn’t earned is painfully tempting, but he resists. He gives himself a perfunctory wash while he tries to remember the last time he’s been cleaned twice in less than twenty-four hours for no good reason, but comes up short. Barring times when he’d been made into such a mess that the guards had to hose him down, he can’t recall a single instance.

Once done in the shower, he brushes his teeth with one hand and towel-dries his hair with the other. God, he can’t get enough of how amazing it feels to be clean, even if his tongue and gums still have the same mildly uncomfortable tingling sensation when he’s done again.

He dresses quickly, then scoops up his towel and yesterday’s underwear, and stops back in the closet for Dean’s shirt and the omega centre’s pants. The scent of hopelessness and hurt and despair clings to the threadbare fabric, and for a moment he wants to burn them, but Dean hasn’t given him permission to discard them, so he doesn’t. Instead, he carries his pitiful bundle of dirty laundry to the room down the hall where Dean had shown him the washer and dryer.

Now getting a better look at the space inside than the brief peek he’d gotten the night before, Castiel notes that the room is small, but orderly, only slightly bigger than the closet in Castiel’s room. It doesn’t seem to fit in with the decor in rest of Dean’s house, which is all tasteful, but muted, whereas this space is cheerful and bubbly. The walls are a sunny shade of pale yellow, and there’s a black and white runner rug in front of the two gleaming machines declaring LAUNDRY ROOM in a swirling script, with a vine-like flourish underneath. A pair of rustic shelves above the machines hold several bottles of detergent, fabric softener, bleach, as well as woven baskets with small chalkboard labels noting the other cleaning supplies that are stored within.

An off-white and grey utility sink sits off to the side, with a set of four framed signs above it. Castiel inches closer to read them, and can’t help but chuckle to himself. One says Laundry Today or Naked Tomorrow, another Drop Your Pants, and the third Throw in the Towel, but Castle’s personal favourite is the one that says I’m feeling a little dirty… Will you do me? love, The Laundry. They’re all so horribly corny that Castiel can’t help but love them a little.

He thinks about this, probably a little too hard, as he loads the washing machine with his small bundle and the clothes from the basket on the floor in front of it. It takes a minute for him to figure out the settings — he remembers Dean saying he normally programs the machines from his phone, but they seem simple enough to figure out, and in almost no time at all, he hears the rush of water indicating the wash cycle has begun.

Standing back and watching the water begin filling the machine through the clear door, suds starting to form, Castiel feels inordinately satisfied with himself. It’s been ages since he’s done something so- so normal in service to a master. His purpose in Purgatory certainly hadn’t been to help with the housekeeping, and even before that, he was very rarely used for house omega functions.

It’s strange, he thinks, as he reflects on Dean’s surprised and grateful expression when Castiel offered to do the laundry, that it makes him feel a ridiculous giddiness for having finally done something he can be proud — or at least not ashamed — of to please his master. It’s been so long since he’s been able to do anything like that without using his body.

Castiel snorts and shakes his head at the absurd sense of pride he’s feeling over knowing that he’s done something as domestic as doing the laundry. For a moment he pictures what his younger self — the spoiled teenager who’d fought tooth and nail for his right to treat his bedroom floor like an extension of his closet — would think of what he’s become, until he realises that this is the first time he’s thought of something like that with humour and not bone-deep shame.

He shakes himself from these ridiculously maudlin thoughts, because there’s no point to this kind of reflection, especially not over something as insignificant as a single load of laundry, not to mention, he has other tasks to complete. Giving the machine one final check to make sure everything seems to be in order, he exits the laundry room, closing the door quietly behind him.

It’s a little more nerve-wracking to enter Dean’s ‘Dean Cave’, mainly because he knows how precious the space is to his master, so it feels almost illicit to be in the room without him, like he’s trespassing on sacred ground. He reminds himself that he’s here on his master’s orders, but it does little to ease the feeling that he just doesn’t belong here.

The alpha’s library is extensive, though there appears to be no filing system — none that Castiel can make sense of, at least — but for the moment, he doesn’t give a single sh*t about it, because he’s just been flattened by an unexpected wave of emotion.

It’s been so long since he’s been allowed to be this close to so many books. He’d loved reading once, loved books. The first time he’d snuck out of the house was when he about twelve or so to meet Meg and Bal for the midnight book release party for the seventh Harry Potter book (because any book about magic was obviously about devil worship and absolutely forbidden under the Shurley household roof), and it became a beloved tradition. They’d gotten Bal through his extended Twilight phase by attending the midnight film releases (also forbidden by the Shurleys because they ‘glorified the unholy’), and Meg through her obsession with the Hunger Games books (surprisingly not banned, because it showcased the horrors stemming from rebellion).

God, Castiel has missed reading.

He drifts through his master’s many shelves of books as though exploring a new and exciting land. Again he’s hit with the memory of the same brown cartoon creature who struggled with using a spoon showing off a gigantic reading room to the wide-eyed girl, and he finds himself wondering if in this scenario, he would be the monstrous animal… or the damsel in distress.

So many of these titles he recognises — everything from traditional classics, such as Robinson Caruso and Frankenstein to more contemporary classics, like The Catcher in the Rye and On the Road. He wrinkles his nose when he sees The Scarlet Letter (that had been the worst book he’d had to read in high school English), but his eyes light up when he sees not one, but two full sets of the Harry Potter series — one of well-read paperbacks with cracked spines, and one of pristine hardcovers with their dust jackets, that look like they’re likely first editions.

There’s almost an entire shelf dedicated to the works of JRR Tolkien. Castiel runs his fingers down the spine of The Silmarillion, remembering the many afternoons Meg had spent trying to teach him and Balthazar to write in the Elvish script, Tengwar, and a knot of grief winds itself through his guts like poison.

It’s hard — far harder than he would have expected — to shake himself from his wistful reminiscing this time, because the ache of want is so strong. For one wild moment, he wonders if this master, kind as he appears to be, might allow him to reach out to his old friends, but that idiotic thought is immediately trampled to death by his humiliating reality. What the hell was he thinking — there is absolutely no way he would ever want his old friends to see him now, see what he’s become. From the loud, brash, hell-raising menace he was, to the snivelling, broken slave, who spent the night in his closet because he’s too goddamn afraid to sleep in a bed.

Not to mention… chances are, they don’t even remember him. They certainly hadn’t looked for him after- after. For so long, he’d held onto the belief, the treacherous hope, that someone must have been looking for him, that they’d eventually find him and bring him back home, and even though he knows logically that his friends were mere children — like he had been — they’d certainly had families with influence and resources. And yet, no daring rescue had ever come. The world had moved on, while Castiel fell behind and fell apart.

This gross bout of self pity is going nowhere and doing no good for anyone, and he knows it. He tears his gaze away from an especially worn copy of Slaughterhouse-Five, and begins to properly search the shelves for the book his master’s friend, Miss Charlie, was missing.

The hunt for the book takes the better part of an hour, but he eventually unearths a teal paperback book shoved between a tattered copy of Chilton’s Repair & Tune-Up Guide: Chevrolet Mid-Size 1964-81 and a stack of Anne McCaffrey books that appear to be about dragonriders.

Castiel studies the black bird on the front cover, and is reminded all over again about the ruined wings on his back. He knows Dean saw his tattoos in the inspection room of the omega centre, and briefly wonders what his master thinks of them. Clearly he hadn’t been put off enough by them to not purchase Castiel, but every master Castiel has ever had, has voiced their displeasure at having his back marked by anything other than their own hand.

In some ways, Castiel loves and hates the wings with equal measure… they’re a reminder of who he was and who he might have been, torn and damaged by the brutality of how his life turned out, and most days it burns. The loss of it all — the loss of his future, of his autonomy, his personhood, his freedom… all laid out in broken lines across his back.

On the other hand… the artwork might have been interrupted by scars, but it’s still there. It’s still a part of him, something that the people who have done their damnedest to break him have all hated, but haven’t taken away. He’d originally gotten them to rebel against the life chosen for him when he was Castiel Shurley, but now they’re a testament to to the tiniest bit of defiance he has left as Steve Allen.

He remembers that Dean’s grandmother used to tell him that every scar told a story, and the earnest truth in the man’s eyes when he shared this piece of his history with Castiel, unprompted, and thinks that maybe his master understands, too.

Dean is thrilled that Castiel has found Miss Charlie’s book, and wastes no time texting her immediately to let her know that her ‘bat boy book’ has successfully been recovered. Miss Charlie replies with a string of small pictures that Dean calls ‘emojis’ that make Dean roll his eyes and some references to her ‘handmaiden’ that make Dean blush.

‘Goddamn menace,’ he grouses, though he doesn’t seem irritated, just fondly exasperated.

Castiel doesn’t quite know what he’s supposed to do now that his task is complete, so he settles for swapping the clothes over from the wash machine to the dryer. This one is a bit more trying than choosing a wash cycle, but a quick sift through several care tags from items in the load of freshly-washed clothes instructs to ‘tumble dry low’, so he chooses the setting that seems closest to this direction. He mentions his uncertainty to Dean, but the man just shrugs with an affable smile and says he’s sure Castiel did his best, and he’s ‘not worried about it’.

A quick glance at the clock lets Castiel know that there’s still about half an hour before his master’s friends are to arrive. He has no idea what he’s supposed to spend this time doing, nor does Dean give him any indication or new orders, so he installs himself in a corner of the living room on his knees in waiting position, holding nervously for further instruction.

Dean, however, just leaves him to his own devices, which is both a blessing and a curse. Castiel replays the man’s stuttering words over and over in his head, about how Castiel will not be expected to service his guests sexually, but that they are coming to ‘check him out’ and ‘figure out what comes next’, which, as far as Castiel is concerned, potentially sounds even worse. At least he knows what getting bent over and f*cked entails — he has no idea what getting ‘checked out’ means, and for once, he does not want to ask Dean for more details.

He can already feel his panic mounting at the prospect of being in not one, but two more alphas’ atmosphere. Being presented to multiple alphas like this has never gone well for Castiel in the past, so he has absolutely no reason to believe this time will be any different, other than the fact that Dean doesn’t seem like the kind of master who would get off on watching Castiel be ripped to shreds, but… Castiel has been wrong before.

The minutes tick by on the grandfather clock that Dean has shoved haphazardly in the corner of the room opposite from where Castiel is kneeling. It’s outdated, almost tacky, from what Castiel remembers from the antique clocks proudly displayed in his parents’ house growing up, and if he had to guess, he’d assume it was another of Dean’s family heirlooms — possibly passed down from the grandmother he’d mentioned who saved her broken china and collected porcelain statues.

In no time at all, however, the clock strikes twelve. Castiel counts the number of out of tune chimes, each toll echoing the pounding of his thundering heart.

Just be good, he reminds himself sternly, training his gaze on the patch of carpet directly in front of him.

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. Castiel stops breathing.

‘Hey, Steve, that’s probably Pam ’n Benny,’ Dean calls from the kitchen. He pokes his head into the living room, frowning when he sees Castiel’s position, but he doesn’t comment on it, so Castiel stays just where he is. ‘Uh- I’ll go get the door, if you wanna just- just sit tight, alright?’

Castiel nods, anxiety ratcheted up too high to manage anything else. Dean flashes a tight smile, then disappears from the room again. A moment later, Castiel hears the opening of a heavy door and the murmuring din of low voices and approaching footsteps. His breathing quickens, even as his body begins to shake from the strain of staying put.

Just be good.

The scent of alpha enters the room before Dean and his guests, the faint smell of citrus and sunshine and bourbon wafting over to Castiel, even where he kneels, trembling in the corner, watching the two alphas enter the room from beneath his eyelashes.

‘Pam’s on her way, but she’s gonna be a few minutes late. Right before she was ’bout to take off, Garth dropped a metric sh*t-ton of paperwork on her that he forgot about that needs to be filed today,’ Castiel hears the new alpha say, giving Dean a quick hug and clap on the back.

Castiel observes as much as he can about the new alpha from the few stolen glances that he dares to take. He’s big — not taller than Dean, but definitely burlier, and appears to be made of solid muscle. He’s wearing a tight-fitting athletic t-shirt and shorts that hug his enormous biceps and thighs, and he looks like he could snap Castiel in half without breaking a sweat.

‘’Course he goddamn did,’ Dean grumbles, rolling his eyes. ‘I take it he hasn’t magically gotten his sh*t together in the week since I’ve been off?’

‘Ya know that boy ain’t ever gonna change, chief,’ the new alpha replies with a chuckle. ‘If Bessie ain’t been able to get ’im to fall in line by now…’

‘Yeah, I know, I know.’ Dean laughs at this, though, so it doesn’t seem as though he’s too upset by this ‘Garth’s’ incompetence. ‘If it weren’t for how much the kiddos love them sock puppets’a his, I’d say we oughta boot the guy out on his skinny little ass.’

‘Well, thank the Almighty for Mr Fizzles, then, brother.’ The new alpha’s laugh is gentle and genuine, and Dean joins in after a moment, but that means exactly nothing to Castiel — he knows all too well that alphas can be the best of friends with each other, then flip a switch and make their slaves bleed like it’s nothing.

Distantly, he finds it curious that this newcomer is calling Dean ‘brother’, because he thought he remembered Dean referring to his brother as ‘Sammy’, but it’s certainly possible that either he was mistaken, or that there is another brother that Dean has neglected to mention, as unlikely as that seems, given the man’s propensity for telling stories about his family.

There’s a lull in the conversation then, and Castiel can feel the way both alphas’ attention shifts to him. He stays absolutely still, even trying to quiet his breathing so as not to draw any unwanted attention to himself before he can really get a sense of what’s going on and what’s about to happen.

‘So, Benny — this here’s, uh- Steve. Steve Allen,’ Dean says after a beat of silence. ‘Steve, wouldja mind, uhm- Please come over here ’n meet my, uh- my buddy. Our other friend, Pamela, got held up with some crap back at the office, but she should be here soon.’

Castiel stands on shaking legs and walks over to where the two alphas are standing just inside the entrance of the living room. He wants desperately to sink back to his knees and bare his throat, just so he can give himself the illusionof security, but Dean hasn’t ordered him to do this, so he stays still, settling for just keeping his eyes trained on the ground and waiting for further orders.

‘Hey there, Steve,’ the new alpha says with a nod in Castiel’s direction when Castiel chances a glance up to his face. The other man smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners, as he lifts a hand in greeting. He does not comment on the way Castiel flinches, instead saying, ‘Name’s Benny Lafitte. ’S real good t’meetcha, chief. Hope Winchester here ain’t givin’ ya too much of a headache. He might come off like a real pain in the ass, but that’s just cos deep down… he’s a real pain in the ass.’

Castiel eyes this ‘Benny’ cautiously — he doesn’t know how Dean, laidback though he may be, will feel about another alpha coming into his house and insulting him to his slave, but all Dean says is, ‘You can go ahead and f*ck all the way off, Lafitte,’ without missing a beat, which just makes the other man chuckle again.

‘Anyone ever tell ya that your social skills leave a lot to be desired?’ Benny asks with a raised eyebrow. Dean just rolls his eyes.

‘Well, Andrea sure wasn’t complainin’ ’bout my skills when I saw ’er last night,’ Dean retorts, lifting his chin defiantly.

Castiel freezes and holds his breath because oh God, it sounds like his master is disparaging the new alpha’s mate, and Castiel can’t imagine a scenario in which this won’t end in bloodshed.He’s seen alphas completely rage out over far less.

This ‘Benny’ just scoffs, though, and says ‘Boy, if I hadn’t personally seen you damn near wet yourself the last time Andrea so much as gave you the stinkeye, I might feel the need to go defendin’ her honour, but I think we both know which one’a us’s really gotchu quakin’ in your boots.’

This unexpected reaction surprises Castiel, not only because Benny seems entirely unbothered by Dean speaking about his mate, but also that he’s openly deferring his authority to her, with no concern for if this makes him look ‘weak’ or ‘soft’. Somehow, this security in his masculinity and designation makes him seem more intimidating, not less.

‘Listen- I’m man enough to admit that I’m no match for your lady-friend,’ Dean says with a laugh, oblivious to Castiel’s internal musings. ‘She might be a tiny beta chick, but I sure as sh*t wouldn’t cross her… she’s tougher’n any alpha I’ve ever met, that’s for damn sure.’

‘Don’t I know it.’ Benny's expression morphs into a fond smile that does seem to soften him somehow, like he isn’t someone who could tear Castiel apart in half a second.

‘Anyway- I know it’s only been a day, but how’re things goin’, Steve?’ Benny asks, turning to Castiel, though some of the gentleness seems to remain. ‘I wasn’t lyin’ when I said the boss over there can be a real piece’a work. One’a the best folks I know, but goddamn if he ain’t chirpier than a friggin’ parakeet.’

‘Things are going well, sir, thank you,’ Castiel answers quickly, darting a quick, fearful look over to his master, who, thankfully, doesn’t seem offended by Benny’s words. Instead, he simply rolls his eyes again and gives the other alpha the middle finger, making him laugh. Castiel wets his lips and adds, ‘D-Dean is a- a very kind and generous master; I’m very fortunate to be in his care.’

It occurs to him that there’s a chance that Benny won’t approve of Castiel using his master’s given name, but ultimately, his is not the opinion that matters. Still, when Benny wrinkles his nose, Castiel can’t help but flinch.

Before Benny can say anything, however, Dean snaps his fingers like he’s just remembered something. ‘Oh, hey — listen, man, I know this is in no way a priority, but before I forget,’ he says, looking at Benny, ‘Steve here has these big wings tattooed on his back, but, uh- looks like they got a little jacked up... D’ya think that that’s somethin’ you’d be able to take a look at at some point ’n see if maybe you could help him out? If he wants you to, I mean.’

‘You know I’m always happy to try t’help when I can, s’long as the other party’s the one askin’,’ Benny replies with a shrug, but the look he gives Dean is quite pointed. Dean blinks back, and the two alphas seem to have an entire conversation with just quirking eyebrows and shrugging shoulders and rolling eyes.

Finally, Dean nods, but then turns his attention back to Castiel. ‘Hey, Steve, what d’ya think about maybe havin’ Benny take a look at your back tats while he’s here? No pressure or anything, obviously, it’s just that he’s a kick ass tattoo artist ’n does a lot of, uh- restoration ’n repair work for- for pieces that might need a little bit’a TLC. S’totally up to you, of course, but I was just thinkin’, since you’re both here, ’n we got some time to kill…’

No, Castiel would not like to take his clothing off right now, but he recognises that he’s being given an order, so he nods mutely and reaches for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it up over his head.He ignores the other alpha’s protest that he ‘don’t gotta do that if he don’t wanna’, because large and intimidating though this Benny may be, he is not Castiel’s master, so, again, his is not the opinion that matters.

Castiel turns so his master’s friend can see his back, his whole body burning with shame when he thinks of what an unattractive sight it is. He’d once been so proud of the wings inked into his skin, but he knows after a decade of punishments and injuries with varying degrees of severity, they’ve been significantly damaged, leaving the once beautiful artwork gruesomely disfigured.

Benny lets out a low whistle, taking a few steps towards him and leaning in to take a closer look. ‘I gotta say… even though the design’s been interrupted, this is some damn fine line work, cher,’ the new alpha murmurs. ‘Whoever the artist was, they really knew their stuff.’

He doesn’t touch Castiel’s back, but he’s close enough that Castiel can feel the warmth from the other man’s body against his skin. He shivers involuntarily.

‘So what d’ya think? Think you might be able to, y’know, fix ’em up at some point?’ Castiel hears Dean ask from somewhere behind him. ‘I mean- I know they’re probably too big to be covered, but what about a repair or somethin’?’

‘Well, that’s up to Steve, chief,’ Benny answers, then pauses, like he’s waiting to see if Castiel is going to say anything, but Castiel is too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

‘Hey, I was also thinkin’… if the tats were from, uhm, you know- before before, couldn’t that help with tracking down- I dunno, family or somethin’? Or even if they were from, ah- his time in the trade, couldn’t that help us with, like, smokin’ out some folks who’re aiding ’n abetting traffickers or whatever?’ Dean asks, filling the silence with what might as well be a death sentence for Castiel.

He barely hears the other alpha’s reply — something about trying to identify the tattoo artist’s work, and estimating Castiel’s tattoos to be about ten years old — because all he can think about is… all the things he tries so hard not to think about, and has been repeatedly failing spectacularly at for the last twenty-four hours.

He’d been eighteen when he’d gotten his tattoos — eighteen and one day, actually. He’d snuck off by himself to do it; not even Meg or Bal had known what he was up to, because Castiel had been too afraid of being talked out of it. It had taken half a day and almost a thousand dollars, but when he walked back into his house that night, he’d had the outline of the tattoo he’d always dreamt of on his back, and a followup appointment to begin shading the following month that he never got to keep.

But that was ‘before-before’, as Dean had said, and that is a time that Castiel knows no longer matters. What matters now is keeping his damn mouth shut, so he doesn’t cause even more trouble.

‘You remember anything about when you got ’em done, Steve? Names, dates, anything like that?’ Dean asks, oblivious to Castiel’s internal monologue reminding himself to keep it together.

Castiel’s entire mind goes totally, completely, stupidly blank.

Chapter 10: the light of night

Chapter Text

The sound of his own blood roaring in his ears feels like it’s eclipsing every other noise in the entire house. In the entire universe, even. All Castiel can see in his mind’s eye is that wretched tub of freezing, filthy water that he’d been shoved into the last time he'd spoken out loud about his past life. They'd drowned him, held his head beneath the surface again and again and again…

This is what he gets, he thinks distantly, bitterly, even as his mounting panic makes him feel lightheaded and weak. This is his punishment for allowing his mind to continually wander back to his past life like a goddamn fool. Like he’s learned f*cking nothing in the last ten years.

He is not allowed to speak about that time — he shouldn’t even be thinking about it, and now here he is, caught in untenable, unwinnable clusterf*ck.

There’s no answer that Castiel can provide that won’t result in an even greater problem. If he is truthful, and admits to his master and his master’s friend that the tattoos had been done when he was still a free man, he runs the risk of Dean and his mysterious work associates actually tracking down the shop he’d had them done at and, by extension, his true identity. He could lie and say they were done when he was in Purgatory, but the problem with that is that is seems like the new alpha really knows his stuff, and he might be able to figure out the original tattoo artist anyway, and then won’t Castiel be in even more trouble for lying in the first place, so maybe it’s better to-

‘For Christ’s sake, Steve, just answer the damn question — this ain’t rocket surgery,’ Dean says, interrupting Castiel panic spiral.

Involuntarily, Castiel lets out a low whine and flinches at the impatience in his master’s voice. He chances a look over his shoulder at the alpha, but what really makes him feel lightheaded with fear is the fact that Benny lets out his own annoyed huff, drawing Dean’s attention as well. The two alphas glare at each other, having another one of their strange, silent conversations, though this time they do seem agitated, and Castiel is caught right in the middle.

‘I- I, uhm-,’ he stutters, trying like hell to come up with some sort of answer that isn’t going to bite him in the ass. It’s been so long since he’s had to do this, that he’s almost forgotten what his fabricated history states. ‘I-’

Dean scoffs and drops his face into his hands in frustration, thus ending his silent argument with his friend. He takes a step towards Castiel, but it’s the scent of the other alpha’s spike of anger that hits Castiel first, a split second before his knees hit the floor. His hands fly behind his back, his forehead bowing to the ground so quickly that he overbalances and smacks his head hard enough that he sees sparkles, despite the soft carpet. Dazedly, he tries to force himself to suck in as many ragged breaths as he can before his master’s hand will inevitably wind into his collar — or his hair — and yank him back as a precursor to his impending punishment.

This is all so unfair — Castiel doesn’t even really know what he did to make the situation escalate this quickly, not that that has ever mattered before. He’s been trying so damn hard to be good for this new master, has only just begun to understand the alpha’s expectations and likes and dislikes, but this newcomer brings with him a whole new set of rules that Castiel has no way of knowing.

And so, in a last-ditch attempt at saving himself, Castiel just presents, hands grasping his wrists behind his back as he fights the urge to cover his nape. He hopes against hope that this new alpha will be satisfied with his blatant show of submission, that it will soothe his anger enough that he won’t be too rough with Castiel. He doesn’t think Dean would allow his friend to permanently damage Castiel, and he figures that perhaps he should just be grateful for that mercy.

‘… Steve? Steve! Hey, buddy, you with me? Nod or somethin’ if you can hear me…’

Footsteps near. Castiel feels the vibration from his master’s approaching footfalls through the floor. It takes everything he has to maintain his position, to not curl onto his side and protect his ribs, his soft underbelly.

Please, please, pl-

‘’lease,’ he manages to rasp finally, the words grinding out from his mouth like his tongue is the pestle and his throat the mortar. ‘Alpha, please, I- I’m not- I’ll be g-good. I’ll be good.’

‘Christ.’ Dean still sounds unhappy anyway, the damp-dog smell of it making Castiel’s heart race and stomach turn. He squeezes his eyes shut. All he’s done since Dean and his friend entered the room has been upset them, and he is painfully aware of what that means for him. When he cracks his eyes open again, he notices that Dean keeps making sharp, aborted gestures, like he wants to reach out and touch Castiel, but changes his mind at the last second.

‘Dean,’ Benny barks, and oh, God, he sounds flat out pissed now. ‘Get yourself under control, chief — you’re scarin’ the poor kid half to death.’

Dean freezes at these words, and stares at Castiel like he’s waiting to see if a ticking time bomb is going to explode. Under any other circ*mstances, Castiel might even find it comical, how very much Dean resembles a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, only in this scenario, that would make Castiel the cookie jar, and the idea of Dean’s hands anywhere near him right now makes Castiel feel like he’s choking.

Amazingly, Dean’s rage seems to fizzle out at these words, which makes even less sense to Castiel — before his encounter with Dean earlier at breakfast, no alpha has ever given a damn if they were scaring him. In fact, most alphas seemed to enjoy when they could smell his fear; they got off on it.Dean, on the other hand, looks like he might besick.

‘Sorry, man,’ he mumbles, and it takes Castiel several long beats of silence before he realises that Dean is talking to him, apologising to him.

He opens his mouth, unsure of what to say — surely it’s not his place to absolve his master (because that’s what Dean is, no matter how much he’d like to pretend otherwise), but luckily Benny speaks up again.

‘Well, since the kid obviously ain't gonna call you a stupid son of a bitch knothead, I will… you stupid, son of a bitch knothead,’ he says, still glaring at Dean, but he no longer seems like he’s about to attack him or Castiel. ‘You know better than t’go runnin’ your damn mouth like that, cher.’

Benny picks up Castiel’s discarded hoodie and holds it out to him, seeming as though he’s making a point to keep his body as far from Castiel as possible. Castiel slowly unfolds himself from his kowtowed position and accepts it with trembling hands, darting a nervous glance first to him, then to his master.

Dean gives them both that guilty, scolded-child look again and jams his hands into pants pockets. ‘Right. You’re right,’ he says, shifting uncomfortably. ‘Steve, man, I’m real sorry — I shouldn’ta snapped at you like that. I was just- I’m not used to,’ he pulls his hands back out of his pockets to make a vague waving motion through the air before shoving them back into his pockets, ‘all this, and it seemed like you were tryin’ to- well, I guess it don’t matter, really. I was wrong’s my point, and for that, I apologise.’

That’s three apologies that Dean has offered him in the last five minutes, and Castiel is completely baffled. He’d been positive that Dean’s friend had come over to share Castiel, not defend him. Not for the first time since being sold to this new owner, Castiel finds himself completely at a loss at what to do.

‘It’s… okay?’ he offers tentatively, the simple words seeming foreign in this context, but it appears that this was the correct thing to say, because Dean lets out a long, slow exhale and seems almost… relieved.

‘Thanks,’ he says gratefully, even as the other alpha scoffs and mutters something under his breath that prompts Dean to flip him off. ‘Anyway, uh… if you do ever remember anything about the tats, you just let us know, alright?’

‘Yes, m- De- Yes,’ Castiel lies quickly, wincing when he catches himself forgetting yet again to use the title Dean preferred — or, rather, no title.

‘Awesome,’ Dean says eagerly. He eyes Castiel, who’s still on his knees, holding his hoodie in his hands, clearly waiting to be ordered to redress before taking the liberty, and forces a tight smile. ‘Listen, why don’t you put your shirt back on… hopefully Pam’ll be here pretty soon.’ He frowns, squinting at the grandfather clock and turns to Benny again. ‘Man, how much paperwork did Garth stick Pam with? Or d’ya think maybe she just forgot about us already?’

‘Or maybe she’s just waiting for your pretty boys to quit your pillow fights ’n talkin’ about your feelings so she can make a grand entrance,’ someone calls from the direction of the main foyer.

Benny laughs. Dean rolls his eyes.

Castiel freezes, his head half-buried in the hoodie he’s attempting to put back on that now smells faintly of the other alpha, all cheerful notes of citrus and bourbon and sunshine, which is so at odds with everything else going on around him that he feels dizzy all over again.

His lungs feel tight, his head spinning. His heart is stuttering in his chest.

He recognises that voice.

‘So, what’s a girl gotta do t’get one of these big, strapping alphas to help her with her bags?’ the newcomer, Pamela, asks as Castiel finally wrestles the hoodie back into place over his body. He watches her emerge from the kitchen and raise an eyebrow at Dean and Benny, who both stand up a bit straighter, like children being caught misbehaving behind their teacher’s back.

‘I gotcha, cher,’ Benny says, striding over to Pamela and scooping her keys out of her outstretched palm. ‘Boss, why don’t you come help me with the good doc’s baggage, ’n we can let these two get acquainted?’

‘Yeah, okay…’ Dean says, shooting Castiel a concerned look. He seems like he’s trying to have one of the silent conversations he’d had with Benny with Castiel now, but Castiel has no idea what his master is trying to convey with his furrowed brows and nervous eyes. Dean rubs the back of his neck, then says, ‘Steve, this here’s Pamela- I mean- Doctor Barnes, but I’m sure she’s gonna tell ya just to call her Pam. She’s- I work with her ’n Benny at this place called The Roadhouse…’ he trails off, looking uncomfortable, darting a glance between Castiel, Pamela, and Benny, then looks directly at Castiel, leaning in a bit, as though he’s attempting to give them some privacy from his friends’ notice. ‘Uh… you gonna be alright if I go help Benny bring in Pamela’s kit?’

Castiel has no idea what Dean means by ‘kit’ — all the possibilities of what that could entail make his pulse quicken — but he’s not going to embarrass his master in front of his friends again, so he merely nods. Dean flashes him a tight smile and pats him twice on the shoulder, then follows Benny out of the room.

The silence in the living room is nearly palpable, now that it’s just Castiel and the doctor. He wants to speak, wants to say what’s on his mind before the alphas return, so he swallows hard and says, ‘You- you were at the omega centre when I was brought in.’ Castiel can hear how dazed he sounds, but he’d never anticipated getting to meet, much less thank the woman who’d saved his life. ‘You called a lawyer because the doctor wanted to- to have me-’ He can’t go on, because even though it’s been a few weeks now, the terror he’d felt at that time is still too near.

Fortunately, the woman seems to already know what he’s referring to, despite his inability to form a coherent sentence. She smiles gently and steps towards him, also sinking down to her knees, and extends a hand in his direction. ‘Pamela Barnes. Full-time GP at The Roadhouse, part-time pain in Zachariah Adler’s ass any time, any place. Trust me when I tell ya that gettin’ to scream at that piece of crap in a cheap suit and bad combover is never a hardship for me.’

Her hand is still floating there, hovering in the space between them, and Castiel blinks dumbly at it for several moments before he realises he’s meant to shake it. It’s been so long since someone’s treated him like a human being, like an equal, that it’s almost like he’s forgotten how.

‘Steve. Allen,’ he finally manages, giving Pamela’s hand an awkward shake, dropping it as quickly as he can. ‘Just… thank you for- for saving me. Ma’am.’

Pamela clutches her chest like she’s been wounded, and Castiel can’t help the low whine that escapes his throat. His eyes dart over to Dean, who’s just reappeared at the entrance to the living room, holding what appears to be a large, black leather bag, with Benny close behind, hauling some sort of large, plastic caddy. Castiel is nervous about what Dean’s reaction will be if he thinks Castiel has caused harm to one of his friends, but to his relief, his master is rolling his eyes.

‘Ignore her dramatics, Steve, she’s just got some deep-rooted psychological issue with being called ‘ma’am’,’ he tells Castiel dryly, shooting Pamela an exasperated, but fond look as he strides over to deposit the bag on the floor next to the sofa, gesturing for Benny to do the same. ‘Pamela likes to pretend she’s still a spring chicken, but I happen to know for a fact that she saw the New Kids on the Block live about a dozen times, back before they became the Old Men on the Nursing Home Block.’

Pamela makes a face at him, which prompts Dean to throw a small pillow from the sofa at her. Despite still being knelt on the ground in front of Castiel, she catches it easily and launches it back in his face with a fluidity that tells Castiel that this isn’t the first time they’ve had this exchange.

‘Watch it, now, young whippersnapper,’ Pamela retorts, wagging her finger at Dean with a wink. ‘Didn’t your momma ever tell you to respect your elders? And anyway, I’m agin’ like a fine wine that’s way outta your price range. As for you,’ she rounds on Castiel, who instinctively shrinks back, but she just offers him a soft smile, ‘you can call me Pamela, just like the boy said.’

‘Yes, ma-’ Castiel begins, but quickly amends to, ‘Yes, Pamela.’

He half expects her to launch into a long-winded explanation about when it is and is not appropriate to use her name like Dean had earlier, but she merely nods, satisfied, then says, ‘Well, why don’t we go ahead and get comfortable?’

Unsure if this means to strip again, Castiel hesitates, but Pamela just scoots back until her back is leaning against the edge of the sofa, still sitting on the ground. She settles in, smiles again, then gestures for Castiel to sit across the coffee table from her, which he quickly obeys, crawling forward, then folding back down to his knees in one fluid motion. Finally, an order that does make sense to him.

‘Alrighty. Now that we got the who’s who out of the way, what have Frick and Frack over there told you about, well- everything?’ Pamela asks, glancing up at Dean and Benny who are still hovering awkwardly next to where they deposited Pamela’s things. She raises an eyebrow at them, and they both quickly take a seat as well — Dean on the sofa, directly next to Pamela, and Benny on the floor on his other side, surprising Castiel when he also sinks down into something close to a kneeling waiting position with a surprising amount of grace.

Castiel frowns, regarding her cautiously, unsure of how he’s supposed to answer. ‘Dean and- and Mr- Benny, they- they explained that I am to provide details about the origin of my tattoos, should any new information come to mind?’ he offers nervously.

Pamela does not seem impressed with this information, so Castiel’s brain races for answers that will be more to her liking, but comes up short, because she is yet another figure of authority he has no idea how to please. He can tell she’s a beta, so presenting or otherwise offering his body is likely not going to earn him any favour, not to mention that the other alpha, Benny, hadn’t seemed to be at all moved by his display of submission.

He has no idea what to do again, and it shows.

‘For the love of God,’ Pamela grumbles, leaning forward and turning to glare at each of the alphas in turn, who both look somewhat chagrined.

‘Listen- in our defence, right before you got here, some asshole sent everything flyin’ off the rails with his sh*tty attitude and piss poor social skills, so we didn’t exactly have time to start layin’ down the groundwork for The Talk,’ Dean says.

Castiel flushes, shoulders curling inward, thinking his master is informing his friend of Castiel’s shortcomings, until he sees that Dean is rubbing the back of his neck and looking as though he’s a small child confessing to lobbing a baseball through the neighbour’s window, and he realises Dean is referring to himself. Pamela snorts.

‘Why am I not surprised. Winchester, I swear…’ She pinches the bridge of her nose, then turns back to Castiel. ‘Okay, so here it is,’ Pamela says, bringing both her palms down flat on the coffee table, making Castiel jump. ‘Myself and the Tweedles over there — you can decide for yourself which one’s Tweedledum and Tweedledumber — work at this place called The Roadhouse. As far as Yelp, the slavers, and the general public know, we’re a nature resort and dining hall who happen to have an unusually high number of omegas on staff — some of whom are freemen, and some who are not. What they don’t know is that we’re also the ones who’re actively working behind the scenes to change that ratio. Have been for the last… six or seven years.’

It takes a minute for Castiel to understand what exactly she’s implying, but when he does, he can feel how wide his eyes get, feel how dry his mouth is when it falls open in shock.

‘I can see you’re startin’ to pick up what I’m puttin’ down, kiddo,’ Pamela says nonchalantly, observing him carefully, the hint of a smile playing at her lips again. She extends her hand to him again, as though looking for another handshake. ‘So, let me reintroduce myself: Pamela Barnes — GP, perpetual thorn in Adler’s side, and proud lifelong abolitionist. The system is sh*t, my friend, so we’re doin’ what we can to make it work for us until we can take it down. Not raging against the machine, but crawling inside of it and breaking it down from the inside out.’

‘But… why?’ The things this woman is saying sound like a pipe dream and make no sense to him at all — why would people, especially free people give one single, solitary f*ck about the poor wretches like Castiel who’re beaten down, put in their place, and told to serve?

Pamela studies him for a long moment. ‘Because it’s the right thing to do,’ she says simply. ‘Because what’s happened to you — it’s not fair and it’s not right.’ She takes one of his hands in hers and gives it a squeeze. ‘Because, despite what any of those bastards have told you in the past, you’re a person, and you matter. And you deserve to be saved.’

Chapter 11: the crossroads of identity

Chapter Text

Dean’s never considered himself a coward — a walking pile of insecurities and self-loathing, maybe. An idiot, definitely. Then, there’s that whole bit about him not ‘living up to his full potential’ or whatever the hell Sammy’s always going on about, but never a damn coward. If there was one thing that Dad had taught him, it was that a man never backs down from a fight, never turns tail and runs when there’s danger in the air and blood in the water, because that is how the bad guys take the win.

So, Dean’s always stood his ground — sometimes on knocking knees, and unsteady, uneven terrain, but he’s always been present and accounted for. It’s one of the few things about himself he’s always taken pride in — being able to be the one who shows up, stands up, and does the right thing, even if it’s also the hard thing.

It’s because of this, that he’s so disgusted with himself now.

Reasonably, he knows he hasn’t taken the easy way out, hasn’t abandoned Steve, but that’s sure as hell what it feels like currently. Pamela had, in no uncertain terms, booted Dean and Benny straight out of the damn house after she’d dropped the bomb on poor Steve about what The Roadhouse was all about.

It was obvious that the man was having trouble comprehending all the things Pam had told him, and made Dean have an even more profound appreciation for the intake team at work, because he’d been uncomfortable as hell just being a witness to the conversation between Steve and Pam, much less having to be the person directing it.

Steve’s confusion and skepticism over the reveal of The Roadhouse’s true purpose had been as eye-opening as it had been heartbreaking. He’d seemed to have genuinely had no f*cking clue why anyone would bother trying to free slaves or abolish slavery. In fact, he’d argued with Pamela about it, had said that there was no reason that anyone should give a flying f*ck about ‘people like him’ and the unfortunate circ*mstances they found themselves in. He’d referred to himself as ‘disposable’ and ‘worthless’, had declared that there was no point in trying to save him, because he was ‘too far gone’.

Every word — every devastating, evil, hateful, f*cking bullsh*t word —that had come out of the omega’s mouth had ratcheted up Dean’s absolute fury, until he’d been shaking with barely contained rage, and Pamela had straight up kicked him out of his own house.

Dean just- he wants to howl at the injustice of it all. He wants to tear the entire system and everyone that upholds it apart with his bare hands. He wants to tear himself apart for how goddamned complacent and ignorant he’s allowed himself to become — some stupid, spoiled, out-of-touch, piece of sh*t alpha, who kinda, sorta knew that things were sh*t, but had never bothered to find out to what degree.

It’s probably a good thing that he’s not in Steve’s immediate vicinity, if he’s being truthful, because he knows he looks and smells like an unhinged psychopath, after everything he’s learned and heard and seen.

‘Anytime ya wanna come back down to terra firma ’n use your big boy words, I’ll be here waitin’,’ he hears from somewhere off to his left.

He whips around with a growl, teeth bared, knowing that his eyes have gone alpha-red now that he feels as though he can allow his anger to let loose, but his best friend merely gives him a calm, unimpressed look from where he’s casually leaning against the hood of his own truck.

‘Ain’t nothin’ to talk about, Benny,’ Dean snaps, but he’s full of sh*t and they both know it. When his friend merely raises an eyebrow and continues to wait in silence, he sighs. ‘I really f*cked it all up, didn’t I.’

He doesn’t give himself the benefit of the doubt by allowing the end of his sentence to curl up into a question, because they also both know that the answer is yes.

Benny sighs too. ‘I think it was somethin’ of a group fail, brother,’ he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I definitely coulda handled the situation and myself better, if we’re gonna speak plain. Even if you got the excuse’a bein’ an ignorant alpha, I sure as sh*t don’t. I been in Steve’s shoes — I knew gettin’ riled up was only gonna screw the kid up, but I still-’

‘Hey, hey, none’a that, now,’ Dean interrupts firmly when he hears Benny’s voice break on the last word. ‘Listen, man — you picked up on him bein’ freaked out way before I did, ’n you’re not the one who scared the sh*t outta him. I mean, the way he just- just dropped-’

He can’t finish, the image of Steve, trembling and reeking of fear and begging for mercy, head down and ass up like a- a terrified animal permanently seared in his brain and making him want to puke.

‘That’s what he’s been trained to do,’ Benny explains, his words hard and bitter. ‘That when the master’s feelin’ any kinda way, it’s your job t’remind ’im that he holds all the power — over the household ’n especially over you.’

‘Yeah, but you were never scared of me like that,’ Dean argues half-heartedly. ‘Even that first day when I- when we first got ya outta that hellhole. You were pissed, you weren’t afraid.’

Benny lets out a humourless bark of laughter. ‘You do remember they kept me for fightin’ and f*ckin’, right?’ he asks, bitterness turning his words brittle and dangerous, a pile of kiln-dried kindling in the dead of summer, just waiting to be set ablaze. ‘Cher, I wasn’t scared’a you cos I knew I coulda snapped your neck the second you so much as looked at me cross-eyed… almost did once or twice, if ya wanna know the truth. Part of my training was gettin’ turned into a mindless goddamn killin’ machine. Somehow I don’t think we can say the same for your boy.’

‘He ain’t- he’s not my boy,’ Dean protests weakly, because that’s the part of what Benny’s just said that should be countered. Benny smirks. ‘Shut the f*ck up, Lafitte.’

‘I ain’t said a damn thing,’ Benny says with a snort. ‘Listen, in all seriousness — you did alright. We both have room for improvement, but also- there’s a reason why these things usually happen on-site at The Roadhouse, boss. With a normal intake, they’re in a place with other omegas, ’n it’s a whole team’a trained professionals right from the get-go, ’n there ain’t an alpha in sight until they get settled in ’n are gettin’ ready to talk about rejoinin’ the real world.’

‘Yeah, so dipsh*t, bumbling alpha idiots don’t go ’n f*ck ’em up even worst.’ Dean groans, covering his face into his hands. ‘And ain’t it just Steve’s dumb luck that he went ’n got stuck with the worst friggin’ one.’

‘Leave it to you to give yourself too much credit while somehow also managin’ to sell yourself short,’ Benny grumbles in that usual I’m not paid enough to deal with you and your bullsh*t way of his. ‘Hate to break it to ya, chief, but I can all but guarantee that you ain’t even in the top hundred worst alphas that Steve’s ever met. Ain’t nice to think about, but you know I ain’t wrong.’

‘f*cking hell.’

Benny’s right — Dean doesn’t want to think about all the other abhorrent sons of bitches that Steve’s had the misfortune to cross paths with in his nightmare of a life, because the very mention of them has him sure his eyes are flaring crimson again, and he’s been exiled out here to calm the f*ck down.

They’re both supposed to be taking this time to get their sh*t together, actually, which Dean, being the sh*tty friend he is, has totally forgotten during his extended temper tantrum. He looks over to the other man and notes how pale and worn he looks, how tight and forced his smile is, how white his knuckles are from where his hands are balled into fists at his sides.

Dean sucks — just all around sucks as a human being.

‘Uh- how’re you doin’, man?’ he asks awkwardly, forcing himself to stop stomping around like a lunatic, and instead going to stand next to his friend, leaning back against his truck as well.

Benny doesn’t answer for a long moment, just stares off into somewhere in the middle distance, jaw clenching and unclenching while he considers his answer.

‘I… didn’t think it was gonna hit me that hard, seein’ him lookin’ at you like an owner,’ he says finally. There’s no accusation in his words, just world-weary sorrow. ‘Ain’t nothin’ you did wrong, cos it’s all the kid knows, but- damn, if that didn’t f*ck me right up. Reminded me of-’ He breaks off and shakes his head. ‘I knew a lotta kids just like him, back then. Just wish all of ’em coulda made it out… even if they would’ve got saddled with your clueless behind once they made it to the outside.’

The smile he gives Dean now is a small, fragile thing, but it seems to unwind something in them both.

Dean doesn’t tell him he’s sorry for whatever horrors he’s reliving in his mind right now — Benny ain’t someone who wants any of that huggy, sympathetic, hand patting mess — but he does stay by his side, and looks away in respectful silence as his friend wipes his eyes and squares his shoulders when Pam sticks her head out the front door and calls them both back inside.

Pamela — after getting a grunt of permission from an exhausted-looking Steve who doesn’t even bother to look in their direction — gives Dean a brief rundown of the results of his physical. In all honesty, nothing she says is terribly shocking, considering everything they know about Steve’s history from his file, but goddamn if it doesn’t break Dean’s heart a little more with each new discovery.

He’s alarmingly underweight, which Dean already knew from having seen the guy without his shirt on twice now and the way his ribs and the ridges of his spine stick out in a way that’s almost painful to look at. He’s on a course of antibiotics for the next ten days — Pam gives Steve the dignity of not elaborating on what they’re treating, but Dean’s got an active enough imagination that he’s got a pretty good idea. Three of his ribs are fractured and in the early stages of healing, and he has a whole mess of bones that were broken in the past that never healed properly and might cause issues down the line, so physical therapy is almost certainly in the cards.

Pam also vehemently recommends that once Steve feels up to it — sooner, rather than later, she says sternly, loud enough for Steve to hear from where he’s still kneeling in the living room — he should get in touch with one of the Banes twins, The Roadhouse’s therapists.

Dean nods along with everything the doctor says, making sure he takes in every word, and even taking down notes in his phone when she starts going over things like what Steve’s dietary and physical restrictions are. He dies a little when she mentions that Steve shouldn’t ‘engage in penetrative intercourse’ until they have a followup appointment in three weeks and can see how well he’s healing, because what the actual f*ck, but a single flick of Pam’s eyes in Steve’s direction has him shutting right the f*ck up.

The expression on the omega’s face is carefully schooled, but he does let out a long, slow breath and there’s even the tiniest upward twitch of his lips when he hears Dean’s spluttered, Oh my everloving f*ck, Pam — of course not, Jesus Christ! that has her snorting and saying some sh*t about ‘just covering all the bases’.

‘You’re the worst,’ he grumbles, but he leans in and gives her a hug and kiss on the cheek anyway. ‘Thanks for comin’ all the way out here… sorry for the minor sh*tshow ya walked into.’

‘I’m used to it when it comes to you, Winchester,’ she replies with a shrug, then looks back over to Steve. ‘I’m headin’ out, but it was nice to meet ya, Steve. You take care’a yourself ’n gimme a call if you got any questions or even if ya just wanna swap war stories ’bout what it’s like dealin’ with Mr Chatterbox over here, alright?’

‘Yes m-Pam,’ Steve answers, catching himself before using the dreaded M-word again. Pam laughs.

‘Nice save, kiddo. I’ll see you in three weeks. Lafitte — help me with my bags again, will ya?’ she calls over to Benny, who’s taken a seat at the kitchen table, studying the ceiling above him like it holds all the answers to the universe.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ he says, not at all bothered by her indignant huff. He edges into the living room, trying to give Steve as wide a berth as he can manage, considering his close proximity to Pam’s stuff. He offers Steve a tight smile as he bends to pick up Pam’s bag and plastic tote. ‘Was good t’meetcha, Steve. ’M sorry it weren’t under better circ*mstances, but, ah- any time you wanna talk ’bout them tats, you just lemme know.’

‘I will, thank you, Mr Benny,’ Steve says, glancing up at him. He sounds nervous, but not afraid, which Dean has to figure is something of an improvement.

Benny nods curtly, picks up Pam’s stuff, then heads out, stopping only long enough to murmur, see ya, brother to Dean. Pamela gives him one last pat on the shoulder, then she, too, is gone, leaving Dean and Steve alone.

Steve still hasn’t moved from his spot on the living room floor, so after several beats of silence, Dean steels himself, then goes back into the living room and lowers himself to the ground across from him, where Pam had been sitting. It hits him all over again, how out of his depth he is, when he realises that Pam and Benny had both known to pop a squat on the floor like Steve, while Dean, the stupid asshole, had sat on the sofa, towering above them all like he thought he was King sh*t or something.

‘Hey, uh-’ Dean starts, running a hand through his hair, feeling like an idiot all over again. ‘Listen, I, uh- I just wanna say that I’m real sorry for what a dick I was earlier. Like I’m sure Pam explained to ya — this ain’t how we usually do things, ’n it was just your sh*tty luck that you ended up here instead’a with people who know what the f*ck they’re doin’-’

‘Considering the alternative would’ve been a whor*house or a bodybag-’ Steve interrupts, his tone harsh, even as a tremor ripples across his shoulders and fear weaves its way back into his scent. He takes a deep breath in, then exhales sharply though his nose. ‘Apologies, Dean,’ he grits out, swallowing hard, clearly trying like hell to keep himself together. ‘May I go to- to my room, or is there something else you require of me right now?’

‘Of course, man,’ Dean says awkwardly, moving to stand as Steve does. ‘I mean- Just so you know, you don’t gotta, like- ask permission to-’

‘Thank you,’ Steve interrupts again, rising to his feet and stalking out of the room without so much as a single backwards glance.

Several hours go by, and Dean doesn’t hear a peep from Steve, nor does he emerge. Once or twice, he hears the pipes knock from the flushing of the toilet or running of the sink in Steve’s bathroom, but other than that, there’s no signs of life at all.

Even though it’s killing him, Dean doesn’t go check on him, figuring that the guy’s earned the right to space and quiet to deal with the giant ass bomb that got dropped on him today, and the last thing he needs is Dean all up in his sh*t. Instead, he logs onto his computer and answers some work emails, pays a few bills, and places a huge grocery delivery order that’s so full of all five food groups that even Sammy’d be happy with it.

He has the Instacart shopper just leave his sh*t at the side door of the garage, figuring Steve’s probably had quite enough of random strangers invading his temporary living space for one day, so when he gets the photo notification that the delivery is complete, he hauls everything inside, eager for the mindless task of restocking the fridge and pantry.

(Turns out that there’s not really enough room on the pantry shelves for all the damn types of coffee Dean ended up adding to his cart. It hadn’t seemed like that much in the moment, but now, faced with a dozen bags and canisters of various brands and flavours, he’s thinking he probably should’ve tipped better.)

There’s little else for him to do after that, so he doom-scrolls on Instagram for a while, saving a few recipes that are surprisingly specific to what Pam said he should be feeding Steve (social media is definitely Big Brother, and no one can convince him otherwise), and sending a few funny ones to Sam and Charlie. He falls down a rabbit hole of watching old wrestlers reacting to old wrestling matches (Gunner Lawless has aged like the finest of fine f*cking wines, as Pamela would say), then a few videos of cats falling off of sh*t that’re far funnier than they have any right to be.

At no point during any of this nonsense does Steve show his face. Dean tries and fails not to stress about it.

It’s not until dinnertime rolls around that Dean decides he can’t put it off any longer, because if there’s one thing Steve does need, it’s to eat. He already feels guilty for not trying to coax the omega out of his room for lunch, so he definitely needs to man the f*ck up and see if he can get him to eat dinner.

Feeling awkward and nervous as hell, Dean jogs up the stairs and heads down the hall to Steve’s room, making as much noise as he can so he doesn’t take him by surprise. Even so, it still takes several long, nerve-wracking moments for Steve to open the door when Dean knocks.

‘Hey,’ Dean says stupidly, taking a moment to study the other man, noting his pale skin and red-rimmed eyes. The scent of heartache seems to be seeping from the room like poisonous gas and hits Dean so hard that any other words he might have to say get stuck in his throat, and he has to battle the urge to pull the omega close to him and scent him until his sadness disappears.

Dean tightens his hold on the doorframe to keep himself upright while he struggles mightily to get a friggin’ hold over his dumb-animal emotions.

‘Hello, Dean,’ Steve answers, sounding stuffy and exhausted. He drags the sleeve of his too-large sweatshirt across his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I- I realise I owe you an apology for my behaviour earlier — I was… unfathomably rude, which you did not deserve.’

‘Oh, dude, I definitely deserved it. I mean- you really weren’t that rude or anything, but if you were, then I absolutely would have, so I don’t blame you one bit for bein’ pissed at me. If anything, I’m the one who owes you a huge apology for bein’ such a f*ckin’ asshole about everything, so, uh- I’m sorry.’ Dean lets go of the doorjamb and runs a hand through his hair, sighing. ‘Listen, I totally get if you need a break from my stupid ass, but Pam says ya gotta be eatin’ at least three square meals a day, ’n I got no desire t’get on her bad side, so… if ya want, I can make ya somethin’ for dinner, then make myself scarce.’

Whatever primordial thing that’s been awoken inside of him by the omega’s arrival keens at the idea of not being able to keep eyes on Steve to make sure he’s being taken care of, but this isn’t about Dean and his caveman brain. It’s about Steve and what he needs, so Dean forces himself to keep an understanding smile on his face, even if it feels strained as hell.

Steve blinks at him, frowning. ‘I wasn’t… I’m not angry with you, Dean, I’m just…’ His frown deepens as he worries his lip between his teeth, ‘… overwhelmed,’ he finishes finally, lowering his eyes and swallowing again. ‘And… afraid.’ He adds the last two words so quietly that it almost seems as though he didn’t mean to say them at all.

Dean wants desperately to say something — anything — to comfort the other man, but he comes up stupidly empty, so what comes out instead is, ‘What wouldja think ’bout havin’ a movie night tonight?’

Now he’s the one blinking and frowning in surprise and confusion over what the f*ck just came out of his mouth, so he’s not at all surprised when he sees that Steve is doing the same, head co*cked to the side like he’s trying to parse out what the hell Dean’s just said.

‘What would that entail?’ he asks, wariness colouring his words so they almost sound like an accusation. ‘I… I don’t enjoy being-’ he cuts himself off, then swallows again and says instead, ‘Apologies… I should say: depending on your meaning, it’s possible that I haven’t experienced one before.’

Dean feels his cheeks flushing and he’s sure he’s stinking up the hallway with the scent of his own embarrassment over being an awkward idiot yet again, but he forces another smile and says, ‘Oh, man — movie night’s the best night of the week… We pick a movie, then load ourselves up with as much junk food as we can carry, ’n hunker down in the Dean Cave like a bunch’a hibernating bears. Then all ya gotta do is let your cares be carried away by surround sound, a seventy-five inch high def screen, ’n eat your weight in ice cream and popcorn.’ He pauses, then says, ‘Well, I should probably make real food, too… normally I’d say we should order a pizza or somethin’, but somehow I don’t think the doc would approve.’

Steve nods. ‘I still have a fairly large portion of the pancakes you made last night left,’ he says with a shrug. ‘A movie night sounds lovely, Dean, thank you.’

‘Aw, man, you don’t gotta eat left over leftovers,’ Dean says, trying not to think about how much he probably sounds like a spoiled ass again, but wanting to do something to soothe the primal beast in his brain howling at him to care for his the omega. ‘I, uh- placed a pretty big grocery order while you were, ah- hangin’ out up here, so we got just about anything you could possibly want. I could do sandwiches, chicken ’n rice, about ten kindsa soup, cereal, mac ’n cheese…’

Steve’s eyes light up. ‘The kind from the blue box?’

Dean scoffs. ‘As if there’s any other kind,’ he says, even though he makes a damn good homemade baked macaroni and cheese. But if the prospect of Kraft dinner can prompt that kind of excitement in the omega, he’ll make it every damn day-

Remembering how weird he made breakfast for them, then also remembering the small pyramid of coffee currently stacked on his kitchen counter, he sternly tells himself to chill the f*ck out, and says instead, ‘Did I ever tell you ’bout the time when I was eleven or twelve and tryna make a special birthday dinner for Sammy, so I mixed marshmallow fluff in with his mac ’n cheese cos I thought it’d make it taste like cake?’

It’s stupid — both because it’s a stupid story, and because they both know there’s no time in which Dean would have ever shared it with Steve — but somehow that doesn’t matter at all when Steve lets out an honest to goodness chuckle and says, ‘No, but I would love to hear the story,’ and sounds like he really means it.

Chapter 12: never or now

Chapter Text

Despite his initial reservations, it ends up sounding like ‘movie night’ is going to be one of the most enjoyable things Castiel has ever done. He’d been surprised to find that when Dean had first brought it up, even though Castiel hadn’t been entirely sure what he was referring to, he’d been just about certain that ‘movie night’ with Dean wouldn’t involve being f*cked and filmed. As he contemplates this now, he wonders, yet again, how this man has managed to slip past all Castiel’s defences and sense of self-preservation and convince him that he doesn’t want Castiel for the only reason anyone has ever wanted him.

It’s hard, letting go — or, rather, even considering letting go — of the state of constant vigilance and fight for survival that has kept Castiel alive all these years, even after the, frankly, unfathomable news that was dropped on his head earlier in the day. If it hadn’t come straight from the woman he knows for a fact has literally saved his life, Castiel would have assumed everything he learned today was part of some especially cruel and elaborate trick.

Truth be told, he’s still not fully convinced that it isn’t, but during the several long hours he’d spent laying on the floor of his closet earlier, trying to make sense of it all, he’d come to the conclusion that maybe… maybe it would be okay, for once, to not look into it too deeply, and just let himself… be.

It’s honestly a terrifying concept.

He feels like he’s taking the first few shaky steps out onto a tightrope, only there’s no safety net, and he has no idea what the other end is secured to — or if it’s even secured at all. After years and years and years of taking every precaution and doing everything within his power to protect himself, the prospect of risking this free-fall into nothingness scares him worse than anything he’s ever faced.

And how ridiculous is that, that the idea of freedom is more frightening than the idea of dying cold and alone, of having his entire existence amount to being unmourned in an unmarked grave? How broken must he already be, that it was easier for him to wrap his mind around the notion that Dean had purchased a slave he wanted to f*ck to death, rather than one he wanted to free?

All this worrying and heavy thoughts, coupled with several hours of embarrassing weepiness in his closet hiding spot has given Castiel one hell of a headache.

He tries his best to hide it, though, because in the end, if it does turn out that Dean and his friends are only getting Castiel’s hopes up so they can shatter them later, there’s really nothing he can do about it. Either way, nothing about his immediate situation has changed since this morning, and Castiel’s learned the hard way that he can rail against unfortunate or unpleasant circ*mstances all he wants, but at the end of the day, all that amounts to is more scars and a broken heart.

Instead, he begins following Dean back downstairs to the kitchen to offer whatever assistance he can provide for movie night preparations when he remembers the laundry.

‘The clothes are most likely dry by now,’ he informs Dean, nodding towards the laundry room. ‘I can fold them, if you don’t mind me touching your things.’

Dean lets out a quick uncomfortable huff of laughter. ‘Nah, man, you don’t gotta go foldin’ my friggin’ underwear or whatever. I’ll grab it later — maybe multitask during the movie or somethin’.’

He trots down two or three stairs, then pulls up short, causing Castiel to nearly run into him, only catching him at the last second, steadying them both. For a moment, they just stare at each other in surprise, Dean’s hand still on Castiel’s upper arm.

They both seem to realise this at the same time, because Dean yanks his hand back so quickly, it’s as though he’s been burned.

‘Sorry,’ Dean says gruffly, crossing his arms over his chest and tucking his hands against his sides. ‘I just clocked the second part’a what you said, ’n just wanted to say that you can touch anything you want, dude. Like, I genuinely meant it when I said mi casa, su casa, y’know? So, like- touch away.’ He descends another two steps, then stops again and shakes his head. ‘That sounded way less creepy in my head, sorry.’

Castiel has never met an alpha who apologises as much as Dean does. To be fair, Castiel has never met an alpha like Dean, full stop, but even in his past life, he’d never known anyone who used the word ‘sorry’ like punctuation, especially in these kinds of innocuous situations where an apology really isn’t necessary.

‘You sounded fine?’ he offers uncertainly as he and Dean make their way down the rest of the stairs and head to the kitchen. ‘I appreciate your hospitality, Dean. Pamela mentioned several times that our situation is… unconventional.’

Dean winces. ‘Yeah… under normal circ*mstances, you’da been brought right to The Roadhouse, usually with a handful of other omegas, ’n you woulda gotten the whole song ’n dance right from the get-go. ’S just that when we found out about ya, everywhere we normally house people was full-up, so that’s why ya got stuck with me.’ He runs a hand through his hair and shoots Castiel a wry smile. ‘Sorry ’bout that, too.’

Just like the first time when Dean had apologised for housing Castiel, a flare of annoyance sparks in his chest, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from snapping at the man again.

It’s almost sickeningly humorous, the way Dean beats himself up over sounding ‘like a spoiled brat’ over things like his preference for how his eggs are cooked, or having dreamt about having a space for his books and movies when he was a child with no permanent home. Yet he doesn’t think twice about how his self-flagellation sounds to someone like Castiel, who, less than a month ago, existed solely to be f*cked until he broke down, wore out, or stepped too far out of line. The difference between where he was and where he is now is so stark that it makes him feel overwhelmed and unsteady and- and angry.

He doesn’t quite know who he’s angry at, or if he’s even angry at a specific person at all. It might be his former owner — owners, even — or it might be at his- at the people who’d thrown him into the trade in the first place. It might be at the guards at the omega centre who hadn’t thought twice about ‘testing him out’ before he was cleared for sale, or at the doctor in the sick ward who’d gotten into a screaming match with Pamela over his right to ‘put the omega to sleep’, like Castiel was some geriatric dog who could no longer control its bowels.

It honestly might just be that he’s goddamn pissed at the whole f*cking f*cked up system, but he’s in no fit state to take rational inventory of his emotions.

Whoever or whatever it is, though, he does have the wherewithal to know that it is not Dean who has truly prompted this strange, unbridled fury that seems to keep building in his chest. His irritation at the alpha’s short-sightedness is a symptom, not a pathogen, of a much larger disease.

Even so, he keeps a hold on his temper and his tongue, because Dean and his co-workers can spout all the pretty words and sunshine they’d like, but as it is right now, Dean is still Castiel’s master, and Castiel is still Dean’s slave, and that’s not a fact that Castiel can simply ignore.

‘As I said before — perhaps a bit too crassly — I assure you, the alternative to being in your care was far, far less desirable,’ is what he says instead, careful to keep his tone and scent level. He tries to force a smile, but even he can tell it ends up being more like a grimace, so he adds, ‘Truly, Dean. I… I don’t think it’s quite sunken in yet, so I don’t quite have the words to express my gratitude, but… I do genuinely appreciate everything you and your friends have done. For me and- and others like me. I know this isn’t something you wanted, but I am grateful, nonetheless.’

The conversation is quickly veering into a place that Castiel is not yet ready to visit, because, despite the several hours he spent replaying his interaction with Pamela over and over in his head, it still feels like everything is just too- to big right now. Too big to fit in his head, too big for him to even fathom. It’s like trying to sleep in the damn bed all over again, except there’s no closet he can shove all these unrestrained thoughts and feelings into.

‘Aw, Steve, c’mon now…’ Dean says, shifting in place, cheeks flushing, clearly uncomfortable with the praise. ‘Ain’t no thing…’

It is, though. It is a very big thing, but Castiel just doesn’t have the energy to argue why, so he just looks away and nods. The thought occurs to him that somehow the universe (or perhaps just a covert abolitionist brigade posing as a nature lodge) has conspired to put an omega who struggles to find the words and courage to speak his mind and an alpha that can’t ever seem to shut the hell up under the same roof. If it wasn’t such an emotionally and mentally taxing situation, it would almost be comedic.

‘So, uh… mac ’n cheese?’ Dean asks a moment later, pulling a familiar blue box from the pantry and giving it a little shake. ‘Pam says we both gotta start eatin’ our vegetables, too, so I was thinkin’ maybe broccoli or salad or somethin’? That way we can dive-bomb some popcorn ’n liquorice or somethin’ afterwards without feeling’ guilty?’

The look on his face could only be described as hopeful, like a kid trying to negotiate a later bedtime, so Castiel nods again, even though he’s fairly sure he won’t be able to stomach nearly as much food as Dean is planning on preparing. It hits him all over again how f*cking surreal the turn his life has taken is.

‘I could… prepare a salad?’ he offers, feeling almost shy, but remembering how pleased Dean had been when he’d offered to take care of the laundry.

Sure enough, Dean eagerly agrees, a pleased expression on his face, as he pulls a large plastic bowl and a cutting board from one of the cabinets, and a good-sized knife from the knife block on the counter, laying them out on the kitchen island. He turns his back on Castiel and the knife when he heads to the refrigerator and begins pulling out a head of lettuce and a whole assortment of colourful vegetables without so much as batting an eye.

Castiel, who has been contemplating what strange twist of fate and good fortune has landed him with Dean as his master, is suddenly also hit with the realisation that Dean might also be fairly lucky that Castiel is his slave. Even though Castiel had been too afraid last night to make use of the weapons his master so readily and unknowingly supplied, he knows there are many, many terrified, desperate slaves who would not feel the same way.

The idea that Dean might unknowingly put himself in this kind of danger again in the future — it makes Castiel’s heart seize in his chest.

‘Dean,’ he blurts out before he can stop himself, before he can really think about the fact that he’s doing something to protect an owner, ‘you- you can’t do that.’

He and Dean both freeze, just like they had on the stairs or the night before when Castiel had been bold (or foolhardy) enough to interrupt and disagree with his master. Even though he knows everything is- well, whatever it is, the urge to throw himself on his knees and beg for forgiveness for his audacity is almost too strong to ignore.

The refrigerator makes an irritated dinging noise just then from being open for too long, shaking both men from their strange reveries. Dean grabs one last bag of carrots, then carefully closes it back up before speaking again.

‘D-do what?’ he asks, voice pitched a bit higher than normal in his worry. ‘sh*t, Steve, did I do somethin’ else to make you-’ He breaks off, looking ill at the thought that he might have upset Castiel… again.

Castiel quickly shakes his head. ‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he says, shaking his head once more for emphasis. ‘I- I’m sorry, I wasn’t- I know I forgot my place, it’s just…’ He takes a deep breath and forces himself to calm down before he tries again. ‘It’s just that- just now, and last night — twice, you provided your slave with a- a weapon, Dean. If I wanted to, if I was- was frightened or panicked enough, I could- I could take that knife and hurt or kill you.’ He fights back the unexpected wave of nausea that rises at the prospect, even though he’d been genuinely contemplating it less than twenty-four hours ago.

Dean blinks dumbly at Castiel, then at the knife on the counter, like he’s never seen something so baffling. He pauses, frowning thoughtfully, as though he’s trying to figure out the answer to an especially difficult equation. His eyes dart back and forth, like he’s reading some sort of rulebook that only he can see.

Seeming to finally come to a decision, he turns suddenly and strides over to another drawer at the other other end of the long counter and rummages around for a moment before he must find what he’s looking for. When he returns to the island, he sets down his bounty with a decisive thud and slides it over in Castiel’s direction without saying a single word.

Castiel looks down at the object his master has just presented him with, and is shocked to discover it’s a folding pocketknife. His gaze flies back to Dean’s face, and he’s taken aback by the fire blazing in the alpha’s eyes.

Before he can begin to worry that that outpouring of intensity is from offence caused by his words, however, Dean begins to speak.

‘Steve,’ he says, voice serious, the single syllable ringing with emotion and righteousness and laced so heavily with alpha that it almost knocks Castiel to his knees anyway. ‘You take that,’ he nods towards the knife, ‘and any time anyone — and I mean anyone, my dumb ass included — makes you feel unsafe or scared enough that you feel like you gotta use it… you use it, ya hear? No one is ever, ever gonna hurt you again, but just in case, I want you to be able to protect yourself.’

He shrugs, looking almost surprised or embarrassed by his speech, like it had all come out far different than what he’d been intending, and he flashes Castiel a small, self-deprecating smile.

Castiel just stares. Somewhere in the far corners of his brain he has the thought that so far, a comically high number of interactions between himself and his master have consisted of awkward staring. He knows he should do something, say something, but he can’t seem to find words to describe the absolute mayhem taking place in his head at the moment.

Somehow, Dean seems to realise this, because the fierce look on his face softens further into something earnest and honest and raw. He rounds the island until he’s standing a few feet from Castiel, then picks up the knife again. Slowly, and without breaking eye contact (this staring thing really is becoming a habit for them, it seems), he reaches for Castiel’s hand, just like he had the night before when taking his fork, and presses the folded knife into his palm.

‘Please.’

The word comes out hoarse and gruff, at odds with how open Dean’s expression is and how bright his eyes are. Castiel has the thought again that he’s never met an alpha — anyone, actually, of any designation — who wears their heart as unabashedly on their sleeve as Dean does.

He closes his fingers around the knife.

‘Thank you.’

Castiel’s voice has gone husky and thick as well. He swallows hard and lowers his eyes to the knife in his hand. The handle is worn, the black finish rubbed away to reveal the steel underneath in several places, but when he gingerly unfolds the blade, he can tell it’s sharp and well cared for.

There’s something engraved on the hinge, partially worn away from use and time. Castiel squints down at it and can just barely make out a small JW. He thinks back on the list of names he’s heard Dean mention —Sammy, Millie, Henry, Garth, Charlie, Benny, Pam — and even though none of them match up, somehow he knows that this once belonged to someone important, that this isn’t just some arbitrary hand-me-down. This is something precious, a gift, and those…

Those, you keep.

In his past life, Castiel had eaten at enough Michelin star restaurants that he could have formed his own galaxy, but none of them, not a single one, could even hope to compete with the earth-shaking, life-changing, out-of-body experience that was the first bite of the Kraft mac and cheese that Dean made for movie night. If Castiel hasn’t watched him make it with his own eyes, exactly as the box instructed, he would have assumed Dean had slipped some sort of illicit substance in there, because holy sh*t, it’s the most heavenly thing he’s ever tasted.

‘Oh my God,’ is all the words he can manage, but that seems to be adequate feedback, because Dean beams like Castiel has just written him a love sonnet.

‘I take it you approve?’ he teases, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

‘This,’ Castiel says, shovelling another forkful into his mouth, not even caring that he definitely looks like a wild beast this time, because God, has he missed this, ‘makes me very happy.’

‘I’m glad, man,’ Dean says, almost shyly, lowering his gaze to his own bowl. ‘And you did a great job on the salad… just don’t go tellin’ my brother I willingly ate rabbit food, or he’ll be up my ass with keto this and juice fast that, and I’ll never hear the end of it.’

Despite Dean’s good-natured complaining, the scent of happy alpha reaches Castiel, but unlike earlier, when it had seemed like a threat, this time it feels like a reward — Castiel has pleased his alpha, simply by being happy. He doesn’t know that he’s ever managed that before, because his happiness has never mattered to his alphas before.

He and Dean have taken up residence in the Dean Cave, per Dean’s instruction, Dean sitting in a, frankly, hideous plaid armchair, and Castiel on a gigantic beanbag that belongs to Miss Charlie, but Dean insists she won’t mind he use. They’re surrounded by a veritable smorgasbord of food — the macaroni and cheese and salad for ‘real’ food, but also popcorn, two types of chips, a plastic sleeve of Girl Scout cookies that Dean had pulled from the freezer, and a bag of liquorice, which Dean insists is the best movie food. Castiel’s stomach hurts just looking at it all, which, again, makes his mind spin at how quickly and drastically his circ*mstances have changed.

Dean sets down his fork and now-empty bowl on one of the tray tables he’d set up for their feast, and hauls himself up out of his chair with a quiet groan, stretching with his hands pushing on his lower back. He twists his torso to both sides, eliciting several loud pops and cracks, then does the same with his neck.

‘Damn, I forgot how good that sh*t is,’ he says, tilting his head towards his empty dishes. ‘Ate it so much growin’ up cos it was cheap ’n easy to make, that once I had my own place ’n money to buy my own groceries, I boycotted the stuff for years.’

‘It… was a favourite of mine, once,’ Castiel admits quietly. ‘I wasn’t permitted to have it at home, so when I went to-’ He breaks off abruptly and takes in a sharp breath, lowering his eyes to his own bowl, then says, ‘I just mean- thank you for this. It means more than I have words to express.’

Dean looks like he would very much like to ask Castiel to elaborate, but he must remember Castiel’s panic at being asked about his past during Benny’s visit, because he simply offers a small half-smile and says, ‘Any time, man,’ then walks over to the entertainment centre cabinet under the mounted television.

‘Any preference on movies?’ he asks, his back still to Castiel as he opens the doors to the entertainment centre, revealing several shelves of neatly lined up DVD cases. ‘I was kinda thinkin’ that after all the sh*t that’s gone down today, some feel-good comic relief might be the way to go?’

That sounds perfect to Castiel, and he tells Dean as much. Dean nods seriously, like he’s taking this information to heart, and begins scanning the shelf, running his finger over the titles until he lets out a quiet ‘Yahtzee!’ and pulls a case out to show to Castiel.

‘What d’ya think? Should we try to make ‘fetch’ happen?’ he asks, eyebrows raised.

The phrase pings something in Castiel’s memory and he frowns, trying to force it to the surface. When it does, he sits up a bit straighter, proud to have understood the reference.

‘Is this your way of saying you’re not like other owners, you’re a cool owner?’ he asks, raising an eyebrow as he makes a pop culture reference for possibly the first time in his entire life.

It’s not an especially funny joke, but the laugh that burst from Dean’s mouth is hideous — a loud, squawking thing that ends in a snort and the man doubled over with his hands on his knees — and, as far as Castiel is concerned, the greatest sound in the entire world. For the first time, he thinks that maybe — maybe — things are going to be alright.

Things are not alright.

Other than a few iconic lines that had stuck out in his mind from the time when Balthazar had forced Castiel and Meg to watch Mean Girls with him, Castiel hadn’t remembered most of what the movie was about. He remembers the girls in pink, and the book full of the awful things they said about each other, but he’d forgotten pretty much every other thing about the film.

Watching it, it feels like things are moving too fast, like his brain can’t keep up with the quick gait of the dialogue and storyline and action on the screen, so he eventually stops trying. He gathers that it’s something about a nice girl trying to deceive mean girls (which makes sense, considering the title), but more than the heroine (or perhaps, anti-heroine — he honestly can’t tell) accomplishing her goal, what really gets him is her two ‘uncool’ friends.

The scenes of the three of them, plotting their shenanigans, making secret plans, just trying to get through high school unscathed… well, it hits uncomfortably close to home. He tries — and fails — to distract himself by sampling the numerous snacks Dean has supplied, even though he’d been correct when he’d guessed that he wouldn’t be able to indulge in much before getting full again.

Unbidden, the memory of the first time he’d seen this movie comes to mind. He remembers that even at the time, he’d thought that the three outcast friends reminded him strongly of himself, Meg, and Bal. He’d been the odd outsider, who’d needed his friends to show him how to interact with the rest of the world ‘like a real boy’, as Meg liked to say. Meg had been the brash, cunning, devil-may-care badass, and while he wouldn’t have necessarily called Bal ‘too gay to function’, of the three of them, he would have certainly been the one to supply the pink shirt, should the need arise.

His hold over his emotions had been tenuous at best, but now, it splinters and groans from the strain, like the first step onto a barely frozen pond. Then, the Meg-like character’s reveals her painting of the three friends, and it shatters completely, leaving Castiel to the mercy of the icy depths below.

He’s not sure when the first tear falls. All he knows is that one moment, he’s smiling at Dean laughing over the Bal-like character demanding the main character return his pink shirt, and the next, he’s bent over on his knees, arms wrapped around his middle, and a horrible, hurt-animal keening sound is coming from his throat.

His pain and his grief and his fear and his anger, it swells. It grows so large that Castiel’s body can no longer contain it. The entire room can’t contain it, and perhaps this is why it feels as though it sucks all the oxygen from the space — from Castiel’s very lungs. He feels it like a current, running through his entire body, every nerve ending on fire, set ablaze, even as tears stream down his cheeks.

It all comes crashing down — from the very first second he woke up in chains, to this very moment, when freedom is so close, he can taste it. Every emotion and memory he’d suppressed, beaten down by sheer force of will and primal need to survive, they all join hands and bring him to his knees.

Distantly, he’s aware that Dean is speaking, that he’s paused the movie and lowered himself to the ground, and is now scooting in closer, almost at a crawl. It’s the first time Castiel has ever seen an alpha on his knees, which should shock him, but somehow it doesn’t, because it’s Dean, and Dean is unlike any alpha Castiel has ever known.

He’s not sure who makes the first move, but somehow he’s practically climbed into Dean’s lap, his nose buried in the crook of the other man’s neck, and he- he closes his eyes and just breathes.

He breathes in the soothing, warm scent of amber and balsam and cinnamon, and lets it wash over him. He imagines himself being wrapped up tight in it like a shroud, a blanket.

A quilt made from old t-shirts, smelling of safety and — somehow — home.

He can’t make out the words that Dean is murmuring into his hair, but somehow he still draws comfort from the tenor of the alpha’s voice. He can’t open his eyes, but he leans in, instinct demanding he submit to his alpha and allow himself to be cared for.

He breathes, the weight of Dean’s hands, gentle and unsure, resting on his back, and with every exhale, it’s as though the darkness inside him is being chiselled away, piece by piece. He doesn’t know what will remain once it’s gone, but in that moment, he finds he doesn’t care.

Instead, for the first time in far too long a time, Castiel lets exhaustion take him and drifts off to sleep, unafraid.

Chapter 13: the stars where you lay

Chapter Text

Dean’s ass hurts, his left leg is all pins and needles, and he’s heard the obnoxious song clip from the DVD menu about four hundred times already, but the remote is just out of reach, and he just can’t bring himself to move. Not when there’s something so fleeting and precious in his arms.

Steve shifts in his sleep, body curled into a U-shape in Dean’s lap. His hair is mussed, too-long sweatshirt sleeves fallen back down past his hands that are pulled in close to his chest. Even in sleep, he seems troubled, breath shuddering every few minutes, as though his body wants to keep crying, even though his mind is finally at rest.

Never in a million years would Dean have predicted that kicking back and watching a friggin’ Lindsay Lohan flick, of all things, would end in tears, but something about it seems to have knocked Steve right on his ass.

And when that happened, there hadn’t been a single reasonable thought in Dean’s head — he’d just acted on instinct. That unevolved alpha part of him that’s been pawing at the door, begging to be let in, just took the wheel and pulled the omega to him, every neuron in his brain screaming at him to protect, defend, comfort.

He’d wanted to hold the omega, to shield him from the rest of the world, to batten down the hatches and keep vigil until whatever threat that had made Steve so distraught was entirely neutralised. It was honestly kind of incredible (and terrifying, truth be told), how quickly his body shifted into fight of flight mode, because there hadn’t been a doubt in his mind that he could and would end any poor bastard that dared upset his omega.

Then… he’d regained control of his higher brain function, and realised that going into alpha-rage mode was literally the worst thing he could do to calm Steve. Instead, he’d murmured reassurances and promises, even though he knows words means exactly nothing to someone who’s lived the kind of life Steve has.

Even knowing this, however, the heartbreaking scent of Steve’s grief had made him desperate to do something — anything — to ease his pain, so, using common sense for the first time in the last two days, instead of giving voice to the ferocity building inside him, he’d made himself quiet, instead.

He’d just… gone soft and still, and apparently this had been the correct move, because one moment, Steve was shaking apart on his knees in front of Charlie’s beanbag chair, and the next, he was huddled in Dean’s lap, nose buried in the crook of his neck, tears seeping into Dean’s Metallica t-shirt.

He raises a nervous hand to Steve’s back, and when the omega doesn’t flinch away, he rubs small, soothing circles like Mary used to do with he or Sammy was sick.

Steve’s breathing hitches, but he doesn’t pull back or move away, so Dean keeps in up. Moments later, it goes even and slow, and he realises that the omega has cried himself to sleep.

Dean gazes down at the sleeping man, and has to swallow hard several times to keep his own emotions from overpowering him, because the trust — dear God, the trust — that Steve is showing him right now is- it’s everything. He knows he really hasn’t done anything to deserve it, but it settles something in him, nonetheless.

They stay there for what feels like forever, because Dean just wants this moment to last. It’s as though some piece of himself that was broken has been healed, or he’s found something he never thought to want. He breathes in Steve’s light petrichor-jasmine-eucalyptus scent, his entire being rejoicing when the heavy, mildewy notes of notes of heartache and sorrow become more and more faint with every passing second and quivering exhale.

His own scent has gone kaleidoscope-bright — even he can smell it, crisp and joyful. For a moment he worries that the overwhelming smell of alpha might cause Steve more distress, so he very reluctantly shifts back slightly to see if he is able to disentangle himself from their strange embrace. Almost instantly, Steve makes a quiet whimpering noise in his sleep and fists his hand tighter into the fabric of Dean’s shirt, so Dean relents and stops trying to move. He’s rewarded with a soft hum of contentment from the sleeping omega, though he notices that he doesn’t release his hold on Dean’s shirt, which makes something inside Dean glow with joy and pride at being wanted, being needed.

Distantly, he realises that they’re in something of a feedback loop, hotboxing the scent of happy alpha and happy omega as they relax into each other, and that this is probably wildly inappropriate. A stronger man — a better man — than Dean Winchester would have the sense and fortitude to put and end to it, but Dean’s a selfish bastard on the best of days.

He’ll get up soon, he promises himself. He’ll do his best not to wake Steve — maybe even carry him to his room and put him to bed, if he’s able. Something inside him preens at the idea of being able to properly care for his omega, which is something he knows he’s going to have to address — either with himself or with Max Banes in their next therapy session — but for now…

For now, all he wants right now is to soak in every moment of this priceless gift he’s been bestowed.

Dean does end up taking Steve back to his room a short while after that, but that’s more thanks to Charlie’s interference than him magically growing any sort of sense of decency.

His phone vibrates from where he’d left it on the arm of his chair earlier in the night, startling him. Even from where he sits, with the screen lit up, he can just make out a flash of red and a peek of two fingers in the upper left corner of the screen that he knows is the photo Charlie grinning and flashing the Vulcan salute that she’d loaded into her contact info. He sighs, knowing that if she’s calling now, it’s bound to be something work-related, and wishes he could just ignore any and all reminders that the outside world exists.

Unfortunately, his job isn’t one that allows that kind of make-believe, because it’s nothing, if not smack dab in the harsh reality of how sh*tty humans are to each other. Not to mention there’re times when the phone rings, and he has to be out the door minutes later — it can literally be a matter of life or death.

He sighs and closes his eyes just for a second, just to allow himself one more chance to commit this moment to memory, then he eases Steve out of his lap and gently back onto the beanbag chair. Groaning, he stands, stretching his arms above his head and twisting both his neck and his spine this way and that until everything sounds like exploding bubble wrap.

(It’s probably a good thing he had to get up, anyway. Not that Dean is old, per se — well, not that he’d admit to, anyway, at the ripe old age of thirty-two — but he was definitely at a time of life where sitting on the hard ground for an extended period of time sure as sh*t wasn’t doing him any favours. He has no idea how Steve, only two years his junior, managed to spend so much time on his knees and not be an arthritic, chiropractic nightmare.)

The answer hits him like a bucketful of ice water to the face, and he feels his self-loathing settle back over him, his shoulders sagging from the weight of it, as well as his own stupidity. Steve doesn’t bitch about sore knees or an aching back, because he’d been taught and trained that nobody gave a f*ck if he was in pain, because if he didn’t follow the orders to be on his knees, he’d end up even more f*cked up.

Dean feels his chest tightening again with the now-familiar fury when he thinks of how much hurt Steve has had inflicted on him and had to endure, but one glance down at the sleeping omega reminds him to hold it together. The last thing he wants is for Steve to wake up in the dark, on the floor of a strange room, surrounded by the scent of pissed off alpha.

Instead, he plants his feet as firmly as he can, then squats down and manoeuvres Steve into his arms so he can carry him back to his room. Realistically, he knows he could have just turned the lights on and woken Steve up so he could walk himself, but he justifies his actions by telling himself that Pam said Steve needed all the rest he could get, and that if he woke the guy up now, they'd run the risk of him not being able to get back to sleep, which could then run the risk of throwing off his whole recovery. It was pure concern for Steve’s wellbeing, of course, that had Dean scooping him up and holding him close to his chest, nothing more.

Steve is light — so light that it almost feels like Dean’t carrying nothing at all. He holds the omega a little tighter, just to reassure himself that they’re both still there.

It’s, thankfully, no trouble at all to get Steve into his room and into bed. Dean lays the omega down on his bed, then ease the blankets up over him, tucking them in under his chin, then turns to go. He pauses at the door for a moment, surveying the space, making sure Steve’s head looks comfortable on his pillow, checking the thermostat just outside the door in the hallway, to make sure it’s not going to be too cold for the number of blankets he remembers making the bed with.

All seems to be in order, so he forces himself to close the door and leave, even though everything in him wants to stay, to climb into bed with his omega, curl around him, and keep him safe and warm all night long. He shakes his head as he makes his way back down the hall to the Dean Cave, trying to get his head on straight before he has to call Charlie back.

One back inside, he grabs his AirPods from one of his bookshelves, pops them in, then returns to where he’d left his phone on his armchair. He settles back, stretching his arms above his head to try to get more comfortable, then hits Charlie’s name on the missed call menu.

The slightly dulled ringing of a pending FaceTime call fills his ears and he looks down at the phone in surprise. Normally if it was a work emergency, Charlie would just make a regular phone call — she typically reserved FaceTime mostly for LARP or alcohol related ventures. He plops back down in the armchair, then peers into the front-facing camera and uses the few seconds before she answers the call to try to straighten his hair as best he can.

He’s just checking his teeth for stray popcorn kernels when, of course, Charlie chooses that exact moment to answer the call. Dean freezes, teeth bared, as he uses his fingernail to pick a piece of liquorice from between his teeth. Charlie wrinkles her nose in disgust.

‘Gross, Winchester!’ she greets him, making an exaggerated gagging gesture. ‘The first time I see your face in days, and it’s you picking gunk outta your teeth. Makes a girl wonder why she bothers.’

‘Aw, can it, Red.’ Dean rolls his eyes, settling back into his chair, cracking his neck again, which makes Charlie glare and give him another grossed out look. ‘You know ya miss me. How goes holdin’ down the fort in my absence?’

He hadn't really realised how anxious he was about the answer until he finds himself holding his breath, waiting for her response — anxiety that only ratchets up when several seconds tick by while Charlie considers her words.

‘Well…’ she says slowly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, brow furrowed, betraying her concern. ‘Not bad — nothing terrible, at least — but… the deal we’d been negotiating with the auction house in Tallahassee fell through. Something about the ‘merchandise’ being ‘double-booked for sale’.’ Her eyes flash at offensive turn of phrase, but then she sighs, looking worn out and sad. ‘I mean- it normally breaks my heart anyway when that happens, but something about this one isn’t sitting right with me.’

‘That’s the third time something like this’s happened in the last few months,’ Dean remarks, frowning. ‘Almost feels like we’re being watched or somethin’.’

‘Yeah,’ Charlie says shortly. She sighs, then forces a small smile and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘It could still be nothing.’ She doesn’t sound convinced, though, and Dean can’t blame her. There are a ton of people he can think of right off the bat who would love to get in their way and cause problems for them.

‘Well, just keep an eye on it, I guess?’ he says, a little helplessly. ‘Maybe have Ash help you go over our network security ’n all that? Make sure no one’s been pokin’ around in places they don’t belong?’

The unimpressed look Charlie shoots him at that makes him snort. ‘Who exactly do you think you’re talking to, again?’ she asks, raising an eyebrow. ‘Our firewalls have firewalls — someone would have to go full Matrix to get inside our network.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Keanu,’ Dean says, rolling his eyes, but his snark is entirely ruined by a gigantic yawn that takes over the end of his sentence. He taps his screen and sees it’s almost eleven. ‘Uh- not that it ain’t great to hear from ya, kiddo, but I’m startin’ to crash pretty hard here… busy day, what with Benny ’n Pam comin’ over to give Steve the lowdown on everything. Was there anything else ya needed me for, or can I call ya back in the morning?’

‘Nothing of dire importance,’ Charlie says, yawning herself, then glaring at Dean again, because she always insists that yawns are contagious. ‘But since I have you for another minute — since the next round of intakes from Florida fell through, we’ll definitely have free rooms coming up, so I’ve added Steve to this month’s intake list…’

She continues on for another minute, oblivious to the way Dean’s heart is sinking at her words. His mind races, and before he can think better of it, he’s interrupting with, ‘Actually, why don’t you go ahead and bump him back to next month?’ He pretends he doesn’t notice the way Charlie’s eyes widen in surprise and hurries to add, ‘I just mean- he’s still pretty shaken up over everything he’s been through… I just don’t know that changin’ scenery on him again so soon wouldn’t be, you know, detrimental to his recovery or whatever.’

Charlie has always been able to see through his bullsh*t, which is both her best and worst quality, and this time proves to be no exception. ‘Well… you told him that him staying with you was temporary, right? That he’d be coming to live at The Roadhouse once we had a spot for him? Like… he knows that you don’t really ‘own’ him, right?’

Apparently the expression on Dean’s face is enough to give away his guilt, because Charlie takes one look at him and lets out an unholy screeching noise of frustration. ‘By Grabthar’s Hammer, handmaiden, you’re lucky it’s not Moondoor weekend, or I’d throw you in the pillory and leave you to the Shadow orcs!’

‘But then think of how long it’d take for you to break in a new best friend?’ he counters weakly, wincing at Charlie’s unamused scoff. ‘Listen, Charles, I just… didn’t really find a good time to break it all down to the nitty gritty for him. Like- Pam and Benny told him what The Roadhouse is all about, but right after they left, he took off to his room, so we didn't get a chance to go over the semantics of it all, or anything. It’s been, like, one thing after a-goddamn-nother over here, and I just want him to feel like- like he’s safe ’n has a secure place to lay his head every night… I just dunno if telling him he’s gotta go somewhere new where he don’t know anyone is a good move right now, seein’ as the guy has abandonment issues up the wazoo, ’n I only just got him to the point where he don’t think I’m gonna chain him up in the basem*nt or beat him with a coat hanger for leavin’ his towel on the floor.’

His stomach turns, both at the awful mental images his rant conjures up, as well as the idea that his time with Steve is so finite. Even though their situation being a temporary fix had always been the plan — hell, he’d even been counting on there being an end in sight when sh*t had gotten super weird and awkward for them — the fact that the putsch is officially in motion causes a wave of nausea to rise in his throat.

‘Ugh!’ Charlie buries her face in her hands and shakes her head dramatically. ‘I’m gonna have to run all this by Jody, but I have a sneaking suspicion that you’re probably right. I can tell you right now that she's not going to be happy about it, though. Not to mention what Bobby is going to have to say… I’d gird your loins if I were you.’

‘Noted,’ Dean replies, wincing already at the thought of what his surrogate father is going to have to say about his selfish idiocy. ‘Lemme know if you want me to call Bobby or Jody myself and ’fess up. I’m a man; I can take it.’ He huffs a laugh when Charlie just raises her eyebrows at him again, unconvinced. ‘Okay, well… maybe I can’t take it, but I sure as hell deserve it.’

‘Okay, well, that is true enough,’ Charlie agrees crisply, causing Dean to laugh again, but this time she joins him, at least. ‘Well, I’ll let you know when to expect the firing squad.’

‘I appreciate it, my queen,’ Dean says gratefully. ‘Thanks again, kiddo. I’ll talk to ya soon, okay?’

Charlie flashes him the Vulcan salute, which Dean returns before ending the call, then he sits back in his chair and sighs. He’s really made a goddamn mess of things, which isn’t exactly surprising, but it does pose a problem.

He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Charlie that he was worried that uprooting Steve again would be harmful to the guy’s sense of security or mental health or whatever, but what he hadn’t told her was that the idea of Steve leaving Dean’s house for good was making something primal and ugly rear up inside him. For the first time ever, Dean feels an overwhelming possessiveness that just makes him feel sick. He keeps circling back around to how much some awful part of him deep down inside wants to claim Steve, which is probably the most abhorrent thought Dean’s ever had.

Still, nothing is going to get solved tonight, and he also hadn’t been lying when he’d said that today had been one hell of a day that straight up kicked his ass. He hauls himself up out of the armchair, glancing down at the leftover food and dishes in dismay, then begins gathering it all up, groaning. He’d never considered himself an especially wasteful individual, but especially after meeting a dude who’d been literally starving, he’s suddenly become even more conscious about the overabundance of food he has in his house, and how he really needs to be better about not taking it for granted.

It takes a few trips down to the kitchen to get everything wrapped up and put away and the dishes soaking in the sink. That, at least, he can leave for himself in the morning, guilt-free. The small mountain of coffee is still piled on the counter, mocking him for his schoolgirl infatuation, but he ignores it — that’s another mess he can deal with tomorrow.

He gives the kitchen one final once-over, before flipping off the light and heading back upstairs to his room. He pauses just outside his door, gazing pathetically down the hall, the urge to go check on Steve one last time almost too strong to ignore, but he reminds himself of the same thing he did the night before — that invading Steve’s privacy and entering his room without invitation would undoubtedly freak the guy right out, so he manages to grit his teeth and head into his own room instead.

Deciding to skip the shower (since he’d already had two today, thanks to his own earlier flip out), he strips down to his t-shirt and boxers, then flops down, face first, onto his bed with a groan. He is so ready to put this day behind him, even though he’s willing to admit that he’s scared to death of what tomorrow might have in store.

Something had changed between him and the omega tonight — he’s almost sure of it. And if he’s wrong, well- at least there’ll be a contingency plan in place for when Steve decides he’s had enough of Dean and his bullsh*t.

He buries his face into his pillow, and lets himself drift off, soothed by the faint scent of jasmine and rain still clinging to the fabric of his shirt.

Chapter 14: nostalgic for disaster

Chapter Text

Dean wakes considerably later than normal the following morning, after another terrible night of sleep. A quick glance at his bedside alarm clock informs him that he’s slept til almost ten — something he hasn’t done in years, unless he happened to be working abnormally long our late hours. He groans, rolling back onto his back and staring at the ceiling, trying to summon the motivation to get up and face the day.

It occurs to him that Steve has likely been up for some time already, given that he came downstairs yesterday morning before nine, spewing apologies for sleeping ‘so late’, and it’s this more than anything else that gets Dean to haul his ass up out of bed. After all the upheaval and turmoil from the day before, he definitely does not want to put any extra stress on the omega by making him think he’s not adhering to some unknown schedule, just because Dean wants to lounge around in bed all day.

He forgoes the shower again, instead stumbling to the closet to grab clean clothes. While he dresses, his mind drifts yet again to the hot mess that was day before and lands almost immediately on his late night conversation with Charlie. Even before he pulls his phone from the charger next to his bed, guilt settles low in his gut like a stone.

Shame fills him. He’d had no right to decline a spot at The Roadhouse on Steve’s behalf without so much as letting the guy know he has the opportunity to relocate if he wants it, just because Dean has apparently decided to channel his inner Neanderthal. He vows to bring it up to him as soon as he can, and hopes that the omega has had a more restful night than he had.

That doesn't appear to be the case, however, as he exits his room to discover that the door to Steve’s room is wide open and the sounds of movement coming from downstairs. He follows the noise to the kitchen and finds Steve standing at the sink, washing the dishes from the night before.

His back is to Dean and he hasn’t noticed the alpha’s presence just yet, so Dean — being the creep that he is — just stands there a few moments longer, trying to ignore how much he likes seeing Steve in his kitchen. Not because of some toxic, archaic alpha omegas belong barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen bullsh*t, but because he loves this room almost as much as he loves the Dean Cave. Some of Dean’s best memories with his friends and family have taken place in the kitchen, so he totally gets why people say the kitchen is the heart of the home. Seeing Steve in Dean’s kitchen of his own volition just seems… right.

He’s reminded all at once that it’s not right, not if it’s not what Steve actually wants. He also realises that the omega’s presence doesn’t mean he’s making himself at home, but rather that he’s likely performing chores to prove that he’s useful or because he thinks he has to, and it ruins the entire wholesome tableau.

Steve turns the water off just as Dean’s gathering the courage to say — well, basically anything — and he startles when he turns and sees Dean standing in the doorway. He hurriedly sets the last pot into the drying rack, wipes his hands on a dishtowel, then leans back against the counter, regarding Dean cautiously.

‘Oh, uhm- Hello, Dean,’ he greets him nervously. ‘I… apologise, if you didn’t want me touching your things, I just- I’ve been up for several hours, but didn't want to disturb you, and I- I wasn’t sure what you would like for me to do today, so I just…’ He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. Dean notices a few bottles of cleaning spray on the end of the kitchen island and a broom propped against the wall next to the back door. He glances back to Dean, smiling shyly. ‘You keep a very clean house, though… there wasn’t much that needed doing, so I thought the dishes were likely a good place to start?’

‘Aw, you don’t gotta do that sh*t, man.’ Dean peers past Steve to the dish rack to the gleaming dishes and seeing the entire sink is empty. He clears his throat, embarrassed that Steve got stuck cleaning up his mess. ‘I mean- I got a dishwasher, so I usually just throw everything in there, but I was just too beat last night to deal with it.’

‘Right…’ Steve says, cheeks flushing slightly. ‘I would also like to apologise for- for my unexpected reaction to the film. I didn’t mean to ruin your movie night.’

Dean very much wants to tell the other man that having a sweet-smelling omega crawling into his lap and falling asleep is never something that is going to ruin his night, but he can’t think of a way to say that without sounding like a lecherous scumbag, so he just forces a smile and says, ‘Nah, man, it was fine. I mean- I’ve seen Mean Girls about eight billion times, though I will deny it ’til my dying day if my brother ever asks about it. I just, uh- hope you’re feelin’ better- than you were last night, I mean, during the movie. Seemed like it, uh- took a lot outta ya.’

Steve doesn’t respond; he just nods and looks away, blush depending. Dean wants desperately to promise him that everything is alright, wants to ask why Steve had reacted the way he did, but he refrains, deciding to give Steve the same respect he gives Benny in that- he’ll listen if the guy wants to talk about it, but he’s not gonna push. Everyone deserves to decide what’s best for themselves, after all.

It’s that thought that reminds Dean of the promise he made himself when he woke up, that he would lay all the cards on the table and let Steve know about Charlie’s offer, but he just- he feels like he’s not quite ready yet, in case Steve decides that yes, he would like to get as far away from Dean as humanly possible.

‘Uh-’ Dean begins, eloquent as always. He clears his throat again. ‘I got somethin’ kinda important t’talk t’you about. S’not anything bad or anything,’ he hurries to add when he sees Steve’s head whip up in concern. ‘It’s just… important. And kinda time-sensitive. Like, not life or death, but if you want to make a move, we probably gotta get on it sooner, rather than later…’

… which is precisely why it’d be f*cking great if you got to the goddamn point, Winchester, he silently berates himself. He sighs.

‘Anyway,’ he says, trying to force a reassuring smile, but almost certainly landing closer to ‘constipated’, rather than ‘comforting’. ‘So, remember how Pam toldja all about The Roadhouse, or whatever yesterday…’

‘I seem to recall something about that, yes,’ Steve replies dryly. He looks as though he is only just resisting the temptation to roll his eyes, which warms Dean from within and gives him to gentle kick in the ass he needs to continue.

‘Okay, smart ass,’ he grumbles, the smile on his face no longer strained. He does roll his eyes, and catches Steve looking adorably pleased with himself for his joke. ‘So, y’know how Pam said all that stuff about how it’s not exactly typical for a, uh- a resident of The Roadhouse to… not reside at the The Roadhouse? That’s cos we usually do things on a monthly rotation — anyone ready to leave The Roadhouse ’n head out on their own moves out at the end of the month, so that by the beginning of the next month, we can get the next group settled in, ’n stay within the fire code regs or whatever. We usually have a few extra rooms, either right at The Roadhouse, or at one of the omega or beta volunteer safe-houses, but there was another firebombing at a brothel in KC two months ago and most of the refugees ended up at The Roadhouse, so we’ve been at capacity for the last two months, which — again — is how you ended up here. At my house, I mean. Again, I’m real sorry ’bout that, by the way…’

He drifts off, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling guilty all over again that Steve ended up with his dumb ass, instead of someone who knew what the hell they’re doing. It reminds him why it’s so important he have this conversation with Steve, even if it breaks his own heart.

Taking a deep breath, he gets ready to soldier on, but then he catches a glimpse of Steve’s stormy expression and he stops cold.

The omega is frowning slightly, jaw set, and he’s glaring down at the patch of floor directly in front of him. Given what a good handle he’s kept over his emotions so far (with the exception of the chick flick-induced breakdown, and Dean popping off at the mouth and scaring the sh*t outta him during Benny’s visit), it feels like Steve might as well be cursing and shouting.

‘Uh- everything alright?’ Dean wonders briefly if Steve is already pissed off that his experience has been so f*cked, compared to the average rescue.

Steve nods jerkily, still glaring at the ground, but then he pauses. Slowly, he looks up and wets his lips. He straightens to his full height, locking his knees and squaring his shoulders. Dean watches, equal parts intrigued and horrified, when he recognises these familiar moves from a good portion of his childhood and teenage years — Steve is bracing himself for a beat down.

‘Actually,’ the omega says gravely, his voice trembling slightly, but firm, ‘there- there is something I would like to address… I think, perhaps, I… failed to properly explain… Dean, did you know that if it hadn’t been for Pamela intervening and threatening to sue the omega centre, they had been planing t-to-’ He swallows hard, then continues thickly, ‘I was so unwell after- after the fire at Purgatory that the doctor had decided I wasn’t worth saving. He was- he’d been discussing with the staff how long they had left to- to entertain themselves, w-with me, when Pamela burst into the room and said she wanted me. Well, she said ‘her boss’ — which I assume means you — wanted me. When the doctor tried telling her that she was too late, that the paperwork for my- my disposal was already in process, she made a phone call to her lawyer, and between the two of them, they wore the doctor down… And do you know how?’

The omega is shaking now, but Dean can’t fault him, because he is, too. Charlie had- she’d told him that Steve had narrowly escaped being killed at the omega centre. It had made him feel sick then, but that’s nothing compared to the gut-wrenching horror he feels now, hearing in plain English how close he came to have never gotten the chance to meet Steve at all. His hands tingle, pins and needles in his fingers when he realises how very close Steve came to slipping right through them, and Dean would have never known he was missing anything at all.

Despite his understandable physical reaction to what he’s saying, Steve’s tone is mostly matter-of-fact, only the faintest hint of bitterness in his words when he continues his explanation. ‘Pamela and her lawyer were able to convince the doctor not to ‘put me down’, by reminding him that it’s illegal to destroy property owned by the DOEA that still has utility without the approval of a government representative… and the only reason for that is because there was a case involving a tractor that was taken to the scrap yard and crushed, even though it still had useable parts, so the owner was able to sue for compensation. That is the only reason why I am still alive — because the state has decreed that my ability to still take a knot is on par with a twenty year old tractor with a working transmission.’

He pauses, forcing a deep breath, then says quietly, ‘So, do you see why- why hearing you refer to my placement here as some great hardship on my part… can you understand why it's- why it hurts? Because by all rights, I shouldn’t even be alive right now, and even if I hadn’t been slated for the incinerator, considering my age and- and physical defects, the best I could have hoped for would have been to end up right back in another place like Purgatory. Probably somewhere worse, to be honest, because slave stock depreciates in value with every sale. My previous master had been threatening to downgrade me to the brothel’s glory holes for years, and once that happens, it’s only a matter of time before-’

‘Stop!’

The word bursts from Dean’s mouth like a gunshot. Distantly, he’s pretty sure he would normally feel at least some sort of remorse for snapping at the omega like this, but the things he’s saying are making Dean sick. They’re making him want to hunt down every single one of those abhorrent pieces of sh*t — starting with the damn doctor at the omega centre — and snap their necks with his bare hands.

Dean’s still shaking, vibrating in place, with rage and grief and remorse, and he’s reminded all over again how ignorant he’s allowed himself to become.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says gruffly, before Steve can work himself into a panic or apologise, because he is not the one with anything to apologise for. ‘I shouldn’t’ve… shouldn’ta raised my voice. And you- you’re absolutely right. I wasn’t thinkin’ ’bout how… someone like me runnin’ their mouth ’bout sh*t they don’t understand… how that’d sound to… to someone who went through… all that.’

To his horror, he finds his voice breaking and his eyes burning as he says the last few words. The magnitude of just how f*cking f*cked up the entire rotten f*cking world is hits him, and he has to turn away from Steve while he tries getting a hold over the rising wave of emotions inside him.

Only… he can’t.

Every horrible thing he’s ever seen or heard because of the f*cked up reality they live in — it just pummels him. He thinks all the way back to when he was little — like, little-little, maybe six or seven — and Mary had first come home, angry about the alpha customer at the diner she’d worked at, who had put his hands on her, and how no one had come to her aid. No one had cared, because she was an omega, and should have known what to expect.

The alpha, Azazel, would end up continuing to harass her, even outside of work, until John had finally gotten the courts to approve an order of protection against him (because Mary, being an omega, hadn’t been able to advocate for herself, of course), but even that did no good.

Even though they’d never been able to prove it, everyone had known that Azazel had been the one who’d killed her. He’d shown up at their house when she’d been home alone, and burnt it to the ground with Dean’s mother still inside.

And still, no one had cared.

Dean thinks back to every raid or rescue he’s been a part of, to every case file he’s ever read. He thinks of every time he’s been in a restaurant and seen omegas collared and leashed, kneeling at their owner’s feet while their masters just continued eating or talking as though they hadn’t subjugated a human being like a damn dog. And Dean, himself, not speaking up, knowing that any interference on his part would fall on deaf ears — or worse, come back around to result in more pain for the omegas having to bear the brunt of their owner’s anger or embarrassment from being questioned by a stranger.

He thinks of how horrible it had been setting foot in the omega centre, how the scent of layers upon layers of omega pain and sadness and despair had made him sick to his stomach. He thinks about how much suffering must take place within those four walls to get it to such a potent level, and how no one f*cking cares.

No one cares — at least not enough. And even Dean, who’s dedicated his entire life to trying to move the needle even a little, had still been blissfully ignorant of just how gritty and real and horrific the system truly is.

Even when he’d gone on brothel or black market auction house raids with the team and seen the conditions the slaves had been kept in… even then, he’d passed the buck as quickly as he could to the intake team whose job it is to put the broken refugees back together.

(The line all the king’s horses and all the king’s men… pops into his head, and he hates it, because that would make him the king, and, well- isn’t that fitting. The stupid, spoiled, selfish, out-of-touch boy-king who just wants everyone to eat cake.)

Previously, he’d justified his uninvolvement by saying that the rest of the staff were more qualified than he was, that having an idiot alpha stumbling around wasn’t good for anyone’s recovery, so it was best he just stay out of the way until the omegas were more settled. He’d never had to witness the gruelling early stages of healing, of finding safety and trusting that it was real and would last, of relearning how to be a person. He’d just… kept his head down and tried to convince himself he was doing enough.

His father would have been so ashamed.

Dean is ashamed now; he’s f*cking mortified. He’s even more embarrassed by his willful, selfish ignorance, than he is of the tears streaming down his face that he can’t seem to control — though they’re a pretty close second and, if anything, make him hate himself even more.

This isn’t about him — he is not the victim here. He’s just self-aware enough to understand that if there was a food chain, he’d be sittin’ pretty at the very top, and therefore has got no right to hijack this moment, this pain, from Steve.

He feels like he can’t breath, like he’s burning alive. It feels as though his head, his heart — f*ck, his house, even — none of it has the capacity to contain whatever the hell is happening to him right now.

The sudden weight of a hand on his shoulder nearly makes him jump out of his skin.

He whirls around, and can only imagine what Steve sees — an unstable, hot mess of an alpha, bawling like a bitch over sh*t that’s got nothing to do with him and he has no right to fall apart over. He can only imagine how despicable he must seem to the man, how stupid and sheltered and small.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, wrecked, when Steve rocks back half a step, his hand still extended in the space between them, looking nervous. ‘I- I don’t know- I just- a minute. I just need… a minute. I’m sorry.’

Dean drags the sleeve of his shirt across his eyes, squeezing them shut and trying to steady his breathing. God, how embarrassing-

There are two hands on him now — Steve has placed one on each of Dean’s shoulders, grounding him. The noise that escapes Dean’s throat at this unexpected and undeserved show of comfort is- it’s pathetic, something far to close to a whimper for Dean to ever admit to, but Steve just… pulls Dean to him.

The movement is cautious, the touch feather-light. Dean holds his breath. He’s reminded of when he was a child, sitting with Grandma Millie in her butterfly garden. It’s the first memory Dean has of being still, because even as a dumb, chubby kid, he’d understood that the little creatures flitting around him didn’t yet know that he wasn’t a danger, that if he wanted to earn their trust, he needed to first prove that he was a safe space.

He’s still now, just like he was the night before, waiting to see if the butterfly will land.

Steve wraps his arms around Dean, sleeves obscuring most of his hands again, but he must shake them out a moment later, because Dean feels them come to rest lightly on his back. His fingertips press gently into Dean’s back as Steve puts more force behind the gesture.

‘It’s okay,’ he murmurs soothingly, words muffled from where the fabric of his hoodie gets awkwardly caught between his face and Dean’s shoulder during the embrace. ‘You’re okay.’

He repeats these two sentences while Dean continues to try and fail to settle himself, until they seem to lose all meaning, and Dean just gets lost in the sound of his voice.

Even though Steve’s been speaking almost regularly since coming home Dean, his voice still has a sandpaper-rough timbre to it, but somehow, it just fits, just seems right. If Dean were to close his eyes and try to picture it, it would be the spray of gravel from beneath the tires of the Impala on a hot summer day — rubber meeting road on the way to freedom.

‘I want you to be okay,’ Dean mumbles after several more minutes when he reluctantly forces himself to pull back. He takes a deep breath, then decides to take the plunge and confess his potential f*ckup. ‘Steve, man, I just- I want… I need for you to be alright and I’m gonna do anything ’n everything I can to make that happen, even if… I mean- no matter what. So, I gotta tell ya… there’s beds opening up at The Roadhouse pretty soon, ’n one of ’em’s got your name on it if you want it. My buddy, Charlie, called last night for a couple of things, but one of the big ones was to let me know that she put you on the list for the next round of intakes, which is a few weeks from now, and I, uh-’ Dean shifts guiltily, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. He grits his teeth and forces himself to keep going. ‘I kinda did a stupid, sh*tty thing without thinking. I told her you were gonna just stay here instead, but after we hung up, I realised that that was a mistake, so I figured I’d letcha know this mornin’ ’n call her back later. Or actually — we could even just head over there today so you could get the lay of the land or whatever.’

He wants to smile reassuringly, but he can’t quite manage it, so he gives up and just watches for Steve’s reaction. A curious series of emotions flicker across the omega’s face too quickly to catalogue, but then he finally swallows, lowers his eyes, and says, ‘Oh… Of course, Dean. Is there anything you would like me to do before we go?’

‘Nah,’ Dean replies, proud of how steady and even his voice sounds even though his heart is sinking in his chest. He does his best to hide it, though, because even he knows that going to live at The Roadhouse is not only Steve’s prerogative, but it’s honestly the most sensible course of action, so it’s not like he can really fault the guy or anything. He clears his throat. ‘Nah, don’t worry about anything, just, uh-’ He forces a splintered half-smile and gestures towards the coffee mountain on the counter, ‘why don’t you go ahead ’n get the coffee goin’, ’n I’ll get started on breakfast. How’s bacon ’n eggs sound?’

‘That sounds wonderful, thank you,’ Steve replies politely, though there’s a heaviness to his words now that wasn’t there a moment ago, even when he was handing Dean his clueless ass. He flashes Dean a tight smile, then turns to review the coffee selection with laser focus, picking up and examining each package, considering the option, then moving on to the next.

Dean watches Steve for a moment longer, his stomach hurting from how very much he wishes this could last, before turning away himself to begin preparing their last meal together.

Chapter 15: haunted by design

Chapter Text

The phrase I should have known better repeats in Castiel’s mind like a ticker tape as he trudges back up the stairs after one hell of an uncomfortable breakfast where he spent most of his energy maintaining a death grip on his self-control. Several times, questions he has no right to ask had been on the tip of his tongue, and it was only by sheer force of will that he hadn’t made an even bigger ass of himself by speaking out of turn yet again.

He’d been absolutely shocked and appalled — and truthfully, somewhat alarmed — by his own audacity and daring when he’d finally told Dean off for his ridiculous self-deprecating nonsense about Castiel’s living situation. He’d felt especially horrible when Dean had had an unexpected breakdown over it, like the words Castiel had said had mattered, had some sort of impact on him. Castiel can’t help but wonder if that is the reason he’s being sent away, either because he’d been so disrespectful that Dean was no longer willing to tolerate his presence, or because the alpha is embarrassed that Castiel witnessed his emotional outburst.

On the other hand, Dean had said that Miss Charlie had called the night before, so it’s possible that it was Castiel’s freakout that had changed Dean’s mind about allowing Castiel to live with him, which, reflectively, is a pretty reasonable reaction. Dean had taken Castiel in due to extenuating circ*mstances out of the goodness of his heart; it only made sense that he wouldn’t want to also get stuck playing therapist and/or security blanket to his emotionally unstable slave.

Whatever the reason, Dean has clearly changed his mind about keeping Castiel in his home, which, at the end of the day, is his prerogative as Castiel’s master, and Castiel has no right or reason to be feeling so bereft about it.

All through the breakfast he’d barely been able to stomach, he hadn’t been able to even look at Dean, couldn’t bear seeing the relief on his face at the opportunity to be rid of Castiel. After his talk with Pamela, he’d known that living with Dean wasn’t going to be a permanent arrangement, but he had thought that he’d have at least a little more time to prepare himself.

He huffs a humourless laugh now at the sick irony of his situation — that being taken from a master is distressing him, and how stupid he is because of it.

Either way, he should have know better than to start getting comfortable here, just like he should have known that today was going to be a weird, sh*tty day, given that he’d had yet another state of panic from the moment he’d first woken up and realised he was in an unfamiliar bed. For the second morning in a row, he’d thought he was back in Purgatory, his body flinging itself onto the floor and into presenting position before his eyes had even the chance to take in his surroundings.

His forehead bowed down to the ground, hands behind his back, grasping his wrists, he’d desperately scented the air, searching for the scorching notes of bergamot that meant Master was in the room, but he hadn’t been able to smell anything other than the sour stench of his own fear.

It hadn’t been until the faintest whiff of cinnamon and cedar had broken through the haze of his spiralling thoughts and worries that the world had finally gone quiet and still just long enough for Castiel to realise he was not in Purgatory, awaiting his master’s return. Slowly, he’d dared to glance around, and began to recognise the guest bedroom (‘his’ bedroom) in his new master (and apparent abolitionist), Dean’s, house.

Just like the previous morning, it had been the feel of the soft oversized hoodie against his skin that fully pulled him back into the present. He would not have had clothing at all in Purgatory, much less a warm fleece sweatshirt. He was not in Purgatory, and he never will be again.

He reminds himself of this now as he reenters his- reenters the guest room — that Purgatory is a pile of ash, and Castiel is… not.

He’s not. He’s still alive; he still exists. He survived that horrible place long enough to see it burnt to the ground, and that in and of itself is reason enough to be grateful, regardless of where he’ll be sleeping tonight.

Castiel shakes his head, even as he quietly closes the door behind him and slides down to the ground. He scrubs his hands over his face, trying to clear his head, but even though he is thinking all the right things about perspective and gratitude and logic, he can’t seem to stem the hurt flooding his chest when he thinks about leaving.

How — how — did this happen? How had he allowed himself to become so attached to a master and his house already, allowed himself to contemplate the idea of home and belonging?

It hits him all over again, how easily he’s been just accepting everything this new master and his friends have told him. Part of him knows that it’s Pamela’s involvement in it all that had really eased much of the skepticism, since he associates her with safety and protection after she fought so hard to save his life, but there’s also a part that had just trusted Dean, which is absolutely wild to him. He hasn’t trusted anyone, much less an alpha — much less a master — in so long… and rightly so, given that some of the first alphas he’d trusted were the ones who’d-

He shakes his head again, stopping that train of thought dead in its tracks before it can gain too much momentum and take him to a place he has no desire to visit. Instead, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the door, trying to breathe in the last lingering hint of Dean’s- of cinnamon and balsam and amber. His chest aches with the acknowledgement of how hard he’s trying to commit it all to memory, and the anticipation of how hard it’s going to be to not have it ever again.

He really should have known.

The next hour or so feels like sleepwalking. Castiel washes his face and brushes his teeth. He takes the carefully prescribed course of antibiotics and stares at the orange pill bottle for a long moment before slipping it into his pocket. Even though nothing is technically his, he’s still reasonably sure that Dean wouldn’t begrudge him bringing his medication with him to The Roadhouse, considering he’s taking the pills on Pamela’s orders.

Unsure of what to do next, Castiel exits the bathroom and unthinkingly wanders over to the closet. He sits just inside with the door open and his back against the wall, so he’ll be able to hear Dean if he comes to retrieve him, then sinks into yet another bitter bout of contemplation of what he must have done that was so offensive that Dean is no longer comfortable housing him.

The first place his thoughts drift to is, again, movie night, seeing as that was the last time he remembers things being- well, if not good, per se, then at least reasonably pleasant. He remembers Dean’s excitement over Castiel being familiar enough with the movie, Mean Girls, to make a corny joke about one of the more memorable lines, and how the alpha had laughed, mouth open and crammed full of popcorn, at the scenes with the main mean girl’s mother. He remembers sampling a little of each snack the alpha had supplied, the sweet, salty, wonderful flavours overwhelming his taste buds to the point where his head hurt from being overstimulated by the food and film.

But then… he remembers remembering.

His chest aches something fierce when he thinks back to how much that movie brought even more memories of Meg and Balthazar to the surface. During his most formative years, they’d been his family and his home, and now, being in a position where his every thought is no longer focussed solely on survival, he feels as though he’s lost them all over again.

He has the wherewithal to understand that the version of Meg and Bal that live in his head are memories being viewed through rose-coloured glasses, that by now so much time has passed that they’re likely very different people than the wild teens he remembers. He certainly has changed beyond recognition, and even though he knows (hopes — oh God, does he hope) that their growth was not shaped by the crucible of the slave trade, it’s not a huge leap to assume they’d almost certainly be complete strangers to him now.

But, strangers or not, the Meg and Bal from his memories had seemed to mirror the antics of the main character’s two friends in the movie and that, on top of the insanity that he’d been trying to comprehend earlier in the day, had just shattered him.

He’d cried — sobbed, really — and Dean had- he’d allowed Castiel to just be. He hadn’t tried to banish or diminish Castiel’s anguish, hadn’t offered tired platitudes and cliches. He hadn’t offered unsolicited solutions, or judgement, or pried into stories that Castiel was in no fit state to tell. Instead, he’d just held Castiel more gently than anyone had ever touched him, and let him cry himself to sleep.

It occurs to Castiel that this means Dean also ended up getting stuck putting him to bed, then, and that maybe that’s where things started going wrong. Maybe it was that that made Dean realise how much aggravation and work it is, dealing with some surly, ungrateful, broken omega who couldn’t even watch a stupid movie without breaking down. Maybe that was why, when Miss Charlie called about the open bed, Dean had leapt at the chance to be rid of him.

Another horrible thought appears out of nowhere and punches Castiel square in the chest. Dean has been one of the most kind, patient, open, good alphas he’s ever met, and if even he is fed up with Castiel being a dramatic pile of trauma with a piss poor attitude, then who’s to say that the people at The Roadhouse won’t also feel that way? And if they do, then where would Castiel end up?

Back to the omega centre, most likely.

Panic claws its way up Castiel’s throat, and what little he was able to stomach of the breakfast Dean made threatens to make a reappearance. Even though it’s only been a few days since he left the omega centre, this short respite from the pain and misery he’d become accustomed to has been enough that going back would just- it would completely break him, and this time, he knows he would not survive it.

Trying to breathe through this awful revelation is proving to be hard as hell, but not impossible, so Castiel just hangs his head between his bent knees for a moment in an attempt to calm himself, while his mind frantically searches for a solution, some sort of insurance against being sent back. He tries to think if there’s been a catalyst for his recent undesirable behaviour, and when it hits him, it hits him hard.

Something inside of him seems to have decided it was okay to release the ironclad hold he’s kept over his memories of his past life all these years. At first, being allowed to loose the chains even a little had felt like a breath of fresh air, but now… now these reminders of what he once had — who he once was — feel like they sit heavy in his gut, the weight of everything he’s lost pulling him back below the surface, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Previously, he’d been forbidden from even thinking about anything having to do with his past, on literal pain of death (Castiel’s lungs still feel a phantom burning sensation at the memory of being drowned over and over), but now, at a time and in a place where he can safely look back at ‘before-before’, he finds he both doesn’t want to, yet can’t stop.

It’s almost cruel, how much everything is different, yet still, somehow, the same. Initially, he’d had to let go, because he would be hurt — by the trainers, the guards, his masters — if he didn’t. This time, however, the enemy — the threat — is himself.

He is the one who keeps allowing his mind to drift back to earlier times, and it hurts. It hurts like hell, because even if everyone is telling the truth about their plans for him, and he is freed eventually, there’s still no going back.

He’d realised yesterday, during his long contemplation in his closet after Pamela’s visit, that even if he could, he doesn’t want to go back. He’d already come to that conclusion without quite realising, when the idea of asking Dean if he could look up Meg or Balthazar had popped into his head and he’d had to confront his complicated feelings about their friendship.

It had been a hard pill to swallow, the acceptance that, with so much time and life lived between them now, it wasn’t a door that needed reopening. And, of course, he has no desire to try to reconcile with the Shurleys, so in terms of looking back, where does that leave him?

Haunted. Stalked by ghosts and tormented by what ifs and might haves and would have dones. When Castiel thinks of his past, it feels like mourning, and maybe that’s a sign that these pieces of who he used to be have no place in his present — and future.

The more he considers this, the more peace he feels, because even though it’s still turning his back on the life that once belonged to Castiel Shurley, this time it’s not that something is being ripped away from him. This time, he is walking away of his own accord, securing his future by locking away his past.

He just hopes that it’s enough, and not too little, too late.

All too soon, Dean comes to collect Castiel with a quiet knock on the door that makes Castiel jump, and a soft, ‘Hey, Steve? You awake?’

‘Y-yes, Dean,’ Castiel replies, scrambling to his feet and scurrying over to open the door. The alpha is standing there, looking much more drawn than he had over breakfast. His skin is pale, and he looks tired, his scent heavy with something that almost smells like regret. Castiel has the bitter thought that Dean will probably get a great night of sleep tonight, once he has his house back to himself.

‘Oh, cool,’ Dean says, running a hand through his hair and leaning against the doorframe. ‘I thought maybe ya decided to take a nap or somethin’, cos it was so quiet up here, but, uh… I was just wonderin’ if you were still up for goin’ to check out The Roadhouse today? No pressure, of course,’ he adds hastily, eyes flying up to Castiel’s face. Castiel makes sure to keep his expression neutral, as he silently waits for Dean to continue. Dean sighs. ‘You totally don’t gotta do it today if you’d rather wait ’n see, or whatever…’

His voice trails off and he uses the same hand that’s been f*cking with his hair to rub the back of his neck. Even though they’ve only known each other so short a time, Castiel immediately recognises that these are Dean’s tells when he’s feeling uncomfortable, and he bristles, even as his stomach clenches. If the idea of him staying even one more night makes the alpha so uneasy, then Castiel really has no choice than to go, if only to salvage his wounded pride.

‘Today works fine,’ Castiel says levelly, watching Dean for any sort of reaction, but now it’s the alpha’s face that’s set with stone. ‘I can be ready to leave at whatever time suits you.’

Dean’s lips press together in a thin line for a moment before he nods jerkily. ‘Well, alrighty, then,’ he says, a little too brashly. ‘No time like the present, I guess. I’ll meet ya out in the car if ya gotta take a piss or whatever before we go.’ He turns abruptly and stalks off in the direction of the Dean Cave.

Castiel hesitates a moment, then steps back inside the bedroom and shuts the door. He doesn’t have anything to pack for his move, and in most cases, he would be expected to strip the clothes from his body and leave them here, since they technically belong to his master, but somehow he doesn’t think Dean follows this belief.

A strange wave of surreality washes over Castiel again as he gazes around the room one last time. It’s almost funny, he thinks, how at first, it was being here at all that had felt unreal, but now it’s leaving this house that has him feeling as though he’s underwater all over again.

He turns to leave and pauses in the doorway, a hand resting lightly on the frame, and takes a deep breath. The space which had felt so comforting and safe suddenly feels foreign, now that he knows he is leaving it for the last time.

The walk down to the garage takes no time at all, and before he knows it, he’s closing the door to Dean’s house behind him and approaching Dean’s car. For a moment he hesitates again, the deeply ingrained expectation of being shoved into the trunk rising to the surface, but he shakes his head, truly believing that Dean would never agree to something like that, so he nervously climbs into the front seat and shuts the door carefully behind him.

Being in a car again, it’s hard to remember that he’s not being returned to the auction house or being taken to one of the training centres, which was previously the only reason he would have been leaving a master’s home. He tries telling himself that there’s no real reason for the anxiety thrumming through his entire body, and that The Roadhouse is likely the closest thing there is to a safe place for an omega, but it does little to combat the overwhelming feeling of wrongness and shame and sick anticipation that makes it nearly impossible to breathe.

Dean exits the house a few moments later, now wearing a brown leather jacket and carrying a olive drab duffle bag that he throws in the backseat when he climbs into the driver’s seat. Castiel holds his breath while he watches Dean get situated out of the corner of his eye, because even though he’d been just about positive that Dean wouldn’t mind Castiel sitting inside the car a minute ago, there’s always the chance that-

‘Hey… You good, man?’ Dean asks him, a look of concern on his face. ‘You said the other day that you don’t get carsick, right? Uh- if you’re not feelin’ all that great, feel free to roll your window down or somethin’…’

Somehow, just those few sentences showing Dean’s earnest concern over Castiel’s wellbeing goes far to soothe both Castiel’s anxiety and hurt feelings over being sent away. Perhaps he hasn’t alienated Dean quite as much as he’d originally feared.

‘I’m fine, Dean. Thank you, though’ he says, and he almost means it.

‘Well… Alrighty, then.’ Dean studies him a moment longer, then shoots Castiel a small smile and hits a button on the garage door remote clipped to his visor. As it opens, he shifts the car into reverse and backs out of the garage.

Castiel stares out the window like his life depends on it as Dean closes the garage door and shifts into drive.

‘And we’re off… like a herd of turtles,’ Dean mutters, settling down into his seat, and then they are.

Chapter 16: find my own light

Chapter Text

Castiel isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting The Roadhouse to look like, but it sure wasn’t this. He’d been toying with the vague mental image of a slightly nicer version of the omega centre, so it definitely comes as a shock when Dean turns off one of the main roads onto a long, gravel driveway that seems to lead straight into the friggin’ forest about half an hour after they left Dean’s house.

He’s just entertaining the wild thought that maybe his master is going to turn out to be a serial killer and is bringing him to a secluded wood where no one will find his body, when Dean lets out an angry huff and starts grumbling, ‘Stupid f*ckin’ gravel driveway- told Bobby a million f*ckin’ times that we oughta just pave the damn thing, but noooo, we gotta keep the sh*t ‘rustic’ for the ‘civilians’ to ‘throw ’em off the f*ckin’ scent’, ’n scare the Richie Rich bastards away, cos they won’t wanna dirty the tires their precious imports, well how about the goddamn suckers in the good old American-made classics whose paint is gettin’ f*cked to hell by all this goddamn sh*t, huh? Betcha didn’t think about that one, old man, but why wouldja, seein’ as you’re driving a goddamn Chevelle that’s five different colours? S’like that damn car Johnny Cash built ‘one piece at a time’-’

Castiel has no idea what the hell Dean is ranting about — or who he’s ranting at, for that matter — but even so, it makes him forget how sad he is to be making this trip at all. He’s learning that Dean is actually kind of hilarious when he’s perturbed, something Castiel never imagined he would think about an irritated alpha, and at the very least, Dean complaining about the driveway is enough to convince Castiel he’s not about to dump him in a shallow grave somewhere, if only because that would likely require more off-roading.

A few more moments and muttered curses from Dean later, and an enormous log cabin comes into view. Castiel can’t help how wide his eyes get or how his mouth falls open when he sees it. He hadn’t realised that Dean had been watching him for his reaction, until the car begins to fill with same light cinnamon-amber smell that Castiel had noticed when he’d told Dean he’d enjoyed eating the pancakes he made, and he knows — this is something Dean loves and takes pride in.

Sure enough — ‘And there she is,’ Dean says, smiling proudly a moment later. ‘The Roadhouse — my home away from home. I can’t wait for you to meet the crew… Charlie especially is dying to meetcha, but don’t worry — I told her to rein it in, cos otherwise she’d start grillin’ ya on what your starter Pokemon is and what Hogwarts house you’re in right off the bat.’ He snorts, then frowns, wincing a little. ‘Oh, wait, uh- I dunno if you- Pokemon’s, like, this TV show and game-’

‘Bulbasaur and Ravenclaw,’ Castiel interrupts once he realises that Dean wasn’t sure if he understood the references. He also realises that this interrupting thing is really going to get him in trouble one of these days, and that it’s possible that, when given permission to speak, he’s quite rude. He can’t help but laugh at the pure pathetic humour of it all — he hasn’t been allowed to speak in so long that he genuinely can’t remember if he’s actually rude or just a poor conversationalist.

‘Nice!’ Dean says, clearly surprised and pleased with Castiel’s answer, though thankfully unaware of Castiel’s internal debate about his manners — or lack thereof. ‘Mine’s Charmander ’n Gryffindor, though I’ve definitely been told once or twice that Slytherin could be a close second. My brother’s a Ravenclaw too… You’ll probably meet him while we’re here, actually, ’n y’all can bond over bein’ the brainiacs of the wizarding world, or whatever.’

For some reason it hadn’t occurred to Castiel until just then, that moving here would mean meeting — and consequently spending a considerable amount of time with — several of the people he’d already heard numerous stories about, and he finds himself inordinately nervous. The last time he’d felt these kinds of butterflies had been back when his first boyfriend, Inias, had brought him home to meet his parents. Even though he was being introduced as ‘just a friend’, he’d still been almost sick with worry over making a good first impression. He feels that same kind of pressure now.

‘Will I be meeting Miss Charlie today?’ Castiel asks, both curious and intimidated at the prospect of meeting Dean’s friend. ‘Or see Mr Benny or Pamela?’ he adds as an afterthought, because if he’s going to be left here, it would be nice to have some familiar faces around.

‘Charlie’s here for sure, and I think Pam should be in, but Benny doesn’t work up at the main lodge, what with bein’ an alpha ’n all,’ Dean answers as he shifts the car into park. ‘He has an office in one of the vocational centres further back on the property, but he only works here part-time as one of the reintegration specialists, since he’s doin’ the tattoo artist thing as his main gig.’

‘Oh, is there more than just the one building?’ Castiel asks, eager to direct the conversation away from the subject of tattoo artists — and tattoos in general.

Dean just blinks at him for a moment before a brilliant smile slowly takes over his face. ‘Oh, man,’ he says with a huff of laughter, any trace of melancholy or irritation suddenly nowhere to be found, ‘are you ever in for a surprise. C’mon, let’s head in ’n I’ll show ya around.’

Castiel is half-tempted to point out that Dean hasn’t actually answered his fairly straightforward question, but he supposes it doesn’t really matter all that much, if they’re about to get out and look around anyway. He unbuckles his seatbelt and climbs out of the car, stretching his arms over his head.

The bottle of pills in the pocket of his sweatshirt make a quiet clattering noise as he moves, causing Dean to glance over at him inquisitively. Castiel wordlessly slips his hand in his pocket, pulls out the prescription bottle, and presents it nervously to Dean. He doesn’t think Dean will have an issue with him taking it, but there is still the slightest chance he’ll consider it thievery, since legally, a slave owns nothing.

‘Oh, did you, uh… still need to take your meds or somethin’?’ Dean asks uncertainly. ‘Are ya s’posed to take ’em with food?’

‘I did,’ Castiel replies, equally confused. ‘I took them after breakfast, per Pamela’s instructions…’

‘Okay?’ Dean runs a hand through his hair, then shrugs. ‘Uh- you’re welcome t’leave ’em in the car if you’d like?’

‘Oh.’ Castiel lowers his eyes and nods, embarrassed to have made assumptions about how Dean views Castiel and their situation, and been proven incorrect — again. ‘Of course. Apologies, Dean, I didn’t mean to…’

He lets his voice trail off, knowing that whatever lame excuse he would have come up with really doesn’t matter, and that he should just be grateful Dean hasn’t called him out for taking things he has no right to in the first place.

Dean’s frowning now, and Castiel sighs, thinking that perhaps it is better he be relocated after all, because clearly he and Dean operate on two very different wavelengths, and it seems to be causing the alpha an undue amount of stress. Perhaps it would have only been a matter of time before he ended up exactly here anyway, so maybe it’s better they part ways before Castiel can really make him unhappy.

‘You can keep the meds on you if it makes you feel better, man…’ Dean says, looking lost. ‘I just thought you might not want to hear them rattlin’ around in your pocket all day, but if you’re cool, then I’m cool.’

Castiel hesitates, now unsure what the right thing to do is, and Dean’s watching him like he’s expecting Castiel to have another meltdown, and it’s setting Castiel’s teeth on edge, so he just shoves the bottle back into his sweatshirt pocket and offers Dean a curt nod. Thankfully, Dean seems to accept this, and doesn’t protest Castiel keeping the antibiotics, so at least Castiel appears to have made the right move for once.

‘Well, I guess we might as well head in ’n get the Welcome Wagon bullsh*t over with,’ Dean says with a half-hearted groan. ‘And by that, I mean Charlie ’n Co descending on ya like a pack of wild hyenas. Just remember not to believe at least fifty percent of what she says, ’n don’t ever, ever,’ he pauses dramatically, finger pointing at Castiel as though chastising him, which makes Castiel stand up a bit straighter until Dean continues, ‘disagree with her if she says the words ‘Han shot first’. We all know that that’s what the OG script called for, but the Honourable Ms Bradbury has chosen that exact hill to die on, and she’s got no problem arguing that point to death. Many an afternoon has been lost to her impassioned diatribes about shoddy 1970s visual editing and what qualifies as self-defence.’

‘I… don’t understand that reference,’ Castiel says, a little helplessly. ‘But I will refrain from mentioning firearms at all, if you think it best.’

‘Dude,’ Dean starts, mouth agape. He takes a deep breath, like he’s gearing up to go on another one of his long-winded rants, but at that exact moment, he catches sight of a grizzled older man in a baseball cap stomping towards them and he groans. ‘Aw, hell.’

Before Castiel can ask what the problem is, the man is within shouting distance and yells, ‘Well, are ya gonna come in ’n say hello, or just hang out here all day lookin’ stupid?’

‘Depends, old man,’ Dean calls back, smiling, despite his initial reluctance for company. ‘You gonna hand me a honey-do list the second I set foot in the lodge up there? Cos if that’s the case, then I ain’t here to work; I’m just here to show Steve around.’

‘You ain’t here to work when ya are here to work, ya idjit,’ the other man grouses, but when he approaches Dean, he extends his arms and gives the alpha a warm hug. ‘Good t’see ya, boy. Been runnin’ low on our quota of dumb ’n ugly the last few days.’

‘Why? You been takin’ a little staycation or somethin’?’ Dean retorts, earning him a good whack upside the back of his head. ‘Damn, Bobby, watch it. Ain’t like I got that many braincells to spare — just ask Steve, here… Feels like all I’ve done since meetin’ the guy is show my ass.’

‘Well, I would ask ’im ’bout the horror show that’s sharin’ a mailing address with you, but some uncouth heathen ain’t introduced us yet, ’n I know for a fact that you were brought up better’n that,’ the other man, Bobby, says pointedly.

Dean rolls his eyes. ‘Steve Allen, Bobby Singer,’ he says waving a hand in the space between Castiel and the other man. ‘Bobby, this’s Steve. He’s been stayin’ with me the last few days, since the lodge’s all full-up, what with it bein’ an off-cycle intake ’n everything, but then Charlie called last night ’n said the thing in Tallahassee got all f*cked up, so there’s more beds opening up than we thought there’d be. When I told Steve, he said he wanted to check the place out ’n, well… here we are.’

‘Couldn’t wait to get away from ya, huh?’ Bobby asks, deadpan, rolling his eyes at Dean’s squeak of outrage and levelling him an incredibly unimpressed look. ‘You forget — I know what it’s like, livin’ with your dumb ass. What, the boss ladies didn’t think the poor kid had enough problems, so they decided t’go ahead ’n add a slumber party with Chatty Cathy on top’a it?’ He turns to Castiel and stage-whispers conspiratorially, ‘Listen, kid, this here ain’t the Ritz, but it sure as sh*t beats livin’ with some damn fool who plays the same six friggin’ songs over ’n over ’n has somehow managed to exist on this planet for over three decades, yet still can’t figure out how t’get his dirty socks to find their way into the laundry basket. Ain’t no reason ya gotta stick around ’n play nanny goat to some overgrown man child if ya don’t wanna.’

Even though everything he’s seen between these two men so far implies Bobbys words are no more than good-natured ribbing, Castiel still feels his hackles raise when he hears this surly, bedraggled beta to speak so flippantly about his alpha master.

‘Dean has been an incredibly fair and courteous master. I consider myself fortunate to have been placed in his care,’ he replies frostily, shocked at his own daring, and wondering all over again when if he’s always been rude and was just too afraid to show it, or if his lack of manners is something new. Either way, he adds, ‘I certainly had no qualms about my living situation. I only hope that I am able to adequately repay his kindness some day.’

From somewhere to his left, Castiel hears Dean make a choking noise, but before he can worry that he’s overstepped by disrespecting Dean’s associate, Bobby laughs and claps him on the shoulder. Castiel flinches slightly when he sees a raised hand coming towards him, but he does not back down.

Bizarrely, all Bobby says is an approving, ‘Good man,’ then turns to Dean. ‘Well, you ready to head back to the salt mines, or d’ya need another day at the spa?’

‘Nah, I wouldn’t wanna steal your pedicure appointment time out from under ya,’ Dean replies with a shrug and a wink. ‘Lay on, McDuck. Ya comin’, Steve?’

Castiel, nods and falls into step next to Dean, following Bobby up the walkway towards the huge log cabin-style building that Dean had referred to as ‘the lodge’, a few moments ago. Dean glances over at him as they go, beaming, an eager grin on his face that Castiel can’t help but be cheered by, even as his brow furrows as he tries to remember something he’d read almost half a lifetime ago.

‘Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?’ Dean asks under his breath, so as not to attract Bobby’s notice. ‘Listen — if you’re not up for this today, we don’t gotta do any of it. And, uh, I know Bobby can be a lot to take in all at once, but I promise his bark’s worse’n his bite.’

‘Oh, no, Dean, it wasn’t that,’ Castiel assures him quickly, not wanting to ruin Dean’s sudden change in mood by making him think he’s wasted a trip and will be stuck with Castiel as a lodger for any longer than is necessary. ‘I was just, uhm- just thinking that… I believe the quote is ‘lay on, MacDuff’, but it’s been quite some time since I had to read Shakespeare.’

For some reason, this causes Dean to burst out laughing, loudly enough that Bobby turns and looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, but makes no comment. Dean covers his mouth while he tries to get a hold of himself, then takes a gasping breath and says, ‘Oh my God, that was a good one. You’re too friggin’ funny, dude. But, uh- no, yeah — you’re right. It’s definitely MacDuff, but when me ’n Sammy were little, we used t’call Bobby ‘McDuck’, like Scrooge McDuck from that old Disney Cartoon, DuckTales? Cos he’s the grumpy uncle who gets stuck taking care of a buncha little duck kids, ’n Bobby ended up getting stuck with me ’n Sammy… and Jo too, actually, once him ’n Ellen got hitched.’

‘Trust me, if I’da had a big ass room full’a gold coins t’go swimmin’ in, I’da sent you ’n your moose of a brother to a Swiss boarding school ’n retired to Tahiti,’ Bobby says now that they’ve reached the lodge. He holds the door open for Dean and Castiel to walk through. ‘Jury’s still out on Jo.’

‘Aw, hell. What’d that girl get herself into this time?’ a woman’s voice calls from somewhere close by. Castiel turns to see a woman with dark blonde hair in a flannel button-up shirt like Dean wears over his band tees walking towards them. She wipes her hands on what appears to be a dishtowel, then slips it into the waistband of her jeans and folds her arms across her chest. ‘We gonna have to bribe Sammy for his legal services again?’

‘Heya, Ellen,’ Dean says, walking over and giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek. ‘Bobby was just remindin’ me that Jo’s his favourite again.’ He gives the woman, Ellen, a pathetic, wounded look, even going so far as to pout a little. Castiel tries very hard not to laugh at the alpha’s ridiculous antics, especially considering how terrified he’d been of him only a day or two prior.

Ellen rolls her eyes. ‘Boy, please — them puppy dog eyes didn’t work on me back when you were a cute lil thing, much less a fully grown menace trackin’ all that muck in on my clean floor with those sh*tstompers-’

‘Oh, f*ck me!’ Dean interrupts, slapping his forehead with his hand, then turning to Castiel with a look in his eyes that’s so full of guilt and remorse that Castiel immediately begins to panic. ‘Aw, sh*t, Steve! I can’t believe I- Oh my God, I’m such an idiot-’

Castiel is baffled by the sudden turn the conversation has taken, and he’s still not entirely sure that he’s not in trouble for some unknown reason, but when he dares to glance at Ellen and Bobby, he sees that they’re staring at Dean, completely flummoxed as well.

‘Anything you’d like to share with the class?’ Bobby asks finally, sharing a look with Ellen that seems to be both exasperated and fond. ‘Or do ya just wanna stand there m-f’in’ yourself for a while longer?’

Dean doesn’t raise his head from where he’s buried his face in his hands, so his words come out muffled. ‘I f’rgotta ge’sh’s f’r Steve.’

Before Castiel can even become properly concerned that the only word he could make out was his own name, Ellen rolls her eyes and levels Dean with there same unimpressed look Bobby had given him in the parking lot and gives him a gentle bop on the back of the head. Castiel remembers Dean mentioning that Bobby and Ellen were married, and thinks he can already see how they would get along.

‘That ain’t English,’ Bobby informs Dean, shaking his head at the same time Ellen says, ‘How many times do I gotta tell you to use your damn words? Useful words, words that mean somethin’, not your damn babblin’ ’n gibberish mumblin’ nonsense.’

Dean looks up sheepishly, wincing. ‘I said… I forgot to get shoes for Steve. The poor guy’s standin’ there in his socks.’

Castiel, who can’t even remember the last time he was allowed to wear shoes, stares down at the hem of his sweatpants that are so long and large, they’re completely covering his feet. He shoots Dean an incredulous glance which the alpha must incorrectly interpret as annoyed, because he winces, scrunching his face up in an almost adorably childish expression.

Dean peeks at Castiel with just one eye and says, ‘I’m real sorry, man. There’s a reason I don’t normally handle any sorta, uh- interpersonal responsibilities. Ellen, d’ya know if we got any extra sneakers or boots or somethin’ in the donations inventory that I can grab for Steve?’

‘For God’s sake,’ Ellen complains, but she nods anyway. ‘Boy, I swear — sometimes I gotta wonder if you got two braincells to rub together for warmth. Yeah, we got extra shoes here. Steve,’ she says, addressing Castiel directly for the first time, ‘let me be the first to apologise on behalf of this well-intentioned moron. He’s got a good heart, but he sure does struggle to drag his behind over the common sense finish line, if ya catch my drift. But don’t you worry, kiddo, we can get ya fixed up right… under normal circ*mstances, we woulda put a whole wardrobe together for ya, but, well- ain’t nothin’ ’bout the situation that’s been goin’ by normal standards.’

‘Thank you… Mrs Ellen,’ Castiel replies dutifully after a beat or two of silence. For some reason, this Ellen strikes him as being cut from the same cloth as Pamela, in the sense that she would likely have an adverser reaction to the word ‘ma’am’, but she’s still his superior, so he does the best he can to show respect.

Even so, she wrinkles her nose in a way that makes her seem more like a young girl than a woman clearly in her fifties. Castiel waits to be chastised again, but the reprimand, thankfully, never comes.

‘You’re welcome, honey,’ she says instead, giving him a warm smile. ‘Listen —why don’t you boys head over to the donations room and see if there’s anything in there that works for ya, alright?’

‘Thanks, Ellen,’ Dean says gratefully, giving her another hug. He glances over at Castiel, still looking mortified. ‘Uh- that sound good to you, man? I just don’t wanna drag you all over the property in your bare feet, ya know? Ugh, I’m so friggin’ sorry… I guess I didn’t think about it since your pants are so long, I kinda… forgot.’ He rubs the back of his neck and gives Castiel a perfunctory once-over. ‘Actually, Ellen, d’ya mind if we also grab Steve some clothes that fit right? We didn’t have a chance to go shopping yet or anything, so everything he’s got is, like, three sizes too big.’

‘Of course. Go ahead ’n help yourself to anything you think you could use — that’s what it’s there for,’ Ellen tells Castiel, then shoos him and Dean off with a wave of her dishtowel.

Dean leads Castiel down one of the brightly lit hallways, humming a tune that seems vaguely familiar, but Castiel, of course, can’t name, but he finds it soothing anyway. It’s proof that whatever it was that Dean was upset about when they left the house earlier seems to have been resolved, anyway.

He pulls up short outside a room with a nameplate that reads ‘DONATIONS’, and pushes the door open, holding it for Castiel to walk through.

The room is surprisingly large, and reminds Castiel of either a small department store, or a large boutique. There are racks and shelves and rounders full of hung and folded clothing, some of which appears to still have the store tags attached. There are several retail-style shoe towers off to one side, which is the first place Dean steers him towards.

‘Uh… D’ya happen to know what size shoe you’d take?’ he asks Castiel, looking supremely uncomfortable. ‘Dude, I can’t say enough times how friggin’ bad I feel about this… Ya had to walk all through the parking lot ’n up the stairs in your damn socks…’

‘It’s really fine, Dean,’ Castiel assures him, feeling a curious mix of emotions that he doesn’t quite know how to process.

In some ways, he still feels like he might be missing a piece of the puzzle or something, because he has no idea why Dean is so upset that he doesn’t have shoes, when most masters are quite vocal about wanting their slaves barefoot because it makes it that much harder to run away. In others, he understands that Dean is definitely not one of those alphas, so Castiel almost feels bad that Dean is feeling so bad about it.

Then, there’s a part of him that is trying very hard not to be pissed at Dean for having such an absurd, over-the-top reaction. It’s the same mindset as when he’d been overly apologetic about Castiel’s living situation — for someone like Castiel who assumed he wouldn’t live to see thirty, not having shoes for a short car ride and even shorter walk — especially when he’d already been allowed to wear socks — is such a non-issue that having to waste time discussing it feels obnoxiously self-indulgent.

But lastly, and perhaps the most intense and confusing emotion is… excitement.

Castiel feels very much like a kid on Christmas Eve, looking forward to receiving an extravagant gift. He spends half a second lamenting what a sad state his life is that the prospect of a random pair of shoes seems like a luxury, considering he once had a wardrobe that could have doubled as a role call list for the world’s top designers, but he doesn’t allow it to sour his anticipation. If there’s one thing that the last decade has taught him, it’s to never taken even the smallest comfort for granted.

Dean is still looking at Castiel expectantly, making him realise that he’d forgotten to answer Dean’s question about his shoe size. He tries to remember, but it’s been so long since he’s had to think about something like that, that he comes up hopelessly blank.

‘Maybe a… ten? Or eleven?’ he offers tentatively, pulling up the hem of his sweatpants to look at his feet as though he’d be able to tell from sight alone. His socks are fairly filthy now, along with the bottom of his pants, which he feels a passing wave of guilt for, but reminds himself there’s really nothing he could have done to prevent it.

It seems that Dean notices as well, because he makes a noise that seems to be somewhere between a squeak and a groan, then strides over to a large bin and rummages around for a moment. He returns a moment later with something in his hand that he passes to Castiel.

Upon closer inspection, Castiel sees that it’s a brand new pair of socks, but unlike the package he had back at Dean’s house, these are not plain white, but grey with some sort of robot characters printed on them. He glances back over to Dean, who looks incredibly pleased with himself.

‘Show these to Charlie when you meet her, ’n she’ll offer to be your new best friend,’ he promises, nodding towards the robot socks then gesturing to a bench a few feet away. ‘Why don’t you go ahead ’n slip those on, so it’ll be easier for you to try some shoes on? We can throw your old socks into the laundry or somethin’.’

Castiel sits on the bench and peels his damp, dirty socks off, then pulls the tags off the robot ones and puts them on. He studies the little white and blue character that resembles a trash can and asks, ‘Is this the creature I should agree shot first?’

Dean laughs. ‘Right universe, wrong character.’ He smiles down at Castiel for a moment, then says, ‘Alrighty, let’s get you some shoes, Cinderella,’ then laughs again at Castiel’s unamused expression.

Castiel tries several pairs of shoes before making his selection, which makes him feel like a pampered, spoiled brat, but Dean insists that he should choose something that is both comfortable and to his liking. Despite this, Dean does invoke his ‘veto power’ when Castiel tries on a pair of remarkably comfortable white sneakers with a navy N on the side that Dean declares are ‘middle-aged dad lawn-mowing shoes’. He hands Castiel a pair of boots similar to the ones he himself is wearing, but after having been essentially barefoot for so long, they feel heavy and cumbersome on his feet, so those are returned to the shelf as well.

The last shoes Castiel tries on, bring a lump to his throat — a pair of painfully familiar classic black Chuck Taylor high tops with white stitching. He’d lived in Cons back, before-before, thinking they made him look cool and ironic with his fishnet shirts and black eyeliner during his quintessential goth kid phase.

When he slips them on, he momentarily forgets how to breathe, because for just a split second, he’s seventeen again, getting ready to sneak out of his house to meet up with Meg and Bal and-

No. He said he wasn’t going to do this anymore.

‘Good?’ Dean asks, watching him from a few feet away.

Castiel swallows down his emotions and nods. ‘They’re… they’re perfect. Thank you, Dean. Are you sure Mrs Ellen won’t mind?’

‘Positive,’ Dean replies. ‘She’ll just be thrilled you found somethin’ you like. Uh- Since we’re here already, why don’t we take a quick stroll through the guys’ clothes over there, ’n see if we can getcha somethin’ that fits ya a little better, too? Like I said — everything with you comin’ t’live with me happened so quick that I just grabbed a few things ’n didn’t get a chance to check sizes or whatever.’

‘If you’re sure it’s not too much…?’ Castiel answers, a bit uneasy. ‘I don’t want to- to take away from anyone else, because truly, Dean — I am more than grateful for what you’ve already given me. It’s more than enough.’

His own words seem to echo in his ears, about gratitude and having more than enough, and he realises the truth he’s just spoken. He’s been so wrapped up in feeling abandoned and rejected by Dean, that he hasn’t been listening to his own spiel that he’d given Dean in the kitchen earlier, about having that perspective regarding his living arrangements. He reminds himself that he’s still here — he’s alive, and safe, and that’s enough.

‘Naw, man,’ Dean says, thankfully oblivious yet again to Castiel’s internal existential crisis. ‘Like Ellen said — that’s what all this is there for. We get donations from the general public, but also from some stores and companies, which is why so much of this stuff is brand spankin’ new. Normally we woulda hooked you up with a bunch of stuff when you got here, but, uh-’

He breaks off abruptly, clearly remembering Castiel’s earlier speech a lot better than Castiel had, and instead offers a rueful smile and says, ‘Point being… no one would feel any kinda way if ya wanted to grab something new for now, but no pressure either way.’

In the end, Castiel does pick out a new outfit, though Dean promises he can still keep the hoodie and sweatpants when he notices the slightly forlorn way Castiel looks down at the sweatshirt that he’s taken such comfort in.

The clothing Castiel chooses is as nondescript as can be — a pair of dark wash jeans, and a black and grey raglan henley shirt. Even though they’d managed to find jeans that should fit Castiel perfectly, Dean still hands him a black leather belt, then leaves the room to give Castiel privacy while he dresses. This nearly sets Castiel off on another bout of dark contemplation about the state of his life, but he forces himself to remain present while he’d changes into his new clothes with slightly shaking hands.

Then, he’s finally dressed, and there’s nothing left to do, but check out the final result.

He examines his reflection in one of the full-length mirrors scattered around the room, and can almost see the ghost of his past self. If the man squinting back at him lost the bags under his eyes and had fuller cheeks, a touch of smudged eyeliner, and fingerless fishnet gloves to complete the look, Castiel might think he was looking at a photo of the person he was, back when he still was a person.

In what he’d thought was long-forgotten habit, he runs his hands through his hair and gives his head a little shake to toss it back out of his eyes like he used to do in his punk/goth high school days. He’d spent hours in front of the mirror trying to give his hair that tousled look that was meant to appear effortless, but actually took an embarrassingly long time to achieve.

It’s familiar, but it’s also foreign, like something that doesn’t fit just yet, but someday it might — again — and it… it hurts.

He wonders if this person in the looking glass is anything like who he might have grown up to be, had it not been for-

But no. He’s not going down that road, because nothing good will come of it. He looks away, and just breathes until the ache in his chest subsides. For the first time in such a long time, he has a chance at- well, maybe not the life he’d pictured for himself back when he was that punk kid in eyeliner, but certainly one beyond anything he could have dreamt of during his time in Purgatory, and he’s not going to ruin it by being haunted by the life he didn’t get to live.

He is alive. Warm. Fed. Clothed.

Healing.

And no matter where he ends up, he reminds himself that that is not only enough — it’s everything.

Chapter 17: the greatest thing I lost

Chapter Text

After the third time Dean gets stuck in the awkward oops, sorry I’m in your way, you go right, I’ll go left — no your right, my left dance with people just trying to walk down the hall without being trampled by a madly pacing asshole, he parks his ass against the wall and eases his anxiousness by closing his eyes and drumming the beat of Smoke on the Water against his thighs. It’s one of those songs that’s kind of always running in the background of his brain, so he finds it soothing — almost meditative. Apparently, he’s humming it again, too, because after a particularly bad ass drum solo, he hears some big, dumb moose guffaw coming from behind him.

‘f*ck off, Sammy,’ he says, eyes still closed. ‘Go deep-condition your hair or something — or better yet, why don’tca grab some clippers ’n I’ll take care of that dead squirrel ya got on your head.’

‘Learn a new song, Dean,’ Sam retorts, nonplussed by Dean’s snark. ‘For someone who’s so invested in cutting my hair, you have an unhealthy obsession with mullet rock. Jerk.’

Dean opens his eyes and glares, the word bitch on the tip of his tongue as a retort, but he tries to make a conscious effort not to use certain words while at The Roadhouse that can be triggering to some of the residents, and that’s one of them, so he settles for, ‘Jackass. House rules-’

‘That only works in the car, and only in your car, because no one else keeps an ancient box of cassette tapes and refuses to upgrade their sound system to include a Bluetooth connection.’ Sam shrugs, like he hasn’t just thrown down the gauntlet. ‘I keep telling you, man, it’s the twenty-first century… time to act like it.’

Just as Dean opens his mouth, about to treat his brother to yet another lecture about how there’s certain things you don’t f*ck with, and a man’s radio is one of them, the door to the donations room swings open, and all thoughts of- well, f*cking anything fly right out of his head.

Steve’s standing there in his new clothes, and he looks good. Dean gapes like the socially inept dumbass he is.

‘Uhm… hello, Dean,’ Steve says shyly, his eyes darting between Dean and Sam like a prey animal assessing a threatening environment. His knuckles are white from how tightly he’s gripping the ball of his old clothes between his slightly shaking hands.

Dean considers the scene from Steve’s point of view, and can’t exactly blame him — from the outside, Sammy looks like about ten feet of intimidating alpha. It’s not until the kid opens his mouth that you find out he’s basically a hippie marshmallow wrapped in flannel.

‘Heya, Steve,’ Dean says, swallowing a few times, when he finds his mouth surprisingly dry. ‘Uh- this here’s my little brother, Sammy — remember the one I toldja about, who’s got the girlfriend that’s, like, a billion lightyears outta his league?’ He turns to Sam, pointedly not looking at Steve in his new threads because, well- sh*t. The very last thing in the entire f*cking universe that the guy needs right now is for Dean’s scent to betray how f*cking good he thinks Steve looks, so obviously the only reasonable solution is to not look at the problem, and hope that maybe it’ll just… go away.

It doesn’t go away. In fact, it turns out that the universe has decided it’s Torture Dean Winchester Day, because next thing you know, Steve’s doing this flicking-his-hair-out-of-his-eyes thing that used to drive Dean crazy when he’d see the hot punk guys did it back in high school. All of a sudden, it’s like Dean’s back to being the gangly new kid, stuttering his way through wrestling try-outs and class presentations all over again.

Sam, who had (unfortunately for Dean) grown up witnessing Dean lose his sh*t over the hot punk guys back in the day, starts cracking right the f*ck up at the first hint of Dean turning into a blushing idiot all over again, the cruel son of a bitch. ‘Hey, Steve. Nice to meet you,’ he says between snickers. ‘I take it you just got yourself some new clothes?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Steve replies, shoulders tense and eyes downcast, but Dean recognises the expression that means that he’s trying to remember something. His brows are furrowed, head co*cked slightly to the side in that ‘confused puppy’ look again, like it had been when he’d been trying to recall his friggin’ Shakespeare quote earlier. Dean’s just about to ask what’s up, when he sees Steve’s Adam’s apple bob with how hard he swallows before asking, ‘Mr… Sammy, uhm- Do you- do you happen to be a, uhm- a lawyer?’

Sam’s face does a bunch of weird sh*t, going from supremely uncomfortable at being called ‘sir’ (thank you, John Winchester, for that one), to mild amusem*nt at being called ‘Mr, to annoyance (at Dean, of course) for being called Sammy’. His expression finally settles on surprised at Steve guessing his profession, before melting into a slightly watered-down version of his ‘looking at baby chicks’ face.

‘I am, actually… good guess,’ he says cautiously. ‘Did Dean tell you that?’

‘No, sir,’ Steve replies quickly, darting a glance at Dean, but then, surprisingly he gives him a small, almost mischievous grin and adds, ‘He has, however, instructed me to inform you that his favourite film is Mean Girls, which we watched last night, after preparing a salad full of a variety of fresh vegetables for dinner.’

The squawk that comes of of Dean’s mouth is probably the most unattractive noise he’s ever made, but luckily, Sam’s obnoxious belly-deep guffaw is loud enough to drown it out. He glares at Steve, who smiles back beatifically, and the fact that Steve trusts him enough to be a little sh*t eclipses Dean’s displeasure at being ratted out by a damn mile.

‘Steve, you just made my friggin’ day,’ Sam informs the omega, still trying and failing to get a grip and stop laughing like a complete dick. ‘Thank you for that — seriously. I definitely owe you one.’

Surprisingly, rather than put Steve more at ease, this seems to make him tense up again, but before Dean can ask him if he’s alright, he says quietly, ‘Actually, sir, I, uhm- I believe I owe you a great deal more than blackmail material.’ He shifts uncomfortably, his bottom lip finding its way between his teeth before he takes a deep breath and says, ‘You were… the lawyer on the phone. With Pamela, I mean, when I was, uhm- still at the omega centre. You argued with the doctor there. About- about me. You convinced him not to… get rid of me.’

It’s not a question. Steve clearly recognised Sam’s voice, and even though Dean knows about the situation, has heard it from Charlie, Pam, and Steve himself several times, it’s like a kick to the gut all over again to hear how close he came to never having met Steve at all.

It sure puts the whole moving situation in perspective. Dean’s been sulking over the guy moving out, when they came so close — too f*cking close — to missing each other altogether.

‘Oh.’ Sam runs a hand through his stupid hippie hair, a nervous habit he definitely picked up from Dean. ‘Uh, yeah, I- I was, I mean- I did. But you don’t owe me for that, man — it was the right thing to do, not to mention it’s literally my job…’

Steve’s smile at that is a heartbreaking, splintered thing — the last building standing after an earthquake. ‘I see self-deprecation is a family trait,’ he remarks with only the faintest trace of bitterness, reminding Dean of his speech in the kitchen that morning. Dean waits to see if he’s going to treat Sammy to the same verbal beatdown he gave Dean, but he doesn’t. From the slump of his shoulders and the way he’s fiddling with the hem of his shirt, Dean gets the impression that he just doesn’t have it in him.

Still, it needs to be said, because… Dean kind of gets it now.

‘Sammy,’ he says quietly, carefully not looking at Steve again. ‘It means a lot to him — and me, for that matter. Don’t just… brush it off like it wasn’t important, cos… it was. Most important thing in the world, actually. Ya hear?’

Something in his tone or his words must register with his brother, because Sam stares at him like he’s figuring out some sort of complex puzzle. He’s quiet for a few moments, then he nods once and holds his hand out to Steve. ‘Then… Let’s call it even, alright? And, uh- if you have any other embarrassing stories about Dean, I’m always down to hear them.’

‘I will remember that,’ Steve says gravely, shaking Sam’s hand after only a brief hesitation.

At the same time, Dean makes a noise of disgust and says, ‘You’re such a- a new maxi zoom friggin’ dweebie,’ making Sam snort at Dean’s attempt at a more PG insult. Steve just blinks at him in amused confusion.

‘Dude, from The Breakfast Club?’ Dean says in disbelief. ‘Judd Nelson as John Bender? ‘Without lamps, there’d be no lights’? You know — ‘the criminal’?’

‘I… don’t understand that reference,’ Steve says slowly, perplexed. ‘I haven’t seen many movies, if I’m being honest. I was actually surprised that the one you chose last night was one I recognised.’

‘Wait, you’ve never seen Star Wars or The Breakfast Club?!’ Dean gapes so blatantly that he can almost hear Bobby bitchin’ that he looks like he’s trying to catch flies. ‘What about Sweet Sixteen? Or Pretty in Pink? You seriously haven’t seen any John Hughes flicks?’ He throws his hands up in the air dramatically, then points an accusing finger at Steve. ‘Hold up- what about Back to the Future? Or Indiana Jones? Oh my God, please tell me you’ve at least seen Dirty Dancing!’

Sam smacks the back of his head by the time he’s at the end of his rant, making it the third time he’s been hit upside the head today, and it’s beginning to hurt. ‘Dean,’ he hisses in that you’re not being very tactful way of his, ‘When exactly do you think Steve would have had the- the time to just kick back and watch your older-than-dirt movies?’

Dean has to admit that this is an incredibly fair point, and if he wasn’t such a stubborn son of a bitch, he might even feel some sort of guilt for being so insensitive, but no way in hell is he gonna let Sam see that he’s finally right about something. Instead, he turns his attention back to Steve, who seems to be frozen, like he’s not quite sure whether or not Dean’s genuinely upset with him.

That, Dean does actually feel a bit bad about, so he softens his tone and tries to let his scent drift towards something calmer. ‘Well, it seems that you’re overdue for some pop culture education… at the very least, it’ll help you understand what the hell Charlie ’n me are talkin’ about half the time. We oughta start a list of movies you gotta see. Oh man, are you in for a good time.’

‘Yes, Alpha,’ Steve replies quickly, looking relieved, but it only lasts a moment before guilt creeps into his expression and he winces. ‘Sorry, I meant- yes, Dean. That sounds very nice, thank you. Do the trainers here allow movie nights?’

Dean’s heart sinks a little when he remembers that Steve plans to move out in a few weeks once some rooms here open up, but then he notices that Sammy’s giving him that damn pinched, sour-lemon look again. He supposes he probably deserves this time, if he’s got Steve so stressed out that he’s falling back on that yes, Alpha bullsh*t and thinking he’s here to be trained. He’d thought that Steve had understood what The Roadhouse was all about, but it looks like he was wrong.

‘Dude, this ain’t- There’re no trainers here. ’N the staff here’ll let you do just about anything you want, s’long as you’re not endangering yourself or anyone else, or doin’ anything illegal.’ Dean tries to force a smile, but he’s not sure how successful he is when he adds, ‘Though being a Harrison Ford virgin should absolutely be considered illegal.’

The moment the words leave his mouth, he regrets them, because anything having to do with anything regarding sex is definitely on the list of sh*t he doesn’t say at work. He feels Sam stiffen beside him, but fortunately Steve doesn’t seem to think much of it, because he earnestly agrees that ‘educational movie nights’ sound like a good time, so Dean bites back the tidal wave of apologies that are just itching to come streaming out.

Trying to act natural, Dean flashes Steve a big, cheesy, toothy grin. ‘Awesome. We’ll get some movie nights on the books — you’re gonna love it. Maybe we can even work in some fantasy flicks too, like the Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings movies. How’s that sound?’

For some reason, this information just seems to make Steve seem sad again, but Dean sees him try to hide it with a very obviously forced smile and a quiet, ‘that sounds lovely; thank you, Dean.’

‘Yeah, no problem…’ Dean’s got nothing else to say after that, but luckily — and for once — Sam comes to rescue Dean from his lack of social grace.

‘So, the whole reason I was looking for you in the first place was because Jody told me to have you come see her as soon as you had a minute,’ Sam informs Dean, providing a much needed distraction.

Even though he’s grateful for the assist in changing subjects, Dean still groans at the news. ‘Aw, hell. Did she have Mom Voice on?’

Sam’s answering wince is all the confirmation Dean needs to know that Jody Mills, one of The Roadhouse’s co-founders and their liaison with local law enforcement, is Not Pleased with him. Jody’s the epitome of ‘I’m not mad; I’m just disappointed’, and Dean would be the first one to admit that the idea of letting her down was one hundred percent worse than any ass whuppin’ John Winchester could’ve doled out.

At least in this case, Dean would be able to tell her that he somehow managed to undo his dumbassery, and that Steve would, in fact, be moving in at the beginning of the following month. That should make her happy, even if it made Dean’s chest hurt.

‘Great,’ Dean says glumly. ‘Whelp. Better go face the music. Hopefully she feels better about everything when she hears that Steve is gonna come live here after all.’

It might be his imagination, but for a moment, he thinks he sees Steve flinch at these words, but when he turns to take a proper look at the omega, he finds him with a bland smile on his face, which almost makes Dean feel worse than he does when the other man is openly upset.

‘Well, I guess I’m gonna take off now.’ Sam turns to Steve and offers his hand again. ‘Steve, man, it was great to meet you. Don’t be a stranger, alright? Any time you wanna trade war stories about what it’s like having to live with Dean, feel free to look me up.’

For a split second, Dean — because he’s a selfish, immature son of a bitch — kind of hopes that Steve will get all snarly and defensive of him again, like he had with Bobby, but he doesn’t. Instead, he snorts a quiet laugh, shakes Sam’s hand, and nods his agreement, and then Sammy’s finally off, leaving Dean and Steve standing awkwardly in the empty hallway.

Dean’s just about to say again that they better go find Jody before she decides to try to find him, which would undoubtedly be infinitely worse, when he notices Steve shifting nervously from foot to foot, fiddling with the hem of his shirt again. Dean pauses and tries to think of a way to ask what’s wrong, but all he manages to do is gawk at the poor guy.

‘Dean?’ Steve asks nervously before Dean manages to get his brain back online. ‘Uhm… What do you think about…’

He trails off, but makes a sweeping gesture with one of his hands up and down in front of his body, indicating he was referring to his new clothes. Dean heart both leaps and clenches when he realises he’s essentially been given free rein to ogle Steve.

‘Uh- great. You’re- I mean, it’s- they’re great. I mean, do I got an eye for sizes, or what?’ Dean tries to joke, but instead just sounds like a stuttering moron again. ‘Does everything, you know — fit alright? It all feels okay?’

‘Everything feels great,’ Steve says, preening a bit, then doing the hair thing again. He catches Dean staring like an infatuated teen and blushes. ‘Sorry, I think I’m just… not used to, uhm… normal clothing anymore.’

Well, that sure as sh*t stops Dean’s stupid train of thought right in its tracks. How sh*tty of a human being does a guy need to be, to be basically lusting over a dude who’s been objectified and abused his entire adult life?

‘Right. Gotcha,’ Dean says gruffly, clearing his throat. ‘Well, you look awesome, dude. Like the adult version of one of the cool emo kids from high school.’

He’s not expecting his stupid comment to make Steve burst out laughing, but it does, and it’s a glorious sound. Dean gets a whiff of that same earthy eucalyptus-jasmine scent that he’d noticed when he’d given Steve coffee for the first time, so clearly something about it had made the guy happy, and Dean’s happy for it.

‘Sorry,’ Steve says, still smiling to himself a little, but he keeps grinning when he looks back at Dean, as though they’re sharing some secret inside joke. ‘It’s just that… before I came out to the hall, I was thinking that I kind of looked like an adult version of my teenage self. I don’t know about the ‘cool’ part, and I rebelled pretty furiously against the ‘emo’ label, but I was definitely… alternative, back, ah- before-before.’

‘Again with the friggin air quotes,’ Dean says, but he’s grinning like a dumbass now, too. ‘Well, if we’re gonna go by Breakfast Club labels — which is: the brain, the princess, the athlete, the basket case, the criminal, FYI — I guess I was kinda a mix of all of ’em back in the day. Minus the princess, of course.’

‘Hm.’ Steve hums noncommittally, the same mischievous glint in his eye as he’d had when he’d totally thrown Dean under the bus to his brother. ‘Disney princess, perhaps.’

‘Dude!’ Dean’s so goddamn thrilled that Steve feels at ease enough with him to mock him, that he can’t help the elated f*cking giggle that comes out of his mouth.

Steve merely raises an eyebrow at that mortifying noise and levels Dean with a look that clearly says case and point, which only makes Dean laugh again.

‘In what world am I a friggin’ Disney princess?!’ Dean grouses in the lamest of lame attempts at salvaging the manly-man version of himself he pictures in his head. Steve just smirks, and Dean’s heart definitely does not flutter at this rare show of co*ckiness.

‘Well,’ the omega drawls, a faux thoughtful expression on his face, ‘You work in a huge cabin in the middle of the woods, and you have a tragic past, yet maintain a wholesome, positive outlook on life, while embarking on an honourable mission that most would consider futile… Not to mention, you’re always singing. If you found a furry woodland creature to be your sidekick, you could basically sue Disney for using your likeness in their media.’

‘Oh my God. Well, my brother is basically a moose, so guess that means I’m a goddamn Disney friggin’ princess.’ Dean groans in fake dismay, then turns to Steve and points an accusing finger at him. ‘I swear, if you tell him this, I’m gonna…’

He trails off, realising that there’s no threat he could make that Steve would know for sure he was just f*cking around, so he settles for as fierce a glare as he can muster and just says, ‘Just- Don’t you f*cking dare.’

Steve doesn’t say anything, just keeps smiling smugly, and it’s kind of the best thing Dean’s ever seen. He only realises that he’s grinning back like a dumbass when the scent of both their contentment seems to fill the corridor, the notes of Steve’s light, like springtime, blending seamlessly into his own heavier wintry scent, and suddenly they’re back in the feedback loop of happy alpha and omega, and goddamnit, they need to get ahold of themselves before they stink up the whole place and freak everyone out — or worse, get Dean caught by his damn brother again.

‘Hey, why don’t we, uh- hit my office before heading to Jody, ’n you can drop your old clothes off there for now? You know, so you don’t gotta carry ’em around?’ Dean suggests, brain scrabbling for any sort of reasonable distraction. It’s probably a good call, anyway, considering how bummed Steve had seemed at the prospect of having to part with his hoodie.

Steve doesn’t seem too thrilled about this idea either, to be honest, and part of Dean hopes it’s because he’d rather stay in their little happy bubble, but then he nods his assent anyway, so they take off to the far back corner of the lodge where Dean’s office is.

On a normal day — and especially in the beginning of the month when new residents move in — he would have used the back entrance to try to isolate his scent as much as possible, so as not to set anyone on edge, but since they came in with Bobby today, they make their way through the winding halls until they reach the first set of automatic double doors that section off this part of the lodge.

Typically, the omega residents don’t come back this way, because this whole corner of the lodge is where Dean and Sam’s offices are, and they try to stay out of the way as much as possible, as well as do their best to keep the scent of alpha from taking anyone by surprise. It’s also home to Charlie, Ash, and Kevin’s ‘Bunker’, as they call it, where all the sensitive and confidential information is housed, as well as the offices of the security team and several other staff members who hold positions that don’t require direct contact with the residents.

The other reason that they usually don’t bring residents back to this area is because of the series of locked automatic doors one is required to pass through before being granted access.

Typically, the only other times a resident would have been in that kind of environment would have been at either the training centre, the omega centre, or the auction house — all of which were almost always unpleasant experiences. The Roadhouse staff had learned very quickly, very early on, that even just the sound of the buzzing doors and clanking locks seemed to trigger many of the residents into vivid flashbacks and other heartbreaking reactions.

Someone accustomed to working with the omegas would have remembered this, taken it into consideration. Dean, of course, in his infinite ignorance, did not.

Dean pulls his access card from his wallet and swipes them through the first set of doors. He waits for them to fully close behind them before walking forward to the second set and is just about to swipe his card through the second reader when he realises there’s no one by his side, and the small space is very quickly filling with the scent of fear and sorry.

Alarmed, he whips around to figure out what the hell happened to Steve, but when he does, the sight he’s faced with makes him feel like he’s going to vomit.

Gone is the snarky omega who’d been teasing Dean about his movie preferences and princess-like qualities mere minutes earlier, and in his place is a pale, trembling slave, cowering on the ground with his throat bared, wrists clasped behind his back, and presenting, even as shakes apart in front of Dean’s very eyes.

Chapter 18: mouth and mind [interlude]

Chapter Text

‘Alicia, I’m tellin’ ya- he just… dropped. ’N I didn’t know anything about it until I turned to look at ’im and realised he wasn’t there. God, what kind of piece of sh*t am I that I didn’t even realise the guy was on the f*cking floor-’

‘You did notice, though, Dean. And trust me — that means a lot more than you think it does.’

‘How much can it f*ckin’ mean if the dude still hit the deck like he was- like he expected me to- like he-’

‘I’m gonna need you to take a breath, Winchester. As fun as erotic asphyxiation can be, we just don’t have that kind of time.’

‘f*ck off, Banes.’

‘That’s Dr Banes, thanks.’

‘Right. f*ck off, Doctor Banes.’

‘Hey there, Steve. I’m Dr Banes, but you can call me Max. Do you know where you are?’

‘…’

‘No worries; I’m sure there’ve been a lot of changes for you lately. Right now you’re in the medical wing at The Roadhouse… Do you remember how you got here?’

‘…’

‘That’s okay, too. Dean Winchester, the person you’ve been staying with, had you brought in after the two of you had a little incident in the admin wing of the lodge. Do you remember anything about that?’

‘…’

‘That’s fine… Dean’s just being seen by Dr Barnes and my sister, Alicia — also a Dr Banes, but she’ll totally make you call her ‘Doctor’… says she didn’t spend almost a decade in school to not get the props she deserves.’

‘…’

‘Dean’s getting patched up, then he asked to see Alicia for a quick appointment, but then he should be in to see you, too. It was damn near impossible to get him to leave at all, but Pam, Al, and I told him you might need a minute.’

‘…’

‘Oh, Cas-sie! Mommy Dearest has finally climbed off her broomstick and has demanded your esteemed presence at the dinner table.’

‘Gabe… I- I don’t…’

‘Oh, sh*t. Uh- How’re you feelin’, big bro, cos I gotta say — you’re looking…’

‘Like my insides are on fire and slowly melting in a pool of battery acid?’

‘Well, that’s uncomfortably specific, but sure. You look like your guts are battery soup.’

‘I think I’m dying.’

‘Well… I don’t think you’re dying, Cassie, but, uh- I think you might be going into heat.’

‘I don’t know, Naomi; sometimes things like this just happen.’

‘Not to us, Charles; not in a family like ours. I told you years ago that we should see if we could have had him evaluated, then maybe we could have done something about this. Maybe if you hadn’t let him become so soft.’

‘I’d hardly call Castiel soft… Unusual, perhaps, but not-’

‘Charles, the boy is soft — he’s weak. You don’t see any of the other boys behaving the way he does, and they turned out fine… normal.’

‘I think that might be a little-’

‘Michael is graduating summa cum laude from Brown, and about to join the family business. Lucifer was just voted to be president of his fraternity, and has already spoken to the Lamias about proposing to Lilith next fall. Even Gabriel and Samandriel, though both too young to present, have begun making the type of connections through football and church and scouts and lacrosse… what has Castiel done, besides wasted time with those hooligans you allow him to fraternise with-’

‘You know very well that the Masters and Miltons are decent people-’

‘-filling his head with all sorts of dangerous ideas…’

‘They’re young, Naomi. Young people-’

‘-should be learning how to someday be useful members of society. I don’t know how you think that Castiel and his- his weird clothes and awful friends will someday fit into our circle.’

‘Has it occurred to you, dear, that perhaps it’s Castiel’s reluctance to fit into our circle that is what’s going to make him a useful member of society?

‘…I’m afraid I have some bad news…’

‘…anywhere you and your brothers can go? Any family nearby?’

‘…Lucifer is twenty-one and Castiel just turned eighteen a few weeks ago, but Gabriel and Samandriel are still…’

‘…stay here tonight. I’ll look after them, officer… It’s what our parents would have wanted. Thank you for…’

‘Hey, Casssssss! Where’re Mom and Dad?!’

‘Cassie, I’m so sorry, love. You know Meg and I certainly had our differences with Chuck and Naomi, but…’

‘Listen, Clarence, I know the world is a giant bag of dicks right now, but I swear on whatever’s holy that if you don’t get that pert ass of yours out of this bed and into the damn shower, I’m going to tell Balthazar to give you a sponge bath…’

‘Mr Shurley, I’ll get right to the point — Your parents have named you the executor of their sizeable estate and, frankly, given your young age, I strongly advise you to consider relinquishing control to one of your older brothers. Michael in particular…’

‘What is your name?’

‘C-Castiel. Castiel Sh-Sh-Shurley. Please, I’ll give wh-whatever you want, just pl-’

‘Again.’

‘No, don’t-!’

‘What is your name?’

‘Castiel Shurley!’

‘Again.’

‘Pleas-!’

‘Your name!’

‘Castiel!’

‘Again.’

‘You better get it right this time, omega, because this time I’m not letting you back up. So, what. is. your. name.’

‘I d-don’t- I don’t know, please!’

‘…’

‘Let him up.’

‘I don’t think its breathing is supposed to sound like that…’

‘Well, just tell the night shift to keep an eye on it. If it dies overnight, tell the cleaners to make sure they properly sanitise and use odour-neutraliser the cell this time… The last thing we need is to give the omegas another excuse to become hysterical if they smell death.’

‘See, omega, it doesn’t have to hurt. For good slu*ts who know their place, it can even be downright… pleasant. Just be good.’

‘Please allow me to offer our-’

‘It f*cking bit me! That f*cking whor* bitch! I swear, I ought to-’

‘-our deepest apologies. I can assure you that-’

‘-sue your boss for everything he’s f*cking got.’

‘-the omega will be dealt with swiftly and severely.’

‘… How so?’

‘Bad dogs that bite… get the muzzle. We’ll see what’s left of you once the boss decides what to do with you. Until then, enjoy your little time out in the shed.’

‘Dude, it’s freezing out there! He doesn’t even have anything to cover up with…’

‘Cry me a f*ckin’ river. Do you wanna tell the boss you don’t wanna listen cos you’d rather cry over one of the whor*s needing a blankie?’

‘All clear!’

‘All clear!’

‘All- Oh. One body — male omega. Please advise.’

‘Uh- I think it’s still alive, man.’

‘Oh, come on — look how f*cked up it is. It smells like death in here, dude, there’s no w- Holy sh*t! I need a paramedic and for someone to arrange transport to the DOEA holding centre!’

‘Jesus. It’s gotta be the only survivor in the whole place. Everything else is burnt to a crisp… Damn, it’s almost too bad we found it now ’n not before the place went up in flames… It looks like it coulda been pretty fun before it got all beat to hell.’

‘Ha, maybe that was the fun…’

‘Omega 9180401 — male, approximately twenty-nine years old. Surrendered to Omega Centre 15181105 following the firebomb attack on the alphas’ club, Purgatory, three days ago. Subject was found by first responders in a woodshed on the property during search and rescue and was kept in DOEA holding until this morning. DOEA reports that subject remained unconscious during during external and internal inspection.’

‘That means they got to f*ck ’im, right?’

‘Damnit, Creedy, how many times do I have to tell you to stay shut the f*ck up when I’m recording the damn SOAP note? Now I gotta remember to edit the recording to keep that sh*t off the record.’

‘Yeah, yeah… Hey, think we’re gonna get to f*ck him before they put him down?’

‘For f*ck’s sake — you know that’s up to the boss… but yeah, I’d assume so. I mean… he usually doesn’t have a problem with it…’

‘Has he even had anything to eat while he’s been stuck in this hellhole?’

‘Miss Barnes-’

‘Doctor.’

‘Ah, yes, of course —my apologies. Doctor Barnes, the patient has been unconscious since it-’

‘It?!’

‘-since he was admitted three days ago. Given the patient’s age and physical condition, I believe you’ll find that as the proprietor of this establishment, I am well within my rights to house or dispose of the body as I see fit.’

‘‘The body’?! He’s still alive, you sick piece of crap. Not to mention, I’m pretty damn sure that the last thing your local DOEA rep wants to do on this lovely Sunday morning is come down here to deal with your pompous ass, because you can bet that our lawyer is champing at the bit to drag you through an incredibly long and expensive trial.’

‘Miss Barnes-’

You know damn well it’s Doctor Barnes, Adler. I know you haven’t made it all the way to the end of the alphabet yet, but those letters after my name aren’t just for show-’

‘There’s no need for this type of discourse, Doctor. We’re both civilised human beings here, are we not?’

‘I’m neither a lady nor a Christian, but just for your sake, I’m gonna pretend I am, and refrain from answering that question. But I will tell you that I will rain holy hellfire down upon you and every other lowlife piece of filth in this place if you even think about putting that poor boy down.’

‘He doesn’t speak much, but he’s not a modified mute… Think he’s just a goddamn idiot, to be honest, though if you’d like, we’d be more than happy to perform vocal chord alterations before releasing him — or any other procedures you might be interested in, for that matter. Our on-site doctor is one of the top omega modification specialists in the state.’

‘Abso-f*cking-lutely not- I mean- I like the noises they make when I- uh- you know.’

‘Of course, of course. Well, in that case, let me show you what you can expect from this one. Present, omega!’

‘...’

‘Are you f*cking crazy?! He’s got on metal f*cking handcuffs.’

‘He’s being disobedient.’

‘Mine.’

‘…’

‘… Dean, is he- Is Dean hurt? What- what happened?’

‘Well… he attempted to calm you during what appears to have been a trauma response triggered by the locking mechanism on the automatic doors-’

‘Oh my God.’

‘-and when Dean attempted to physically manoeuvre you into an alternative position-’

‘Oh my God.’

‘-you lashed out and attacked him with-’

‘Is Dean hurt?!’

‘Do you get carsick?’

‘That sh*t is not what you’re here for.’

‘It’s just water, man — I swear.’

‘Just call me Dean.’

‘Do you know how to read?’

‘Hey, Jude… don’t make it bad…’

‘It was my mom’s favourite song.’

‘As long as you’re in this house, you are in charge of how much food goes in your body, capisce?’

‘I made you coffee, if you want it…’

‘I didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Dean is fine. He was able to deflect the blade of the knife with his forearm, and fortunately the lacerations aren’t that deep-’

‘I- I cut him?!’

‘He adamantly states that he’s the one who gave you the knife, and that you both forgot it was on your person… Weapons of any kind are strictly prohibited on the premises, but Dean explained the circ*mstances regarding the knife. You’re not in trouble, Steve-’

‘The- the law- the- l- the law-’

‘The law is stupid and outdated, and not one we follow here.’

‘I-I didn’t mean…’

‘I know — Dean knows. He’s not upset with you at all, he’s just… worried. He cares about you a great deal.’

‘No one is ever, ever gonna hurt you again, but just in case, I want you to be able to protect yourself.’

‘Please.’

‘I want you to be okay… I want… I need for you to be alright.’

‘But… he’s sending me away.’

‘… I’m not sure what you mean.’

‘Dean — he said I was going to stay with him, but then he said it was a mistake and brought me here…’

‘It’s my understanding that Dean asked you if you’d like to come for a visit today to see if you’d like to move in once we have some rooms open up?’

‘I… don’t understand. Dean says he told Miss Charlie that he wanted to keep me, but the following morning decided otherwise.’

‘He said that?’

‘He said he ‘did a sh*tty thing’ when he told her I would continue to live with him, and that he realised it was a mistake and would call her back to let her know.’

‘Well… not to argue, since obviously I wasn’t there, but I didn’t think that’s what Dean meant. He’s been telling my sister that he never should have brought you here, and all he wants is to take you back to his house until you’re feeling better, but that he doesn’t want to make that choice for you — again. He says it has to be up to you.’

‘He- he wants me to tell him where I’m going to live? I- I can’t.’

‘Steve. It sounds to me like you know what it is you want. All you have to do is ask for it.’

‘I… Slaves aren’t- We don’t want, we just are, until our masters decide we aren’t. Then we’re sold. It- it isn’t my place to-’

‘If not your place, then whose?’

‘…’

‘If you’re thinking Dean Winchester’s, well- I love the guy like an older brother — or maybe a slightly disastrous cousin — and he’s a good guy, but the dude has zero sense of self-preservation — or common sense, for that matter. If you told him you liked his shirt, he’d cut off his arm and take the shirt off his back to give to you, and you’d be standing there like- dude, all I wanted was to know where you bought it.’

‘Dean does seem very… invested in the wellbeing of those he cares about.’

‘It’s more than that… Now, you will, unfortunately, never have the pleasure of getting to know John Winchester, but let me tell you — he was a great man, but not necessarily always a good one. He brought Dean and Sam up to be soldiers, because he said it was their duty, all three of them, because they were born alphas. Now, we could argue that the end justifies the means — Dean and Sam have done more good for this world than anyone else I know, but, at least in Dean’s case, it’s because he thinks that that is the only thing he has to offer, and that anything less than going above and beyond is complacency with an unjust system…. So what is it that you want, Steve? If you could have one thing in the entire world right now, what would it be?’

‘I’m a goddamn Disney friggin’ princess.’

‘…’

‘Okay, fair —that one’s probably a bit too broad to start. Let’s look at it this way: when you picture happiness — or even just contentment — where do you see yourself? What are you doing? Who are you with? Rather than setting goals way in the outfield, I prefer to start smaller, maybe teach you to scoop up a few grounders before we try to go pro.’

‘… Is that some sort of sports reference?’

‘Baseball — America’s favourite past-time, honey. In college, it was a toss-up between a baseball scholarship and studying psychology. I’ll let you guess which one won out… and while you’re pondering that mystery, maybe let’s circle back around and consider where it is you can see yourself experiencing happiness.’

‘I was… I wasn’t happy at Dean’s, but… I thought I could have been, maybe. I- I thought that we were… I felt safe. Or I was beginning to, anyway. It was… kind of good. It felt almost like- like being a real person again.’

‘You are a real person. And sometimes good things do happen… It’s going to be okay, Steve. No one would ever force you to into any sort of position you’re not comfortable in, so please don’t worry.’

‘It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. We’re gonna get you out of here, don’t you worry.’

‘You’re a person, and you matter. And you deserve to be saved.’

Chapter 19: stained-glass truth

Chapter Text

‘Alicia, I’m tellin’ ya, man- he just… dropped,’ Dean says, running a hand through his hair, the mental image of Steve kneeling and trembling at his feet haunting him. ‘’N I didn’t know anything about it until I turned to look at ’im and realised he wasn’t there. God, what kind of piece of sh*t am I that I didn’t even realise the guy was on the f*cking floor-’

‘You did notice, though, Dean. And trust me — that means a lot more than you think it does,’ Alicia says with an exasperated sigh, interrupting the litany of verbal abuse Dean’s been directing at himself for the past twenty minutes with her customary sunshiney, look on the brighter side nonsense.

(Of course Alicia would say that the fact that Dean noticed at all meant so much as a single good goddamn, because Alicia is nothing, if not an optimist. She’s smart as a whip — possibly even more so than Sammy — but the one place she doesn’t have genius-level insight is when it comes to seeing more than just the silver lining of sh*t. Despite everything, Alicia is hopelessly positive, finding the good in every situation, until it would start to seem like maybe there was never any problem in the first place.)

Dean, on the other hand, doesn’t just see what went wrong, but he analyses each scenario so thoroughly that he also makes it a priority to figure out where and why as well, because it’s the only way he’s been able to cope with going through the hard sh*t. It had to mean something, because otherwise… what’s the f*cking point?

It’s pretty hard to figure out what the f*cking point is at the moment, though, because he’s currently laid out on a cot in the medical wing per Pam’s (well, and Charlie, Ellen, Bobby, and Sam’s) orders to stay put while she checked on Steve and got supplies to treat Dean’s ‘injuries’, which is an over-exaggeration if he’s ever heard one.

(Even though he’d tried arguing that nothing really bad had happened, so they could probably skip both the medical exam and incident report, all five of them had (accurately) pointed out that 1: he’s an idiot, and 2: considering that the whole thing had been caught on the lodge’s security cameras, not having an officially documented record of everything risked leading to more problems down the line.)

In his present invalided state, Alicia seems as though she’s towering over him, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes narrowed in the perfect imitation of her mother, and for all of ten seconds, Dean’s half-inclined to sit up straight and mind his manners like he does for Ms Tasha. A moment later, however, she does some twirling, curly-q business with a pen and her hair, seeming to magic it up, off her neck and into some kind of twisty bun thing, just like she used to when she was a teenager, and all Dean can see is the second little sister he never wanted — after Jo, of course — and he already knows he’s never gonna win against this one.

Still, he has a reputation to maintain, so he glares up at her and scowls. ‘How much can it f*ckin’ mean if the dude still hit the deck like he was- like he expected me to- like he-’

Even though his stubbornness might be fake, his reaction to these words is not. He can’t even finish the thought, both because it’s too horrible to even say out loud, but also because his breath has started coming in sharp, short bursts, and he realises he is skirting the edge of a really embarrassing breakdown again.

Instead, he focuses back on Alicia and opens his mouth whether to continue, or maybe to change the subject altogether, he’s not sure, but he makes the mistake of looking her in the eyes and something about the look in them gives him pause.

It’s pain, and empathy, and sadness, and… pain.

Dean’s reminded all over again that Alicia — and her twin brother, Max, for that matter — would know better than anyone how harshly the world treats omegas, given that their mother, Tasha, had been the first rescue that Dean had been a part of, back before The Roadhouse was even so much as a dream.

John had been on his quest for vengeance over Mary’s death, having finally decided to permanently dump Dean and Sam at Bobby’s. He’d blown into Sioux Falls the day after Dean’s high school graduation, demanding Dean come with him and not ask questions, and like a good soldier, Dean had obeyed.

During the drive, John had filled him in on the rumours he’d heard about a female omega being held captive and used as ‘entertainment’ at a creepy as hell inn in River Rock, Wyoming. He’d been given reason to believe that the same alpha who’d murdered Mary was behind the disappearance and so, together, father and son made their way to the Mountain Slumber Boarding House.

It had been… f*cking horrible. When the bound and naked woman had been shoved into the room John and Dean had rented, the scent of her fear and despair was so thick sickening that Dean found himself retching into the kitchenette sink while his father spoke with her in hushed urgency to see what she knew about her captors.

Whatever source it was that had provided John with the information on the inn had, unfortunately, been wrong — this operation was in no way connected with the bastard John was searching for — but in the end it didn’t matter. Even though there was no connection to Dean’s family, the omega, Tasha, was someone’s family, and in that moment, he knew they couldn’t leave her behind.

The thing about being an ex-firefighter, is a certain know-how about the most effective way for a building to be reduced to ash. Dean, John, and Tasha had walked away from the blaze, never turning back a single time.

Dean had only been twenty-one, but he’ll never forget the way Max and Alicia had clung to their mother that moment they were first reunited. It had made him ache for everything he would never have, but also lit a fire in his belly that has been his driving force since.

‘I’m gonna need you to take a breath, Winchester. As fun as erotic asphyxiation can be, we just don’t have that kind of time,’ Dean hears Alicia say, shaking him from his internal musings and memories.

He rolls his eyes. ‘f*ck off, Banes.’ The urge to ruffle her hair like an obnoxious older brother is so real in that moment, but he manages to resist.

‘That’s Dr Banes, thanks,’ Alicia retorts primly, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her blouse and giving Dean her best ‘stuffy grown up’ look as she calls it, peering down her nose at him, as though watching him through little granny spectacles.

‘Right. f*ck off, Doctor Banes,’ Dean concedes, laughing and ruffling her hair anyway while they wait for Pamela’s return.

‘Winchester, do you have a single working braincell in that pretty little head of yours?!’ Pamela grouses, wiping an antiseptic pad across the cut on Dean’s forearm. ‘I don’t know what to beat your ass for first — giving a traumatised omega a knife, forgetting that you gave a traumatised omega a knife, re-traumatising said traumatised omega, or all of the above!’

‘Ow, Pam, f*ck!’ Dean grits out, instinctively shying away from the sting of the antiseptic. Pam rolls her eyes, muttering something about man-baby alphas under her breath. ‘Listen — ain’t nothin’ you could say to me that I haven’t already said to myself about a hundred times over, and probably with a few more ‘stupid f*cking idiot’s than you could manage.’

‘Don’t sound so sure about that,’ Pam replies crossly. ‘I’m pretty sure I could manage to give you a run for your money this time.’

‘I guess, that’s fair,’ Dean wisely agrees, wincing again when Pam starts applying the Steri-Strips to the cut, glad the stupid thing wasn’t deep enough to require stitches.

True to style, Pamela just shoots him another unimpressed look and returns to her task, not even needing to voice her irritation. Dean is the one at the centre of this particular sh*t show, and they both know it. She mutely sets the cut on his arm with the Steri-Strips, but it’s a weird, uncomfortable silence, and Dean’s not sure what to make of it — if Pam’s pissed at him for being an idiot, or openly admitting to being an idiot.

Not knowing begins to bother him so much that for a split-second, he’s grateful to see Alicia reentering the room, but that feeling of relief is short-lived, because a moment later, they apparently decide to tag-team his self-loathing, and begin spewing earnest hearts and butterflies (Alicia) and razor-sharp, inarguable facts (Pam).

(It honestly makes his stressed out head spin, how quickly the two doctors are able to shoulder right through his bullsh*t and defences and find just the right spot in the gut to give him a good kick under the guise of compliments and reassurances.)

‘Whoa, whoa, whoa!’ he says, holding his hands up, as though that might be at all sufficient at shielding him from the shrapnel from their well-intentioned praise-grenade. ‘Ladies,’ he waits for them to both glare at him before correcting himself. ‘I mean- Doctors.’ Pamela’s lips twitch, like she’s trying extra hard to maintain her indignant expression. Dean grins. ‘I appreciate the… support, but let’s be real, guys — I f*cked up. I know it, you two know it… Bobby ’n Ellen ’n Charlie ’n Sammy know it. I’m pretty sure Jody’ll find out about it any second now, if she hasn’t already, not to mention Steve sure as hell knows it. I never shoulda forgotten ’bout the door thing — that’s like- Roadhouse Etiquette 101.’

‘Which you wouldn’t have taken, seeing as you’re not a part of the rehabilitation and reintegration phase,’ Alicia argues, hands on her hips, while Pamela gives him a pointed look in agreement. ‘The omegas you’re accustomed to interacting with here are all much further along in their recovery than a new intake. Usually by the time you meet the residents, they’ve had months of therapy, so even when there is an issue, they have a support system in place that they trust to help them through it.’

‘Still,’ Dean says, stubbornly. ‘After- after everything my dad taught me, I shoulda-’

‘Your father — rest his soul and bless his heart — had his own unique way of interacting with omegas. In some ways, his views on omegas directly mirrored those he was rallying against, only instead of seeing them as inferior and meant to be subjugated, your father saw them as needing to be shielded and protected, by any means necessary. They’re two sides of the same coin, my friend.’ Pamela pats Dean’s arm sympathetically, somehow managing to make the gesture seem comforting, rather than condescending. ‘Respecting omegas means respecting who they are, not what they are, treating them the same as you would if they were an alpha or beta.’ She shrugs. ‘So go ahead and feel bad, cos we all know there’s no stoppin’ that, but don’t go falling down that rabbit hole into Winchesterland, where everything is black and white and usually your fault.’

Now it’s Dean’s turn to laugh, and even though it feels a little tinny and hollow, he feels the tiniest bit better. Thankfully, it’s enough to turn the tides for him, because Pamela finishes checking him over and declares him medically sound, and his impromptu therapy session with Alicia wraps up surprisingly quickly after he promises to followup with her brother, Max, Dean’s usual therapist.

The other stipulation of his early release was that he had to promise that he wouldn’t go bursting into the medical wing to check on Steve like every bone in his body is screaming at him to do. Logically, he knows that this is the right call — the last thing Steve needs is for a stressed out, emotional alpha to come crashing into his checkup/therapy session — but primally… he finds himself eyeing Alicia where she stands between him and the door, assessing if he could bully his way past her.

(Fortunately, his common sense pipes up for once and reminds him that she could easily have him flat on his back within seconds, so he reluctantly agrees.)

Unfortunately, this means that once Alicia tells him he’s free to go, he has to find something to occupy himself with until Steve and Max wrap up their discussion, other than prowling back and forth in front of the entrance to the medical wing, like a feral beast guarding its omega lair.

Lucky — or possibly unlucky, considering the look on her face — for him, though, a distraction comes in the form of Jody Mills, angel of serendipity and common sense, when she all but runs into him during his twelfth lap up and down the corridor. Judging by the purposeful way she’s walking, he’d put money on guessing she’d been on her way to see him.

‘Dean,’ she greets him evenly, and if her gait hadn’t been enough to convince Dean she’d heard about his massive f*ckup already, her tone sure as sh*t is. ‘How we doin’?’

‘Dumb as hell, Jodes,’ he answers truthfully.

‘Hm,’ she says, tone neutral, which is Jody-speak for yep, you done f*cked up. ‘Well, don’t you sound like a ray of sunshine, sunshine. Well. Before you decided to give a new intake a weapon, bring him on-property, and try take him into a restricted area of the lodge, how was it goin’?’

Dean winces at her wry tone and harsh words. Even though he can tell she’s not mad, she’s definitely got Disappointed Mom energy coming off of her in waves. ‘Goin’, Jodes,’ he replies half-heartedly. ‘Just gettin’ ready to rejoin the rat race.’

‘Hey now, watch who you’re callin’ a rat,’ she retorts, though he can hear the note of concern in her voice. ‘Walk with me to my office, okay?’

Dean nods, following her in silence down several long hallways (though no automatic doors, he notes bitterly), until they make it to her office. Jody ushers Dean inside, nodding at him to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. She closes the door behind them, then crosses the room to sit down, not behind her desk, but in the chair next to Dean’s.

‘So… Anything you wanna talk about, kid?’ she asks, reaching for a cup of coffee on her desk that’s obviously gone cold. She grimaces as she takes a sip.

‘What do you think.’ Dean’s words come out flat, not even the slightest hint of a question, because, again — they both know what’s what.

Jody sighs, setting the mug back down. ‘Listen- We all know you didn’t mean for anything bad to happen. Trauma is a pain in the ass — it’s different from person to person, and even then, a reaction to something today might be totally different than the reaction to the same thing tomorrow. Is it something you probably should have known? Well, yes, but also, it’s not something you’re used to having to consider, since you’re not around the newer residents, and the ones you do interact with are much closer to moving out, so they’ve already started therapy and whatnot, so it’s not exactly surprising you forgot.’ She shrugs. ‘Not to mention, I bet it’s not something you’ll ever forget again, so at least you learned something from it.’

‘Yeah, at the expense of Steve,’ Dean retorts, guilt making him queasy again. ‘Dude, he was even more afraid then, than he was on the first day. I told y’all that he was better off with anyone other than me.’

‘Is that why you made the unilateral decision to move him in here?’ Jody asks, and even though the words are spoken in earnest, to Dean, they feel like a blow to the chest.

‘The f*ck?’ he asks, shaking his head a little, like he thinks that might make things make more sense. ‘Dude, I didn’t decide anything for the guy — I asked him if he wanted to live here instead of with me, ’n he said he did.’

‘I just had a chat with Max, and he says that Steve seems to think he’s being sent, and that you brought him here today to stay,’ Jody informs him gravely. ‘Max says he seemed pretty distraught at the idea, but that he didn’t believe he had any right to protest.’

‘What?!’ This is all news to Dean, and it’s this wonderful-horrible moment of being so close to the thing he wants, but knowing that it’s not the right thing for Steve.

‘He told Max he was being sent away,’ Jody repeats, sighing. ‘Kiddo, I’d originally planned on giving you hell for trying to keep a resident at your house instead of bringing him to the lodge, but now…’ She trails off, bringing her hand to her chin, fist pressed against her mouth, The Thinker style, and sighs again.

‘I ain’t kicking him out, Jody, I asked him if he wanted to stay or go, and — big shock — he wanted to go. Dunno why he thought today was drop-off day, though… I told him there isn’t a bed opening up here for another few weeks.’ Dean runs a hand through his hair while Jody continues to study him. It drags on for so long, that his patience finally snaps, and he says angrily, ‘And even if I did decide to bring him here myself, I don’t get what the hell the big deal is anyway. We all knew this was temporary ’n that if sh*t hadn’t been so f*cked in the first place, I would’ve never had to bring him h- to my house.’ He cuts himself off before he can say he brought Steve home, because the want in his chest when he thinks that hurts. He only hopes that Jody doesn’t notice.

Of-f*cking-course she does, though, because she’s Jody-f*cking-Mills, demon of observation and painful truths.

‘Oh, honey,’ is all she says, but she packs enough knowing into those two words, that it slams Dean into every overly-defensive reactionary instinct he has.

‘For f*ck’s sake. It’s not like that,’ he snaps, but his protests sound hollow even to his own ears. He sighs now, too, and adds quietly, ‘I don’t want it to be like that.’

It’s painful to admit, but the things is: it’s pain either way. It hurts to want, and it hurt to not want to want. Dean just can’t win.

Well, ain’t that the story of his f*ckin’ life.

‘Would it really be the worst thing in the world?’ Jody asks, shocking the ever loving sh*t out of Dean. It must show on his face, because she rolls her eyes and elaborates, ‘I meant once things settle, once Steve gets his bearings and has a chance to heal. Some day, a long way down the road, would it really be that awful if you were to, you know — become closer?’

‘Are you sh*tting me right now?’ Dean asks, incredulous. ‘Jodes, can you really not see the hundred and one ways that’s f*cked up? I can’t believe-’

He cuts himself off before he can say something like you of all people would say that, because even though he might be an asshole, but he’s not that much of an asshole. They’ve all been affected by how f*cked up the world is for omegas in one way or another, have all lost something, but Jody… Jody’s lost everything.

‘Dean,’ Jody says, quiet and serious, the pain in her voice hitting Dean right in the chest. ‘If Owen had…’ She swallows hard and tries again. ‘If Owen had gotten the chance to grow up, I would have wanted him to find someone who would love him, respect him. Who would have seen him as a man before an omega. Who would protect him and allow himself to be protected by him. Isn’t that what we all want for the people we care about?’

‘Well, yeah, but I don’t see what that has to do with-’

‘Isn’t that what you want for Steve?’ she presses, her tone steely and determined now. ‘Even as a friend — don’t you want him to be loved and respected and cared for? Because I have to say, kiddo,’ she smiles now, and even though it’s a heavy, haunted thing, it still eases some of Dean’s whirling, guilty thoughts, ‘the Dean Winchester I know would never give him anything less, so how could that ever be a bad thing?’

Dean’s quiet for once a moment, his discomfort at Jody’s earnest compliments at war with how much he wishes he could believe her. ‘Ain’t like that,’ he says finally, staring down at his hands in his lap. ‘You know what happened with me ’n Lisa… I can’t let someone else down like that. I- I can’t let Steve down like that. After everything the guy’s been through, I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I ended up just being one more disappointment. Dude’s been let down enough.’ He sighs. ‘Can we talk about somethin’ else now?’

Jody looks like she very much wants to continue to argue her Dean Winchester and His Eternal Inability to Feel the Feelings thesis, but she surprisingly relents and says instead, ‘Alrighty. Well, wherever our new friend might end up, either way, I think it’ll do him some good to see what The Roadhouse is all about… maybe get to meet some other omegas, or see if any of the vocational training appealed to him. If he feels up to it, possibly even meet with Benny again to put together a reintegration plan, that kind of thing.’ She pauses, then says, ‘But I’m gonna put the Mom Hat on for a minute and say… you really have to see what Steve wants first. If it turns out that he does want to keep living with you off campus, I’ll sign off on the exception paperwork myself.’

‘Jody…’ Dean doesn’t have words to express all the batsh*t crazy emotions swooping through his chest, but he doesn’t seem to need to, because Jody’s phone rings then, shattering the moment, and letting Dean off the emotionally constipated hook.

It quickly becomes obvious that it’s not going to be a quick call (it sounds like something having to do with the clusterf*ck with the auction house in Tallahassee that he makes a mental note to ask about later), so after a minute or two, Dean gives Jody a gentle tap on the shoulder and gestures towards the door.

She nods, but reaches over to give his hand a squeeze before he leaves, and he walks out of her office, feeling a hell of a lot lighter than he did when he entered, and he kind of loves Jody for it.

Dean makes his way back through the lodge to the first set of automatic doors that section his office’s corridor off from everything else. He swipes his access card, then closes his eyes as he steps through, trying to feel what Steve must have felt when they’d been there only an hour earlier, but he knows any horror he might be able to conjure in his mind has nothing on what Steve’s lived through.

He opens his eyes, ignores the chemical scent of disinfectant stinking up the place from where someone had to clean his blood from the floor, and swipes himself through the second set of doors once the first ones are fully closed, then repeats the process for the third and final doors.

His office is pretty close to the start of the corridor, so he’s walking through the open door to it on autopilot before he realises that something isn’t right. The door should not only be closed, but also locked, accessible only by staff with the necessary security clearance to get in.

There’s the rustling of movement behind him, and Dean’s whipping around, teeth bared, hand flying for the weapon he’s not carrying, but then he catches sight of the intruder.

It’s friggin’ Steve kneeling in the centre of his office, head bowed, both hands extended, palms up. As Dean nears, he realises that balanced carefully in the omega’s outstretched hands, is Dad’s old pocketknife.

Chapter 20: complicated mammals

Chapter Text

It takes some convincing, but eventually Castiel is able to persuade Dr Banes to take him to Dean’s office. The beta tries assuring him that Dean doesn’t intend to take physical retribution on Castiel, despite it being his legal right, but it’s just- it’s something that Castiel needs to prove — either to himself, or for Dean to prove for himself. He doesn’t know why this is so vitally important to him, only that it is.

Thankfully, Dr Banes seems to understand this without having to suffer through Castiel’s fumbling, inadequate explanations, making Castiel wonder if it’s a situation that has come up before with other omegas who live here.

He’s not sure if learning he’s not the only one who’s this particular brand of f*cked up would make him feel better or worse.

Either way, Dr Banes leads Castiel through the building, until they’re back at the corridor he and Dean had been about to enter when everything had gone to hell.

‘Are you really sure you wanna go through with this, Steve?’ Dr Banes asks for what feels like the hundredth time while he waits for Castiel to stop next to him. ‘Dean, well- I’m not sure he’s going to really even know what you’re trying to do, much less expect it.’

‘I’m sure,’ Castiel answers more confidently than he feels. He swallows, wets his lips, then swallows again before nodding to Dr Banes. The doctor swipes his access card and the first set of electronic doors grind open.

Someone has been through to clean out the area, he notices, as there’s only the faintest traces of his own panicked desperation remaining, and the blood (Dean’s blood, he thinks to himself, feeling anxious all over again) has been cleaned up, replaced with the chemical scent of sanitiser.

The urge to drop to his knees all over again is almost impossibly strong, but Castiel manages to remain upright by sheer force of will. Dr Banes places a reassuring hand on his lower back while they wait for the first doors to close so they can open the next. The floor of the small space rumbles a little as the doors close, making Castiel feel like he is going to vibrate out of his skin.

‘Forwards or backwards, Steve?’ Dr Banes asks, making a this way or that way gesture with the hand holding his access card.

Castiel locks his knees and squares his shoulders. ‘F-forwards. Please,’ he adds hastily.

Dr Banes nods, and slides his card to let them through the second set of doors. Castiel feels the same initial panic, but it’s shorter than the first or second times, and feels less all-consuming. Distantly, he realises that this must mean that his subconscious has decided that these Roadhouse people are trustworthy, and for a moment, he wonders if this means he’s becoming comfortable or just becoming stupid.

The third and final set of doors slide open a moment later after a questioning glance from Dr Banes and a curt nod from Castiel, and then, finally, they’re back in a normal corridor, making Castiel wonder briefly what on Earth must be so special about this section of The Roadhouse that it needs all this amped up security.

The question is quickly eclipsed by Dr Banes pulling up short in front of a door at the beginning of the hallway with a nameplate D WINCHESTER. It’s a stupid thought, but Castiel realises that this is the first time he’s seen his master’s name in print.

It’s a nice one, as far as surnames go, and before he can stop himself, his brain starts idly considering how ‘Castiel’ and ‘Winchester’ sound together. He finds he doesn’t half hate it, and that if Dean had been the type of master who forced their slaves to take their surname, it certainly isn’t the worst combination he’s ever heard.

He shakes his head to clear that complete nonsense from it, not only because it doesn’t matter, since everyone’s made it clear that Dean is not truly his master, but more so because he knows that even if Dean was, he doesn’t seem like the type to want to rewrite their slave’s entire identity.

The realisation thing that hits him is a bit more sobering, which is, even if — for whatever reason — Castiel were to change his name to Winchester (or anything else for that matter), it wouldn’t be renaming ‘Castiel Shurley,’ it would be changing ‘Steve Allen’.

He’s not quite sure why that’s hitting him so hard right now, but something about it must show on his face, because Dr Banes is staring at him, the look on his face implying he’s waiting for Castiel to answer a question or something.

‘Apologies,’ Castiel says quickly, face flushing. ‘I was… not paying attention.’ The urge to brace for punishment is strong, but he resists. Dr Banes just shrugs.

‘No worries,’ he says, nonplussed. ‘I was just saying that it looks like the boss’s still out ’n about somewhere, so we can either wait in his office, or come back later.’

Castiel eyes the closed office door, then glances over his shoulder to look back at the automatic doors. He doesn’t know that his nerves can take going back out through them again, only to have to turn around and do it all over again at some unknown time in the future.

‘Are we, uhm- allowed in Dean’s office if he’s not with us?’ he asks cautiously. ‘I don’t want anyone to think…’

(He’s not sure what they might think in a place like this, but in previous masters’ care, he could have been accused of anything from trying to steal something, to trying to plot an assassination attempt by some of the more paranoid ones. He’d learned very quickly to never be caught snooping — or even in an innocent scenario in which someone might so much as think you were snooping.)

‘Dean gave me the code a long time ago,’ Dr Banes says, shrugging again. ‘He’s really big on the whole mi casa su casa thing, so, yeah- I think everyone’s randomly hung out here for one reason or another over the years.’

‘Okay,’ Castiel says, still slightly uncomfortable, but the lock disengages when Dr Banes types a code into the keypad next to the door, so he supposes that must mean that Dean must’ve given his permission at some point, at the very least.

Castiel steps into Dean’s office, sparing it what was meant to be a brief glance around, but he soon realises how very closely it resembles the Dean Cave back at Dean’s house, and he finds himself distracted by taking in all the small hints of Dean that decorate the space.

There are some smaller movie posters in frames, as well as several display cases full of small toy cars. Castiel estimates there must be at least a hundred, not only displayed in the designated cases, but also stuck between or on top of books and other knick knacks on the many shelves, or lined up atop the frames of pictures and posters and one giant whiteboard/bulletin board covered in post-it notes.

When Castiel approaches the board, he sees that even the sticky notes have Hot Wheels cars printed on them, and that some appear to have been there for quite some time, based on the slight fading of the red, and yellow logo. They say things like MTG W CK @ 1300, 29 APR, or CALL EH RE: JH BELATED BDAY, or COWBOY THING, HIST CHAN 01 MAY @ 2100.

The use of the military-style date and time in these memos does not go unnoticed, and Castiel wonders if that has something to do with what Dr Banes had mentioned about Dean and his brother being raised ‘like soldiers’.

(Some make no sense whatsoever, with just a few words that seem unrelated, like CUP (with no mention of what type of cup, or what it did) or CHARLIE — WTF? or (Castiel’s personal favourite) FIX BROKEN THING, FFS, making Castiel smile, despite himself. He’d bet more than anything that they were thanks to Dean having a random thought, then switching subjects before it could fully form, and imagines how frustrated the man likely is when trying to decipher the meaning at a later date.)

Castiel is just about to turn away when one of the newer-looking notes with far more words crammed onto it than the others catches his eye. He reads:

BUY FOR SA — BEFORE 06 MAY

CLOTHES
-SOCKS
-UNDERWEAR — ASK CB RE: BOXERS/ BRIEFS?
-HOODIES — 3-4?
-T-SHIRTS?
-SWEATPANTS — 3-4?
-SHOES? — SIZE?

FOOD
-OATMEAL?
-CRACKERS?
-PASTA — IS TOMATO SAUCE OK?
-WHAT SNACKS R OK?
JUST ASK PB, YOU IDIOT!!!!

OTHER sh*t TO REMEMBER
-TOOTHBRUSH
-TOOTHPASTE
-SHAMPOO
-SOAP/SHOWER GEL?
-DO PPL RLY USE CONDITIONER?
-(ASK SOMEONE NOT SAM)
-SCENTED? SCENT-FREE? SCENT NEUTRALIZING?
-SHEETS/BLANKETS
-BOOKS? MOVIES?
-NEW COLLAR — NO AR CHIP —HAVE CB CONFIRM

The lists are crammed into every spare inch of the paper, some written sideways to fit, and with several crossed out words and notes to himself that Dean wrote within the note to himself. There are several pin holes at the top, like Dean had taken it on and off the board several times.

This tangible proof of how much thought Dean had put into his arrival makes Castiel feel as though he’s at the top of a roller coaster — that scared, exhilarated, conflicting anticipation deep in his gut — and he doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

He flinches at the last note, though — he’s assuming ‘AR CHIP’ means the GPS tracking collars designed by Angel Radio Corp that sync with the microchip every slave has implanted in their arm. It’s those damn collars that have made escaping virtually impossible for slaves. The fact that Dean was so diligent about avoiding them when they make up the majority of the collars on the market does something strange to Castiel, coupling with the electric current he felt coursing through him a moment ago and making him feel like something is fluttering in his stomach, or glowing warmly in his chest.

He’s so lost in thought, that he forgets he’s not alone until Dr Banes clears his throat. Castiel whips around to find him, arms folded, leaning in the doorway, watching Castiel read through Dean’s notes to himself.

‘My sister just texted and said Dean left her office a while ago, so I’m guessing he should be back pretty soon,’ Dr Banes informs him, abruptly reminding Castiel why he’s there in the first place. ‘I can wait here with you.’

Mulling the offer over, now that he remembers what he’ actually here for, Castiel steps away from the bulletin board and begins pacing around the room, trying to find a spot that feels right. He tries not to think about how much he must look like a cat trying to find the perfect place to lounge.

‘I appreciate it, but… I believe this is something I should do alone,’ Castiel says, trying to sound less nervous than he feels. ‘May I, uhm- May I have the knife?’ he asks one he finds an acceptable spot.

He sinks to his knees to distract him from his discomfort, reminding him of when he was younger and would ask his parents for something he knew they wouldn’t want to allow, and the fight that would inevitably follow. He subconsciously braces himself for disappointment, as well as the possibility of being reprimanded for asking for something that seems almost obscene or just wrong.

Sure enough, Dr Banes hesitates, observing Castiel with shrewd, narrowed eyes, but he finally sighs and nods, slipping a hand into the pocket of his jeans and pulling out Dean’s old pocketknife.

Before he releases his grip on it, however, he holds on for an extra second and looks Castiel right in his eyes. ‘You have to promise me you’re not going to use this to hurt yourself of anyone else.’

Shame floods Castiel. He’s never been someone anyone ever had to worry about being a danger to others, but he supposes he should consider himself lucky that this seems to be the only he’s facing so far. If he’d done something like that back in Purgatory, he would have probably been exterminated on the spot.

(As it was, the last client he’d had to service in Purgatory had used him so roughly and without care that at once point he’d had to bite the man to get him to allow Castiel air, and it had been that act that had gotten him locked in the woodshed as punishment.

In hindsight, it had also been the act that had saved his life, though at the time, it had seemed like an almost deadly mistake.)

‘I won’t hurt anyone,’ he promises quietly, eyes downcast. ‘Though you have no reason to believe me, I- I’m not a violent person, I swear.’

‘I believe you,’ Dr Banes says, and if he’s lying, then he’s one hell of a liar. ‘This isn’t my first rodeo.’

Pushing his luck, Castiel can’t help but ask, ‘How? If they don’t- If you all don’t follow the retribution/absolution law here, then how…?’

‘My mom,’ Dr Banes answers simply, giving Castiel a sad, wry smile. ‘She… She’s been through some sh*t. After we finally got her back — thanks to Dean and his old man, by the way —I saw how- how hard it was to her to- to unlearn certain things. The whole ‘retribution’ thing was one of the things that used to really bug my dad… he’s an alpha, but, like… the most un-alpha-like dude ever — except maybe the Winchester brothers, come to think of it. But he hated that she felt the need to offer to let him hurt her before asking for forgiveness. He never did, of course — he never would — but it took a hell of a lot of time and effort to get her to a spot where she didn’t feel the need to offer at all.’

Castiel thinks he understands this. He himself never really had to go through the motions of offering his masters the chance to hurt in in retaliation for perceived misdeeds, both because most of them were more than happy to take it upon themselves to come up with more creative punishments, but also because he’d never cared if they forgave him before.

(The law is an archaic one, basically stating that if an omega harms their alpha, the alpha is legally allowed to repay the omega in kind ‘up to five times the original damage’. At a glance, it’s not a law that changes too much about an omega’s — especially an omega slave’s — circ*mstance, considering more often than not, their alpha could do whatever they wanted with them without consequence anyway. In modern times, all it’s done has been give abusive knotheads an out for when they grievously harm or kill an omega by simply claiming that the omega acted against them first.)

In Castiel’s particular circ*mstance, he’s going to offer Dean the chance for payback with the pocketknife, and it’s so risky that it’s actually stupid. If Dean turns out to not be the person Castiel suspects him of being, he’s pretty sure he’s about to offer the alpha the opportunity to put him in the ground.

He tries not to think of that, and instead pictures the man who sings constantly, seemingly just to fill the silence, or who’s incapable of a single conversation that doesn’t include a fond, familial anecdote. The man who growled and claimed ownership over Castiel, just to get the guards at the omega centre to stop hurting him. The man who repeatedly turned down Castiel’s offer for sexual relief, and who’d told him he was allowed to eat whenever and as much or as little as he wanted. Surely that man isn’t looking for an excuse to spill Castiel’s blood.

‘If you’re sure…’ Dr Banes doesn’t look entirely convinced, but he doesn’t push, for which Castiel is grateful. ‘I’ll be just down the hall, then… My dad’s office is in this corridor, too. He works security,’ he explains when he sees Castiel’s surprised expression, and chuckles. ‘My mom even volunteers a few afternoons a month to run a yoga and meditation class… guess you could say it’s something of a family business, considering there’s a ton of families who all work here.’

‘That’s lovely,’ Castiel responds honestly. ‘It seems as though this is a wonderful place to be involved with.’

‘It really is,’ Dr Banes agrees, then raps his knuckles twice against the door and says, ‘Okay, listen. If you’re really sure this is what you want to do, and that you don’t want me to stay with you, I’ll be off, but if you need me, Dad’s office is right down the hall — the last door on the right, alright?’

Castiel nods, and Dr Banes departs after wishing him luck. He looks down at the knife, still folded closed and clutched in his hand, and thinks about how strange it is, that this one simple item appears unchanged, when it had been such an integral component of the gigantic f*cking clusterf*ck that Castiel finds himself in the middle of.

Upon closer inspection, Castiel does notice one difference, and it’s one that makes his stomach turn. There’s a tiny dot of dried blood on the handle, caught in one of the lines making up the W in the JW engraving.

It’s Dean’s blood.

It’s the blood of a man who’s done nothing but try his best to make Castiel feel… like a person again.

Guilt swarms Castiel, and he thinks back to that first night he’d been with Dean — could it really only be two days ago? A part of him feels as though he’s know Dean his entire life, though that isn’t quite right either, because somehow he feels that if he had known Dean all this time, his life would have turned out very differently.

But what he’s thinking of now is how he’d come so close to making the worst mistake of his entire life, when he’d been thinking of using a knife to threaten Dean on purpose. He’d honestly even gone so far as to consider whether or not he could have killed him if it meant being one step closer to freedom, and here he is now, having accidentally injured the alpha, and getting ready to beg for forgiveness.

Castiel is so engrossed in these deep, dark, depressing thoughts, that when he hears approaching footsteps, he almost doesn’t compute what that means until Dean walks through the open door, clearly distracted. The moment he realises he’s not alone, however, the entire atmosphere of the room shifts. If Castiel dared move his gaze from his master, he’s nearly positive he’d see his arms covered in goosebumps from the sudden electric-charged tension radiating out from Dean.

Half a breath later, Dean whips around to face Castiel, and for the first time, Castiel can see the fearsome alpha he’d always suspected Dean to be. The last thing Castiel should want to do is to give this man the opportunity to friggin’ maim him, but he still raises his hands and extends them towards his master anyway, palms open.

‘Forgive me for- for raising a hand to you, Alpha,’ Castiel says, voice and hands trembling slightly. ‘I should not have- have done… any of it. Dr Banes insisted you don’t follow the, uhm- the retribution/absolution law, but, uhm-’ he extends his hands further in Dean’s direction, even though all he wants is to hide the knife up his sleeve again and retreat, ‘but I- I want you to know that I would understand if you, uhm- if you wanted-’

He makes the mistake of glancing up at Dean’s face while he speaks, his heart sinking when he sees that Dean’s expression is unreadable as he just stands there, observing Castiel while he tries very hard not to completely f*cking prostrate himself before the alpha again. It takes every ounce of self-control that he has, but he forces himself to remain still and not pull back a single inch, not even when Dean crosses the room and crouches down in front of him so they’re eye to eye.

‘Steve, I will never — never — hurt you,’ he says, his voice low and serious, but there’s a waver in it, a vulnerability that seems to reach right into Castiel’s chest and grab him by the heartstrings. ‘You were scared ’n thought you were unsafe, so you defended yourself… You did exactly what I was hopin’ you would in that kinda scenario. Ya did good, dude, so don’t you worry one minute ’bout me. I’m, uh- I’m proud’a you.’

So many things happen simultaneously while Dean speaks that Castiel feels almost disconnected from the moment, like he’s observing it from afar, watching the world’s worst film about two awkward idiots who don’t know how to treat each other or themselves.

First, it’s a tremor of fear from the alpha’s close proximity, but then he’s shivering because the intensity of Dean’s words and presence is almost like they’re so scalding to the touch that they feel cold.

That sappy ass thought is followed by a warm, hazy sort of satisfaction that he’s made his alpha proud, which is then immediately trampled to death by the reminder that while Dean is Castiel’s master, he is not his alpha.

Something in Castiel silently keens with want at how much it wishes that he was, even as the rest of his brain has moved onto being irritated again at how Dean seems to have zero sense of self-preservation or self-worth.

‘I hurt you,’ Castiel says stubbornly. ‘I cut you, made you bleed.’ His eyes fly down to Dean’s arm, but the damage is obscured by swath of gauze wrapped around the majority of his left forearm. ‘Please Dean, just- just let me know what I can do to make it right. And if it’s- it’s that you want- or need to- to pay me back in kind, then so be it. I just don’t want… I don’t want to feel like this is going to hang over me, even if, uhm- even if I continue to live here, I just… I don’t want there to be…’

God, saying ‘I want…’ so many times is making him feel ill, because who the hell does he think he is that anyone gives one single, solitary f*ck about what he wants. He grits his teeth and exhales sharply though his nose, forcing himself to stand his ground, even though he wants nothing more than to backtrack and tell Dean that whatever he wants is good enough for Castiel.

Only… only he kind of gets the impression that if he were to do that, Dean would make some sort of drastic, self-sacrificing decision for what he thinks is best for Castiel, without considering his own wants. This is something frustrating, but also the tiniest bit scary, because it means that this could end with them both being unhappy, thinking their suffering is for the good of the other person, when in truth, they’re both miserable.

‘Aw, dude…’ Dean runs a hand through his hair, then down to rub the back of his neck. ‘For real — you ’n me? We’re cool. I don’t need none’a that- that absolution bullsh*t. Not only does it feel like that sh*t came from the Dark Ages, but doing some big ‘granting forgiveness’ thing would also feel like I’m saying that you’re mine or something.’

The revulsion in his voice takes all the wind right out of Castiel’s sails, and he feels his shoulders sag. ‘Oh. Right. I just… was thinking about what you said at the, uhm, omega centre, about me- being yours, I mean,’ he says, trying and failing to save face.

‘Oh.’ Dean’s cheeks are flushed bright pink now, but even if they weren’t, Castiel can smell his embarrassment. He shifts in place, unfolding his arms and jamming his hands into his pockets before answering. ‘Yeah, I guess we never, uh- never talked about that, but, uh- Dude, ya gotta know by now that I don’t wanna- y’know, own you, or anything. Like, I just said you were mine to, uh- keep up appearances ’n whatever, but now that we’re among folks who got some common f*cking sense — yours truly excluded, of course — we don’t gotta keep up the charade.’ He swallows hard, jaw clenching slightly, then adds, ‘I know you’re not mine.’

‘Right,’ Castiel says again, somehow feeling even more stung the more Dean had tried to reassure him. ‘Of course, Dean. I suppose I should have remembered you were… maintaining the facade of being an owner.’ He forces a smile that he hopes is passable enough, even though the bitter taste of disappointment feels like it’s creeping down his throat.

‘Right,’ Dean echoes, sounding a bit hollow as well, as he offers Castiel a tight smile of his own. ‘But, uh- You don’t gotta be mi- I mean- Even though you’re, uh- sh*t.’

He runs his hands through his hair and down his face, taking a deep breath and muttering something that sounds like why won’t my f*ckin’ words f*ckin’ word today, I swear to f*ckin’ God… which makes Castiel’s smile feel just the slightest bit more natural on his face.

Dean must notice, because his plastic smile morphs into a shy, self-deprecating grin. ‘Lemme try that again,’ he says, pursing his lips for a moment, looking deep in thought. ‘Okay, what the hell I’m tryin’ to say is that… Even though it’s only been a minute, ’n even though most of the time was a veritable sh*t show, I, uh- I gotta say, man… I really kinda like havin’ you around. Not to mention, everyone got all on my ass for bein’ an idiot who weren’t really listenin’ to the words comin’ outta either of our mouths, ’n told me that I should actually ask you what you want, cos, uh-’ he swallows again and glances down at the ground like a bashful kid on the playground, ‘cos you seem like a pretty cool dude, and if you’re down to be roomies, then I’m down.’ He frowns, then hurries to add, ‘But, like- don’t go thinkin’ just cos I said that means that you gotta stay, or whatever. Like I said… it’s your call, dude. I’m cool either way.’

‘You still haven’t ‘actually’ asked me, though,’ Castiel points out before he can stop himself, flinching at his own pedantic stupidity. His eyes find an especially interesting patch of ground before him to focus on, because he’s been everything from teased to beaten for being overly literal, which is the opposite of how he wants to be right now, when he wants Dean to allow him to stay with him.

Luckily, Dean just huffs a laugh. ‘I guess you’re right,’ he admits sheepishly, then clears his throat and puts on an affected accent. ‘Well, Steve Allen… if you feel so inclined, would you possibly grace me with your personal opinion on what you’d like your housing situation to be?’ He winks. ‘Those’re my big, fancy Moondoor words comin’ out. Gotta keep the old noodle sharp if I’m gonna keep my place as the queen’s handmaiden.’

Well, what the hell.

‘I only understand about forty percent of the things you say,’ Castiel blurts out, but again Dean just laughs and looks at him imploringly, waiting for an answer.

Somehow, asking feels damn near impossible, because who is he — Castiel Shurley, Steve Allen, old, broken down, damaged omega — to ask Dean for anything, much less for free room and board, but then he remembers something Dean had said to him on that very first night, and he pauses, swallows, and steels himself to do the hard thing.

‘So, I uh… I know I’m not yours, not really,’ he begins. Dean opens his mouth to say- well, frankly, who the hell knows, but Castiel hurries to continue, ‘but… before, at your house — you said I could just, uhm, ask for anything I nee- want, so, I guess I’m just- just asking if we can pretend I am, maybe just for a little bit longer?’

‘Steve, are you sayin’ you’re just an omega, standin’ in front of an alpha, askin’ him to-’ Dean starts, but Castiel just rolls his eyes, a thrill running up his spine at his own daring.

‘You know I don’t understand that reference,’ he tells Dean, only mildly exasperated. ‘But if it means I’m asking to be allowed to- to remain with you, then yes. That is what I’m saying.’

‘Well, that,’ Dean says in a tight voice with just a hint of a waver, ‘is a goddamn travesty. Notting Hill is at the top of the list for our next movie night, capisce?’

‘I capisce,’ Castiel replies, and maybe his voice is shaking a little bit now, too, but neither of them mentions it. ‘I’ll start making a list when we return to your house?’

Dean wets his lips before speaking again, this time looking Castiel directly in the eye. ‘How about we skip the list ’n make this one priority numero uno for tonight? Burgers and chick flicks when we get home?’

Castiel nods. ‘When… when we get home,’ he repeats.

Dean’s scent blossoms into Christmas morning, all cedar and cinnamon and firewood, warm and delicious.

Castiel wants to wrap himself up in it and never leave.

Chapter 21: deep in this sleeplessness

Chapter Text

Steve calling Dean’s house ‘home’ just might be the greatest damn thing Dean’s ever heard in his entire life.

For most of his life, ‘home’ has been a somewhat nebulous thing — a concept, not an actuality; a feeling, not a place. Even when Dad had taken off and dumped him ’n Sammy with Bobby back when he was sixteen. After just a few months, he’d known he’d found family, but the idea of home still eluded him.

It hadn’t been until he’d bought his house and truly started making it his own that he ever even considered that there might be some relation between home and permanence.

Sam had called Dean’s house his home for a while (well, technically, so had Lisa, but Dean actively tries not to spend too much time thinking about how that relationship ended) but in his heart of hearts, Dean had always known that for both Sam (and Lisa), his house hadn’t been the end of the line for them. He’d come to terms a long time ago that he, Dean, was never and would never be the end of the line for anyone.

Only then… then Steve said it, and it was like that day in the omega centre (had that really only been two days ago?) when Dean had walked into the ‘inspection room’ and he felt his entire centre of gravity shift.

There had been a resonance of finality in just that single word. It had felt like it was reaching into Dean’s chest and wrapping around his heart, warming him with the rightness of it all, like Steve had managed to carve out a space for himself in Dean’s little world, filling the spaces he’d never known were empty as though by intelligent design. Like he was always meant to be there in the first place.

God, how is it possible that after only two days, it feels like Steve’s always been there, like he’s managed to slot himself into Dean’s entire life’s story, like he’s been there all along — or that he should have been.

The day they put Mom in the ground. The day Dean won the varsity state championship for wrestling. The day Dad left and Dean bawled like a bitch in the shower, fist pressed against his mouth. Senior prom. His and Dad’s first rescue mission. Breaking ground on The Roadhouse. The day they put Dad in the ground. Buying his house… all of it feels like Steve was there, next to Dean, like he’s a part of all the things that make Dean Dean.

Dean has to remind himself that Steve was not there, though, and that they don’t actually know each other — or almost anything about each other. They’re virtually strangers, actually, and truth be told, Steve is something of a quandary or contradiction, as far as Dean’s seen so far. In some instances, he has no problem piping up and handing Dean his ass, the way he had when he’d called Dean out for being a spoiled, out-of-touch douche, or teasingly giving him sh*t, like he had when he’d thrown Dean under the bus with Sam. Then, other times, he folds like a bad hand at poker, with not much in-between.

Dean finds himself wondering desperately which one is the ‘real’ Steve, though he has a sneaking suspicion that the answer is somewhere in the middle of the two — which still sounds just fine to him.

He’s not sure what it is about the omega that has Dean acting so… stupid. Not that he’d ever been any sort of brainwave, of course, but there’s something about Steve that has Dean behaving like a teenager with a crush.

On that note, Dean’s pretty sure it’s not even attraction that has him acting so ridiculous, because, yeah, Steve’s good looking ’n everything, but not only does it feel wildly inappropriate to think about him in that way, it just seems like- like it’s something more.

Some people believe that horsesh*t about ‘true mates’, but Dean’s not one of them. The closest he’d ever seen to true mates would have probably been his parents, but in the end, Mom had died, Dad had lost it, and it’d ended up killing him, too. If that’s what it means to find your mate and fall in love, feel free to count Dean right the f*ck outta that mess, thanks.

Still, that whole gravitational shift that Dean feels when he’s around Steve — that has to mean something, right? He’s had girlfriends and boyfriends and one night stands — hell, even one hour stands during his early twenties on the road with Dad — but never before has he experienced anything like the tunnel-vision, feet-not-touching-the-floor, first-day-of-the-rest-of-your-life, carpe-that-motherf*cking-diem feeling.

It’s grounding.

It’s unsettling.

It’s unsettling because it is grounding, because, well — what the f*ck.

Dean feels like something inside him is rattling, trying frantically to burst free, like a hoard of angry bees whose nest just got kicked, like there’s this pressure building up inside him, and he has no idea what it’s going to look like when he explodes.

But that’s a problem for another day. Right here, right now, there are no problems. Right here, right now, things are… things are good.

‘Oh, hey,’ Dean says suddenly, realising that it’s nearly dinner time. ‘Ain’t it meds time? Three times a day, right?’

‘Ah. Right.’ Steve’s cheeks flush slightly, as though embarrassed by the reminder. ‘I, uhm- I believe I left my- your- the- the clothes and pills- in the s-sick ward before. I was… not in my right mind at the time. I’m sorry.’ The lingering fear and regret uncertainty in his voice, and the way he stumbles over the simple sentence makes Dean’s chest ache.

(He also doesn’t miss the way Steve calls it ‘the sick ward’, like they do in the omega centres, because truly — the only time he would have found himself in one would have been when grievously injured or ill.

The medical wing at The Roadhouse is nothing like that. Not only do they treat the residents who are unwell, they also offer preventative, mental health, and dental services, as well as just being an open door for any questions or concerns they might have. Dean has seen firsthand how giving back even that small bit of bodily autonomy goes so far in aiding their recovery.)

‘That’s totally fine!’ he says, going for reassuring, but probably just sounding insane with how chirpy and chipper the words come out. He fights the urge to cringe, even as Steve’s lips twitch, making him pretty sure that they’re both thinking he’s an awkward idiot. ‘I was just, uh- just wonderin’. But we can totally head back there now, if ya want. Might be good to meet up with Pam again ’n have her give ya the full thirty-two point inspection after, uh- after everything…’ His voice trails off when he sees the way Steve flinches at the turn of phrase, but he doesn’t say anything about it, merely nodding his agreement, so neither does Dean.

They exit Dean’s office, only to immediately come to an abrupt halt, Steve looking vaguely ill, and Dean just looking like a thoughtless moron.

‘Aw, sh*t,’ Dean mutters, eyes darting between Steve and the automatic doors. ‘So… we can go back the way ya came in, or we can go to the exterior doors and walk back to the main lodge outside, but no matter which way we go, you’re gonna hafta pass back through some sort of, uh, automatic door… sorry ’bout that.’

He doesn’t quite know why he’s apologising — it’s not like he’s the mastermind that came up with the damn floor plan. He does see the reasoning behind it, considering they type of confidential information that’s stored in this corridor, but the memory of Steve’s terror is still too near that he feels like he needs to do or say something to make sure it doesn’t happen again..

‘It’s fine. I’ll be fine. Let’s just go back the way we came.’

Dean is dubious, but Steve’s jaw is clenched, his shoulders square, and his tone curt, so Dean doesn’t argue, even though he privately thinks that Steve looks like a man preparing for battle.

‘I’ll be right here with you the whole time…’ Dean offers, feeling massively inadequate, considering his presence is probably more of an upset than a consolation, but, miraculously, Steve looks comforted.

‘Thank you, Dean,’ he says. His tone is so sincere, that Dean can’t help but hope that he means it. Without thinking, he offers a hand to Steve, who, surprisingly, takes it.

That feeling of rightness washes over him again. Steve’s hand is warm and solid and just fits.

Dean never wants to let go.

Not wanting to make sh*t weird (again), Dean doesn’t say a damn thing about it, even though his heart feels as though it’s about to leap out of his chest. Instead, he leads them over to the first set of doors and swipes his access card.

‘We’ll go fast as we can,’ he promises, mind racing with some sort of anything to say to help ease the tension, before settling on, ‘Hey, did I ever tell ya ’bout when Sammy ’n I lived with Bobby when, uh- when my dad was on the road when I was a teenager? He lives on this old salvage yard full’a old cars, which is cool as hell, but me bein’ the asshole that I am, told Sammy that the place was haunted by this pair’a creepy little girls — twins, if I recall, actually — who lived there before Bobby and got eaten by a monster. I had the poor kid convinced that their spirits were stuck in the salvage yard, just waiting for some poor sucker to cross their path so they could drag their soul to Hell. Sammy used’ta get so freaked out when he hadta take Bobby’s old dog, Rumsfeld, out for a walk or whatever. He’d go as fast as he could, only Rumsfeld was this stubborn, old Rottie, so he’d be draggin’ ass, while Sammy’d be tryin’ to power walk through the yard so he wouldn’t get possessed.’ Dean laughs, shaking his head. ‘He might be a moose now, but back then, he was this gangly little sh*t who was more hair and attitude than body mass, so… needless to say, Rumsfeld usually won that particular tug of war. Feel free to remind Sammy of that the next time you see him, by the way.’

By the time he finishes his stupid little story, they’re just passing through the final set of doors. Steve sighs in relief.

‘Thank you, Dean,’ he says again, only now the sincerity is laced with something else — something more. Time slows down, and Dean doesn’t want to even try to give a name to what the moment means, possibly because he’s not sure himself.

‘Y-yeah,’ is all he manages, but then Steve smiles, and it’s a goddamn miracle he manages even that.

In what might be the first show of decent luck they’ve had since coming to The Roadhouse today, it turns out that Pam had texted Dean to let him know that she’d grabbed the stuff Steve left behind.

They head over to her office so they can kill two birds with one stone, and when Dean says as much, he is then both thrilled and surprised when Steve randomly pipes up with a friggin’ history lesson, of all things.

‘Did you know that initially that phrase was used to reference trying to overextend one’s self, thus resulting in a higher rate of failure, rather than to applaud efficiency?’ he asks as they near the door to the medical wing. ‘Its origin came from back when bird hunting was done via slingshot, and hitting two birds with one stone was virtually impossible, so the phrase was originally intended as a warning against futility.’

‘Wow, no, I didn’t know that!’ Dean replies, feeling all stupid and warm again. He gazes at Steve with what he is almost certain is his staring at pie face, according to Sam, but he just can’t help it. These little peeks into what he hops is the ‘real’ Steve are a gift — one Dean intends to appreciate as much as he can. ‘Anyone ever tell you you got a fancy vocabulary? S’like talkin’ to a walking Speak ’n Spell… or my brother, now that I think of it.’

He means it as compliment — Lord knows Sammy’d sure as hell take it that way — so when Steve’s good mood visibly dims, and his gaze lowers to the ground, Dean is completely taken aback.

‘Apologies, Dean,’ Steve says, sounding embarrassed and defeated. ‘I’ve been- I don’t mean to be verbo- pretent- I mean- I’m not trying to- to show off or… put on airs. I can stop. I will stop.’

The miserable, embarrassed, almost fearful expression on Steve’s face takes a minute to register, but when it does, Dean can feel himself getting pissed all over again. It’s the same look he’d had when he’d apologised for being able to read

‘Dude,’ he says, completely forgetting to check his tone until he sees Steve flinch, ‘no. I mean- the way ya talk is the way ya talk… S’not like it’s somethin’ you can really help or anything. T’be honest, if I had it my way, I’d rather sound like you, than like me. I, uh- I didn’t mean for it t’sound like I was complaining or anything, I meant it was cool.’

It occurs to him all over again that when dealing with a sl- someone like Steve, there are a million and one ways to step in it. Who would have thought that complimenting the guy’s friggin’ vocabulary would be one of those ways?

‘I like it,’ he adds, a little desperately, wanting to get the point across that his comment was intended as a compliment, not a criticism. ‘I just meant- holy sh*t, you’re smart, dude. I like that about you.’

That wonderful forest-floor-after-summer-rain scent that he’d first noticed when he’d given Steve that first cup of coffee drifts over to him, and he inhales deeply, just wanting more. Almost immediately, he remembers how freaked out it had made Steve the last time Dean had gone all knothead over his scent, so he tries to rein it in.

Despite this, however, when he dares to steal a glance over at the omega, he sees Steve’s cheeks are still pink, and he’s looking down at the ground again, but this time he’s got a small smile on his face, and appears… pleased.

Dean’s inner alpha swells with pride that he’s put that look on his omega’s face, and he stands a bit straighter, head on a swivel, like he wants to be both vigilant for anyone or anything that might dare threaten Steve’s fragile happiness, but also because he wants it clear that he, Dean Winchester of Ten Thousand f*ck-Ups, is the one who made it happen.

Thankfully, he has the wherewithal to check himself, and sags just a little when he remembers that not only is Steve not ‘his’ omega, but also he has no right to claim any part of the other man’s anything. Steve was a whole ass human being before he met Dean, and he will still be after he and Dean part ways — Dean’s got nothing to do with it.

Well, that thought just makes him deflate completely… the idea of Steve someday leaving-

‘Uhm… Dean? Is everything alright?’

Dean jumps a little at the reminder that he’s not alone with the downward spiral of his whirling thoughts, and he forces a smile. ‘Yeah, man, sorry. Got lost in my head for a minute. But uh- yeah. Big words — real cool.’

He catches Steve’s eye, and a moment later, they’re laughing at his ironic, ineloquent declaration, and all is right in the world again.

Later on, it will occur to Dean that maybe implying to Steve that he, Dean, liking something about him is what makes it okay is not the way to go, that Steve simply being who he is should be enough. His first instinct is to tell him as much, before realising that that would be about as counterproductive a point as they come, but it still feels like an important thing for Steve to know.

The phrase actions speak louder than words comes to mind, and cliches, or whatever, are cliches (or whatever) for a reason.

Dean promises himself that he will do everything within his power to show Steve that who he is, is more than enough.

Chapter 22: the night the world begins again

Chapter Text

Turns out, it’s even easier than Dean had anticipated to treat Steve how he deserves to be treated, because when it comes down to it — Steve’s great. He just is. Now that he’s loosened up a bit, Dean’s been getting these little glimpses of his personality, and it’s just… great.

(So, Dean’s no wordsmith — so sue him. Steve’s got an impressive enough vocabulary for the both of them.)

The dude is just so f*cking funny too, and the best part is that he doesn’t even seem to be trying to come off as hilarious. Steve’s genuine, earnest, dorky outlook on the world around him, coupled with an unexpected lack of a filter that could give Dean a run for his money, equals these stupid-ass situations in which Dean just can’t stop grinning like a goddamn fool.

Currently, Dean’s feigning interest in the various posters on the wall of the private examination room, while Pam and Steve wrap up their visit. He’d offered to give them some privacy again, but Steve had mutely, but vehemently shaken his head, so Dean had stayed.

He moves on to the next poster that turns out to be diagrams of the reproductive system. f*ckin’ wonderful. He stares at the cartoon drawing of the female body, remembering being nine or ten, and asking Ellen if she had ‘ovaries or underies’, because he’d overheard some older girls talking at school, and how she’d nearly laughed herself stupid. He makes a mental note to tell that one to Steve, thinking he’ll probably get a kick out of it, with that great big brain of his.

Pamela finishes looking Steve over and declares nothing has gone staggeringly wrong in the past twenty-four hours. She shoots Dean a soft look of fond amusem*nt that everyone seems to be giving him these days, mouthing the words mother hen when Steve’s not looking, then bends down to rummage through one of the lower cabinets.

‘Who’s Jesse?’ Steve asks suddenly. Dean looks over, startled, then notices that Pamela’s shirt had ridden up a few inches to expose her lower back tattoo.

‘Well… it wasn’t forever, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,’ she answers with a grin that Dean shares, because he knows all about Jesse, the mediocre, wannabe rockstar, and how nineteen year old Pam had been convinced he was her soulmate. ‘One of these days, I might have Benny work his magic on it, but for now, I let the memory of good ol’ Jesse remain.’

‘Why?’ Steve asks, the look on his face indicating he’s surprised at his own boldness, but Dean feels as though he’s friggin’ beaming because of how pleased he is that Steve feels comfortable enough to be asking random questions without fearing punishment.

Pamela’s quiet for a moment, her smile soft and nostalgic. ‘Because…’ she says thoughtfully, at long last, ‘because sometimes, even if something didn’t turn out to be what you wanted it to be, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t a hell of a good time when it just was, you know?’

Steve nods, but looks troubled. Dean remembers the wings tattooed on his back, that have been disfigured by the map of scars across his skin, and he finds himself hoping with everything he’s got, that Steve got those of his own free will, because they’re definitely not something easily covered.

Though Steve’s face never betrays whatever’s going on in his head, the damp scent of sadness and grief reaches out to Dean so gently, that it almost feels like a whisper, something meant to be concealed.

Remembering the last time Steve’s tattoos were brought up, and how very quickly everything devolved into a complete sh*t show, Dean’s mind races with something to lighten the mood, or at least distract from unsafe topics for a while.

A stupid video he’d seen earlier when mindlessly scrolling Instagram pops into his head, so he interjects with, ‘Hey! Didja ever hear the theory that Jesse’s Girl and Stacy’s Mom are the same chick?’ Pamela laughs, but Steve just squints at him.

‘Who’s Stacy?’ he asks, confused. His eyes narrow, and his lips move slightly, as though he’s running down a list in his head, trying to remember if he’d ever met some chick named Stacy. It’s so funny and endearing, that Dean can’t help but grin.

‘Dude, really?’ he demands anyway, wanting to lay it on a little thick, to be absolutely certain they’d moved on from the previous topic. He raises his eyebrows, then sings, ‘Stacy’s mom has got it goin’ on…’

He turns to Steve, a comically expectant look on his face. Steve shakes his head, but he’s got a little smile on his face now, too, so Dean decides to really ham it up.

‘She’s all I want, and I’ve waited for so long…’ he sings, winking at Pam as she pretends to wave an imaginary lighter back and forth. He shoots Steve another imploring look that morphs to injured when Steve shakes his head again, seeming to suppress a laugh. Dean shakes his head in return, as though Steve’s lack of musical acumen is shattering his faith in humanity, but then he finishes, ‘Stacy, can’t you see? You’re just not the girl for me. I know it might be wrong, but I’m in love with Stacy’s mom,’ ending the performance with a wide, toothy grin and jazz hands. Steve stares at him like he might be insane.

‘Dean?’ he asks, frowning. ‘Is the entire song about lusting after some girl’s mother?’

For a split second, Dean feels like the world’s biggest jackass, thinking that he might have said something triggering or offensive, considering the subject matter, but when Steve glimpses his guilty, remorseful expression, he cracks a wide, dazzling, teasing grin.

‘Oh, you f*cking smart ass,’ flies out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop himself.

Time slows down, giving Dean just enough time to panic and begin mentally kicking himself, while he watches Steve’s expression go from amused to surprised to scared to that goddamn awful ‘kicked dog’ look, but then it continues on to thoughtful, understanding, and then back to amused.

‘I prefer ‘irreverent’,’ he remarks, deadpan. ‘Still smart, less ass.’ His lips twitch a little, like he’s laughing at a joke only he knows. ‘It’s gotten me in quite a bit of trouble in the past.’

It feels wrong to be joking about something so f*cked up, but it’s not Dean’s place to decide how Steve deals with or views his own sh*t, so he doesn’t say as much, and instead simply rolls his eyes and mutters something like, I’ll show you less ass, which makes zero sense, and next thing either of them know, they’re both laughing again like complete idiots.

Dean can’t remember the last time he’s laughed so much. Possibly never.

‘Hey, Abbott and Costello, some of us got a job to do around here,’ Pamela calls over, from where she’s taken a seat on her little doctor’s stool a few feet away, reminding them both of her presence. ‘Why don’t you two go eat somethin’ — it’s past dinner time, plus Steve’s gotta take his meds with food. Not to mention, it gets you outta my hair, cos I’ve got a boatload of paperwork to finish before my bosses’ll let me leave.’

Dean, being one of the bosses in question, rolls his eyes again. ‘I can take a hint,’ he grumbles good-naturedly. ‘C’mon, Steve, let’s go see someone who’ll appreciate our company.’

‘More like someone you’ll be able to con into giving you free pie,’ Pamela retorts without missing a beat. She turns to Steve and points a finger in his direction. ‘A not-so-little birdie told me you got this boy to eat a salad last night… I’m counting on you to make him keep it up. Dean seems to think he’s got arteries of steel and can live off pie, beer, and burgers alone. Go tell Donna to give him a hummus wrap with a side of mung beans or something.’

‘Yes, m- Pam,’ Steve agrees, clearly remembering Pam’s aversion to the word ‘ma’am’. Pamela winks.

‘You’re catchin’ on real quick, kiddo,’ she tells him with a laugh. ‘Go on now; get. And remember: mung beans.’

They walk off, Dean shaking his head and Steve smiling to himself, the bag Pam had given him with his clothes inside bumping against his leg with every other step.

‘So… we can go drop your stuff off in my office like we’d originally planned, but, uh- that means goin’ back through those doors two more times now, and two times later if we go get it before we leave,’ Dean says, gesturing to the bag and watching Steve closely for any indication he might try to force himself to do something he didn’t want to.

‘Oh,’ is all he says, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth thoughtfully. ‘Would it be considered poor manners if I were to bring them with me to the dining hall?’

Dean looks at him strangely, scratching the stubble under his chin and regretting not shaving this morning. ‘No, man, who the hell cares if you have a bag with you?’

Steve shrugs. ‘In some circles, it’s viewed as uncouth to have a handbag that can’t be concealed by one’s napkin in their lap, or at the small of one’s back in their chair,’ he explains, looking sheepish. ‘It, ah- it’s been some time since I’ve, uhm- had a… parcel… of my own.’

‘Well, that sounds like some outdated Emily Post-type bullsh*t,’ Dean replies bluntly — and perhaps rudely — which makes Steve make that trying not to laugh face again. ‘Not to mention: the seating is mostly cafeteria style — benches and tables — so there’s no chairs anyway. S’long as you keep your feet off the table ’n don’t chew with your mouth open or start a food fight, I think you’ll be just fine.’

He wonders, not for the first time, about the kind of life Steve had had before he’d been thrown into the trade. From the way he speaks and thinks, it’s clear the dude’s whip-smart, and the way he holds himself, (now that he’s not tiptoeing around Dean, cowering in fear, or perpetually braced for a beating), coupled with the fact that there’s literally no record of him before he was eighteen and appeared in the DOEA registry, gives Dean the sneaking suspicion that he came from some sort of fancy-pants background or something.

It makes him wonder how in the hell no one came looking for the guy in a goddamn decade. If his suspicions are correct, then there’s no way some rich family wouldn’t try to get their son back, right?

He’s dying to ask Steve what the deal is, his curiosity burning inside of him, but for once, his brain stays a step ahead of his mouth, so he doesn’t ask the questions he desperately wants to know the answers to. Instead, he begins leading them back towards the entrance of the lodge, which also happens to be the dining hall.

Dean sees the recognition in Steve’s eyes when they reenter the large room, this time across the way from the corridor leading to the donations room that they’d gone down only a few hours earlier. The omega glances around the rest of the room, getting a good look for the first time.

‘How big is this place?’ he wonders aloud, peering down yet another corridor to their left that leads to the vocational and education wing.

(The main lodge is shaped like a pentagon, with each side serving a different purpose. In addition to the corridor Steve was showing interest in, there’s also the donations wing that houses offices for the staff that handles anything dealing with the public. There’s the security corridor, where Dean and Sam’s offices are, accessible only by the automatic doors that had so thoroughly f*cked everything up today, as well as the medical wing where he and Steve have both spent more time than either of them had planned for. The final side is the main entrance where Dean, Steve, and Bobby had entered from the parking lot.

The property itself is enormous — there’s a whole separate building off of the vocational wing that consists of one large gymnasium and several smaller workout rooms for the residents to take classes or exercise in, as well as the large attached lodge where the residents’ rooms are.

Cain and his wife, Colette, The Roadhouse’s groundskeeper and resident nurse, respectively, have a modest cabin farther back on the property. They’re the only staff to actually live right at The Roadhouse as well — not out of necessity, but because they’d both fallen so in love with the property and the work, that they wanted to spend as much time on site as possible.

Behind their home is a small apiary that Dean takes care to stay way the f*ck away from, and a decent-sized pond where the residents can learn to swim, or take the canoes out in nice weather. There’s also a barn for the animals that kept getting dropped off at The Roadhouse, (since they’re technically registered as a nature preserve), a garage where Dean teaches a vocational class on basic automotive repair a few times a month, and so much more.)

‘Big,’ Dean answers with a grin. ‘Dude, I can’t wait to bring you back here so you can see it all in daytime, maybe meet some of the residents ’n staff or somethin’ — if you feel up to it, I mean. It’s gettin’ a little too dark out now, but, uh- if you ever wanna tag along with me to work or somethin’, you’re more’n welcome to, ’n we can go exploring. If you want company, of course,’ he adds hastily. ‘I didn’t mean you have to hang with me or whatever, like- you’re your own man, you can totally go off on your own or with whoever, just probably not at first, cos, like I said- the place is big, ’n I wouldn’t want you to get lost or whatever. Not like it’s dangerous, it’s just…’

He’s rambling again. He doesn’t dare look at Steve, because he’s just about positive the dude is regretting saying he wants to stay with someone who’s so clearly a f*cking idiot.

‘… big?’ Steve offers. Dean finally chances a look at the other man and sees he’s trying not to laugh again.

‘Yeah, okay, Mr Irreverent,’ Dean grumbles in mock exasperation, even though every time Steve shows this snarky, sassy side of himself, Dean finds himself becoming more and more enamoured with the guy.

Lucky for Dean and his three remaining brain cells, Donna makes a surprise appearance then, pushing through the swinging double doors that lead to the kitchen.

‘Oh, hey there!’ Donna calls over, so loudly that Dean jumps backwards, crashing into Steve, who’s only a step or two behind. Donna laughs, entirely unembarrassed. ‘My bad, fellas. Jody-oh’s always tellin’ me that my inside voice is on the same level as most folks’ outside voice, but, well- that’s what happens when you take the girl outta the farm… it’s a heck of a lot easier than takin’ the farm outta the girl, that’s for darn sure. I used’ta hafta call all my daddy’s hogs in for supper, and lemme tell ya- if ya don’t hit just the right volume, those little piggies’ll ignore ya like you’re their momma askin’ ’em to clean their room.’

The look on Steve’s face is somewhere between bewildered and amused, and Dean kind of loves it. Donna is easily one of his favourite humans on the face of the planet, but even he can admit that she can be a lot to handle when you don’t know what you’re for.

‘Heya, Donna,’ Dean says, huffing a laugh. ‘Just the person we were hopin’ to see. Listen, this here’s Steve Allen… he’s stayin’ with me for a while. Steve, this lovely lady is Donna Hanscum. She runs the kitchens here ’n makes the best pies in the entire world.’

Donna beams at the praise while Steve nods his understanding. After a moment’s hesitation that he spends studying Donna carefully, Steve extends a tentative hand in her direction. Dean’s so proud of the way Steve remains upright, despite a faint hint of anxiety beginning to bleed into his scent, that he could just about burst.

‘It’s very nice to meet you, Miss Donna,’ he says politely, standing tall, even as his voice catches slightly on Donna’s name. Just like Ellen had, Donna wrinkles her nose at being called ‘Miss’ Donna, but thankfully, she doesn’t comment as she shakes his hand and gives him her patented hundred watt smile.

‘So very nice to meet you, Steve,’ she says sincerely. ‘You’re gonna love livin’ with this one over here, even if he is an angry sleeper. Like a bear before you get a cup’a Joe in ’im, believe you me.’

Steve scent flares into something sharp for just a few seconds, before it disappears as quickly as it came, and a pleasant, if not slightly cool smile is on his face. ‘I hadn’t noticed, but I will be sure to keep that in mind,’ he says, still polite, but some of the openness has left his voice and expression, which is weird to Dean, seeing as it’s Donna, who’s basically the living incarnation of a My Little Pony.

Donna, though, being a beta, doesn’t notice — or, at least doesn’t comment — and instead turns to Dean and asks, ‘So what can I do ya for, boss?’

‘We’re under strict orders from the good doc to get some grub for this guy,’ Dean explains, gesturing to Steve, who just stands there, silent and still. Dean’s taken aback by Steve’s sudden change in mood, but doesn’t want to make sh*t weird again, so he asks, ‘Think you could hook us up?’

‘Oh, you betcha!’ Donna says cheerfully. ‘Anything in particular you boys got a hankerin’ for?’

‘Well, you know I’d never say no to one’a your world famous bacon burgers ’n peach cobbler, but why don’t we let the guest of honour decide?’ Dean suggests.

‘Okey dokey, boss,’ Donna says, turning to Steve expectantly. ‘Well, whatdya say, oh, honoured guest? D’ya got a favourite food?’

Dean stiffens, wondering if this question will bother Steve in the same when would he have had the time to develop a favourite food when he was basically starving to death way that Dean talking sh*t about himself had, but his expression doesn’t change from his mask of careful polite interest.

‘Anything you’re willing to provide for us would be much appreciated, Miss Donna,’ Steve replies, tone bland. ‘I’ve heard wonderful things about your cooking.’

Donna studies him for a moment, the same way Steve had been scrutinising her, but —true to form — she doesn’t let his strange response dampen her spirits.

‘Okey dokey, smokey,’ she says brightly, flashing them a big, cheesy thumbs up. ‘I’ll whip you boys up somethin’ delicious if ya wanna go pop a squat.’

‘You’re the bomb dot com, Ms Hanscom,’ Dean informs her gratefully. ‘C’mon, Steve, I’ll show ya where the cool kids sit.’

‘You’re not so bad yourself, Mr Winchester,’ Donna replies, disappearing back behind the swinging doors, Steve staring after her, a strange look on his face.

‘Uh- Y’okay there, man?’ Dean asks after a beat or two of silence. ‘Wanna go sit?’

Steve nods and follows Dean to one of the tables in the corner — away from the few remaining residents getting up to leave, because he doesn’t recognise them, and the last thing he wants to do is f*ck up any more omegas with his mere presence.

‘Oh… Would you rather sit at one of the big tables, or the short ones?’ Dean gestures to the two types of tables in turn.

One is a standard cafeteria-style long table with benches, and the other is a smaller, circular table that stands low to the ground with cushions to sit or kneel on. Dean remembers now that many residents would rather sit at the lower table for one reason or another, and he mentally kicks himself for what feels like the hundredth time for forcing Steve to sit at the table with him back at the house. He vows to ask him what he prefers when they get back home.

‘The chabudai is fine,’ Steve answers, distractedly, already sliding down to his knees on an orange cushion. He glances back towards the kitchen, then blurts out, ‘Is she your mate?’

‘Who?!’ Dean asks, glancing around, half expecting to see Lisa, which makes no sense for several reasons — the least of which is she’s not his freaking mate — but they’re still alone.

‘M-Miss Donna,’ Steve answers, which shocks the sh*t out of Dean, who sees Donna as more of a beloved cousin than someone he could ever be interested in like that.

‘Oh my God, no,’ Dean says, before he realises that that almost sounds offensive towards Donna, so he elaborates, ‘Dude, Donna’s great — amazing cook, ’n the nicest person you’ll ever meet in your entire life — but oh my God, no,’ he repeats.

‘Oh…’ Steve says. It might be Dean’s wishful thinking, but he thinks the omega even sounds a bit cheered to hear that Dean is mateless. ‘Apologies for assuming, Dean, I just- she said she knew what you were like when you sleep.’

‘Oh,’ Dean says, the pieces finally falling into place. ‘Yeah, dude, that’s cos I fall asleep at my damn desk all the time. Not only do I not have a mate, I also have no life, so everyone’s used to seeing me camping out in my office, ’n they all give me sh*t for being a sh*tty sleeper. I, uh-’ he blushes, rubbing the back of his neck and mumbles, ‘I have trouble sleeping sometimes cos of- well- stuff. Makes for a rough wakeup sometimes, ’specially if I’m not in my own bed.’

God, he sounds like a complete lunatic. He’s wondering what he can say to assure Steve that he hasn’t signed up for being roommates with a complete nut job, but nothing comes to mind. Luckily, they’re interrupted by an incoming tornado.

‘Oh, hey!’ Charlie chirps brightly, bounding over like a friggin’ Labrador. ‘How’s it goin’ guys?! Dude, Dean, I saw the footage from security, and holy Great Gazoo, handmaiden, what the hell were you thinking?!’

She socks him in the arm, for once not in her usual jovial way, glaring at him, then turning to Steve, her face instantly transforming into a beatific smile. Dean doesn’t miss Steve’s slight flinch backwards when he finds himself suddenly the subject of Charlie’s attention, and he leans to the side just enough that Dean suspects he’s fighting the urge to bare his throat.

‘Hi!’ Charlie says cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of her feet a little, and holding out a hand. Steve flinches again at the sudden movement, but he shakes her hand, and Dean beams like a proud papa all over again, making Charlie roll her eyes. ‘Charlie Bradbury, your friendly neighbourhood hacktivist, and you must be Steve! Thanks for findin’ my book, man! It’s a guilty pleasure, for sure, but I was missing my bat boys, ya know?!’

‘I…?’ Steve begins, his voice trailing off helplessly. He turns to look at Dean, wide-eyed, as though asking for a rescue. Dean snorts.

‘Give the guy some breathing room, Bradbury,’ he demands, shouldering between her and Steve, and giving her a gentle nudge backwards. ‘You’re gonna make him friggin’ claustrophobic.’

‘Oh, right. Sorry, dude, I forget that not everyone likes to be up close and personal,’ Charlie says, backing up a step, but otherwise unbothered. ‘Listen, handmaiden, since you’re here — I have news about our mysterious adversaries on the inter webs.’

‘Oh, sh*t. What did you find?’ Dean asks, heart beating just a little bit faster, now that the faceless opponent who’d been screwing with them for the past few months might possibly have a name.

‘Well, we’re having a hell of a time finding the exact source of all the cyber attacks, but, in layman’s terms, we have determined that it’s coming from the US and just bouncing through a network of satellites,’ she says, also still bouncing. ‘Think of it like fighting a hydra in a house of mirrors — even if we are somehow able to find it, which is a pain in the butt by itself, every time we cut off one head, three more appear, so we’re going to have to start being really picky which heads we’re going after. The good news, though? The way these people really know what they’re doing tells me that they’ve got some sort of heavy involvement or connection with tech or communications company, because your average neckbeard basem*nt troll trying to stir some sh*t up isn’t going to be so- so elegant about it. It also tells me that it’s coming from someone who has the type of resources to throw behind this sort of attack. So, at least that narrows down the suspect pool by a good amount.’

‘So, we’re lookin’ for a loaded asshole or group of assholes who know how to Internet professionally?’ Dean asks, rubbing his hand thoughtfully over his mouth and down his chin, mind racing.

The answer hits him so hard, it would almost be comical, had it not been some really bad f*cking news.

‘Charlie…’ he says slowly, looking down at her. The moment she meets his eyes, he knows they’re thinking the same thing. ‘Any idea what the Shurleys and Angel Radio Corp are up to these days?’

Chapter 23: miles above the sea

Chapter Text

Now that he knows he’s not going to be shipped off to The Roadhouse without any say, Castiel finds he quite enjoys accompanying Dean to work. Even though it’s only been about a week since that first tumultuous visit there, they’ve already fallen into a sort of routine, only — unlike before — it seems that now, they’re both on the same page.

Dean’s decided to go back to work, not only because he and Castiel have reached an agreement about Castiel’s living situation, but also because of the problems that The Roadhouse has been experiencing with the multiple security breach attempts. Fortunately, it sounds like most of them have been unsuccessful, but unfortunately, it also means that they haven’t been able to locate the source of the threat.

Castiel had nearly gone into cardiac arrest when he’d heard Dean say his former surname and his family’s company name, and it had only been the fact that Dean had been busy freaking out at the time, that he missed the way Castiel had been freaking out as well. Once Dean had noticed the scent of Castiel’s distress, the man had spoken at length to promise Castiel that he was safe, that even though the Shurleys were ‘sh*t stains on the tighty-whiteys of humanity’, but that there was ‘absolutely no f*cking way’ they could ever do anything that could hurt him.

If Dean only knew.

The alpha had spoken so fiercely and earnestly, that Castiel had wanted to believe him. He’d wanted it so much, even though he knew that as great as a man as Dean seemed to be, he was still just a man. Angel Radio Corp was run by titans.

Even so, the last thing that Castiel had wanted was to raise suspicion and risk outing himself and his past life, so he’d simply thanked Dean for his reassurances. Miss Charlie continued on to explain exactly what Castiel’s brothers were up to, and it had been hard to hear how integral they had been in how f*cking awful their father’s company had become. The only saving grace had been that she’d only mentioned his older brothers — it seemed as though perhaps Gabe and Samandriel had managed to escape ‘the family business’.

(For a moment, he’d mourned the fact that if things had turned out differently, perhaps he could have been the one to change all that, but it hadn’t been a train of thought worth following, so he’d shut it down immediately, and simply stayed silent while Dean and Miss Charlie continued to strategise how to keep The Roadhouse and its residents safe.)

But, Castiel’s stolen legacy aside, it doesn’t change the fact that Dean is now back to working his regular nine to five — which sometimes actually means nine to six or seven — meaning that for the first time in a long time, Castiel is back on a ‘normal’ schedule. He sets his alarm to go off twenty minutes before Dean’s, because the idea of sleeping in after his master has already woken for the day still fills him with anxiety, despite Dean’s multiple assurances that he wants Castiel to rest, that Castiel needs it.

He’d even insisted on Castiel staying ‘home’ to ‘just chill’ one day when he knew he would be working even longer than normal. Castiel’s not sure what Dean had meant by ‘chill’, only that the day had consisted of him drifting pointlessly from room to room, cleaning what few things needed attention, and spending several hours on the floor of his closet, which has become something of a favourite spot of his.

(Even though he knows it sounds ridiculous, Castiel has begun to associate his closet with a sense of safety and security. He continues to sleep there, unbeknownst to Dean, even daring to use one of his folded up hoodies as a pillow and another for something like a blanket —things he hasn’t slept with in years. He wonders if one day, he might even be brave enough to bring an actual pillow or blanket from the bed into his little haven, but somehow, it feels disrespectful to put Dean’s things on the floor, so for now, he makes due with using his clothes.

He’d also been given permission from Dean to discard the pants from the centre, and has kept the clothing that is his into neat little piles atop the wooden chest in his closet. Even though he’d never admit it, for fear of seeming pathetic, there are times when he likes to go and just look at his wardrobe until his insides calm at the sight; a tangible reminder that he is okay.

Dean had told him that if he’d wanted to keep the shirt he’d allowed Castiel to wear on their first day together, he was welcome to it. This means that in addition to his three huge hoodies, Castiel also has the henley shirt from his first day visiting The Roadhouse, Dean’s black ACDC t-shirt, and two more plain long-sleeve thermal shirts that Dean had insisted Castiel take from the donations room on another visit. He’d also insisted Castiel choose a second pair of jeans, so now Castiel has two pairs of jeans and three pairs of sweatpants, plus the value packs of socks and underwear, all of which he folds proudly, before adding them to his display.

There’s just something about seeing the mated socks in little balls, the crisp rectangles of his modest collection of shirts and jeans that settles something inside of him. These are things that are his. He knows that legally, he is entitled to none of it, but Dean has sworn that they’re his to do with what he wants.)

Even despite Dean’s almost obsessive interest in Castiel getting rest, Castiel finds that he likes getting to start his day with those few moments of peace and quiet. He likes being the one to turn the lights on downstairs, to get the coffee going, since that’s about as much as he can manage in the kitchen.

(This is something he and Dean discovered after one disastrous attempt at making breakfast that resulted in the smoke alarm going off, the house needing to be aired out for several hours, and Castiel on his knees, begging for forgiveness.

Dean had been freaked out, mostly by Castiel’s reaction, but not angry, and had told Castiel about a hundred times that it was ‘no big deal’ and that ‘that’s why non-stick pans were invented’, even as he tried and failed to scrape the burnt egg mixture from the pan, before giving up and tossing the entire thing in the bin.)

So for now, Castiel is still allowed to set everything up for breakfast, even if he’s not the one to prepare it — per Dean’s teasing request — and for the first time ever, the word ‘allowed’ is being used somewhat facetiously, as if it’s something of an inside joke between the two of them. He suspects that if he were to express a true interest in learning to cook or taking over meal preparation, though, that there is an incredibly high likelihood that Dean would eagerly support him — and probably even find some tutorials or cookbooks or something for reference.

(Something inside him warms a little at the domestic daydream of some day preparing a meal for his the alpha, but he squelches it. Even though they are now going to cohabitate for the foreseeable future, Dean has made it perfectly clear that he’s not interested in anything like that with Castiel, and Castiel just needs to learn to accept it. Even though he might not have a mate, he has a master who is caring and kind and funny and generous, and that is so much more than he ever dreamt of having, that he really needs to just count his damn blessings.)

Dean usually stumbles downstairs once the coffee’s brewed and Castiel’s prepared cups for them both, and left Dean’s at his seat at the table. Now that things are a little less rigid between them, Dean has revealed that he is, in fact, not a morning person, making that first morning that he’d gotten up early to have breakfast waiting for when Castiel emerged from his room mean that much more.

He usually doesn’t talk before he finishes at least his first cup of coffee, though Castiel has gotten into the habit of hovering with the carafe when he notices Dean is getting to the bottom of his cup so he can top it off without Dean noticing. He’s been around long enough by now to have learned that Donna — the beta who is not Dean’s mate, Castiel had been pleased to learn — had been correct, and a caffeinated Dean is a much happier Dean, and a happy Dean is more likely to make the pancakes he knows Castiel adores for breakfast.

(It’s wild — being in a situation in which he is eating so much and so regularly, that he’s developed preferences. He likes pancakes and western omelettes and bacon. He doesn’t care for oatmeal and bananas and sugar cereal. Orange juice is good, but coffee is magical. Everything is better with honey.

If he thinks about it for too long, the guilt will sit heavy in his stomach and then nothing tastes good anyway.)

Once the ‘magical bean juice’, as Dean calls it, takes effect and he’s less ‘like an angry bear’ (Donna’s words again), Dean will make breakfast while Castiel goes to shower and change for the day. Castiel finds this is one of his favourite parts of his morning routine — to get to stand under the hot water for as long as he wants, to get to go to his own closet, in his own room afterwards, and pick out anything he wants to wear for the day from his small, but much appreciated wardrobe.

It’s such a far cry from being sprayed down with cold water from a hose and kept naked all the time and having to debase and humiliate himself to earn scraps of food, that Castiel finds himself wondering if this is the same surreality people who’ve won the lottery must feel when they consider their sudden change in fortune.

Then, usually in far shorter a time than Castiel would have preferred, (because if he had it his way, he’d stay in the hot shower all day), he’ll reemerge, freshly washed and dressed, he and Dean will eat breakfast, then Dean will go change for the day, and they’ll leave for The Roadhouse. Once there, Dean will go do ‘big boss stuff’, as his friend, Miss Charlie, calls it, and Castiel will either meet with Dr Banes for talk therapy, or Mr Sammy’s friend, Mr Gadreel, for physical therapy, or even spend time with Miss Donna, whom Castiel has come to like quite a lot, in the kitchens.

If there’s nothing like that scheduled for him for that day, he usually meets Dean for lunch in the early afternoon, but other than that, his days are his own. He’s been assured by multiple people that he’s free to meander around like- like a free man. There’s no shock collar around his neck that goes off if he steps too close to the perimeter, no armed guards dogging his every move.

He’s even had the opportunity to get to know some of the omega residents there, which has been… strange. In Purgatory, unless he’d been ordered to ‘perform’ with another slave, the omegas were kept pretty isolated, only seeing customers or guards, or — for ‘chosen’ slaves, like Castiel — their master.

It’s not like that here, though, where socialising is permitted — even encouraged. Since Castiel is living with Dean, he doesn’t see the other residents in the lodge where they all live, (mostly because he knows Dean’s scent clings to him, and he doesn’t want to bring the scent of unmated alpha into their temporary home), but he does occasionally have the chance to speak with them in the dining hall, or out on the grounds.

Though he wouldn’t call them friends or anything that familiar, Castiel’s has begun getting to know a few — a woman a few years younger than him, named Ava, who’d self-signed to pay for her fiancé’s medical treatment; a nervous man called Andy, who’d been betrayed by his twin brother; or an angry, young woman, Claire, who couldn’t be much more than eighteen, and ended up forced into the system when both her parents had died suddenly in a car crash.

(That one hits a little too close to home for Castiel.)

Still, he’s grateful to know them — even Claire — because even though they don’t know each other, really, or know their exact stories, there is still an air of knowing between them, of understanding.

Castiel is shocked at how much that means to him. He’s come to really enjoy Dean’s company, same with Miss Donna, Mr Sammy, even Bobby and Ellen (who’ve stoutly insisted on being called by their first names and nothing else), but there’s something to be said about- about being with people who just get it. Who don’t have to ask or over-explain or tiptoe around them like they’re frail waifs — even with the best of intentions — because they’ve been there, too. They have the nightmares and the scars and the weird hangups about things like sitting in a chair or avoiding eye contact or saying the word ‘no’, even in the most innocuous of situations.

It makes him feel seen, feel less alone, and it- it’s nice.

Today, however, Dean is off of work for the first time all week, and they have the entire day wide open to them. As they finish up breakfast, Castiel stands to clear the table (he’d been adamant that if Dean was to do all the cooking, the least he could do would be to handle cleaning up), but Dean stops him with a hand on his wrist.

‘Hey, so I was just thinkin’…’ he starts, quickly releasing Castiel’s wrist and cringing when his voice cracks on the first word. ‘I was thinkin’ that if you’re gonna be stickin’ around here for a little bit — well, if you want to, of course, which you said you do — then it might be high time for us to get you some more sh*t of your own… I mean, I don’t mind sharin’ or anything, but I kinda thought it might be nice for you to get to pick out a few things for yourself, ya know?’

‘Oh,’ Castiel says, ducking his head, suddenly mortified at the meaning in Dean’s stuttering words. ‘I apologise, Dean, I didn’t mean to- to use your things. I can refrain if you wouldn’t mind informing me which of your resources I’ve depleted. I’d offer to repay you, but- but, uhm. You said you’re not- that you don’t-’

His eyes flit over to Dean’s crotch almost automatically, which does not go unnoticed by Dean. Even though Castiel knows, and is often times relieved that this is their dynamic, he can’t help the swell of hurt rising in him when Dean all but shudders at the idea of f*cking Castiel.

Again, he thinks of how very different things are now, to have gone from existing only for that purpose, to repulsing an unmated alpha. Theoretically, he should be grateful, but in actuality, the rejection makes him feel ill if he thinks about it for too long. It’s not as though he wants to- to be called on to service Dean, but he thinks maybe it would be nice to be considered.

(Realistically, he knows that if he ever did sense any sort of interest from Dean in that way, it would likely not be something he would feel pleased about, and, in fact, chances are it would be the thing to ruin the easy camaraderie they have. But knowing this doesn’t help the way his insides burn with humiliation every time he’s reminded that he’s so soiled that someone… someone good like Dean will never look at him as someone who could be a mate, which is something that never mattered to him before, but now…)

He shakes his head, not wanting to explore the pain from that rejection again, and instead waits for Dean to tell him what Castiel’s been using too much of. He feels his cheeks warm with embarrassment at the idea that Dean is now even more inconvenienced by Castiel’s presence, that Dean now has to spend more money on things Castiel so selfishly took.

‘Oh my God, dude, no!’ Dean exclaims, startling Castiel from his bout of self-flagellation. ‘I didn’t mean it like you’re doin’ anything wrong or anything, I just meant, like, uh- I just thought it might be nice for you to get some sh*t of your own, you know, like- get to pick out some more clothes or snacks or, like, shampoo ’n stuff? Plus all the things my dumb ass forgot that you might need, like, I don’t know- floss or razors and shaving cream or deodorant? Not that I’m saying you stink or anything!’ he adds hurriedly, cheeks flushing. ‘You smell real nice, ’n all that, I just- I don’t know. I figured maybe we’d go bum around Target ’n see what looks good?’

‘Oh…’ Castiel feels slightly better, knowing that he hasn’t been gluttonous, but now also incredibly nervous at the thought of- of going out in public… it’s something he hasn’t had to consider in years. Previously, if he was leaving Purgatory, it was almost always to accompany his master to various meetings or parties in which he was either used as entertainment or a status symbol. Somehow he doesn’t think Dean means to do the same.

‘Is that alright?’ Dean asks, concerned now that he’s picked up on Castiel’s anxiety, which must be stinking up the kitchen. ‘Dude, we don’t gotta if you don’t wanna, I mean — s’not like I can’t place an online order. Or if ya wanna compromise, I could place a pickup order ’n all we gotta do is drive up there ’n get it, don’t even gotta get outta the car — it’s the best invention, I swear. Sure coulda used that when Ben was a ba-’

Dean stops speaking so abruptly, it’s as though someone has pulled the power cord, and all Castiel is left with is an empty, Dean-shaped thing, and he doesn’t like that at all. He tries to think of something, anything, to say to salvage the moment, but he comes up blank. He runs though the names of people Dean’s mentioned, but he’s never heard of a ‘Ben’.

It seems that he’s not going to hear of him now either, because Dean’s recovered from his slip-up by forcing a smile and saying gruffly, ‘My point is… we don’t gotta go to Tar-jay if you don’t wanna. I’m down for hanging out here, too. Just didn’t want ya to be bored or unhappy or whatever, since the only places ya been so far are here ’n work.’

The idea that Castiel could be unhappy in a place where he’s warm, clean, fed, and not being f*cked six ways from Sunday for hours on end is ridiculous, almost bordering on irritating or offensive in the same way Dean apologising for Castiel’s placement with him was. Castiel knows he’s being unfair when he thinks like this — that despite being a good, kind, empathetic man, and working as an abolitionist for as long as Dean has, what he hasn’t experienced firsthand is the harsh reality of what it’s like to actually be in the trade. Castiel reminds himself that Dean doesn’t mean anything by it when he says stuff like this, that it’s just him trying to treat Castiel like a normal person.

He only wishes that it didn’t make him feel the complete opposite.

‘I can assure you that I am in no way unhappy with our current arrangement, but I’m not opposed to going to the store with you,’ Castiel says cautiously, though he can’t help gnawing on his lower lip as he says it. ‘I just- I haven’t been to- to a place like that in… a very long time. I… I don’t want to embarrass you if something like what happened at The Roadhouse were to happen again.’

He doesn’t explicitly say that he’s also nervous about being exposed to so many people that Dean doesn’t know, can’t promise that they’re ‘good people’, because that is straight foolishness. Of course Castiel is going to occasionally have to be around strangers — especially if he’d like to some day, as inconceivable as it may seem now, be a- a free man again. It won’t do to be at risk for a mental breakdown every time he steps outside.

‘I promise, there’s nothin’ you could do that could embarrass me,’ Dean informs him, smirking a little. ‘Ya gotta remember, I spent most of my teenage years sharin’ a room — or sometimes even just the backseat of the Impala — with my giant, smelly little brother, who went through an honest to God hippie phase… it’s where the hair comes from. Dude walked around for, like, two years, reeking of patchouli, ’n always wearing a little beanie hat with his hemp baja sweater, ’n tryin’ to hacky-sack with his skinny little giraffe limbs… wait, where was I goin’ with this?’

He pauses, frowning, lips moving as he makes little gestures with his pointer finger in the air, like he’s trying to draw a line between Castiel’s mental breakdown at The Roadhouse, and his brother’s teenage grunge phase. His eyes light up when he finally makes the connection. ‘Oh, right. My point was: there’s no way you could embarrass me after that.’

‘If you’re sure, then… of course, thank you, Dean. What shall I wear?’ Castiel asks, feeling foolish, but needing to hear from Dean himself that he wasn’t going to force Castiel into some humiliating omega lingerie or something.

Dean’s baffled expression offers more than enough reassurances. ‘Uh…’ He rubs the back of his neck in confusion, eyebrows furrowed. ‘Clothes…?’ He closes his eyes for a long moment, shaking his head, like he couldn’t believe he’d just said something so obvious. ‘I mean, like- it’s Target, dude. What you got on is fine,’ he says, gesturing to his ACDC shirt that Castiel is wearing again. ‘Plus, you’re reppin’ a bomb ass band, so-’ He shrugs, like that fact is enough to fully settle the matter.

Castiel sighs in relief, which, thankfully, Dean misses because he’s up and helping Castiel clean up from breakfast, despite their arrangement. When he asks Castiel if he wants to head right out, Castiel agrees, thinking it’s probably better to get it over with sooner, rather than later.

They go into the mudroom and put their shoes on, Castiel sitting down on the floor to work the laces of his Converse sneakers open enough so he could slip his foot in. (He’d forgotten what a total pain in the ass Chuck Taylors were to get on. Didn’t make him love them any less, though)

Every time he sits on the ground to put his shoes on, he’s reminded of that first night he’d come back to Dean’s house, not knowing what to expect, and assuming the worst. He thinks of how the alpha had seemed so powerful and intimidating, just standing in this very room, then turns his attention to Dean, who’s struggling to remain balanced on one foot while he tries to get his boot on.

The idea that he’d once been so terrified of this man seems almost laughable now. ‘Do you require assistance?’ Castiel asks dryly, gazing up at him. Dean glares.

‘Got it under control, thanks,’ he retorts as he succeeds in both getting his boot all the way on and nearly toppling over. ‘God, I swear I’m gonna just invest in a good, old-fashioned pair of Crocs and go around in those all summer.’

The image of a hideous, rubber, clog-like shoe comes to mind, and Castiel’s feelings on said shoes must show on his face, because Dean bursts out laughing and offers Castiel a hand to help him get back to his feet.

Dean opens the door to the garage, and Castiel notices the slight drop in temperature almost immediately. He shivers a little, rubbing his hands over his bare arms, debating asking Dean if he would mind if Castiel went to get one of his hoodies, but he ultimately decides he’d rather stay in Dean’s shirt — especially if they’re about to go out in public with a bunch of strangers. Even though he knows the alpha’s scent has been washed away from it, there’s an undeniable feeling of safety that comes with knowing that he’s in his master’s clothes, that not only is he legally protected by being owned — he’s also cared for.

‘Here, why don’t you put this on?’ Dean grabs his brown leather jacket from a hook next to the door and hands it to Castiel. ‘It ain’t too bad out, but it’s still a little nippy, so, uh- better safe than sorry?’

‘Thank you, Dean,’ Castiel says, accepting the proffered item of clothing, and slipping it on. All at once, he’s engulfed by the scent of cinnamon and balsam, and he can’t help the pleased humming noise that escapes his throat. He blushes immediately, eyes flying to the alpha, and is mortified to find that Dean’s cheeks are flaming red as well. He’s about to say something — anything — in apology, but Dean cuts him off.

‘Uh, well, let’s- let’s get this road on the show then, huh?’ he says loudly, wrenching the door to the garage open with what seems to be an excessive amount of force. ‘Them groceries ain’t gonna buy themselves.’

Castiel follows him out to the garage and climbs into the front seat of Dean’s car on instinct. As he’s buckling his seatbelt, he has the startling realisation that it didn’t even cross his mind that Dean might not allow him to sit inside the car, and instead intend for him to spend the ride locked in the trunk.

Dean mutters his ‘herd of turtles’ line, and then they’re off. Castiel spends the rest of the drive reflecting — yet again — on how much has changed in so short an amount of time, pointedly not thinking about what’s to come, and all the things that could possibly go wrong.

Chapter 24: honour and inquiry

Chapter Text

Target (or ‘Tar-jay’ as Dean has called it several times now), is a whirlwind of florescent lights, screaming toddlers with harried-looking, Starbucks swilling parents, and more stuff than Castiel has seen since before-before. It’s so bright and colourful and crowded and loud that it almost doesn’t seem real.

Even with the added security of wearing Dean’s jacket, its weight a comforting reminder that Castiel is protected, he still feels lost and overwhelmed, and grips the side of the cart like a small child. Dean notices, but doesn’t comment, instead keeping up a steady stream of his patented nonsensical chatter that does, in fact, go far in helping Castiel settle, even though his anxiety is still ramped right the hell up.

‘Oh, hey! Wouldja wanna pick up a couple boxes of- I don’t know, granola bars or fruit snacks or somethin’?’ Dean asks, peering up at the aisle description sign above their head, then down the length of the aisle. ‘We could getcha set up with a little mini-bar or something, even, cos then, if ya get hungry, you wouldn’t have to go all the way down to the kitchen for food between meals.’

‘I don’t eat between meals, though,’ Castiel replies. He’s confused about what Dean could be implying, but something about the situation sets off warning bells in his head anyway. ‘I only eat the meals we consume together.’

Dean’s giving him a strange look, but Castiel doesn’t understand why. ‘Never?’ he asks skeptically. ‘What about when I’m at work all day?’

Castiel feels his stomach drop. Dean sounds like he doesn’t believe him, which means he feels as though he can’t trust Castiel’s word, which means he has suspicions about Castiel’s behaviour when he’s not around. Under any other circ*mstance, with any other master, this would normally mean that unless Castiel fixes this sh*t, he’d find himself on his way back at the training centre to be ‘corrected’. He’s not sure what it means for him now, though, which is almost as alarming a prospect.

‘Never,’ he repeats adamantly. ‘I swear, I- I only eat when you are aware and give your permission. I don’t- I never take food without your knowledge, Alpha- I mean- Dean. No, Dean, I haven’t. I wouldn’t.’

Even though he knows — or thinks he knows, at least — that Dean wouldn’t hurt him, wouldn’t punish him if he was sneaking food from the kitchen, it suddenly seems vitally important that Dean knows that he isn’t, knows that Castiel would never disrespect him or his household in that way. Dean has already given Castiel so much, that the idea that he could think for even a moment that Castiel would steal from him is almost enough to send Castiel crashing to his knees right then and there in the middle of the aisle.

‘Hey, hey, hey — whoa there. It’s fine, dude,’ Dean says quickly, hands making ‘calm down’ gestures, like Castiel is a startled beast he’s trying to tame, which is depressingly apt. ‘I’m not saying you have, I’m just sayin’ it’s alright if you did.’

‘But- but I didn’t,’ Castiel promises, heart still thundering in his chest, the scent of his anxious desperation beginning to make even himself feel lightheaded. ‘I promise.’

‘Okay, alright. I believe you,’ Dean says. It takes Castiel a moment to realise that Dean has made his voice softer, and maybe half an octave higher than normal. He’s trying to make himself seem less intimidating, less alpha, and to Castiel’s embarrassment, it’s working.

‘Thank you,’ he croaks, slightly mortified that he needs to be treated like a child, just so he doesn’t cause a scene in a grocery store. ‘But I don’t require- I mean. You don’t have to-’

‘I know I don’t have to,’ Dean agrees mildly, even as he carefully tosses a few boxes into the cart. He offers Castiel a smile that seems almost shy, which was never a look Castiel saw on an alpha’s face before meeting Dean, and adds, ‘But I want to. If you don’t wanna eat ’em, then don’t — no harm, no foul. I’m pretty sure these things are like co*ckroaches or Twinkies, and could outlast the apocalypse, so you don’t gotta worry ’bout expiration dates or anything.’

Castiel, who has literally been desperate enough to eat food he’d had to sneak from the trash, just nods helplessly and mumbles, ‘thank you, Alpha,’ again. He tries to ignore the way Dean frowns when Castiel forgets to use his name instead.

The rest of the trip passes somewhat awkwardly. Castiel feels anxious and on edge every time they pass another customer, the thin, soft leather collar around his neck feeling like a scarlet letter S announcing to the world that he’s a slave, which can make things uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons. He’s not sure what would be worse — someone being dismissive or aggressive or otherwise afwul to him, or someone being pitying and self-righteous about the evils of slavery. If at all possible, he’s eager to avoid both types of interactions.

Dean, on the other hand, continues to be far kinder and more understanding than Castiel deserves. They make it through the rest of the grocery section, then onto toiletries, where Dean asks Castiel for his opinions about things like toothpaste and body wash and his opinion on the benefits of loofahs versus washcloths, as though Castiel’s entire grooming routine for the last decade hadn’t been cold hose water and whatever cheap hygiene products that Purgatory would deign to provide the omegas with — when they could be bothered at all.

When Dean very earnestly asks Castiel whether he’d like his deodorant to smell like 'charcoal and bourbon’ or ‘iceberg and timber’, Castiel finds himself so overwhelmed that he just blinks stupidly back at the man for several long moments before he realises he still needs to answer.

‘I’m sorry, Dean, I’m just… unaccustomed to making these types of decisions,’ he says finally, trying very hard not to sound as hysterical as he feels at being surrounded by so many choices. ‘I haven’t- I haven’t been required to choose these things for myself in a very long time. I have no preferences for the scent of my underarms.’

A moment later, he’s horrified at how dismissively and ungratefully he’s just spoken to Dean, who’s been nothing but patient and generous, but Dean merely lets out a deep belly laugh.

‘Fair point, dude,’ he says, snorting, and throwing one of each deodorant into their cart which has now become quite full. ‘These are the stupidest names anyway, y’know? Like- s’not like we don’t all have our own natural scents, so why start addin’ friggin’ weather ’n sh*t into the mix? Your, uh- your natural scent is a hell of a lot nicer than this chemical sh*t anyway.’ Dean blushes, pointedly not looking at Castiel, and instead studying the label of the nearest deodorant that claims to smell like thunderstorms and tsunamis, whatever the hell that means. ‘Actually, now that I think of it…’

He wanders a bit farther down the aisle, then lets out a quiet noise of triumph, plucking several items from the shelf and hurrying back. When he returns to the cart, he takes the charcoal/bourbon and iceberg/timber deodorants out and shoves them back into their respective slots on the shelf, then deposits his new find into the cart in their place.

Castiel peers down curiously, and is both surprised and pleased to see that Dean has added a variety of scent-free products. From the look of it, he’s found deodorant, shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, all without added fragrance. He hadn’t been aware that such things had even existed — they certainly hadn’t before he’d gone into the slave trade.

Dean seems to pick up on his surprise and just shrugs. ‘It’s a kind of new thing some companies have been doin’,’ he explains, gesturing to the bottles in the cart. ‘There’s this thing called, uh- secondary gender dysphoria, ’n it’s when the secondary gender someone’s born with don’t quite feel ‘right’, y’know? ’N sometimes havin’ to get these, like- self-care products, or whatever, that ‘enhances’ their biology makes ’em feel… not so great, so a buncha brands’ve begun makin’ scentless stuff. S’not like scent blockers, cos sometimes that can also get folks feelin’ some kinda way, like they’re bein’ erased, but it doesn’t make ya feel like ya gotta be all ALPHA or OMEGA, if that makes sense.’ He smiles ruefully, shrugging and running a hand through his hair.

It does make sense to Castiel, even though he finds himself staring dumbly at Dean, like he’s just started speaking Martian. The world Castiel had been torn from ten years ago had been nowhere near this progressive. It makes him wonder what else he’s missed, this time not in his life or the lives of his former friends, but- but in the society. He’s getting the idea more and more every day that it’s a hell of a lot.

Dean’s still talking in that just trying to fill uncomfortable silences with comeplete noise pollution way of his. ‘… I mean, I know it’s totally different circ*mstances, but I almost wish they woulda had that sh*t when I was growin’ up… I can’t tell ya what it was like sharin’ a bathroom with this smelly-ass teenage moose of an alpha who thought he’d assert his masculinity by dousin’ himself in Old Spice. I’da skipped swappin’ his shampoo for Nair, and gone with swappin’ his shower gel with-’

He gestures awkwardly to the bottles in the cart, and looks endearingly embarrassed to be rambling about his brother’s grooming habits. Castiel offers him a small smile.

‘I understand,’ he informs Dean seriously. ‘I had two older brothers who were both very proudly alphas, and two younger beta brothers in their teens. It was a very… fragrant home life.’

Castiel freezes the moment the words leave his mouth, horrified that he’s revealed so much of his past life, especially on the heels of learning what his family and their company had become, but thankfully Dean seems to notice this as well, and doesn’t press him for any more details. Instead, he just pulls the other scented self-care items from the cart, and deposits them onto another empty space on the shelf. It earns him a dirty look from the teenage beta employee restocking at the other end of the aisle, but Dean pays her no mind.

‘So… clothes?’ he asks cheerfully, jerking his head towards the large sign overhead declaring the men’s department. ‘I figure ya could use at least a few new outfits — not that I mind sharing at all, but I thought you might like some new duds of your own. I know wearin’ my old hand-me-downs sure ain’t gonna win ya any Best Dressed awards.’

‘I simply appreciate the novelty of being dressed,’ Castiel tries joking, but it falls flat. He flushes, embarrassed to have reminded Dean yet again of the wretched state that Dean had found him in and mumbles, ‘Anything you provide for me is appreciated, Dean. I don’t deserve all this-’

‘Aw, knock that off right the hell now,’ Dean interrupts quickly, looking embarrassed himself. ‘S’no big deal… Like me ’n Ellen toldja — all that stuff’s donations, ’n meant to be given out anyway. Not that I would mind just buyin’ stuff for you either way, of course. I mean- ya deserve to have sh*t ya like, y’know? Which brings us back around to… not makin’ you go around wearin’ my smelly gym shirt all the time. Charlie likes to call me a walking fashion disaster, so….’

Normally, Castiel would like to argue that it is all — a very big deal, in fact — but today, after being so wound up for so long already, he finds he has no desire to contradict the alpha in public, especially when he’s already made the other man so self-conscious and uncomfortable. He chooses instead to just nod and allows himself to be led over to the clothing department.

He’s dreading having to make more choices, which Dean seems to have picked up on, so after a few basic questions (boxers or briefs, crew socks or ankle), Dean throws several packages of essentials into their cart and ushers Castiel over to the wall of jeans and sweatpants.

‘Hm… we decided you’re what — probably about two sizes down from me in jeans, and a size down in sweats, right?’ Dean muses aloud, but it’s almost as though he’s talking more to himself than Castiel as he holds up a pair of jeans and examines both them and Castiel assessingly.

Castiel shifts in place, trying very hard to suppress memories of other alphas who’d sized him up like this. He sternly reminds himself that this scrutiny is for proper clothing he’s allowed to wear regularly, not humiliating lingerie or single-use clothing given to him just so an alpha customer had something to tear off of him.

‘I didn’t suppose you’d wanna try anything on while we’re here?’ Dean asks. He’s pulling an almost absurd number of pants down from the wall, and not looking at Castiel while he says this, which is probably just as well, since the simple question has unexpectedly sent Castiel off into a silent panic spiral.

No, he would not like to go into one of the tiny changing cubicles and strip down in this store full of strangers, where anything could happen, but who is he to refuse anything Dean asks of him, especially now? He robotically accepts the pile of pants that Dean has in his hands and forces himself to breathe.

‘I can- I can try on anything you’d like, Dean,’ he says faintly, glancing over towards the fitting rooms. He can’t see much of them from across the department like this, but what he does catch a glimpse of is a row of stalls remarkably like the ones in Purgatory. He reminds himself that if he goes into one of the stalls here, he will come out — he will — and while he’s inside, he won’t be bound and gagged and strapped down to a bench, helpless and unable to defend himself. He might still be getting used to life with Dean, but he’s just about positive that Dean wouldn’t allow anyone to lock Castiel up or keep him here against his will.

Even so, he feels like a man walking towards the gallows with every step, keeping his eyes trained on the red and white sign that says FITTING ROOM, not OMEGAS OMEGAS OMEGAS (or even worse: FREE USE) in flashing neon lights.

‘Actually…’

Castiel feels a hand on his elbow and he freezes, just barely controlling the urge to flinch or slide to his knees. Shoulders tense, he looks over to Dean, awaiting further instruction.

Dean is studying him again, though Castiel is pretty sure this time it has nothing to do with clothing sizes. When he notices he has Castiel’s full attention, his cheeks take on the slightest hint of pink again, but then he just clears his throat and continues, ‘Actually, I was thinkin’ — I’m gettin’ a little tired from all this retail therapy we’re doin’ today… Would it be cool with you if we just grab some stuff, and if it don’t fit, we can always exchange it another day? I mean- if you really wanna try it on here, I don’t mind doin’ some wall pushups or something to wake myself up, but otherwise, maybe we just grab some shirt ’n then blow this popsicle stand?’

‘That sounds like a very good plan, Dean,’ Castiel agrees, grateful for the excuse, even if he’s suspicious of the truth of it all. ‘I have no objections to trying the clothing on at home.’

‘Thanks, man,’ Dean replies, as though Castiel is the one doing him a favour. ‘Alrighty, well… it looks like the tees on that table are twelve bucks if you wanna start there? I’m thinkin’ medium’s probably a good size to start with, in case anything shrinks in the wash. D’ya got a preference for, uh… V-neck or crew or- wait, what the hell’s a cowl? Dude. Why is this a thing? It looks like- like-’ He pauses in his ranting, thoughtfully eyeing the shirt he’d just picked up with the loose fabric around the collar. ‘Well, it looks like something my brother would wear, actually. Maybe I’ll grab one and say it’s a belated birthday present or somethin’…’

Dean digs to the bottom of the pile and throws a gigantic shirt into the cart, then goes to browse at the other side of the table. Castiel chooses two crewneck t-shirts at random in the size Dean recommended, and waits patiently while Dean picks another shirt with the strange neckline in light pink for his brother, chuckling to himself.

He adds that one to the cart as well, then looks over to Castiel, seemingly surprised to see he’s already made his selection. Frowning, he says, ‘D’ya need help picking colours or anything? As you can see, I’m not exactly what you’d call a fashion guru, but I can do my best…’

Castiel frowns. ‘No, I chose some shirts… I wasn’t sure how many you’d intended for me to select, but you did say ‘shirts’, not ‘shirt’, so I assumed two was acceptable. If it’s too much, I can certainly put one back — between the things you put in the cart, and what I have back at your house, I really do have more than enough…’

When he chances a look over at Dean, he sees that the alpha is staring at him again with that slightly baffled look that makes Castiel’s heart rate speed up just a little, worried that he’s done or said something wrong. A few more moments of uncomfortable silence pass, and Castiel wants nothing more than to put everything back and apologise for his selfishness, because who the hell does he think he is, shopping for clothing for himself, on someone’s dime, like some entitled ass-

‘You can get more than two t-shirts, man,’ Dean says, just as Castiel is beginning to become genuinely concerned that he might spiral into a full-fledged panic over his own brashness. ‘I’m sorry I’m so bad at this,’ he adds, surprising Castiel, who watches in complete confusion as Dean rubs the back of his neck, wincing sheepishly.

‘I… don’t understand,’ Castiel admits, grateful all over again that Dean gave him permission to articulate this when something didn’t make sense, because it seems to be the case more often than not. ‘I’m not clear on what it is you think you’re doing poorly,’ he elaborates, when he sees that now Dean looks unsure again.

‘This, dude,’ Dean answers, gesturing across the table of shirts to the space between them. ‘Like this whole… puttin’ sh*t in a way that makes what the hell I’m tryna say make sense outside of my head, ya know? Like… I know that I meant for you to get, like, at least half a dozen shirts, but it should have occurred to me that you wouldn’ta known that, because one: you live in the real world, and not this- this Barney Bag nightmare that’s the inside of my brain, and two: you’ve had the misfortune to be living amongst the scum of the Earth for the last decade, so why in the hell would you assume that’s what I meant?’ He sighs. ‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry that I’m makin’ sh*t harder on you than it needs to be, but I’m glad you feel okay letting me know when you don’t know what the hell I’m talkin’ about.’

Castiel doesn’t really know what to say to that either, so he chances a nervous, ‘… thank you?’ which makes Dean laugh.

‘You’re welcome, Steve,’ he replies, shaking his head in a way that seems almost affectionate. ‘Listen, why don’t you pick out a few m- I mean- like… three or four more shirts? Don’t gotta be from just this spot either — it looks like they got a couple more tables over in that corner, too. You could probably use another sweatshirt or two as well… S’not that cold out anymore, but still not really t-shirt weather.’ He eyes Castiel for a moment, a strange look on his face before clearing his throat and adding, ‘You’re, uh- you’re welcome to keep wearin’ my coat for as long as you want, though. It, uh- it’s a good look for you,’ his words all coming out in a rush.

Something low in Castiel’s stomach warms him from within as he can’t help but revel in the compliment. Putting Dean’s jacket on had felt right, so to know that it also pleased the alpha makes him feel a strange surge of contentment and pride.

‘Thank you,’ he says again, rubbing the leather of one of the sleeves between his fingers. ‘It’s a lovely jacket, Dean.’

(It is, too. The leather is soft and work, broken in from years of wear and tear. Castiel imagines it looks… rather striking on Dean.)

‘Ah… Thanks,’ Dean says, looking down at the ground for a moment, a muscle in his jaw clenching, but rather than look as though he’s trying to control anger or upset, it’s seems as though he’s fighting back a wave of emotion he hadn’t been expecting. ‘It was my dad’s. Same with that, ah- that knife.’ He looks like he might want to say more, but then shakes his head and shrugs jerkily. ‘Anyway. We need t’getcha a few more shirts, dude. Like I said, how’s, say… three or four more for now?’

Three or four more shirts, on top of what he already has in the cart and back at Dean’s house, seems entirely excessive to Castiel, but he nods and lets himself be led to the other tables Dean had mentioned. He picks two shirts that are like the ones from the first table, only these have a small pocket on the front, and is about to pick a third when he notices a flash of red and blue.

The shirt only snags his attention from the corner of his eye, but before he knows it, he’s approaching the table as though sleepwalking.

It’s a funny shirt, with three incarnations of Spider-Man, as well as Stan Lee, walking through a crosswalk in a line. The image feels vaguely familiar, like a variation of something he’s seen before, but he can’t quite remember where.

He’s searching for his size and pulling it from the pile before he knows what he’s doing, and the only thing that stops him from adding it to the cart is when he notices the pricetag and realises that this shirt is almost twice as expensive as the ones Dean had had him looking at initially.

‘Oh,’ he says, flushing. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see these ones were- they’re more expensive than the other ones for some reason. I didn’t realise. I’ll just-’

He hurriedly refolds the shirt and goes to return it to the shelf, but Dean stops him.

‘Hey, now, it’s no big deal,’ Dean says, reaching for the shirt. He peers down at it, eyes lighting when he sees the design. ‘Aw, man, that’s awesome! The Beatles and Spider-Man all on one shirt? You definitely gotta get it, dude.’

‘It- it’s really okay,’ Castiel protests, embarrassed. ‘I just, uhm- I used to like Spider-Man when I was… younger. He was my favourite superhero growing up. I even, uhm-’

He stops speaking abruptly, the memory he’d just recalled causing a sharp pain in his chest. He and his first boyfriend, Inias, had tried to reenact the famous upside-down kiss on his little brother’s swing set in the backyard. Fourteen year old Castiel had tried hanging upside-down from the monkey bars by his knees, but only succeeded in slipping off and faceplanting on the ground. Inias had kissed him sweetly, anyway.

Dean seems to understand the emotional minefield that Castiel now finds himself tiptoeing across, so he just leans on a rack a few feet away, giving Castiel time to get his sh*t together, then remarks casually, ‘So… Spider-Man, huh? I was always more of a DC guy growing up… Batman was my favourite. I mean, I know his real superpower is a hefty bank account and alpha privilege, but at least he uses it to fight evil, right?’ His lips quirk into a half-grin and he adds, ‘When I was a kid, I used to tell everyone I wanted to be a superhero when I grew up, and there wasn’t a single person on the planet who could convince me that that wasn’t a real profession.’

He shrugs sheepishly as he says this, like he’s embarrassed at the admission, before rapping his knuckles once against the top of the shelf, shooting Castiel a self-conscious smile, and ambling awkwardly away. Far enough to give Castiel the illusion of privacy, but close enough that if any problems were to arise, Castiel knows Dean would never let anything happen to him.

The thought makes him pause, and before he knows it, despite everything, Castiel has to fight the urge to smile. Even though he still doesn’t know Dean all that well, he privately thinks that maybe his dreams as a young boy of being the superhero who saves the day didn’t end up being too off the mark after all.

Chapter 25: words without a rhyme

Chapter Text

Over the course of the next few weeks, Castiel’s entire world changes. It was really that first shopping trip that was the turning point, Castiel thinks, but it really wasn’t about the stuff he’d gotten as much as the… the new understanding of Dean, and of Dean understanding him.

(Castiel had done his very best to not to look at the transaction total on the register when everything had been rung out. He’s pretty sure Dean just spent more on Castiel’s clothes and toiletries than he did on Castiel himself.)

He thinks back to ‘before-before’, back when he’d been so adamantly fascinated by science — labs and experiments and hypotheses and theories, taking what you know and using it to try to make sense of what you don’t.

Even in so short an amount of time, Castiel feels like he knows Dean. He knows he’s an adult orphan with an almost unhealthy sense of accountability and concern for the welfare of his younger brother. He knows Dean’s father was a strict, ex-military alpha who raised his boys with a rigid sense of duty to protect omegas, however flawed or outdated his reasoning was. He knows that Dean enjoys cooking, but doesn’t think he should, and that he’s often embarrassed over things about himself that he thinks his father would not approve of.

In his limited experience with Dean in places other than his own house, he’s seen how seamlessly Dean fits into the outside world, even though the man in question seems to believe the exact opposite. Castiel has seen Dean get uncomfortable and tongue-tied at the prospect of having to make a decision, especially ones that will affect more than just himself, but he’s also seen that Dean, when he gives himself the time and space to be, is actually incredibly intelligent and observant. He wonders if this is part of who Dean always would have been, or if the extra need for vigilance is a result of is upbringing.

He thinks he knows that when it comes to Dean, he really is the epitome of ‘what you see is what you get’. That Dean cares far more about his loved ones than he ever could care about himself, and that his need to ‘do the right thing’ is compulsive at best, crippling at worst. That he, Castiel, can… he can trust Dean, because Dean has never given him any real reason to believe that this isn’t the case.

In short, he’s pretty sure he can reasonably conclude that Dean — while imperfect and scatterbrained and a little too hard on himself — appears to be one of the good ones. If he had to write a dissertation on the phenomenon of Dean Winchester, he believes that the conclusion would be that Dean loves with his whole heart, and that he’s learning that Dean seems to be the kind of person who is given that love back in return.

Castiel’s not too sure what to do with this conclusion, so he just keeps it to himself for now until he does.

The room in Dean’s house that Castiel is staying in is slowly but surely becoming… becoming his. It’s almost beginning to look like a real person inhabits it, a thought that makes Castiel freeze every time it hits him. He hasn’t been a real person since, well- since before-before, and he honestly hadn’t ever counted on being real again. Hadn’t even considered it, to be honest.

Yet, here he is — warm, fed, fully-clothed, and free of bruises — or worse. He has a dresser and a closet full of clothes that Dean says are his, in a room Dean says belongs to him. While he knows that none of it is truly his own, just the fact that he has a master who allows him to pretend is so much more than he’s ever had. It’s enough.

It makes it easy to believe the lie. It makes it easy to forget.

(When they’d returned from the store, Dean had excused himself to retreat to the Dean Cave, leaving Castiel to the strange and satisfying task of putting his new things away. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time carefully opening the packages of brand new socks and underwear, mating the socks and folding the boxer briefs into their neat little squares, then moving onto the jeans and sweatpants.

Once done, he’d realised that the top of the chest where he’d previously been keeping his piles of clothing, had become so crowded that he’d had to consider a contingency location. He’d ended up deciding to use the top drawer of the dresser out in the bedroom for the socks and underwear, and the bottom two drawers for pants.

Dean had also purchased a few packages of hangers for him, so for the first time since freedom, Castiel had taken to the task of hanging his shirts and sweatshirts on the closet rod. That night, when he’d gone to sleep on the floor of his closet, he’d stared up at their hems creating almost shapeless shadows in the darkness and thought, all this is… mine, and the novelty of that simple sentence had been enough to keep him up for several hours after that. Part of him had been afraid that if he dared to close his eyes, he’d risk waking up to find it had all been a dream.)

The most bizarre, surreal, absolutely f*cking wild part of all of it, though, is the small three-shelf bookshelf in the corner that Dean had insisted on moving into Castiel’s room.

It had started as just a place for Castiel to store the boxes of power bars and bags of trail max that Dean had purchased for Castiel, insisting that he could eat them whenever he wanted, even if Dean was home. Castiel knows he would never dare to be so frivolous with his precious stock of food, but the fact that Dean is okay with it is, that he is actively fulfilling his promise that Castiel will never go hungry again is… good.

Now, however, there are even a few books on it as well, also at Dean’s insistence. Over the course of the past few weeks, he’s lent Castiel about half a dozen books that he ‘just knows’ that Castiel will ‘get a kick out of’, but ‘totally no pressure, man, cos you could always just go book shoppin’ in the Dean Cave if there’s somethin’ else you’d rather check out’. Castiel hasn’t quite been brave enough to crack the cover on the loaned books or go search for new ones, but just the fact that there are books openly available to him is incredible.

All of it is just incredible. If he tries to take it all in at once, or thinks about it too much, it might just break him, so… he doesn’t.

It’s like a strange, nervous reverse dance of the survival mode he’s been living in for so long, something he’s mentioned to Dr Banes during their twice-a-week talk therapy sessions, that it’s just so hard to believe that the good things are real, and that the bad things are in the past.

Because they’re not — not really, anyway. The ‘bad things’ (the ‘hard sh*t’ as Dean so eloquently calls it) just because it’s not Castiel’s present doesn’t mean it’s gone. All of it — every cold, hungry night in his cell; every exhausted morning he spent racing the sunrise, terrified that he might drift off to sleep just in time for his master to open his eyes; every ‘shift’ in Purgatory, being hurt and used and humiliated… it’s all a part of him, maybe even more so than the ever-growing number of reminders of who he was before it all.

His brain doesn’t seem to want to process the bad things, though. If he tries to sit down and think about them, he finds that can’t, that his mind just kind of… skips over it, like a stone skimming the surface of a pond. He imagines his thoughts screeching as they redirect themselves, like a record on a DJ’s turntable, as this begins happening more and more frequently.

Castiel asks Dr Banes what this means, and words like ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’ begin popping up in their sessions, and he doesn’t know really know how he feels about this either, because it’s not like he’s been to war or anything — he just happened to have lost the genetic lottery.

He tries telling Dr Banes that if his mind seems to be so determined to gloss over that part of his history, can’t it simply mean that he’s ready to move onto the next chapter, but he’s told that that’s not how recovery works.

Healing, Dr Banes tells him, is not linear — it’s a practice, not a task that he can ‘hit and quit’. There will be times in which his ‘trauma’ creeps up on him in unexpected ways, like it had with the automatic doors at The Roadhouse, for the rest of his f*cking life, and what’s worse is that this is expected, considered normal.

That, Castiel does not appreciate at all.

Some days, it’s a minor annoyance; a pebble in his shoe, a spectre at the feast, but for the most part, he can ignore it if he tries. Some days, it’s like it’s not there at all, and it makes him wonder what he was even bothered by in the first place.

And then… some days, it makes him want to scream, to raze the entire planet to the ground, because what the f*ck kind of world is he living in where this kind of sh*t not only happens, but is also considered f*cking normal? What kind of society not only functions, but thrives on subjugating a portion of the population based on something as uncontrollable as biology.

These days are dark, angry. Castiel spends them on the floor of ‘his’ closet, too angry or hopeless or sad or just plain numb to even use ‘his’ hoodie-pillow, or draw comfort from the sight of ‘his’ clothing or the food on ‘his’ shelf. On those days, Castiel is not a real person, not at all. Nothing feels as though it belongs to him, even in the broadest sense of the word — not even himself.

Days like those, when his thoughts take such a dark turn, he almost regrets having survived Purgatory at all, which is so crazy it feels crazy. Feels absolutely unhinged-insane, to have spent the last decade fighting just to live to see another day, only to now regret having made it through to the other side. He tries to remind himself that he could be dead, he could be ash, he could be nothing, and the fact that he isn’t is a blessing or a miracle or whatever other flowery description people like to throw out when they’re describing someone who should be six feet under, but, for whatever reason, isn’t.

Death is simple — neat and finite. Recovery and healing is hard work, and sometimes Castiel isn’t sure he’s up to the challenge.

Dean seems to be convinced, though. In a surprising show of- of quiet understanding, when Castiel hits that wall, falls into that darkness, Dean is just there — present, but at a respectful distance away, but not overwhelming Castiel with his typical barrage of rambling nonsense, for once. He doesn’t push, doesn’t inflict his presence on Castiel, he just offers it — checking in, making sure Castiel is eating, making mild suggestions of where they could go or what they could do in a some day, if you ever feel up to it kind of way, to see if any of it piques Castiel’s interest.

(He even sometimes appeals to Castiel’s battered ego, asking seemingly random questions about things he thinks Castiel might know the answer to. It’s almost humiliatingly transparent, but Dean is always so pleased when Castiel knows the answers to his inane questions, that he can’t help but play along.)

Intentionally or not, it’s as though Dean is trying — offering would be a more accurate description — to be Castiel’s cornerstone on the days he isn’t quite strong enough to hold himself up on his own, and Castiel… Castiel has never had that, not even as a child. His parents had been the type to steer him, to manoeuvre him like a chess piece. They’d taken him by the hand (or really, by the nape, where he’d have no chance of resisting), and directed him where to go, how to act, what to dress, who to be. Dean isn’t like that — rather than pull Castiel in the direction he wants him to go, Dean just gives him a sturdy foundation underfoot, so Castiel can eventually stand on his own.

It’s new and strange and confusing.

It- it makes everything confusing.

Castiel has never had feelings for a master before, and even though he knows Dean isn’t traditionally a master, technically, legally, literally, he is Castiel’s master, which makes this strange fondness he has for Dean feel like a double-edged sword. He likes Dean, because he’s Dean, but part of him doesn’t want to like Dean, simply on principle, but that somehow also seems wrong. Dean didn’t ask to be a master, but the fact of the matter is that he is.

On the other hand, Dean might be an alpha, but he’s the most un-alpha alpha Castiel has ever known, just like Dr Banes had said. Even before Purgatory, before slavery, all the alphas Castiel had known were nothing like the kind, gentle, open man who’s opened his house to Castiel.

His parents had been arrogant assholes; his brothers, even worse. Every alpha that Castiel had ever met before Dean navigated life with a grotesque sense of entitlement, just because their biology gave them a knot. Dean hasn’t ever given Castiel the indication that he has even an ounce of that type of misogynistic bullsh*t to him. It’s like he’s a man — and a good one, at that — first, before being an alpha.

And if that’s the case, if he’s proven himself to be more than his DNA, shouldn’t Castiel also give him the chance to prove himself as a friend, before condemning him for being an owner? He goes back and forth, arguing both sides until his head hurts, and he forces himself to put any sort of decision off for another day.

The problem is that the days keep passing, and Castiel is no closer to a figuring it out.

Today, Castiel isn’t quite sure what kind of day it is yet. He doesn’t feel that weight in his chest that typically implies a dark, closet-dwelling day ahead, but he also doesn’t feel the eager anticipation that he feels when it’s going to be a day where he almost feels real again. It just kind of… is.

He sighs and shakes out the hoodie he’d been using for a pillow and reaches for a hanger, so he can hide the evidence of his idiocy. There’s no reason to believe that Dean would enter his room at all, much less go poking around the closet, but Castiel hasn’t made it this far by not playing better safe than sorry when it comes to doing anything his masters might find unacceptable.

The morning passes easily enough. Dean stumbles downstairs about twenty minutes after Castiel, grunts a greeting, then proceeds to inhale several cups of coffee before declaring it to be pancake day and sending Castiel upstairs to shower.

Even though it’s been over a month by now, Castiel’s wonder and amazement over the magical healing properties of a hot shower has still not worn off, especially now that he has his own toiletries. He shakes his head, marvelling yet again over how wild it is to have been given the opportunity to develop preferences in something so superficial as what soap he uses to clean his body.

(He’d greatly appreciated the access to the fantastic products Sam had left behind, but they were undeniably intended for alphas. Even ignoring the fact that alpha products were often far too fragrant, in Castiel’s opinion, there had always been an initial wave of panic when his sensory memory clocked that he was in a shower, surrounded by the scent of alpha, which had never meant anything good for Castiel.)

Pushing these morose musings aside, he finishes washing and steps out of the shower a short while later. For whatever reason, Castiel takes a moment to stare at himself in the mirror as the steam from his shower dissipates and his reflection is slowly revealed, and that’s what does him in.

God, does he look old and haggard, dark circles under his tired eyes, ribs and hipbones protruding from his body like bare tree branches reaching towards the sky in the dead of winter. He meets with Pamela once a week for a checkup, so he knows he’s gained weight since coming to Dean’s, but his sunken ship of a body still fills him with shame. Not for the first time, he wonders what the hell Dean saw in Castiel that would make him even give an old, broken slave a second glance, much less want to bring it home with him. Dean had seen him laid bare at the omega centre, and had still seen something worth saving.

It looks like it going to be a dark day, after all.

Almost belligerently, Castiel swipes a hand across the mirror, distorting his reflection with the slowly fading fog. He stalks from the bathroom, dresses in a pair of black sweatpants and Dean’s ACDC shirt, then hurries downstairs, trying to decide if pancakes are going to be enough to get him to turn his sh*t around and stop being a grumpy asshole.

Luckily for Castiel, Dean seems to pick up on his sour disposition, and keeps up a steady flow of easy chatter, then loads Castiel’s plate with honey butter pancakes, which are just about the best thing Castiel’s ever eaten.

(He knows he feels this way after just about every meal that Dean makes, but any type of pancakes remain at the very top of the list, and not just because of the happy alpha scent that Dean gets when giving them to him, since he knows how much Castiel adores them.)

Dean goes to dress for the day while Castiel cleans the kitchen up, and then they’re off to The Roadhouse.

(Their drive isn’t too long, but Castiel now understands what Bobby had meant they day they’d met when he’d said that Dean plays the same six songs over and over. Dean not only has cassette tapes from the many rock bands that he loves, he also has several ‘mixed tapes’ that he’s made of all his favourite songs, and plays them at every opportunity.

Castiel personally thinks that most of them sound the same, but the one and only time he’d made that comment, he’d been treated to a twenty minute lecture of the various attributes and accomplishments of the members of the band, Led Zeppelin, particularly the ‘greatest guitarist of all time, Mr Jimmy Page’. Though Dean’s enthusiasm is generally infectious, it wasn’t necessarily an experience he was eager to repeat, especially in his current tremulous mood.)

Though he’s certainly feeling better than he had been after his shower, by the time they pull up to the main lodge, he still doesn’t feel up to being around as many people as he knows he’ll encounter inside. He likes the people he’s met so far — both residents and staff — he really does, but there’s no denying that there’s a certain level of- of performing required to successfully interact with other humans, even with the other residents. Some times (most times, actually), he feels up to it, but other times, it’s just exhausting.

Today is one of those times, so he mumbles something to Dean about wanting to take a walk before heading in. He can tell that Dean’s concerned, but the alpha just smiles and shrugs with a sounds good, man… Catch ya later for lunch?, and then he’s gone.

Castiel walks around the right side of the main lodge, passing the vocational training wing and the garage where Dean teaches automotive skills. He passes the gym, narrowly avoiding being spotted by a yoga class being taught on the patio that also doubles as a basketball court by Mrs Tasha.

The ground is a little soft last night’s rainfall, but not too bad, (walking around in wet Converse shoes is a special kind of sensory hell, Castiel remembers), so he walks briskly in the vague direction of the pond behind the residents’ living quarters. He’d been thinking that he might hang out on one of the benches for a while and sulk, but he catches sight of several vaguely familiar residents who’ve had the same idea (well — the sitting, not the sulking. They all seem to be engaged in some sort of lively conversation), so he veers towards the back right corner of the property instead.

The back and both sides of The Roadhouse are surrounded by beautiful, lush woods that are also part of The Roadhouse’s property, according to Dean. There are several hiking trails that residents are permitted to use that keep them within sight of the property’s security cameras which, for once, are for the omegas’ protection, not to make sure no one makes a run for it.

(Dean says that until recent unfortunate events, the most concerning issue they’d run into were the occasional stray hikers (nature-loving, granola-eating, hippies had been his exact words), who wandered onto the property, because of its public classification as a nature preserve. Bobby, who handles pretty much anything having to do with the public, had managed to deter them by playin’ the role of the crank-ass, ‘get off my lawn’, old coot, which had scared off the hipsters, and gotten the douchebag influencer Chads and Karens to put The Roadhouse on blast on social media. Apparently this was incredibly effective, because the number of errant tree-hugging assholes on the quest for the perfect selfie has decreased considerably after several online reviews warning people to stay away, some of which had been written by Miss Charlie, Dean had shared conspiratorially.)

Castiel loves walking the trails — he finds it calming, serene. Being in surroundings that are truly organic, untouched, always soothed something inside of him, even as a child. As a young adult, he’d been in his first few weeks of college when he’d… gone missing, but before that, his intention had been to major in some sort of environmental field — environmental engineering, perhaps. The fact that it would have put him at direct odds with so many of his parents’ friends and associates whose money was in oil or big corporations whose factories and warehouses were not-so-slowly killing the planet, was just an added bonus.

He’s so lost in his meditative state that he didn’t notice that the familiar trail has ended, and he’s now traipsing through some low brush. Cursing, he stoops to pull several burrs from one of his shoelaces, thinking that he’s calmed down enough that he thinks he could stand socialising back at the lodge.

He’s just about to turn back when something bright and blinding flashes in the sun about twenty or so yards from where he stands.

Chapter 26: there is meaning

Chapter Text

His first thought is: someone is here with him.

As quickly and quietly as he can, Castiel ducks behind a tree, heart pounding. Oh God, what has he gotten himself into? He was stupid, so unbelievably stupid, to have thoughtlessly wandered so far, to have wasted the day being surly and pissed off, because what if this is it? What if someone is here for him?

For a moment, visions of his brothers, full-grown now, lurking in the forest, just waiting to pounce on him paralyses him. He imagines their goons hauling him off, bringing him back to the training centre, back to somewhere like Purgatory — or worse — and then what about Dean? Dean would never know what happened to him, he would just think that Castiel had been an asshole all morning, then ran off without saying goodbye or thank you, and it’s this that hurts most of all.

He can’t let that happen.

Still crouched behind the tree like a kid playing hide and seek, Castiel leans over as far as he dares, until he can peek around the trunk of the tree to see if he can catch a glimpse of the interloper. He pricks up his ears, straining to hear any rustling of leaves or snapping of twigs or heavy footsteps, but there’s nothing. He scents the air, but all he can smell is his own spiralling panic, and the damp smell of the earth.

Is it possible that he’d been mistaken?

Slowly — so slowly — Castiel creeps out from his hiding spot, praying he doesn’t think back to this exact moment and regret not staying put. He soothes himself by remembering that he’d had the same thought that first night with Dean when he’d been given a knife, and it turned out that deciding not to threaten or stab his new master had been the right choice, so hopefully the same will be true this time as well.

Every horror movie survival instinct he has is telling him to not go investigate, and instead hightail it back to the main lodge, but just like every moron on the big screen, he can’t seem to help himself. He knows that if he takes off now, he’s always going to wonder and worry about who or what had been out here with him.

There’s a few bushes left between him and the mysterious shiny thing, so he crouches back down and essentially crab-walks over to the very edge of what seems to be a clearing, almost grateful for the lack of cameras this deep in the woods, because he’s sure he looks like an idiot. He scoots forward, trying to figure out what he’d seen, when the change in angle makes the light flash right into his eyes again, but he realise now that it’s far too bright to be a flashlight or bulb of any sort. It’s more like… sunlight.

Castiel takes a deep breath and steels himself, then walks carefully forward, steps light, just in case he needs to make a sudden run for it. However, when he finally walks fully out into the clearing and he discovers the source of all his inner turmoil, he can’t stop himself from burying his face in his hands, shaking his head in both relief and embarrassment.

He scrubs his hand down his face, taking several more long, slow breaths to try to calm his racing heart, before looking up again, using one hand to shield his eyes from where the sun is reflecting off a shard of broken glass in the window of what appears to be an abandoned greenhouse.

(He’s fairly certain that Dean must not know it exists, because he’s never mentioned it, and after knowing Dean almost a month and a half by now, he knows that there is very little that Dean is aware of and doesn’t mention.)

But even without Dean and his incessant chatter, just from the looks of the greenhouse, Castiel would have guessed that no one has been here to tend to it in a very long time. The windows that are still intact are all filthy from however many years of rain and snow, and the entire structure is surrounded by overgrown brush that comes up to Castiel’s knees in some spots. He spares half a second’s thought of concern over whether or not it’s going to be wet and mushy after the most recent storm, but again, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he inches carefully forward to see if he can get a peek inside.

As he nears, though, he’s immediately distracted when he notices that there are things growing around the back side other than weeds. He recognises several berry bushes and wonders if they might be edible, making a mental note to bring a few back with him so he can ask Donna to identify them.

Castiel spots the greenhouse’s doors, one of which is almost entirely off its hinges, so he eases it the rest of the way off to give himself room to step inside, a thrill of anxiety running up his spine. He hasn’t been given express permission to enter this structure, though logically he knows that that is because of the very high likelihood that no one knows of its existence to begin with, not to mention Dean’s constant insistence that Castiel is free to go wherever he likes. He takes a deep breath and takes his first good look around.

The first thing he observes is that the roof is broken as well — actual chunks missing from the ceiling, making jagged sections of sky stand out, extra vivid next to the glass panels that are cloudy with dirt and dried rainwater.

It seems that this damage may have been a blessing in disguise though, as Castiel notices some of the runoff from the earlier rain dripping down into the greenhouse, and onto several neglected tables covered in a myriad of small, delicate-looking plants. From the mouth-watering smell filling the small space, he guesses they must be some kind of herbs.

Suddenly inspired, Castiel smiles to himself at the idea of being able to supply Donna with fresh herbs for her kitchen, and eagerly edges forward around the puddles on the uneven floor to see if he can confirm his suspicions. He carefully plucks several sprigs of each plant and holds them loosely in his hand as he exits the greenhouse, eager to return to The Roadhouse and show Donna what he’s found.

Once outside again, he begins circling the outside of the greenhouse, and notices several dilapidated garden boxes that several large, leafy plants are spilling out of around the back. He picks one of the big leafy things, holding it by its deep red stem, then also picks a few different types of berries for good measure as well.

Somehow, the trip back to the main lodge seems to take three times as long as when he’d headed out, but luckily he’s able to find the hiking trail again with minimal difficulty. He turns around to get another look at the way he’d come from, so as not to forget how to get back there, should any of the things he picked end up being useful.

The back doors are usually locked, requiring a staff or resident access card to get through, neither of which he currently has, so he traipses around to the main entrance, then hurries over to the kitchens, excited to ask Donna to look everything over and let him know if she could use any of what he’s found. The thought that he can finally contribute something to The Roadhouse — and maybe even Dean, by extension — is nearly intoxicating.

Donna looks up sharply when he bursts through the door, but she relaxes when she sees it’s just him. ‘Oh, hey there, Steve-O,’ she greets him cheerily. ‘I don’t know where that handsome alpha’a yours went off to, but if you’re feelin’ peckish ’n don’t mind eatin’ by your lonesome, I can whip ya up somethin’ lickety-split.’

‘That’s very kind, thank you, but Dean’s expecting me for lunch in a short while,’ Castiel replies, though he does genuinely appreciate that Donna offers to feed him every time he comes to see her. There was a time when he’d had to fight for even the smallest scrap of food, so the fact that it’s so readily available and so freely offered here is a huge comfort, and he knows the other residents must feel the same. He’s sure it goes a long way in making them feel comfortable and secure at The Roadhouse, and he’s hit with a sudden wave of affection for all the amazing people he’s met during his time there.

‘Alrighty, then,’ Donna says encouragingly, still smiling. Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever met someone as relentlessly cheerful as Donna is, but he kind of loves it, because her joy is oftentimes contagious. ‘Then, what can I do ya for?’

‘Well…’ Castiel says, suddenly feeling shy and a bit stupid. Everyone here has done so much for him — does he honestly believe that sharing a few questionable handfuls of berries and herbs might even begin to repay that debt? He stares down at his clenched hands, unable to will them to open and show Donna his pathetic collection.

‘What’s that ya got there?’ Donna’s voice is gentle when she asks this. Castiel figures she must immediately pick up on his anxiety, and would normally be embarrassed to have to be coddled, but this time all he does is show her the things he’d plucked from inside and around the greenhouse, watching nervously as she examines his haul.

‘I found an abandoned greenhouse slightly past where the hiking trails end,’ he explains, watching Donna closely. It’s just occurred to Castiel that there’s a chance she might think he received food from an illicit source, which anywhere else would result in meal privileges being revoked, but he reminds himself that that’s not how The Roadhouse operates. Standing up a little straighter, he swallows down his anxiety and forces himself to keep going. ‘I was just wondering if there might be anything here you might be able to use in the kitchens?’ he asks hopefully. ‘There was a lot more in the back there — I’m not sure what they all are, but I thought maybe…’

He trails off, feeling dumber by the second, but then Donna gestures for him to show her what he’s got, so he awkwardly sets everything down on the preparation table between them. Donna pokes around his little bounty, picking up a few of the berries to test their firmness, sniffing the herbs, even going so far as to pluck a small leaf off of one of the sprigs and pop it in her mouth.

‘Oh boy, could I!’ she says brightly once she finishes her examination. ‘Looks like ya got some rhubarb ’n elderberries, which’ll make some really nice pies or jams. ’N this here’s mint, oregano… parsley, sage, and rosemary… All you’re missin’ is thyme.’

‘I have plenty of time to devote to collecting anything you can use, if you just tell me how,’ Castiel promises enthusiastically, excited at the prospect of finally doing something useful again.

Donna laughs, which dampens his spirits for a moment, but rather than scornfully tell him that the idea of him being allowed to do any sort of work for The Roadhouse is laughable, she starts singing, ‘Are you going to Scarborough Fair? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme… It’s one of my momma’s favourite songs.’

‘Oh.’ Castiel shrugs, somewhat helplessly, unsure of what that has to do with the situation at hand, so he offers, ‘It sounds like a lovely song.’

‘Hm, it sure is. Sad, though, what with all that war stuff mixed in. Timeless tragedy, ya know?’ Donna asks, sighing.

This really baffles Castiel, because he can’t see how war relates to herbs, and now he’s gone and made Donna sad, which means she’s probably not going to let him help, and he’s back to being the same old useless freeloader-

‘Anyhoo. How’s about ya go see what’s what, ’n how much of it ya got, ’n we go from there? I’d help ya if I could, but I’m up to my neck in meal plannin’ ’n preppin’. If ya need a helping hand, though, I’m sure Cain wouldn’t mind helpin’ ya harvest what could use harvestin’,’ she adds.

Castiel’s brain takes a moment to catch up with all the things Donna's just told him, leaving him feeling excited to have been given permission to bring more food to her kitchen, but also getting hit with a wave of anxiety over the prospect of bringing Cain, an unfamiliar alpha, deep into the forest with him. He reminds himself that at least Donna’s a beta, and cannot smell his rapidly shifting emotions, nor hear the way his heart rate picks up at the suggestion, so instead he just nods with a forced smile.

‘I’ll ask him, thank you, Donna,’ he says, unsure if he’s just told a lie. ‘Thank you for going over the plants with me. I will keep you updated.’

‘Okey dokey, smokey,’ she says, offering him another one of her hundred watt smiles. ‘Just holler when ya know whatcha wanna do — or when you and a certain chit-chatty alpha are ready for lunch.’

Castiel promises her that he will, but when he goes back outside, he heads over to the pond, now that the earlier loiterers have vacated the benches. Rather than sit in moody silence, as he’d planned to do earlier, this time he’s trying to work up the nerve to head to the far back corner of the property where he knows the Mullens’ cabin is.

Castiel considers his next move, debating if he should wait to see if Dean wants to go with him, but then the idea of surprising Dean with his findings pops into his head, and it’s too tempting a possibility to let go of.

Unfortunately, this does mean that the only option left to him is to go to ask Cain for his help by himself, which, well- isn’t something he know that he’s up for.

He tries to hype himself up by reminding himself of the apiary that Cain keeps behind his cabin. Castiel had heard that there were beehives somewhere in the back behind The Roadhouse, but he’d never had the opportunity to see them, because Dean has a fear of bees (according to Sam), or a ‘healthy sense of self-preservation’ (according to Dean, which is, frankly, pretty laughable to anyone who knows Dean), so so far it’s remained something of a mystery.

Cain, on the other hand, Castiel has seen around, though he hasn’t had a reason to interact with the older, imposing alpha. Despite his somewhat wild-looking appearance, for the most part, everything Castiel has heard about the man seems to be pretty harmless. According to Dean, Cain and his wife, Colette are the only staff to live right at The Roadhouse, because they believed in the cause so much that they wanted to make it their ‘retirement project’, as Dean calls it.

(When he’d heard this, Castiel had been amazed all over again at how much time and effort and heart everyone here seems to put into their work. It really is incredible.)

The chance to surprise Dean is far too rare, so he has to take it, Castiel decides, especially when he considers the little surprises Dean has bestowed upon him, between the books he’s lent Castiel and everything from the shopping trip and just… by being himself in general.

Castiel can be brave to repay that kindness.

He’s just talking himself into rising to his feet to head to the cabin, when he hears a deep voice call, ‘Hello there, Steve.’

His head whips up, adrenaline already pumping through his veins, but then he sees that the speaker is none other than Cain himself, coming from the direction of the main lodge, a coffee mug in hand. As he nears, Castiel sees that the mug appears to be decorated in tiny fingerprints that have been painted to look like bees, and he can’t help but smile.

‘A gift from my great-niece,’ Cain explains, raising the mug in Castiel’s direction. ‘She’s terrified of the apiary, but knows the bees are very dear to me, so she made this for my last birthday. Delightful child.’

‘She sounds like it, sir,’ Castiel says, the rich tenor of Cain’s voice washing over Castiel and soothing his jangled nerves.

Cain nods, taking a sip from his mug, which Castiel notices must contain tea when he sees the teabag tag hanging over the side. He wonders if Cain uses his own honey in his tea, thinking that it must be wonderful to be able to consume something you made (or rather, processed) with your own two hands. (Not to mention, honey in general is wonderful.)

Foolishly, he’s almost so distracted by this ridiculous contemplation, that he nearly misses it when Cain continues with, ‘When I was in the kitchen just now, Donna happened to mention that I might be seeing you sometime in the near future — something about a harvest?’

‘Oh, ah… yes, sir,’ Castiel says, nodding like a damn bobble head for emphasis, and trying not to think of how awkward he must look. ‘I happened upon what appears to be an abandoned greenhouse today while on a walk earlier today… I didn’t intend to stray from the trail —I just wasn’t paying attention,’ he explains quickly. He knows it’s not something he should get in trouble for, but again: he’s learned the hard way that it’s better to be safe than sorry, especially when it comes to confessing his misdeeds to an alpha whose temperament he’s yet to witness firsthand.

‘Of course — it’s easy to lose yourself in nature, and the woods really are lovely out this way,’ Cain replies, nonplussed. ‘So, were you looking for help getting a greenhouse started? I apologise — Donna wasn’t very clear when she brought up your plight.’

It suddenly occurs to Castiel that Cain, with his calming voice and ‘fancy ass vocabulary’, as Dean would say, reminds him of some of the teachers he’d adored in high school. He somehow manages to embody all things alpha, seemingly without even trying or posturing or degrading Castiel for being an omega. On the contrary, Castiel realises he actually feels safe and at peace in his presence, rather than defensive or like he needs to keep his guard up. He can’t remember a time he’s ever felt so at ease with an alpha so quickly — including with Dean.

‘Uh, no, sir, sorry,’ Castiel says nervously. ‘I merely asked Donna if she could use some of the herbs and berries that were growing freely there, and she instructed me to ask you for your, ah- assistance with bringing enough back for her kitchen.’

‘That sounds like a wonderful plan — I’d be interested in seeing what’s growing there, if that’s the case. What an fortuitous discovery you made!’ Cain remarks, making something in Castiel’s chest stir wistfully at the wording, reminding him yet again of how much he’d enjoyed science and nature when he was younger. ‘Let me just head back the cabin to grab some tools and inform the missus what we’re up to, and we’ll be off.’

Ten minutes later, Cain returns, pulling a wagon containing gloves, tools, buckets, and several other items stacked into neat piles. Castiel leads him to the trail he’d been on before he’d gotten distracted, and is pleased to learn that he hasn’t forgotten the way back.

(He has the thought that had he been at a slightly different angle through the trees, or the sun shone a little less brightly, he might have never noticed it at all. Were Castiel someone who still believed in fate, he might even say it felt as though it was meant to be.)

Before long, the greenhouse is coming into view. Once they pass through the final clearing, Cain has Castiel show him everything he found, then shows him the best way to pick the elderberries. In no time at all, they’re picking enough berries to fill one of the buckets that Cain had brought with them.

While they work, Cain tells Castiel a story about when he’d been a boy, and he and his brother, Abel, had gone foraging in the woods behind their childhood home in Virginia, only to cross paths with a bear with the same idea. It’s not an especially humorous story, but Castiel can’t help but smile as he works and listens, because his heart is lighter than it’s been in years.

They’re about to move onto the rhubarb when Cain bends down to study a patch of what Castiel had thought was weeds. Apparently he’d been mistaken, because a moment later, Cain is pulling something up and presenting it to Castiel.

‘Steve, you seem to have hit the jackpot with this find!’ he announces, watching Castiel examine the plant in his hand. ‘These here are ramps, which are a type of wild leek. They’re quite delicious, not to mention, they go over like gangbusters art the farmer’s market, if you’d ever like to think about setting up a stand with what you’ve got here. They spread like wildfire once the roots take, so there’s more than enough for Donna to use in her kitchen, with plenty left over. Might be something to consider… I bet if you asked real nicely, that alpha of yours could be persuaded to attend as well.’ He winks at Castiel, but Castiel is too surprised by what he’s just said to pick up on the joke.

‘Dean’s not my alpha.’ Castiel corrects him so quickly that he completely forgets himself and his manners. He flushes, not only at his rudeness, but also the fact that his brain has apparently decided that that was the most important part of what Cain had just said, and not the incredibly informative explanation of the plants. ‘Apologies, sir, I just meant…’ he trails off, eyes lowered, because he really has no defence.

‘No, no, my mistake,’ Cain graciously replies. ‘I don’t hear too much of the gossip from the main lodge back here, so I merely know what I see from afar and made something of a rash assumption. It is clear you and Dean are very close, though, whatever your relationship may be, so my point does stand that there’s a very good chance that he would accompany you to the farmers’ market, should you be interested in bringing some of your harvest.’

‘Do you really think there’s a profit to be made here?’ Castiel asks, glancing around curiously at the nearly indecipherable mess of green that he and Cain are standing amidst. ‘Enough to justify asking such a- a favour of Dean?’

‘Oh yes.’ Cain strokes his beard, surveying woods surrounding the greenhouse. ‘Steve, I do believe that you may have stumbled onto something of an unexpected treasure trove here. Many of these plants are a hot commodity at the market.’

‘Would you rather take them, sir, if they’re so valuable? I’m sure Donna would have no objections,’ Castiel offers, but Cain shakes his head.

‘That’s very generous of you, but that’s quite alright. I’d rather you save them for yourself or The Roadhouse,’ he tells Castiel. ‘Should Colette ever get a burning desire for ramps or rhubarb, though, at least I know where to go.’ He winks, then glances around at the large patch of the slender leaves. ‘Now, the general rule of foraging is called the rule of three — leave one third for the wildlife to consume, leave one third for the ecosystem, and harvest the remaining third. If you’d like to check with Dean or Donna first, however, we can certainly leave them for another day, and only take what you’ve already brought to Donna’s attention now.’

‘That’s probably wise,’ Castiel says, looking down at the stem in his hand again. It smells lovely — like onion and garlic, and he hopes that either Donna or Dean will be as thrilled with the find as Cain was. ‘I’ll be sure to ask them when we return, though.’

‘Good man.’ Cain wipes his brow with the back of his hand and glances over to the rhubarb. ‘Shall we continue, then?’

Castiel eagerly agrees, and together, he and Cain work in companionable silence, until blisters are beginning to form on his hands, and his back hurts from being hunched over for so long, but the wagon is fully loaded up with the fruits of their labour, and that makes it all feel worth it.

Chapter 27: carry you into the light

Chapter Text

‘Oh, there you are. I missed ya at lunch,’ Dean remarks lightly, approaching Steve where he stands at one of the prep tables in the kitchen, surrounded by piles of green, leafy sh*t. He watches as Steve uses what looks like giant ass twist-ties to section off bunches that he has stacked into piles. ‘Wow, look at you go… Miss Colette said you ’n Cain were pickin’ berries, but she didn’t mention all this other stuff! How’d it all go? You, uh- ya seemed a little under the weather or somethin’ on the drive in this mornin’.’

He intentionally doesn’t mention the brief, but no less harrowing moment of panic he’d had when he’d made it to the dining hall earlier to meet Steve for lunch, and found that the omega was uncharacteristically absent. Steve was notoriously punctual, falling back onto over-the-top apologies for being even a minute or two late. Dean knows this is a remnant of being trained to believe that his entire purpose was to be ready and willing to do his master’s bidding, but regardless, in all the time they’ve known each other, he’d never known Steve to just not show up. Luckily, Colette had found him at the same time as Donna, and the two women had caught him up to speed on what Steve had gotten up to since they parted ways that morning.

‘Ah, right. Yes.’ Steve shifts in place awkwardly, looking contrite. ‘I apologise for that, Dean, I was just… having a bad morning. Not that that was in any way because of you,’ he adds hastily, eyes wide. ‘I don’t mean to sound ungrateful or accusatory. I, uhm- I-’

Before he can get himself all worked up, Dean just shrugs, making a dismissive gesture with one hand. ‘Dude. You’re fine — we’re all allowed to have a Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Days, you know. Plus, s’not like you were even that bad, just a little quieter than normal.’

‘Is that another pop culture reference?’ Steve asks, momentarily distracted, as he often is, by the bullsh*t Dean is so adept at spouting.

‘Uh, yeah! It’s this kid’s book about kid, Alexander, who- well, I don’t remember exactly, but he’s just out there, tryin’ to live his life, ’n everything is all f*cked up, like- he wants a prize in his cereal, but his brother gets it instead, or he doesn’t get to have dessert at lunch. Or he has to have lima beans for dinner, ’n he hates eatin’ vegetables…’

‘Are all his woes food-related? Because these complaints sound remarkably familiar,’ Steve replies, and f*cking finally, there’s a glimmer of his old sass that Dean has missed so much lately.

‘I think there’s a problematic bubble bath at one point, but other than that…’ Dean trails off, trying to remember the rest of the story, but coming up blank. Sammy’d know, what with that bear trap of a memory of his. ‘Anyway. Good berry harvest?’

‘It was,’ Steve says, sounding a little uneasy again. ‘I- I hope you don’t mind me missing our lunch da- appointment. I completely lost track of time, because we ended up finding far more edible plants than I’d originally suspected. In addition to the berries and rhubarb and herbs, there was also garlic, pokeweed, and something called ‘ramps’ that Mr Cain suggested…’

Steve pauses, looking supremely uncomfortable. For a moment, Dean’s animal brain goes on high alert, wondering if something happened between Steve and Cain to make him feel that way, and he feels a growl forming low in his throat at the possibility.

(Reasonably, he knows that he’s known the Mullens for as long as The Roadhouse has been operational, and that Cain has been nothing but gracious and kind the entire time. Still, something about Steve seems to have wormed its way so far into Dean’s psyche that at this point, he’s so deeply invested in Steve’s well-being, that he’s pretty sure he could chokeslam a nun without hesitation, if she made his the omega upset.)

The omega in question seems to have picked up on Dean’s whirling thoughts, and clears his throat, shifting in place, obviously uneasy, but continuing nonetheless. ‘Uhm, I was just… uhm, saying that he — Mr Cain, I mean — said perhaps I — or rather, we, I suppose — might be interested in selling the excess at the farmers’ market in town? I understand, of course, if you’d rather not, I just promised him that I would bring the idea up with you,’ Steve rambles nervously, flushing pink from his cheeks to the tips of his ears in a way that should certainly not be as adorable as it is.

Ah. Well, that sounds a hell of a lot better than having to go toe-to-toe with Cain, who could undoubtedly wipe the floor with a dumbsh*t like Dean.

‘Oh, cool! Yeah, that sounds like a great idea,’ Dean assures Steve, getting stupidly emotional when he realises that Steve is finally asking to do something for himself, not just because he thinks it will please Dean. ‘Sign us up, man. Think they’ll just let us in, or do we gotta dress the part? Maybe get some overalls or somethin’?’

‘No, I think you already dress enough like a lumberjack to be allowed in,’ Steve replies, distracted as he continues to tie off bundles of rhubarb, but then he freezes and blushes again. ‘Sorry, I didn’t intend that as an insult, I just meant-’

‘That I look like the Brawny paper towel man; I get it,’ Dean teases, hoping Steve isn’t going to start flipping out at the perceived insult, so he adds, ‘Didja know he was the first man I had a crush on? I thought he was just about the handsomest thing I’d ever seen when I was a kid. That was before I saw the Indiana Jones movies, though.’

‘… yes,’ Steve says after a beat of silence that by now, Dean knows means he has no idea what the heck Dean’s talking about. He catches Steve’s eye, and a moment later, they’re both laughing like assholes.

Dean has never had someone in his life that makes him laugh the way Steve does.

‘Well, alrighty, then,’ he says once they’ve both settled down. ‘Let’s do it. Just don’t let Sammy know what we’re up to, or he’ll start one of his God bless kale speeches again. If he asks, just tell ’im we’ve joined a- a burger tasting group on Saturday mornings or something.’

‘Pancake tasting would likely be more believable,’ Steve muses, looking far more thoughtful than the situation really warrants. ‘You do know that the farmers’ market opens at eight AM, but Cain advised us to arrive an hour early to set up and procure a good spot.’

Dean almost wants to groan and jokingly give Steve a hard time about cutting into his lazy Saturday morning routine of doing nothing til noon, but the earnest, eager expression on the guy’s face makes even his good-natured teasing die in his throat. Steve just looks so excited that Dean doesn’t want to do anything to dampen his spirits, even for a second.

‘How about pancake eating after the market wraps up?’ he asks instead, not missing for a second the way Steve’s eyes light up at the suggestion. He smiles to himself how this grown ass man can get so pumped over pancakes, as though he isn’t the same person whose entire day can get turned around by a slice of pie. ‘Maybe we can even get some fresh eggs or somethin’ to go with ’em. Didja know that chicken eggs can be brown or yellow, or even blue or green? My grandpa had a farm for a little bit when I was a kid, and-’

He stops himself before he can start waxing poetic about Grandpa Samuel’s farm, because he never quite knows where he’s going to end up when he starts going down that memory lane. Sometimes it’s silly stories that Samuel used to tell him about the horses he’d had as a boy, Mollie and Nellie, but sometimes it’s about how Samuel ended up selling the place shortly after Mary died, because she was supposed to be the one to take it over once he got too old to work the land. Once Dean’s mom was gone, it was like Samuel had no longer cared about passing on his legacy, and instead decided to simply… give up. He’d passed not long after that, and Dean had always wondered if it was because he wasn’t able to live in a world without his daughter.

‘Anyway,’ Dean says gruffly, shutting down the train of thought altogether. ‘Farmers’ market — let’s do the damn thing! We’ll just coffee up ’n it’ll be fine. When d’ya wanna go?’

‘Mr Cain says that they take place every Saturday, so if we can get enough inventory gathered before this weekend, perhaps then? We’re already a bit late in the season for the ramps, and I don’t know how well any of the other items will keep once harvested?’ Steve says, still working, but definitely stealing a peek at Dean from the corner of his eye. Dean nods

‘Sounds like a plan. Maybe tomorrow or the day after, you can take me to your secret garden ’n we can see how much we can pull together?’ Dean suggests.

‘That sounds like a great idea, Dean, thank you,’ Steve replies. He ties off the final bunch of rhubarb and says, ‘I just have to put everything into the walk-in, then I’ll be ready to leave, if that’s okay with you?’

‘Works for me… I’ma just go lock up my office ’n I’ll meetcha at the main entrance in ten?’ Dean asks, and goes to do just that when Steve agrees.

Exactly ten minutes later, Steve emerges from the kitchen and, together, he and Dean head out to the parking lot.

It’s not until they’ve been on the road for about ten minutes and pass a billboard for the latest iPhone that Dean remembers the dressing-down he’d gotten from Jody earlier for being a sh*t- well, she’d said ‘contingency caregiver’, which Dean thinks makes it sound like Dean’s Steve’s babysitter, which is a whole level of weird he doesn’t want to get into.

Still, there’s a somewhat pressing issue that needs to be addressed before Dean forgets again, so he blurts out, ‘Aw, hell. I can’t believe I forgot!’ Before he can stop himself, he smacks himself on the forehead, but then something in him cheers when he sees that Steve does not flinch back at this gesture like he had only a few short weeks ago, and instead very obviously suppresses an eye roll at Dean’s dramatics. ‘I’ve been meaning to getcha a phone one of these days, but kept forgetting, then Jody reminded me again this afternoon. What d’ya say we play hooky tomorrow so we can hit the phone store? Maybe getcha one of those smart phones that can, like, turn your lights off and wipe your ass for ya?’

‘… Is that a task you often need assistance with?’ Steve asks, giving Dean one hell of a side-eye and suppressing a smile. ‘I… appreciate the offer, Dean, but I’m not sure it’s necessary. You’re really the only person I would feel the need to communicate with, and we’re together most of the time anyway.’

‘Yeah, but it’s part of the whole Roadhouse experience, you know, like- giving you privacy ’n autonomy, or whatever. Only, since you’re with me ’n not staying on-site, if ya wanted to go pick one out yourself at the store, instead’a bein’ just given one, we could make a day of it. Maybe go to lunch or somethin’ after?’

It occurs to Dean just a second too late that he’s making it sound like a date, but he mentally shrugs the awkwardness off, too enthused at the idea of taking another day trip out into the world with Steve to care.

‘Oh…’

Dean glances over at Steve, surprised and a little bit hurt to see that he’s nowhere near as excited by the offer as Dean is, but he does his best to hide it, not wanting the omega to feel any kind of way about not wanting to go out together.

‘Hey, man, it was just an idea,’ he tells Steve, shrugging. ‘We can just as easily hook ya up with one of the pre-paids from The Roadhouse’s inventory. I was just thinkin’, uh- like long-term, I wouldn’t mind addin’ ya to my plan, cos then ya don’t gotta worry ’bout reloadin’ the damn thing with those cards or anything.’

‘It’s not- it’s not that I’m opposed to… any of it, really, but it’s just- aren’t you concerned that I- I might… that I could…’ Steve seems to be having trouble giving voice to his worries, his cheeks suddenly flaming red, betraying how uncomfortable he is with the situation. Dean’s about to tell him to forget the whole thing, that he’ll just tell Jody they’re not ready for it, when Steve forces out in a rush, ‘Aren’t you worried that I might call for help or use it in a way that you wouldn’t approve of? I- I haven’t had a phone since- since, well, before-before, and the last time I tried…’ He swallows hard and stares unseeingly out the front windshield. ‘It was- unpleasant. Not to mention, if someone in public were to see a collared person choosing a phone, it could… it might lead to questions you’d rather not answer, given the nature of the work you do.’

Well, f*cking hell, that’s about half a dozen points that Dean would have never even considered, and he wonders if this is why the usual procedure is to just give the residents the pay-as-you-go type phones to start off with.

‘Ah…’ he says uselessly, trying to figure out where to start. ‘Well, first of all, dude, no, I’m not worried in the slightest ’bout what you might get up to on your phone, cos it’d be your phone, man, like- s’long as you’re not, like, prank callin’ the White House, the f*ck do I care? You’re grown ’n your own man ’n whatever, so- if you ever felt the need to use it to call for help, that’s what I’d want ya to do, just like with the, uh- the old pocket knife.’

He winces, not wanting Steve to feel guilty about how that ended up turning out, so he hurries to continue, ‘But as far as what anyone else might say, they can go straight to hell, ’n I sure as sh*t don’t mind tellin’ ’em as much. But actually,’ he says, suddenly inspired, ‘what if we do the shopping part online from home, then just go to the store to pick it up? Then, uh- if ya still wanted to grab a bite, we could do that on the way home. There’s a great burger joint about a mile or two down the road from the Verizon store in town where they make this nutty onion ring Eiffel Tower lookin’ thing that’s, like, a foot ’n a half tall. I used’ta drag Sammy there, like, once a week before he moved out, just to hear him bitch about trans fats ’n cholesterol.’

His stomach lets out an honest to God growl at the memory of that deliciousness, causing Dean to glare down at his gut and give it a warning poke with his finger, while Steve tries and fails to hide his amusem*nt, but it’s well worth it when Steve huffs a laugh and says, ‘That sounds like a wonderful plan, Dean, thank you.’

‘Sweet,’ Dean replies, enthusiasm restored. ‘It’s a date.’

He’s pushing his luck, he knows, but Steve doesn’t bat an eye, and instead just finally looks as pleased as Dean feels, so the rest of the ride home is spent in companionable silence and stolen glances.

The next day, they’re on the road mid-morning to pick up the friggin yellow iPhone that Steve had chosen. It had been something of a haggling process — Steve had initially chosen the cheapest flip phone options, but Dean had eventually worn him down and gotten him to pick something more advanced, even if he did end up settling on a model that’s a few years old already.

(Dean had tried to convince him to get something newer, but he could see Steve start to spiral the way he had at Target when faced with so many choices for toiletries, so he’d let the issue lie. He could tell that Steve still wasn’t all that thrilled to be getting a phone at all, so he figured he oughta just take the win where he could find one.)

Picking the phone up from the Verizon store goes miraculously smoothly, all things considered. Steve had all but pleaded with Dean not to reveal that the phone was intended for him, and even though Dean had disagreed with the whole sentiment, he’d still gone alone with it, letting the chipper salesgirl think that he was the one who wanted a friggin’ daisy yellow phone. He subtly makes Steve pick the case, though, and he gets this black and clear number that makes Dean think of bumblebees every time he looks at the damn thing, but Steve seems happy enough with it, so who’s Dean to complain?

They walk out of the store twenty minutes later, Steve’s new phone in the paper Verizon shopping bag. Dean hands it to Steve when they get back into the car, but you’d think he’d passed Steve an unpinned grenade from the ginger way he accepts and handles it.

‘When we get to the restaurant, I can program some numbers into the contacts for you, if ya want,’ Dean offers, stealing another glance at Steve as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the main road. ‘Like, me, Charlie, Pam… probably a good idea to put Max ’n Bobby in there, too. Oh, and Sammy — but be warned, once he gets your number, he’s definitely gonna spam the chat with cat pics. Eileen has this Russian blue hairball, Clark, that Sammy’s in love with…. he always wanted a cat, but could never have one when we were growin’ up, between bein’ on the road ’n me bein’ deathly allergic…’

Jesus f*cking hell, he’s rambling again, but something about the sound pollution coming from his cakehole seems to cause Steve to relax, because the faint sour scent of his discomfort dissipates and leaves only Steve’s sweet eucalyptus-jasmine scent behind.

(Steve seems to really be enjoying the scent-free shampoo and stuff, and to be honest, Dean’s a big fan as well. It’s awesome, getting to indulge in natural Steve’s scent without the overlaying notes of Sammy’s bougie body wash that he’d left in the bathroom. Dean personally thinks that if there was a way to bottle the notes of Steve’s petrichor-jasmine-eucalyptus natural scent, they could make a mint (no pun intended), because he’s personally never smelled anything so f*cking fantastic in his entire life.)

‘Thank you, Dean,’ Steve says, staring down at the phone that’s still in the bottom of the bag like it’s the most surreal and dangerous thing he’s ever seen. ‘And… thank you for this — for the phone, and for pretending it was for you, and all of it. I- I know I’m being… foolish, but the last time I dared touch a phone…’ Dean watches his Adam’s apple bob with the force of how hard he swallows, clearly trying to compose himself before continuing, ‘it was- less than ideal. But I am incredibly grateful for your generosity, even if I’m doing a poor job of showing it.’

‘Aw, dude, it ain’t a big deal or anything,’ Dean replies, uncomfortable to be getting praised for something so- so basic, but also not wanting to upset Steve in that it is a big deal, you entitled dick way, so he hurries to add, ‘And whoever it was that gave you sh*t for touchin’ a phone or whatever, well- if it were up to me, I’d-’ break their neck with my bare hands, ‘hide a dying smoke alarm in the ceiling of every room they were ever in, so they’d never be able to escape that beeping sound.’

Steve bursts out laughing. ‘That’s… diabolical,’ he says in awe. ‘Remind me never to get on your bad side.’

‘Oh, dude, that’s nothing,’ Dean says with faux modesty and suppressing a grin. ‘I hope that… the other side of their pillow is always warm, ’n every time they think they’re gonna take a sip of a nice, cold beer, it’s actually milk. Or that they always drink orange juice after brushing their teeth. ’N that every time they get a paper cut, it’s between their fingers, ’n they only remember it after they put hand sanitiser on. Oh, ’n every time they get an itch, it’s in that spot right between the shoulder blades that’s impossible to scratch.’

‘I… have no words,’ Steve says, blinking owlishly at him. ‘I feel like I’ve been living under the same roof as a serial killer or something. That might be the most evil thing I’ve ever heard — and I’ve heard some pretty awful things.’

Dean is about to laugh, but then he freezes, realising a moment later that Steve is doing the same thing, because this is a new first for them. Steve has never before made a joke about his trauma, albeit, not a terribly funny one, but still a joke, nonetheless. Almost at the same time, they both let out the most pitiful uncomfortable, tittering laughs, which ends up cracking them up, and then they’re laughing like goddamn hyenas again anyway.

‘Apologies. That was inappropriate,’ Steve says finally, a little breathless. ‘But my point stands that you are most certainly an evil mastermind.’

‘Hmm… My villain origin story would definitely be the time The Roadhouse ran outta pie ’n my damn brother ate the slice Donna’d been saving for me,’ Dean informs him, still salty over his pilfered pastry. ‘It was then that the ruggedly handsome alpha turned to a life of crime with his secret plan to take over the world one warm pillow at a time.’

He and Steve are still chuckling like the dorks they are when he pulls into the parking lot of Swayze’s Bar ’N Grill and they make their way up the gravel walkway. Dean holds the door open for Steve to walk inside, the music and general ruckus of the atmosphere inside spilling out into the front porch and making him feel right at home.

Dean’s already thinking of all the amazing things on the menu he wants to order for Steve to try, but just like that first day at The Roadhouse with the damn automatic doors, he’s punched in the face by yet another reason he’s always said that Sammy’s the Winchester who got the brains.

A few seconds pass before he realises that Steve hasn’t walked through the door yet, so he turns to him, about to make some stupid joke about him waiting for an engraved invitation or something, but the words die on his tongue the moment he sees the terrified look on the omega’s face.

Chapter 28: unprepared for your smile

Chapter Text

Unlike the time with the automatic doors, this time, Dean snaps into action immediately. Without missing a step, he lets go of the door, letting it fall shut, and is at Steve’s side in a flash, guiding him over to one of the benches lining the walkway.

‘Uh, Steve? Man, you okay? Hey, everything’s alright — ’s just you ’n me here, ’n it’s all good,’ he murmurs, his hands hovering just shy of rubbing Steve’s back, unsure if his touch would be welcome if Steve’s going through some sort of PTSD episode or something. ‘Listen, we can just forget lunch here ’n head back home if ya’d rather-’

‘Hey, man, what the f*ck!’

Dean whips around to see some college-aged alpha dudebro of the no-neck variety storming out of the restaurant, a battered takeaway box in one hand, and some sort of reddish-brown sauce smeared down his shirt. He realises a moment later that he must have inadvertently slammed the door in the guy’s face in his haste to get to Steve and the guy must’ve ran right into it.

‘Aw, hell,’ he mutters, scrubbing his hands down his face before looking back up. Steve still hasn’t moved a muscle, but Dean can tell the omega is shaking. ‘Listen, man, I’m real sorry about that. We were ’bout to come in when my, uh- my friend here started feelin’ sick ’n had to sit down. Didn’t mean to shut the door on ya.’

‘Yeah, well-’ No-Neck Alpha Guy starts, advancing on Dean, who’s up and on his feet in a flash, standing defensively between him and Steve.

Despite being several inches shorter than Dean, the other alpha tries puffing himself up to seem more intimidating, which is just about the worst choice he could’ve made, because Dean liable to rip him limb from limb right about now, considering how freaked out Steve is.

The last thing any of them need right now is a brawl, though, and luckily one of the other guys in the group gives No-Neck’s shoulder a push and say, ‘Bryce, chill. Dude said he was sorry — just let it go.’

‘Dude, do you see my f*ckin’ shirt though?!’ No-Neck bitches, but then he scoffs and says, ‘Yeah, whatever. You’re not worth my time.’

Dean’s rolling his eyes at the guy’s paper machismo, about to turn his full attention back to Steve when No-Neck spits, ‘Keep your f*ckin’ bitch on a leash, then, if it can’t handle bein’ in public,’ as he’s walking away and Dean sees red.

The growl that rips from his throat is a low and feral thing, and his whole body coils like a spring, ready to full-body tackle that stupid, ignorant son of a bitch who ain’t fit t’shine Steve’s shoes, who the f*ck does he think he is- when he feels the faintest tug on the sleeve of his coat.

‘Dean,’ Steve whispers, voice hoarse and weak. ‘Please…’

The sound of his omega’s distress is enough of a distraction that Dean’s rational mind takes back the wheel and decides that Steve is the priority, not beating that knothead f*cker to a bloody pulp. It damn near kills him to do so, but Dean grits his teeth and glances down at Steve, even though his every primordial instinct is telling him not to turn his back on the other alphas who’re halfway down the walkway by now, oblivious to how close No-Neck came to becoming Broken-Neck.

‘Yeah, Steve?’ Dean grunts, but it doesn’t seem as though Steve’s got much more gas in the tank, so after a few beats of silence pass, Dean takes several deep breaths and says, ‘Wanna just go home ’n eat?’ to which Steve nods mutely.

Thankfully, the group of alphas are long gone by the time Dean offers Steve a hand, which by some miracle he takes and doesn’t let go, just passively allows himself to be led back to the Impala. He only drops Dean’s hand after Dean unlocks the car door and ushers him inside.

The drive home feels like it’s a thousand miles long, and Dean spends it wondering how the hell the day’s fallen apart so quickly. Steve doesn’t move a muscle, just stares blankly out the window the entire ride, the long-forgotten Verizon bag at his feet.

When they get back home, Dean pulls into the garage, and hits the button on the garage door remote for it to close behind them, but he pauses after turning the car off, not quite ready to head inside. He’s been thinking the entire drive about how to ask, but kept coming up blank, so he just blurts out, ‘Listen. Y’don’t gotta tell me what happened right away, if ya don’t wanna — or even at all, really — but… I’d really ’preciate it if ya did, just so I know how not to f*ck up the same way again in the future. I’m, uh- I’m real sorry sh*t went sideways, man. I just wanted t’take ya out for a good time, ’n instead…’ He makes a helpless waving gesture with one hand, like that does anything at all to explain how epically he’s screwed up yet again without even knowing what it is he did wrong this time.

Steve’s silent for a few minutes, making Dean wonder if he’s trying to gather his thoughts, or if he’s more f*cked up than Dean originally thought, but finally he says quietly, ‘The- the sounds and smells of the restaurant, it just- it reminded me of Purgatory. The upstairs bar that was there, I mean. I was occasionally… called upon to provide entertainment at private parties, and- and any damage to the ‘amenities’ was included with their booking fee. There was always a chance you wouldn’t come back if you were sent to serve at one.’

He doesn’t elaborate more than that, but just those few sentences are enough. They’re too much, actually, and Dean’s howling inside, screaming down the walls, wishing he could unhear what he’s just learned, but so fiercely grateful that Steve trusts him enough to share the burden of this awful knowledge.

‘That’s f*cked up, man. I’m sorry,’ he says, knowing it’s nowhere near enough.

‘I know,’ is all Steve says in return.

At Dean’s insistence, Steve goes upstairs to his room to rest while Dean makes lunch. It might be the coward’s way out, but after the scene at Swayze’s and the short, painful conversation in the garage, Dean thinks they could probably both use a minute to regroup.

He busies himself by assembling the ingredients to make burgers and fries, thinking that while he might not be able to build an onion ring skyscraper for Steve, he sure as hell can make him the best damn burger he’s ever tasted. He slices potatoes, gives ’em a nice toss in oil, then pops them in the air fryer before moving onto mixing the ingredients for burgers into the ground beef with his bare hands, grateful to be able to be doing something, even if it does little to settle the ache he feels around his ribs when he thinks of the horrorstruck look in Steve’s eyes when Dean had opened the door to the bar.

In hindsight, he, Dean, really should have used his f*cking head and not even tried taking Steve there in the first place. Even though he doesn’t know every little nitty gritty detail of Steve’s time being forced to work in the brothel, he’s been on more than enough rescue missions to have known better than to try to bring a traumatised omega to a f*ckin’ bar ’n grill, especially a rowdy one like Swayze’s. But of course, like the dumbass he is, Dean had been so wrapped up in his stupid little fantasy of what it would be like if he and Steve were just two regular guys in regular circ*mstances, going out for a bite to eat, that he’d put two and two together, and come up zilch.

God, what the f*ck kind of world are they living in-

The timer indicating that the fries need to be shaken goes off, so he pries himself away from his morose, guilt-ridden, whirling thoughts, and gives the air fryer basket a good shake. He forces himself to shove his guilt away and focus on finishing flipping the burger patties and toasting the buns, channelling his anxiety into assembling two culinary works of art for him and Steve.

When the timer goes off again, he pulls the fries out, noting that they’re a perfect golden brown, and begins plating everything. Absentmindedly, he pops a fry into his mouth, promptly burning his tongue and letting loose a stream of cursing just in time to hear Steve descending the stairs.

‘Soup’s on!’ Dean calls, bringing the plates over to the table as Steve enters the kitchen. ‘Wouldja mind grabbin’ us some drinks from the fridge?’ Steve nods, looking worn and not rested at all, and brings two glasses of water over to the table.

(Dean’s never drunk as much water in his life as he has since Steve’s moved in, but the omega admitted that other than coffee, he finds most beverages too overwhelmingly sweet, so he prefers water. Dean supposes this makes sense, considering the guy’d been living on whatever gruel those assholes at the brothel would deign to give him, so he figures he can do with improving his hydration as well.)

‘So, I was thinkin’… What d’ya think about havin’ a mid-afternoon movie night?’ Dean asks after they’ve been eating in silence for a few more minutes, trying desperately to think of anything at all that might cheer Steve up. ‘I’ll even relinquish movie night picking rights, to sweeten the pot.’

‘Isn’t ‘mid-afternoon movie night’ something of an oxymoron?’ Steve asks mildly, shrugging. ‘I’m amenable, if that’s what you’d like to do.’

‘Hey now, watch who you’re callin’ a moron,’ Dean jokes, cringing at how corny he sounds, but it’s worth it to see Steve’s lips twitch up into a half smile at the attempt. ‘Well, how about this: if ya want, we could do a whole movie marathon — start now, ’n go til it’s officially nighttime? Y’know, make a whole day of it, only pause to eat ’n pee?’

‘That sounds fine, Dean,’ Steve says. He sounds neither enthused, nor reluctant, just tired, but Dean’ll take that over sad or terrified any day. ‘I always enjoy watching films with you, though we’re probably better off if you choose what we watch, seeing as you’re the self-proclaimed ‘cinematic guru’.’

Dean swears he’s never found air quotes to be adorable before, but every time Steve does it, his heart stutters for just a second, and it’s kind of awesome.

‘Works for me,’ he says, scratching his cheek thoughtfully. ‘How about the old Indiana Jones flicks? You can get an eyeful of my first love — after the Brawny paper towel man, of course.’

Finally, finally, Steve cracks a real smile at that. ‘I look forward to meeting your paramour,’ he replies with faux sincerity. ‘Perhaps someday I’ll reveal my childhood crush as well.’ He rises from the table, grabbing both his and Dean’s now empty dishes and bringing them over to rinse in the sink.

‘Oh, ho! Now you have to tell me… You can’t start somethin’ like that, then just walk away!’ Dean calls after him in protest.

The sound of Steve laughing as he loads their dishes into the dishwasher more than makes up for having to live with the mystery.

Since they just ate one hell of an epic lunch, if Dean does say so himself, they decide to forego snacks for Raiders of the Lost Ark, but by the time he’s loading The Temple of Doom into the DVD player, he’s feeling peckish again, so he tells Steve to let it play while he heads downstairs to grab some snacks. After confirming Steve has no special requests, Dean heads down to the kitchen, looking over his shoulder only long enough to see Steve return his attention to the movie, eyes glued to the screen, clearly as enthralled with the second film as he had been the first.

Something in Dean’s chest stirs. He ignores it.

Dean friggin’ Winchester, of all people has no right looking at Steve like that, especially a few measly hours after yet another fantastic f*ckup. If that wasn’t proof positive that Dean would not be good for the guy, he doesn’t know what is.

He reminds himself of all this and more as he putters around the kitchen, gathering junk food at random, stacking packages of cookies and liquorice next to a bag of chips and a couple cans of soda and bottles of water. He grabs the oil and popcorn kernels from the pantry and a pot and lid from a cabinet, pouring in enough of each to coat the bottom of the pot before placing the lid on top and lighting the stove, waiting for the telltale first few pops to indicate the oil was hot enough.

While he waits, Dean tries to think of what else he could do to cheer Steve up if he’s still blue after the third Indy movie, almost wishing that he’d saved burgers for dinner instead of lunch, because what better pick-me-up than a fistful of meat and cheese and grease?

He tries thinking of things that make Steve happy, and comes up with a pitifully short list. He knows that the omega likes pancakes and coffee, but neither of those things are of any use to Dean now. He knows that he’s a Ravenclaw (figures), that for whatever reason he picked friggin Bulbasaur for his starter Pokémon, and that he’s really into Spider-Man, but other than suggesting they watch the Spider-Man movies or busting out his old GameBoy to play Pokémon Blue, he really doesn’t think that there’s much he can do about any of those either.

The solution hits him when he’s staring off into space just as the kernels start popping.

His gaze lands on one of the jars of honey that Cain’s given him from his beehives behind his cabin, and it all clicks. Steve loves honey; he’s crazy for the stuff.

(He’s also apparently crazy for bees in general, which is one of the goddamn nuttiest things Dean’s ever heard, but the guy gets so friggin’ jazzed when talking about saving the honeybees or whatever, that Dean can’t help but get drawn in.)

Dean’s had caramel popcorn before and figures that honey and caramel aren’t really that dissimilar, so once the popcorn has finished popping, he dumps it all into a big bowl. He tries to figure out how to honey-ify it, before giving up on being clever and instead just drizzles honey over the whole thing. He adds a touch of sea salt to fancy it up, thinking again of caramel and how caramel and salt is a bomb combination.

Now armed with a tray laden down with cookies, chips, soda, liquorice, and the honey popcorn, Dean returns to the Dean Cave triumphant.

Steve hasn’t moved from where he was curled up on Charlie’s old beanbag chair that he favours for movie night. They’ve had a good few since that first disastrous showing of Mean Girls, and even though Dean’s even gone so far as to offer to buy either another armchair or sofa for the Dean Cave to make things more comfortable for him, Steve has adamantly insisted that the beanbag chair is more than adequate.

(This time, thinking Steve might need a little extra comfort, Dean’s pulled out the old t-shirt quilt from Colette and insisted Steve wrap up in it, despite the omega’s protests that that would mean the blanket would be on the floor.

‘It ain’t the American flag, man,’ Dean had laughed, tossing the quilt to Steve where he sat on the bean bag chair. ‘S’not like we’d hafta burn it for touching the ground,’ to which Steve had seemed both surprised and relieved for whatever reason.)

‘Guess who’s back; back again…’ Dean calls, assuming the reference will go right over Steve’s head, but is surprised and delighted when Steve levels him with an unimpressed look.

‘Please tell me you’re not about to start rapping. You’re very skilled at many things, Dean, but somehow I doubt that that’s one within your arsenal.’

‘You’re not wrong there,’ Dean admits, setting the tray of snacks down next to Steve. After a moment’s hesitation, he sinks down to the floor on the other side, his back resting against the sofa.

If Steve’s surprised by this, he doesn’t show it, merely offering, ‘Would you like to sit on Miss Charlie’s beanbag?’, still watching the movie from the corner of his eye. ‘I’m quite alright with sitting on the ground.’

‘Nah, man, my old bones can’t handle it,’ Dean says, shaking his head. ‘If I sit down on that thing, you’ll need a forklift to get me out of it.’

‘You’re not that much older than I am,’ Steve points out, though he doesn’t seem too perturbed at not having to vacate his seat. ‘I’m sure you could manage if you really put your mind to it. Well… probably. Maybe. Actually, you’re right —it’s probably best if you don’t attempt it. I don’t think I’d be able to lift you if you do, in fact, get swallowed by the beanbag chair.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ Dean’s going for sarcastic, but he’s already smiling like an idiot. God does he love getting these little glimpses of Steve’s sassy side. The dude is f*cking funny when he allows himself to be. ‘Well, I’ll have you know that what I lack in rapping and beanbag sitting skills, I more than make up for with my snack game. Check this out.’

He presents Steve with the bowl of honey popcorn with a flourish. Steve accepts it, a crease between his brows as he blinks down at it in surprised confusion.

‘… thank you?’ he says tentatively, gaze darting between Dean and the bowl, like one of them might magically reveal what he’s looking at.

Well, doesn’t Dean feel like a first class idiot. ‘I was just thinkin’ that I, uh- I know you’re, like, crazy about honey, or whatever, so I thought I’d see how it does on popcorn — you know, classic movie snack with a Steve Allen twist,’ he explains, cheeks heating up, like he’s twelve again and wants to tell Cassie Robinson or Aaron Bass that he thinks they’re cute. Maybe this was a dumb idea after all.

‘Oh!’ Steve lights up, like he usually does when honey’s involved. He carefully extracts a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl, leaning forward so the honey doesn’t drip onto the carpet or his clothes, and chews thoughtfully for a long while. When he finally swallows, the look on his face is like he’s trying to suppress a laugh or something, and he says, ‘Thank you, Dean. That was incredibly thoughtful of you.’

The dude is just so- so friggin’ wholesome and polite, yet can flip a switch and be a snarky asshole in the best kind of way, that out of nowhere, Dean’s hit with the sudden urge to put on the old ‘big yawn, to casually slip an arm around the cute guy’s shoulders’ production. He balls his hands into fists to keep himself from doing anything stupid and settles back in to watch the movie.

After a few more minutes pass, however, he finds his hand drifting towards Steve anyway, so instead, he redirects and tries to make it seem as though reaching for the bowl of popcorn had been his intention the entire time.

He takes a good sized handful of honey popcorn, cringing internally as the friggin’ thing sticks to his palm. Reflectively, he realises there was probably a better way to achieve the same result, other than just dumping honey over top of the popcorn, but it’s too little too late now, anyway. He shoves the whole mess into his mouth and chews for what just might be the longest few minutes of his damn life. He chews until he literally can’t chew any longer, because what the actual f*ck was he thinking?!

‘Oh, dude, this sh*t is f*ckin’ foul!’ Dean spits the goopy mouthful of whatever that unholy culinary nightmare was that he had so proudly presented to Steve into a paper towel, not even caring if it makes him look like a kid with Brussel sprouts. ‘It’s like… chewing on sticky wood shavings! Why the hell didn’t you say something?’

He tries wiping his sticky fingers off on another paper towel, but the stupid thing just sticks to the honey and shreds apart, leaving his fingers covered in honey and paper towel bits. Not thinking, he sticks a finger in his mouth to try to get the stickiness off, apparently forgetting about the paper towel he’d just got stuck to his hands. The little bits of paper detach from his fingers and get stuck to his tongue, so he spits into the first paper towel, and honey-and-spit soaked paper adds to the mess.

He’s so distracted by this completely asinine spectacle he’s creating, that he doesn’t immediately clock what he’s hearing until the unfamiliar scent of this overwhelming, giddy happiness washes over him. It’s then that he looks up and sees Steve literally rolling on the floor, laughing his goddamn ass off at Dean. The whole room smells like springtime — eucalyptus and jasmine and petrichor… the start of something new…

The line everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt pops into Dean’s head, and does a weird thing to his heart. It’s from his favourite book, Slaughterhouse-Five, and means… it means seeing life for what it is, and finding happiness anyway. Understanding that the world can be harsh, and reality can be ugly, but appreciating the beauty in it regardless.

It’s a quote that always resonated with Dean, always made him feel seen, because he always felt a little… off, even before his parents were gone. Even on some of the best days of his life, he always had this niggling fear that maybe something about him was wrong, or maybe he was just someone who was just sad at his core, or maybe part of him was incomplete — like he’d come off the line with missing or broken parts.

But right now, on the floor of the Dean Cave, with this cackling, hot mess of an omega at his side, and honey drying on his fingertips, he feels whole.

Steve catches his breath as he catches Dean’s eye, and he looks like he’s torn between apologising and cracking the f*ck up again, and Dean thinks he might be experiencing true happiness for the very first time. It’s like a breath of fresh air after being buried alive.

Everything is beautiful.

And nothing hurts.

Chapter 29: a poem I can't picture

Chapter Text

If Dean had ever made fun of farmers or gardeners or folks who like flowers or anyone like that in his younger years… if he ever called it ‘girly’ or ‘omegish’ or ‘wimpy’… well he sure as hell is paying for it now.

‘Dude.’ He stretches his arms over his head, then brings his hands down to push his hips forward until his back pops, letting out a fairly indecent groan. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve pulled muscles I didn’t even know I had. Holy sh*t, man… why didn’t you warn me this harvesting sh*t was such hard work?!’

‘I did,’ Steve grits out, far less patient and amused than he had been the first hundred times Dean had whined about this. ‘I believe if you cast your mind back, you’ll find my exact words were ‘I appreciate the offer of help, Dean, but you should know it’s a lot of hard work’. I don’t know how much clearer I could have been.’

‘I call shenanigans,’ Dean grouses, massaging one sore hand by the other, then flexing his fingers. ‘Oh man. Almost makes me regret-’

The joke dies on his tongue when he realises how it would sound to someone like Steve that Dean even jokingly regrets breaking up with Lisa, who’d been a massage therapist/ yoga instructor at one of those new-age, hippie-dippie ‘wellness centre’ joints, just so he could wheedle a free massage out of her after one whole afternoon of manual labour. He cringes at catching himself being a spoiled alpha ass yet again, but at least he’d managed to keep the words from coming out of his mouth, rather than sticking his foot in it yet again.

‘I was trained in massage, if you’d like me to work on you when we get back,’ Steve offers, and, well- that kills any complaints Dean had had dead in their tracks.

‘Nah, I’m fine,’ he mumbles, even as he stretches his head from side to side to crack his neck. ‘I’m just bein’ a bi- brat about havin’ to work. S’been a hot minute since I had to work on the property… guess I just forgot what it was like. Did I ever tell ya ’bout when we found this place? It was basically a big, abandoned field where folks had just been dumpin’ sh*t like old tires ’n couches for God knows how long. Now, clearing that sh*t outta here was hard as hell… I think we ended up with, like, a dozen ’n a half busted ass tires, four rusty bikes, a small pyramid of nasty, empty beer cans, ’n enough broken furniture to start our own Beauty and the Beast style army by the end of it.’ He groans, remembering what a pain in the ass it had been to haul all that crap away, especially under the not-so-gentle instruction of his old man.

Decidedly not wanting to wander down that train of thought of memories of John — good or bad — so he asks instead, ‘Hey- didja ever wonder if, like, the people that became furniture in that movie decided to, like… burn the real furniture, or if they shoved it all into an attic or something, or if they just left it there. Wouldn’t that be friggin’ wild? You’d be like- talkin’ to an armchair, thinkin’ it’s the gardener or something, only then the actual gardener-armchair guy comes trottin’ ’round the corner ’n it turns out you’ve been yammering to a regular friggin’ chair the entire time?’

Jesus Christ. He assumes it would sound something like the bullsh*t streaming out of his yap right now, but at least it distracts them both from the topic of massages and dead parents.

Dean decides to quit his rambling — and his bitching — and helps Steve finish up the harvest of the ramps and garlic, plus more rhubarb and berries for good measure, then they load it all into Cain’s wagon that he lent them. By the time they’re done, they’ve got a perfectly respectable pile of sh*t for the farmers’ market to take to the kitchens and prepare for the following morning.

‘I can complete the rest of the preparations by myself if you’re too tired,’ Steve offers, trailing slightly behind the wagon that Dean’s pulling back up to the lodge to make sure nothing falls off. He looks tired, but determined and hopeful, and no sore backs, cramped hands, or hell or high water could get Dean to rain on that parade.

‘Heck no!’ Dean tries his damnedest to force a second wind to come his way, which isn’t at all how that sh*t works, but at least Steve’s excitement is giving him the warm fuzzies — not that he’d ever admit it out loud, of course. ‘In for a penny, in for a- whatever. Hate to break it to ya, but you’re stuck with me now, man.’

‘Pound,’ Steve supplies, rolling his eyes, but his answering grin eclipses the damn sun, and- yep. Suddenly Dean’s feeling a hell of a lot more awake after that.

By the time they’ve gotten through everything, Dean absolutely reeks of sweaty, oniony-garlicky-leafy-berry ass. Even Steve’s scent is tainted by it, though to a far, far lesser degree, because Dean still thinks he smells f*cking great.

It’s weird. Dean’s always thought that Steve’s natural scent was great, but since their movie night a few days ago, it’s become like some kind of olfactory ambrosia that Dean just wants to- to drown in it, which is a new, strange, kind of freaky as f*ck feeling that he doesn’t know what to do with. All he can manage to do is try his best to hide it from Steve, cos he can’t imagine learning that Dean wants to bury his face in his neck and get high off his pheromones would be a welcome revelation for the omega.

When they finally get back home, Dean offers the first shower to Steve, but he declines, instead insisting that he’d like to bring everything in from the car, so it doesn’t get wilted or whatever. He also declines Dean’s offer for help, even going so far as to suggest Dean be the one to shower first instead, which Dean takes as a not-so-subtle hint that he does actually smell as rank as he believes.

Apparently Steve had been onto something, though, because the shower goes far to improve Dean’s- well, basically, everything, and he emerges smelling and acting less like the business-end of a mule.

He asks Steve how he feels about breakfast for dinner again, though at this point he knows it’s more of a formality than anything, because Steve never turns down the opportunity for pancakes, then insists the guy take a break and a shower. Steve agrees, returning back downstairs almost half an hour later with damp hair, Dean’s old ACDC t-shirt, and a small, pleased smile when he sees the stacks of greens ready for the market in the morning. The smile grows exponentially when he also sees the plates of pancakes and honey Dean’s prepared for them, and God his happiness is like crack.

Dean’s starting to suspect he might have something of a problem, but he also has zero idea how to handle it, so he just shrugs off Steve’s praise and tries to ignore the way it warms him even more than the hot summer night.

It’s late when his phone rings, which is never a good sign.

Dean is just brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed a few hours after when is probably reasonable, but after dinner, he and Steve had come up with a whole plan of attack for the farmers’ market the following morning. They’d gone over planning and pricing, even going so far as to come up with a contingency plan, complete with a code word, for if Steve started to get too stressed out from having to people with the general public. By the time they’d worked out all the kinks in their plan and gone over every possible outcome, it had definitely been time to turn in for their six AM wake up call, making it all the more jarring when Dean’s phone begins ringing at nearly midnight.

‘Bitch,’ Dean growls into the phone when he sees his brother’s stupid mug lighting up the screen. ‘What the f*ck? A man my age needs his beauty rest; this level of hotness don’t come from water ’n sunshine alone, ya know.’

‘Dean, this is serious,’ Sammy says, like the absolute buzzkill he is. ‘I just got off the phone with Charlie, because there was another attempted cyber security breach. They were unsuccessful, but she says she and Ash are having a hell of a time playing defence here, and they’re the best there is. It might be time to up our game.’ He takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself to say something he knows Dean is going to fight him on, then says in a rush, ‘I think they’re right. Charlie says that there was just a job posting for Angel Radio’s tech department, and she wants to apply, just to see if there’s any information she can dig up from the inside.’

‘It ain’t a goddamn game, Sammy, Jesus Christ! When has pokin’ a sleeping bear ever been a good idea?’ Dean snaps, his anxiety shortening what is already a short fuse when it comes to the f*cking piece of sh*t Shurley family and their piece of sh*t company. ‘And what if it’s not them, ’n we end up puttin’ ourselves on their radar over nothin’, huh? What if they started digging up dirt on us and figured out what it is we do? It could f*ck up a lot more than our cyber security; it could ruin lives.’ He eyes the clock that’s now flipped past midnight and groans. ‘What does Bobby say?’

Sam sighs unhappily. ‘Pretty much the same as you,’ he admits begrudgingly. ‘But you know he’s a ‘play it safe’ kinda guy. I really think it’s time to consider that the best defence might be to go on the offensive.’

Dean scrubs his hands down his face, suddenly even more exhausted. ‘Dude, I don’t know. I’ve got, like, two working braincells right now, ’n I gotta be up at asshole o’clock tomorrow for a, uh- a- thing with Steve, so now ain’t the time for me t’be makin’ any sorta big decisions. Can we pick this up at work on Monday? Maybe get Charlie, Ash, Bobby, Jody, ’n Ellen in a room ’n we lock the doors ’n no one leaves ’til we figure it out?’

‘I guess that would work.’ Dean can tell that Sammy still isn’t too thrilled with this response, but it honestly makes the most sense — there’s nothing to be done about the issue right now, in the middle of the night, other than worry themselves into a complete freakout. The problem will still be there on Monday.

‘It’s gonna be okay, Sammy,’ Dean says, the familiar words rolling off his tongue just like the hundred thousand times he’s said them before, every other time he needed to man up and comfort his little brother. ‘We’ll figure it out — we always do.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’ Sam sighs, the burst of static against the phone making Dean wince. ‘Well… good night, jerk. Have fun at your ‘thing’ with Steve tomorrow… bring me back some of that real maple syrup for Eileen, will you? It’s been forever since we’ve been able to get over to the farmers’ market.’

‘What the f*ck — you know?!’ Dean demands, outraged at being found out. ‘Aw, hell.’

‘Sure do, Farmer Brown. Next thing you know, you’ll be stealing my beanies and drinking kombucha… maybe sitting in on Benny’s pilates classes…’

‘Go directly to Hell. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars… just f*ck right the f*ck off and shut your ugly trap,’ Dean grouses. ‘Listen — Steve asked me to go with him, ’n you try tellin’ the guy no when he’s standing there, lookin’ like a little lost puppy or some sh*t. I’m an asshole, but I’m not completely heartless, you know.’

‘Mhm.’ Sam’s smugness is almost as dense as he is. ‘Well, enjoy hanging out with the soccer moms and hipsters. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.’

‘Ugh, you- you just- you suck, you know that?! Go the f*ck to bed. I’ll deal with you ’n all the other pain in the ass sh*t on Monday,’ Dean snaps.

Sammy’s still choking out something like don’t forget my syrup between big, stupid moose guffaws when Dean hangs up, wishing yet again they still lived in the era of landlines, so he could slam the phone down in his stupid brother’s stupid ear.

It’s obnoxiously early when his alarm goes off, which is also never a good thing, but at least he didn’t oversleep, which apparently even his subconscious had been concerned about. In-between nightmares about Angel Radio finding out about The Roadhouse and Steve finding out about- about whatever the hell is going on in Dean’s head about him, he’d been plagued with dreams about sleeping through his alarm, resulting in everything from Steve waking him up with a Looney Tunes style bullhorn, to the President Harry Styles declaring that the farmers’ market was to be moved into Dean’s living room as a punishment for his tardiness.

Needless to say, Dean wakes feeling as though he’s barely slept at all, despite having gotten nearly five hours of shut-eye — a decent improvement over his customary four. He sleepwalks through brushing his teeth and getting dressed, just grateful that he’s aware enough to make sure the pants go on over the underwear, and that he puts toothpaste on his toothbrush, not Neosporin.

Also needless to say, it’s because of how goddamn tired he is, that he damn near sh*ts a brick when he stumbles downstairs and finds Steve not only awake, but zipping around the kitchen like a busy friggin’ bee, putting all the stuff they’re taking to the market into reusable grocery bags, the blessed smell of fresh coffee percolating in the background.

‘M’rnin’,’ Dean mumbles, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes and yawning. ‘Wha’ c’n I help w’th?’

Steve, the chipper asshole, just chuckles and all but prances over with a cup of coffee that he shoves into Dean’s hands, holding on for an extra few seconds until he’s sure Dean’s got it. Dean’s kind of disappointed when he finally lets go.

‘You can drink that,’ he says, pointing. ‘Then, possibly help me load the folding into the car? I don’t want to risk scratching her paint.’

‘Good man,’ Dean says appreciatively. ‘’N you got it, just lemme-’ he chugs his coffee so quickly he burns his throat like an idiot.

‘For Heaven’s sake, Dean,’ Steve chastises, shaking his head. ‘The situation is not dire enough to warrant giving yourself second degree burns.’

‘’M fine,’ Dean grunts, determined not to let on how he’d definitely damn near scalded his throat. ‘Want me t’give you a hand gettin’ all the green sh*t to the car, too?’

‘No, thank you,’ Steve replies, polite as anything, even as he rolls his eyes at Dean’s… Dean-ness. ‘I believe it would be more productive for you to drink another cup of coffee — slowly this time, if you don’t mind.’

The authoritative note in the omega’s voice is new, but Dean certainly doesn’t hate it, especially when he mock-salutes with his coffee mug, saying, ‘yes, boss!’, causing Steve to blush adorably.

(Yeah, a second cup of coffee is definitely in order before his stupid, sleep-deprived brain and his foot-shaped mouth decide to team up and f*ck up his sh*t.)

The second cup of coffee goes down slower than the first — per Steve’s instructions — and by the time Dean’s staring at the bottom of his mug again, Steve’s got most of the stuff loaded into the car, and Dean’s starting to feel just over halfway human.

‘Table time?’ he asks once Steve’s returned from taking the final bag of rhubarb out to the garage. Steve nods.

It’s a tight fit, but between the two of them, they manage to cram a card table and two lawn chairs into the trunk of the Impala, making Dean chuckle to himself.

‘It’s just- my Dad used to always go on ’n on about Baby’s trunk space,’ he explains when he sees Steve’s inquisitive look. ‘He was torn between this or a Mustang, ’n always said it was the trunk that sold him on the Impala. I was just thinkin’ that this probably wasn’t what he’d had in mind, but it sure worked out in our favour.’

‘His foresight is much appreciated,’ Steve agrees, helping to close the trunk lid with a decisive thunk. He takes half a step backwards, regarding the closed trunk and backseat full of grocery bags with a satisfied eye. ‘Are, uhm- are you ready to head out?’

The sudden, unexpected sour-lemon spike of Steve’s anxiety tickles Dean’s nose and makes him sneeze. ‘Everything all right?’ he asks, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand, another small sneeze debating if it would like to come out.

Steve nods, but doesn’t move for a long moment before he visibly swallows and says, ‘Would your mind going over the plan one more time? I… I believe the rational part of my brain has just caught up with these rest of it, and now I’m questioning everything.’

‘Of course, man,’ Dean says, not exactly shocked by them request. He’d honestly been expecting to be having this conversation sooner or later, and for once had come prepared. ‘We’re gonna get there early so we can pick a good spot. We’re gonna try to sit as close to the parking lot as possible, so you can go chill in there car if you need a break at any point. We’re only gonna put out a little bit of what we’re bringing at first, to see if anyone gives a sh*t, so that if it’s not busy, we can make a quick getaway. I’m going to handle the customer service side of things with my charming wit and sparkling personality, unless you tell me otherwise. And, if at any time you feel the need to book it, you’re going to say the word,’ he glares at Steve, who finally cracks a small smile, ‘‘popcorn’, and we’ll close up shop immediately, no questions asked.’

‘You really won’t mind?’

The question comes out in a rush, like it had burst out of Steve’s mouth without his go-ahead, and he looks like he’s trying to decide if he should recall the words, even though it’s too late. His cheeks are pink again, though this time it’s got nothing to do with Dean being stupid and sassy.

‘Hey,’ Dean says, as gently as he thinks he can get away with. ‘I won’t mind at all — promise. Even if we only last five minutes, I’m still glad we decided to check it out… even though my jackass of a brother is never going to let me live it down.’

Steve frowns. ‘Is he opposed to farmers’ markets?’ he asks, confused. ‘When he and I were discussing it a few days ago, he seemed quite enthused by the idea.’

‘Oh, I bet he did,’ Dean says, really, really trying not to sound as sulky as he feels about it, because even he can tell that right now is not the time to give Steve a hard time about anything, not when he’s already so wound up. ‘Alrighty, well… ready to take off?’

Steve’s eyes meet his for a moment, searching Dean’s for who knows what, but whatever it is, he must find it.

‘Like a herd of turtles,’ he replies.

Chapter 30: stolen halo

Chapter Text

Okay, so maybe the farmers’ market is actually kind of awesome, but that’s a secret that Dean’s taking to his grave.

His and Steve’s plan goes off without a hitch, surprisingly. Dean’s biggest worry had been that there might be something of a lunchroom effect, where everyone already has their designated spots carved out for them, (meaning he and Steve might have had an issue with trying to get one closer to the parking lot), so he’d spent the drive mentally preparing to argue his way into getting whatever spot Steve desired.

Thankfully it doesn’t come to that, though, because the moment they walk up, they’re greeted by a pair of no-nonsense women who introduce themselves as Annie and Tara, and seem to be the ones in charge of the whole operation. They collect the stall fee for his and Steve’s table and instruct them in no uncertain terms to set up wherever they’ll feel most comfortable, much to Dean’s relief.

(Dean doesn’t miss the way they both notice the collar around Steve’s neck and level Dean with a carefully appraising look, but when he places a hand on Steve’s shoulder, ready to shut down anyone who might try to give the omega any sh*t, he seems to earn their approval. It goes far in getting Dean to lower his haunches at least a little as well, because the protective way they regard Steve reminds him a lot of Ellen and Jody, both of whom he knows would shed blood to keep Steve safe if the need arose.)

After Dean helps him pull the table and chairs from the trunk, Steve goes about setting up a display of a few samples of their wares, while Dean keeps a weather eye on the folks around them, still wary of their surroundings after that run-in with the asshole alpha at Swayze’s. Fortunately, there’s only one guy who so much as gives them a second glance, but he’s immediately approached by Annie, who says something to him in a low voice. The guy shoots another look in Dean and Steve’s direction, and Dean braces for a potential altercation, but then the guy just shrugs and sets up a few tables down from them, offering a cordial ‘bro nod’ as Charlie calls it, when he notices Dean eyeing him cautiously.

So far, things are going a hell of a lot more smoothly than he could have even hoped for, and for that, he’s immensely grateful.

Now that it’s well after seven, more and more people have shown up. Judging by the amount of hugs and handshakes and shouted greetings taking place, it seems as though most of them know each other. Dean watches Steve watch it all go down with wide, interested eyes, not looking at all afraid, just intrigued, and that’s kind of the best part of all.

Shoppers start showing up just before eight, and Dean can tell that now Steve’s getting a little antsy, but the omega is still doing a truly remarkable job of keeping his sh*t together.

‘Hey, wanna grab a coffee or food before we get hit with the masses?’ Dean asks, nodding towards the fancy pants food truck advertising coffee and bagels. ‘Oh! It says they have lox. Score!’ He gives Steve a sidelong glance. ‘If you tell my brother I said that, I will personally-’ he pauses, trying to come up with something both effective and not crossing any of their many lines, ‘make honey popcorn the official movie night treat forever and ever, amen.’

‘You’re the one who spit it all over the floor of the Dean Cave,’ Steve reminds him, suppressing a smile. ‘I’ve never had lox, but a coffee would be much appreciated.’

‘You got it, boss,’ Dean says with a wink, causing Steve to flush again at the term of… well, not endearment, exactly, but possibly something close to it.

Dean heads over to the coffee truck and orders each of them an everything bagel with lox and cream cheese, then gets a large black coffee for Steve, since the omega never adds anything to his coffee at home. He’s about to get himself a large double-double, when he notices a hand drawn chalkboard sign for some cinnamon crunch caramel latte thing that looks like it’s more candy than coffee, and decides- what the hell, he deserves nice things every now and then, and orders one of those for himself.

The barista hands him the bagels and Steve’s coffee, then asks, ‘Does your omega want whipped topping on his latte?’ whipped cream dispenser thing poised over Dean’s cup.

For a second, Dean doesn’t want to say anything, as much to save face at being the one with the sweet tooth, as to go on pretending for a just a moment longer that Steve is his, but in the end, his conscience wins out. ‘Aw, he’s just a friend,’ he admits reluctantly, glancing back over his shoulder to check on Steve, despite himself. ‘And, uh- the latte’s mine. I’ll take the whipped cream, though — extra, if ya got it.’

He returns to Steve a few minutes later, a coffee in each hand, and a bagel in each pocket of his jacket. ‘I come bearing gifts,’ he says, setting Steve’s coffee down in front of him. Steve watches, interested, when Dean sets his own cup down on his side of the table, whipped cream mountain trembling precariously at the sudden movement.

‘Would you like some coffee with your cream?’ the omega asks snarkily, raising an eyebrow. ‘I thought alphas were supposed to be all-’ He makes a ‘tough guy’ frowny face and pretends to flex, but then stops himself and winces. ‘Apologies, Dean. That was ignorant. I suppose it’s the same as saying an omega shouldn’t enjoy coffee without all that… mess.’

‘You say ‘mess’, I say ‘pile of deliciousness’,’ Dean says primly, taking a sip and ending up with whipped cream from his upper lip to his nose. ‘Goddamnit. Okay, maybe I see your point.’

Steve laughs and hands Dean the napkin from his bagel, even though Dean has one of his own, and that one small act of kindness kind of makes the sticky mess worth it.

The sh*t they brought goes over like gangbusters, just like Cain had predicted. The ramps sell out within the first hour and a half, even at five bucks a bunch, which is the price Cain had suggested, and Dean had thought was absolutely nutty for something so small. Most folks seem to disagree, however, and had been more than happy to pay it. He and Steve had even been told a few times that they should have charged more, which is a crazy thing to say, as far as Dean’s concerned, but Steve had nodded seriously, as though taking mental notes for future reference.

The wild garlic goes next, all but a few bulbs getting purchased, and even a good chunk of the elderberries and rhubarb they’d added gets bought up as well. Dean feels like he’s back in high school with his grocery store clerk job for how surprisingly hard he’s working. Even Steve, who was going to hang back and just observe, per his and Dean’s master plan, gets involved with cashing out a few female betas.

(Dean notices that he shies away from most men and alphas, which he figures is understandable, in those instances choosing to look to Dean for support, which makes Dean puff up like the backwards jackass he is.)

All in all, though, it’s a wildly successful day, and they walk away with almost three hundred bucks, which ain’t too shabby for one morning’s worth of work. They break down the table and load it and the chairs back into the trunk, then stack the few remaining bags of produce in the backseat of the car before climbing in themselves, feeling tired, but in the best kind of way.

Steve sags in the passenger seat after buckling his seatbelt, head tilted back, eyes closed, and lets out a contented sigh. ‘That… was insane,’ he says after a moment, eyes still closed, but he’s grinning ear to ear. ‘I can’t believe so many people came to our stand… Donna said she would teach me how to make pastries and pies with whatever we didn’t sell, but I don’t think we have enough left to make anything worthwhile.’

‘Hey, hey, hey,’ Dean scolds, but hurries to add, ‘Pie is always worthwhile,’ before Steve can tense up and lose his happy buzz. Steve cracks an eye open to glance over at Dean and snorts a laugh, and something in Dean’s stomach makes a funny swooping sensation as he takes a peek into the back seat that is now considerably emptier than it was on the drive in. ‘Though you’re not wrong… you might have to think about making mini pies or somethin’. You killed it out there, man.’

‘Thank you for allowing me to-’ Steve pauses and sits up a bit straighter, swallows audibly, and starts again, looking Dean straight in the eye. ‘Thank you for accompanying me to the farmers’ market today, Dean. I truly appreciated the opportunity and assistance.’ He smiles shyly and lowers his gaze to his lap, looking almost bashful. ‘This was a really great day.’

Dean’s throat feels tight, both at the sweet sight and scent of Steve’s satisfaction and pride, but also at the way he’d caught himself from thanking Dean for permission, and instead thanked him for his presence. He realises that sometimes he takes for granted how far Steve has come these last few weeks, but it’s little things like this that really drive the point home. The terrified omega sitting in the passenger seat on the drive home from the centre two months ago, and the triumphant, happy man seated next to him now are two completely different people.

‘What d’ya say I take the rest of those berries off your hands ’n show ya how to make jam for your morning pancakes?’ Dean asks, pulling out his wallet and forcing a twenty into Steve’s hand before he has a chance to protest. ‘You’re gonna love it.’

‘I always found jam unsettling,’ Steve muses with a yawn, but he’s still smiling. ‘I’d love for you to prove me wrong.’

‘Well, consider it settled, then,’ Dean jokes, and it’s possibly one of the dumbest things he’s ever said, but the way Steve rolls his eyes makes it worth it. He smiles fondly over at the omega and says, ‘Listen, we’ve got a little bit of a drive before we get home… Why don’t you go ahead and take a quick cat nap on the way? You’ve gotta be exhausted.’

‘No, no, that’s alright,’ Steve says quickly, hilariously trying to open his eyes wider in an attempt to stay awake like a little kid. ‘I’m not even that-’

The rest of his words get lost in another yawn, and by the time they reach the main road, he’s already asleep.

Dean carries Steve upstairs when they get home after two or three attempts to rouse the omega is met with increasingly grumpy requests for a few more minutes and nonsensical assurances that he’ll walk inside himself — he’s just waiting for his legs to come back, whatever the hell that means.

Chuckling to himself, chest full to bursting with affection for the ridiculous man, Dean simply comes around to the passenger side of the car, unbuckles his seatbelt, then hoists him up into a bridal carry. Even though Steve is a hell of a lot healthier now than he had been back when he’d first come to Dean’s, he’s still far lighter than a grown man should be.

It’s still a bit of a balancing act to get into the house, though, Dean trying not to drop the omega as he climbs the steps from the garage to the house and fumbles for his keys for a moment before finally unlocking the door and stepping over the threshold.

(He decidedly does not think of traditional mating rituals as he does this, because having Steve in his life in any capacity is more than enough. It’s more than he’d ever expected, and far more than he knows he deserves.

The matter is not helped, however, when Steve makes an unhappy little noise in his sleep at being jostled and buries his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, the sudden intimacy of the gesture scrambling Dean’s animal hind brain more than a little.)

Despite this, he still somehow makes it through the kitchen and the foyer, up the stairs, and down the hall to Steve’s room without dropping him or breaking both their necks. He’s about to set the omega down on the bed when he realises that most of the bedding is missing.

Frowning, he lowers the omega down onto the mattress that’s covered in only the fitted sheet, then goes to the laundry room to see if maybe Steve had decided to wash his bedding before they left, but finds that both the washer and dryer are empty.

Now properly confused, Dean stops at the linen closet to grab a spare blanket, then returns to Steve’s room, figuring he’ll at least cover the omega up for now, and solve the Great Bedding Mystery once he’s awake.

His plan is foiled, however, because the moment he steps inside the room again, Steve startles awake, sitting bolt upright, his eyes flying open as his gaze darts wildly around the room like he’s never seen it before. When he spots a shocked Dean standing in the doorway, blanket in hand, he immediately relaxes, though, looking slightly abashed, causing Dean’s stupid, primal alpha brain to strut its sh*t at being the thing that calms the omega down.

‘Dean,’ Steve says, voice sleep-rough and relieved. ‘Apologies, I… I suppose you were correct and I was more tired than I’d realised.’ He rubs his eyes with a yawn and frowns. ‘How did I…?’

‘I, uh…’ Dean knows he’s blushing. He rubs the back of his neck and mumbles, ‘… carried ya. I tried wakin’ you up, but you started sayin’ some sh*t like your legs were missin’ or something, ’n you were waitin’ on ’em to come back before you could come inside.’

‘Oh my God.’ Steve groans, now also blushing. ‘That’s a- that’s a reference to- oh my God- something that was said on- okay, listen, my best friend growing up was obsessed with this show, Gilmore Girls, and at one point one of the characters tells her mother she’s a cat with no legs, and therefore can’t get up to answer the phone, so that’s something we used to tell each other when we didn’t want to get up and do something. I can’t believe I said that… I haven’t thought about that since-’

He breaks off abruptly, the heavy scent of his sadness descending over the room like thunderclouds rolling in over the horizon. There’s pain and grief there, sharp and bitter. It burns Dean’s eyes just to witness.

‘We could…’ Dean starts hesitantly, not wanting to make things worse, but when Steve shifts his gaze over to Dean, he forces himself to continue. ‘We could look ’em up if you wanted,’ he offers, chest feeling tight, though he doesn’t quite understand why. ‘Your old friends, I mean. I’m sure Charlie could-’

‘That’s very kind, but that’s quite all right,’ Steve interrupts abruptly, even though his scent had jolted into hopefulness for just a moment at Dean’s words, before becoming immediately overshadowed by shame and sadness. ‘Thank you very much for the offer, but- but some memories are better left undisturbed… I’d rather she remember me as I was.’

She. For whatever reason, Dean had never considered that Steve might have had female friends in his past life. He’s not quite sure why — Charlie is his best friend, after all — but he’d just never pictured it. Never even entertained the possibility that Steve might have had a girlfriend before being ripped away from everything he knew and thrown into the slave trade.

It makes him unbearably sad now, to think about all those people who’ve loved and lost Steve, who’ve probably mourned him. Who might’ve created Facebook groups and hung MISSING posters offering rewards for his safe return, who’ve wept and lost sleep over not knowing what happened to him.

As much as he doesn’t want to wish that kind of grief on anyone after what he went through, losing both his parents the way he did, he almost hopes that Steve did have people who’ve missed him that much, because of everyone Dean’s ever known, Steve is one of the ones most worthy of being missed. Of being loved.

Loved. Now there’s another word that hits Dean right in the f*cking chest. He’s just gagging for self-inflicted misery today, it seems.

Desperate to change the subject, he gestures to the bed with the hand not holding the blanket and asks, ‘So, uh- now that we got the ‘how’ established, think maybe ya might be able to tell me the ‘what’? As in… what the hell happened to your blankets, dude? D’ya need new bedding or somethin’? Cos all you gotta do is ask, man, ’n you know I got no problem engaging in some retail therapy.’

To his surprise, rather than look surprised — or even guilty, if something weird and tragic had happened to his bedding — Steve looks… embarrassed.

‘Uhm, okay, so…’ Steve swings his legs over the side of the bed so that his feet are on the floor, and his hands are gripping the side of the mattress, fingers tangled in the fitted sheet. ‘So, I, uh- I only just started… I didn’t put your blankets on the floor until after this past movie night, when you made that flag-burning comment about the quilt, I swear. I’d just been… foregoing the use of blankets, because I- I didn’t want to disrespect your things…’

‘Dude, what are you talking about?’ Dean asks, totally baffled at Steve’s sudden anxiety and seemingly out of pocket response. ‘Do you… not like sleeping with blankets?’

It suddenly occurs to him that it might be some sort of PTSD thing — he remembers sometimes when John was having a particularly rough time, he’d strip his bed down to just the sheet, because getting tangled in the bedding would trigger his fight or flight instinct.

‘Oh, sh*t, is it, like a, uh- a sensory thing? Cos if that’s the case, we can totally get that sh*t outta here for ya.’ He’s hit with sudden motivation and offers, ‘Or we could get you one of those fancy weighted blankets, if you want… Sammy swears by ’em, cos he’s a kicker in his sleep, and Eileen’ll sleep-punch the sh*t outta him if he nails her with his stupid moose hooves.’ It occurs to him that sharing tales of his brother and almost-sister-in-law beating each other in their sleep might not be the best topic to broach with a traumatised omega, but it’s too late now.

‘Ah… no. Not a sensory thing, just a…’ Steve sighs and runs a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair, looking down at the floor between his feet for a moment before continuing quietly, ‘Just a… being in a bed thing?’

Dean can nearly smell the scent of his own guilt as it washes over him ‘f*ck, Steve, I’m sorry. I thought all Sammy’s bitchin’ about the mattress was just him being a spoiled asshole, but if I’da known somethin’ was wrong with the bed, I woulda gotten ya a new one, I swear.’

Steve sighs again, now sounding frustrated, though more with himself than Dean, it seems. ‘No, not because of the mattress — which is perfectly adequate in my limited experience, by the way,’ he says, which makes Dean feel at least a tiny bit better. ‘I just meant, that, uhm- that I was previously, ah- previously not permitted to- well. There was only one reason for a slave to be in a bed, and it wasn’t for rest, so… it was a, uhm- a struggle to- to find rest in the- Well, anyway, as a result, I have been… sleeping elsewhere. I’m sorry for deceiving you, Dean, I just- I didn’t know how to bring it up, or even if it was something worth bothering you about, but I’ve, uhm- I’ve been sleeping in the closet.’

Well, of all the things that Dean might have thought he was going to say, it sure as hell wasn’t that. ‘Wait- dude- Are you tellin’ me that you’ve been sleeping on the floor of your closet this whole time?! Are your sure it’s not because of the mattress?!’

‘No, no,’ Steve assures him hurriedly, cheeks flushing. ‘No, Dean, there isn’t a problem with the bed, the, uh- the problem is with me. It’s just- uhm- it just feels… right. In the closet, I mean, which I know sounds insane, but I- I have all my things in there, and it just feels… safe. Not that I don’t feel safe all the time when I’m here,’ he adds hastily, when he sees Dean open his mouth again, then takes a deep breath as though bracing himself for something terrifying. ‘It’s just… uhm- cozier? I don’t really know how to explain it, but, maybe I can, uh… I can show you, if you want?’

Chapter 31: breathe in sanctuary

Chapter Text

Castiel is kicking himself for being so damn stupid. He’s been sleeping in the closet like a cowardly moron for the past month and a half, and has never once been at risk of Dean noticing, but a mere three days after he’d made the rash and idiotic decision to bring the blankets and pillows into the space, he gets himself found out.

He’d been too nervous to dare putting the alpha’s things on the floor like that until the last movie night when Dean had not even batted an eye at the idea of his beloved t-shirt quilt touching the ground. For whatever reason, Castiel had then stupidly decided to take that as a sign that it would be okay to make that final move and bring the drag the bedding into his closet every night.

Even after that, he’d religiously remade the bed every single day before coming downstairs, just in case he might raise suspicion, and the one and only time he’d figured it was okay to forego remaking the bed due to his and Dean’s early morning at the market, he’d fallen asleep in the car and had to be carried to bed like a cranky toddler, and gotten himself caught.

And then he’d offered to show his pitiful little nest to Dean, as if the man hasn’t already seen Castiel wretched and exposed at the omega centre, then their first few days together at Dean’s, and then again the first time Dean had taken Castiel to The Roadhouse… Well, after all that, it’s not as though Dean needs any more reasons to think Castiel is some pathetic loser…

Feeling nauseous, but having no other choice at this point, Castiel pads over to the closet door and opens it, revealing his little haven to Dean. He steps inside, staring down at the floor while Dean leans in to take a peek, just hoping the alpha isn’t going to think he’s insane.

From beneath his eyelashes, Castiel watches with bated breath as Dean takes in the messy heap of blankets and pillows, that he’d so carelessly left on the floor in his haste this morning. He sees Dean’s eyes flit over the bookshelf that Castiel had foolishly moved into the closet, its shelves proudly displaying his borrowed books and gifted snacks, and the piles of folded clothing atop the cedar chest that hasn’t made it to their final destination yet.

And then, he feels his cheeks go flaming red when he realises that the Spider-Man t-shirt, the first one Dean bought for Castiel, is still folded neatly next to the pillow Castiel had so brazenly decided to use the last few nights. He feels like a first class idiot for treating the damn thing like a freaking security blanket, and just hopes it goes unnoticed.

Castiel can tell the moment the jig is up, however, because the small space immediately fills with the scent of happy alpha, and oh. Oh, that’s good. That’s the final piece of the puzzle that Castiel hadn’t even known to look for.

Oblivious to Castiel’s sudden euphoric realisation, Dean leans against the closet doorway, arms folded, face split into a wide smile. Castiel is only distantly aware that the alpha is speaking, but he’s too dazed to make much sense of it.

‘So, this place is like your own little Steve Cave, is what you’re sayin’?’ Dean says, nodding his understanding. ‘Okay, yeah, I get it. I dig it man, now ya just need a TV on the wall ’n a pinball machine in the corner to make it perfect.’

Castiel barely hears him, though, because he’s too punch-drunk on the scent of Dean’s happiness. ‘It’s already perfect,’ he breathes, somewhat dreamily, humming in satisfaction. Dean grins.

‘Well, then, good,’ he says, sounding a little giddy himself. ‘You just, uh- just lemme know if there’s anything I can get for ya to make it even better — you know, like- like cool LED lights or posters or- hey! What about Charlie’s old beanbag chair? ’N since ya got your books in here, maybe a little lamp or something, too? Make it like a reading nook? Oh man… Dude, the possibilities are endless!’

Dean’s enthusiasm, rather than judgment over discovering Castiel’s secret is- it’s unexpected, but so, so welcome. Not for the first time since meeting Dean, Castiel feels understood, seen. It’s nice.

‘Perhaps someday,’ he agrees mildly, even though the idea of Dean spending money on something as silly as decorating Castiel’s closet seems absurd.

‘Awesome.’ Dean grins, sighing contentedly and looking around once more. ‘This is really somethin’, man. I’m glad you have a space here that makes you feel… what was the word you used? Cozy?’

‘Mhm,’ Castiel hums, still just breathing in as much of Dean’s delicious Christmas morning scent as he can.

It takes awhile, but eventually Dean realises they’re ‘hotboxin’ happy’, so should probably exit the ‘Steve Cave’ and ‘get their grub on’, so they head downstairs to make an early dinner, since neither of them have eaten since their bagels that morning.

‘Hey, man, I was thinking,’ Dean says between bites of the taco salad he’d made them for an early dinner once they’re both sitting at the kitchen table, ‘We made, like, almost three hundred bucks today, but it’s really all thanks to you that we even found the stuff for the market, so I want you to keep it. I, uh- I know you can’t, like… have your own account yet, but if you want, I could getcha a safe or something for your room — maybe even for your Steve Cave — and you could keep the cash in there. Getchu a nice little nest egg… uh… no pun intended, of course.’

Castiel blinks in surprise — he hadn’t even thought of what would become of the money from the market, simply assuming that Dean, as the owner, would take control of it, given that slaves were not permitted to possess currency for their own use. He’d even felt a sense of wrongness just holding cash on the few occasions he’d had to complete a transaction when Dean was otherwise occupied.

(When Dean had handed him the twenty dollars in the car after the market for the remainder of the berries, his first irrational instinct had been to throw it out the window before anyone could catch him with it. He feels it now, burning a hole in the pocket of his jeans, the urge to shove it back at Dean making his palms itch.)

‘That’s incredibly generous of you, Dean, but I just- I couldn’t. Not only is it not allowed, but there’s no reason for me to keep it. You’ve given me far more than I need or deserve,’ he tells Dean, proud of how his voice contains only the slightest waver towards the end of his statement.

‘Maybe the things you needed, but not definitely not the things you deserve,’ Dean argues. He glances down at his t-shirt that has a large yellow Batman logo on it and huffs a laugh for some reason, but then is serious again. ‘Listen, Steve — I don’t want or need the market money, and I sure as sh*t don’t give a damn about what some ignorant old f*cks in Washington say is ‘allowed’ in this backwards-ass society, so either you take it, or I light it on fire.’

‘That seems both rash and wasteful,’ Castiel replies, but something inside him shivers pleasantly at the ferocity and protectiveness in Dean’s words. ‘I fear we are at something of a stalemate, then.’

Raising his chin defiantly, eyes narrowed, Dean tries to stare Castiel down, which with any other owner, in any other circ*mstance would have Castiel on his knees in a second. However, here, in his present home, with the kindest alpha he’s ever known, he simply meets Dean’s gaze and waits silently, refusing to back down.

Surprisingly, however, Dean buckles first. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frowning. ‘C’mon, dude,’ he all but whines. ‘You earned it. Think of all the hard work you put in to gathering all that sh*t up.’

‘Your effort in gathering the ‘sh*t’,’ Castiel counters, realising this is the first time he’s cursed in Dean’s presence, but not letting that deter him, especially when he sees Dean’s small smile, ‘was equal to — if not greater than — my own. Not to mention, you drove us to the market and paid the stall fee. Apologies for that, by the way… I wasn’t aware there was an associated cost for having a table there.’

Dean waves a dismissive hand. ‘Please. It was, like, ten bucks. Which, even if we subtract that from the profit, still leaves a good chunk of take-home change.’ He sighs again, leaning back in his chair, frowning at the ceiling. ‘Okay, what about this: what if we use the market money like a slush fund? Y’know, save it for goin’ out, or for the stall fee if we go back to the market again — which I think we totally should some time, if you’re up for it — though maybe we oughta invest in one’a them pop-up tents like some of the other folks had? Or, hey! We could use some of it to trick out the Steve Cave! Getchu some decorations or that other crap I mentioned earlier? I don’t think my skills are quite up to rewiring the joint to put an outlet in there, but maybe we could rig somethin’ with a power strip so you could have some lights or your phone charger or even a little TV or whatever?’

Again, Dean’s enthusiasm at the idea of adding things to Castiel’s closet is both surprising and appreciated, making Castiel feels almost foolish for having so carefully hidden it from the alpha for so long. His initial instinct is to decline, not wanting Dean to spend even more money on him for something as trivial as closet decor, but he pauses to consider it anyway. Dean does have a point that having access to electricity could be helpful, if only to plug in his alarm clock so he doesn’t have to risk the alarm bothering Dean when it goes off in the morning. The alpha also has a good point that being able to charge his new phone next to him while he sleeps would be incredibly convenient, and the idea of purchasing a tent for return visits to the market is appealing in its own right.

‘I suppose that would be a good compromise,’ Castiel says slowly, ignoring the thrill of anxiety coursing through him at the presumptuousness of telling his owner what should become of his money. ‘If you truly don’t mind or feel as though you should take sole control over the funds from the market. There isn’t much that I need for myself, though an extension cord would be quite convenient so I could move the clock into the closet, but I certainly don’t need a television… I, uhm- I very much enjoy our movie nights together, so if you are amenable to continuing those as we have been, I think that is more than sufficient for entertainment. I do like the idea of saving money for future trips to the market, as well as investing in a pop-up tent, though…’

If Dean finds these statements as appallingly entitled as Castiel does, he makes no indication of it, instead nodding his enthusiastic agreement. ‘Wanna hit Tar-jay again after we finish eating? We’re almost out of dishwasher pods and toilet paper.’

‘The laundry detergent is nearly empty as well,’ Castiel remembers, since he’s been the one to proudly take over laundry duty for the past few weeks. ‘I kept meaning to tell you.’

‘It’s settled, then. Tacos, then retail therapy.’ Dean words are muffled and decisive, thanks to the large forkful of salad he shoves in his mouth at the same time.

‘Salad and shopping,’ Castiel agrees, suppressing a smile at Dean’s glare at the reminder of his ‘healthier’ dinner choice.

The shopping trip this time is far less overwhelming than the first, whether it’s because Castiel is more accustomed to Dean, or being in public, or because they have more direction in what they’re looking for remains to be seen. Dean mumbles something about Dr Banes’ sister, the other Dr Banes, telling him that having a list of what they need to purchase would make the shopping experience easier for them going forward, so that’s what they do.

Castiel had watched from the corner of his eye, oddly enchanted, as Dean wrote sh*t TO BUY, on a page of lined paper torn from a Hot Wheels spiral notebook. He’d mumbled something about it being a gift from someone at The Roadhouse when he’d seen Castiel peering at it interestedly, but by now, Castiel has seen enough of Dean and his possessions to know that the man genuinely loves those little toy cars, despite being a fully grown adult.

Dean had then muttered aw, shaddup, despite Castiel not having said anything, then begins listing items like:

-BIG THING OF THE GOOD TP — NOT THAT 1-PLY CRAP

or

-POP UP TENT + WEIGHT THINGIES SO IT DON’T BLOW AWAY LIKE THE LAST ONE, DUMBASS

or

-MOONLIGHT-WHATEVER LAUNDRY SOAP (PURPLE LABEL)

(Castiel smiles to himself at the nonsensical, somewhat verbally abusive, way Dean leaves notes for him, like he thinks he needs to include as much information as possible, in case he forgets the ‘why’ behind the ‘what’.)

Just like the notes in his office, however, the part that causes some sort of strange reaction in Castiel’s chest, just behind his breastbone, is the section labelled: sh*t FOR SA that includes things like:

-SURGE PROTECTOR/POWER STRIP — 8-10 FT CORD? USB/USB-C PORTS ASW?

and

-SNACKS? COFFEE? (HONEY?)

and

-NEW INDY MOVIE — HF STILL HOT!

By the time they finally check all the items off the list and head to the registers at the front of the store, they’re arguing in earnest over whether or not Dean should use the market money to pay for everything, or if he should split their transaction and only use it for the things specifically for Castiel.

(Castiel is of the opinion that Dean has spent more than enough of his own money on Castiel already, and therefore should use the money they’d earned that morning for everything. Dean counters, saying that he’d be buying most of these things anyway, even if it had been just him ‘livin’ all by his lonesome’, so all ‘Steve’s’ money should cover is the extension cord and the single box of fruit snacks that Dean had convinced Castiel to add to the cart. He even argues that he should cover the cost of the eight food canopy tent, stating that he’d been meaning to purchase a new one anyway. He claims he’d lost the last one to a freak rainstorm while having a cookout with his brother and brother’s fiancée, because he hadn’t brought the weight discs to anchor it, because ‘it was either fit those in the trunk, or the cooler with the booze’.)

In the end, though, Dean wins, because despite both their pretending otherwise, Castiel knows that Dean is the one who truly has the power to make these decisions, and he accepts the bag with his power cord and fruit snacks that had come to less than twenty dollars without contention. He tries to tell himself that Dean’s smug look of triumph should more than make up for the guilt he feels when he sees the total on Dean’s transaction, but it feels like a somewhat hollow consolation.

Castiel must look as sulky as he feels, because when they load everything into the car and are on their way back to Dean’s house, he hears the alpha clear his throat after several long minutes of silence.

‘Uh… Y’ain’t, uhm- You’re not mad at me for buyin’ that stuff, are you?’ he asks when Castiel looks up from his hundred-yard stare into the middle distance out the windshield. ‘I didn’t… I wasn’t tryin’ t’make sh*t weird by payin’ or anything, I swear, I just… I really want the market money to go towards stuff for you, not, like… dishwasher pods ’n toilet paper, y’know?’

He does that neck-rubbing nervous habit of his, startling Castiel when he realises that Dean is genuinely concerned that Castiel might be angry at him, which is so unexpected, that a bark of laughter burst from his mouth. It’s an ugly, bitter thing, and he feels his cheeks heating up, but it’s too late to try to conceal his whirling emotions now.

‘No, Dean, I’m not angry at you,’ Castiel says, the surreality of having to assure an alpha of this — of having an alpha so much as give a sh*t whether or not Castiel was pissed off — making his head spin. ‘I apologise for my ungrateful behaviour, it’s just that… one of the top benefits of finding the greenhouse was finally being able to begin repaying some debts. I have literally nothing else to offer,’ he adds, mortified when he feels his throat getting tight at this admission. ‘It was… comforting, to think that I might finally be able to contribute to your household in a way other than laundry and dishes.’

‘Aw, sh*t,’ Dean replies, running one hand through his hair, then glancing over to Castiel, chagrined. ‘I didn’t think of it like- Well, dude, you gotta know you bring more to the table than household chores, right? Like…’ he trails off for a moment, gnawing on his bottom lip, then seems to steel himself. He takes a deep breath, then says, ‘Like, just by being there, being you… Dude, I can’t tell ya the last time I…’

The wet-dog scent of sadness and grief reaches him, and when he glances over at Dean, Castiel is absolutely astonished to see that the alpha’s eyes are very bright. His jaw is clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat from how hard he swallows before saying gruffly, ‘Havin’ you around… It’s good. Hell, it’s the best damn thing to’ve happened to me in a long damn time, which I know is twelve kinds of f*cked up to say, considering the circ*mstances, but I’m a f*cked up kinda guy, I guess. Yeah, I wish we coulda met some other way — any other way, really — but since wishes ain’t horses, or however the saying goes, well… I’m glad you’re here, is my point.’

‘It’s if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride,’ Castiel informs him, like the tactless asshole he is, because what the f*ck is he supposed to say in response to all that? He certainly knows that coming to Dean’s is the best thing to have ever happened to him, considering the alternative would have been another brothel or the morgue, but why the hell would Dean feel that way? Other than taking a few menial tasks off the man’s plate, Castiel hasn’t done much, other than f*cking stab him, eat his food, spend his money, and act like a completely unstable ass around him.

‘Thanks, Shakespeare.’ Dean rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face is vulnerable and something of a shadow of his usual affable demeanour.

‘Dean…’

Castiel doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t think he has the bandwidth to bear his soul right now, or even become entangled in an unduly emotional conversation. He’s exhausted, unstable, and ornery for no goddamn good reason, and all he wants to do is move past this.

Only then, he looks over at Dean and finds Dean looking back at him, and none of it matters anymore. The moment hangs heavy between them, stretches to some sort of timeless infinity, because it occurs to him that maybe… maybe sometimes Dean needs to feel seen and understood as well.

‘I’m grateful for you as well,’ he says finally, and even though he knows that that isn’t exactly what Dean had said at all, he somehow also knows that’s what he meant, and that seems to be enough for them both.

Chapter 32: templed in twilight

Chapter Text

Castiel accompanies Dean to work the following Monday in high spirits, having spent a good chunk of Sunday ‘tricking out’ the ‘Steve Cave’ with Dean’s help, his intoxicating cedar-balsam-amber-cinnamon scent lingering in the space long after they ‘called it a day’. Dean had made Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner, and it had honestly been one of the best days Castiel’s had in a long time.

Dean takes off almost as soon as they arrive at The Roadhouse, a grim look on his face that makes Castiel nervous until the alpha grumbles something about having a very important meeting with his brother, Bobby, Ellen, Jody, and Charlie about security. He offers Castiel a tight smile, promises to meet him for lunch, then takes off in the direction of his office at a jog.

Castiel wonders if the security concerns have something to do with his brothers again, and almost regrets not asking Dean if he could tag along, but then reasons that that would have been suspicious as hell. He’ll just have to hope that if it is anything that he should be concerned about, Dean will mention it over lunch.

(He chuckles to himself when he thinks about how there seems to be little these days that Dean does not talk to Castiel about, no matter how inane or random the topic. Part of him wonders if this need to overshare every stray thought is borne of loneliness or some sort of undiagnosed attention deficit disorder — or perhaps both.)

Castiel’s younger brother, Gabriel, had been ‘unofficially’ diagnosed with ADHD when he was in grade school, though he’d never been allowed to have it treated, because the Shurleys had stoutly refused to believe anything could be ‘wrong’ with their offspring. No amount of repeated arguments and assurances that there was absolutely nothing wrong with having a neurodivergent child could reach their ears, and Gabriel had struggled as a result.

On one hand, after having lived with Dean for as long as he has, Castiel can certainly see some of the same qualities in the alpha, and he wonders if perhaps his late father was of the same mindset, or maybe if they’d just been moved around so often during his childhood that no one had been around to notice.

On the other hand, after having lived with Dean, he’s noticed that the alpha is, at his core, a very lonely man. He seems to give so much of himself to his friends and his family and The Roadhouse — and now Castiel — that Castiel suspects he leaves very little for himself, perhaps intentionally. The impression Castiel gets just from Dean’s offhand, self-deprecating comments, is that there’s a good chance that he’s afraid of what he might discover should if he did try to focus on himself instead.

(Castiel had said as much once to Sam one time when he’d been feeling especially emboldened by the young alpha’s calming, earnest, presence. To his surprise, Sam had agreed with him and said he’d often thought the same thing about his brother. He says he’d first noticed a change in Dean when their mother had been killed, but it wasn’t until after their father passed as well, that it was as though a switch inside Dean had flipped, and he’d become more reserved and cautious, as though he was afraid to show too much of his heart from then on, for fear of it being broken again.

It makes sense to Castiel — he thinks that maybe he’s seen a shadow of this in Dean as well, though both he and Sam had come to the same conclusion which is that if either of them were to mention their theory to Dean, he would explode from either embarrassment or indignation — they were equally likely.)

It just doesn’t seem fair to Castiel, that someone as caring and giving and compassionate as Dean should be so melancholy, and it reminds him that grief is the great equaliser — it cares nothing about gender or designation or wealth or status. Dean has faced more than his fair share of loss and heartache, despite being, for all intents and purposes, at the very top of the food chain.

Life… is just not fair.

It’s strange to Castiel, to be contemplating fairness now, of all things, because it had taken him hardly any time at all to realise that life — and the world at large — is unfair, and that no one gives a damn about the ones that it’s unfair to, but now? Now, Castiel cares, and he cares about it because of an alpha… his owner — his master — no less.

He cares… because of Dean. He cares because Dean cares and he tries and he loves without shame.

It’s almost funny to remember contemplating all this a mere week ago, the morning he’d found the greenhouse, and how he’d tried then to suss out whether he can — or even should — judge Dean as a man before all the other things he is. Even though he’s still not confident enough to speak his decision aloud, he’s pretty sure that he knows in his heart what the only correct answer could possibly be, because Dean… Dean is a good man, a kind man. A patient man. He certainly puts up with Castiel’s frequently unpredictable temperaments well enough, anyway.

Despite all these heavy thoughts running through his mind, Castiel’s heart remains light. He goes to check on the greenhouse first thing that morning, to try to assess if there is enough left there that they could reasonably bring another haul to the farmers’ market for the upcoming Saturday, then takes a slow walk back towards The Roadhouse, simply taking the time to appreciate — well, everything.

On his way back to the main lodge, he runs into Cain, whom he eagerly tells about the outcome of his and Dean’s foray at the farmers’ market, and how unexpectedly busy they’d been. The older alpha is delighted to hear of their success.

‘Fantastic news, Steve!’ he tells Castiel proudly. ‘I’m beyond thrilled to hear it went over so well for you. Do you and Dean plan to return again in the future?’

‘I believe so,’ Castiel says, a small smile coming to his face of its own accord. ‘Dean seemed to enjoy our time there as well… He even purchased a canopy tent for us so we don’t ‘sweat our balls off’ next time.’

Cain’s laugh is deep and booming. ‘That does sound like him,’ he agrees, stroking his beard thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. ‘You know- Colette and I used to be frequent visitors at that market until she discovered she prefers Tasha Bane’s sunrise yoga and meditation on Saturday mornings, and my old bones simply can’t handle a stall on my own, but if you’d ever like to add to your wares, I’d be happy to supply you with a few jars of honey.’

Castiel feels his eyes light up at the mention of honey even before he hears Cain chuckle again.

‘I can certainly ask Dean if he wouldn’t mind handling additional finances,’ Castiel offers eagerly. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t be opposed. Maybe I can even see if Ellen or Bobby have a spare ledger we can use to-’

‘Oh, no, no. Nothing that official,’ Cain says hastily, though still smiling. ‘How about this: you keep the profits from the honey in exchange for your assistance with the harvest? If you’d ever feel up for working in the apiary for a little bit, I could always use a second set of hands when tending to the hives.’

Castiel can’t believe his luck. ‘I would really enjoy that,’ he tells Cain, shy but sincere. ‘I’ve always found bees fascinating, so getting to see the apiary up close would be awesome.’

(He smiles to himself, realising that just that simple word could be considered proof enough that Dean has been rubbing off on Castiel; Castiel has never before used the word ‘awesome’ in his entire life.)

‘That sounds wonderful, Steve, thank you,’ Cain replies, sounding grateful, which is certainly bizarre to Castiel, seeing as Cain has already helped Castiel, so if anything, this is just Castiel repaying a debt.

They make plans to meet again after lunch so Cain can ‘introduce’ Castiel to the apiary, then part ways — Cain heading back to his cabin and Castiel to the main lodge. Castiel’s just contemplating whether or not Cain will see any work Castiel does for him as repayment for his assistance with the initial greenhouse harvest, but he has a sneaking suspicion the answer is no, much in the same way Dean never sees anything Castiel does as paying him back, because he never thinks that he’s done anything out of the ordinary to begin with.

He checks the time on his phone when he gets back to the main lodge and sees that he’s still a little early for lunch, but today is a good day, and on good days, he can usually handle the brief socialising required to sit in the dining hall to wait for Dean.

Or so he thought.

The first person he sees when he walks inside is Ava. Castiel smiles and waves as she approaches; it’s been a week or so since he last saw her.

(Of all the omegas he’s met so far, it seems that Ava is one of the ones having more trouble than most adjusting to how The Roadhouse is run.

One of the other omegas, Andy, had told Castiel in confidence that Ava had tried propositioning one of the security guards to be allowed to get something to eat from the kitchen after hours, even though the residents have openly been told that they are allowed extra food any time they want it; all they have to do is ask. Castiel, who understands how hard it is to truly believe that something so generous is offered without expectation of repayment, deeply sympathises with Ava over that and does his best to be as gentle as he can when interacting with her.)

‘Oh, hey there, Steve… How are you doing today? I just had some of the pie that Donna made from those berries you found… it was so good! You definitely need to have a piece!’ Ava gushes once she’s within a reasonable speaking distance of Castiel.

‘Hello, Ava,’ Castiel replies, a surge of pride washing through him at the clear proof that he’s finally done something useful. ‘I’m well, thank you. I’m also very glad to hear that the berries worked out for Donna. It… it’s nice to be able to give back, you know?’

‘Do I ever.’ She rolls her eyes, then lowers her voice, whispering conspiratorially. ‘Can I ask, since you’re, you know, sleeping with the boss?’

‘What?!’ Castiel asks, immediately outraged at her assumption about him and Dean. ‘Ava, I’m not ‘sleeping’ with Dean. That- that’s a horrible thing to say, especially since you know what The Roadhouse is all about. They- he- I- I wouldn’t. Dean is… he’s opened his home to me, yes, because there were no beds here when I was still at the omega centre, but he’s not… it’s not like that.’

Ava, to her credit, has the wherewithal to look chagrined — so much so that Castiel almost feels bad for going off on her, until he thinks of how upset Dean would be to know that that’s what residents are saying about him and Castiel.

(Castiel tries not to think of his own shame over the fact that Dean is so put off by the idea of being with Castiel like that.)

‘Sorry,’ she says, looking down at the ground between them. ‘It’s just… it’s kind of hard to believe, isn’t it? Like, that everyone around here is for real? That’s what I was going to ask, if you really think they’re for real around here? I mean, I know their mission statement and all that peace-loving, goodwill towards man crap that they keep trying to shove down our throats, but doesn’t it seem a little… too much sometimes? I mean- free food, free room and board, free work training… all before they free us?! Something has got to be going on behind the curtain, right?’

‘There’s no curtain,’ Castiel tells her curtly. ‘At least not one that I’ve seen, and I’ve been with Dean for close to two months now — I think I would have some sort of sneaking suspicion myself if something shady was going on.’

He doesn’t mean to come off sounding as harsh and judgemental as he sounds, and something in his tone must rub Ava the wrong way, because her look of contrition is gone in the blink of an eye, and in its place is a cruel snarl that’s so pronounced that it’s almost like looking at a complete stranger.

‘Right, because you’ve never been fooled by a pair of pretty eyes and a nice ass, right?’ she snaps, eyes narrowing, volume raising. ‘Just because you’re the special charity case that everyone cared about so much that the boss — who hardly even talks to us lowly omega refugees, from the sounds of it, by the way — just happens to want to take you home, and not get you on your knees and shove his knot right down your-’

‘Ava!’

Castiel and Ava whip around to see Miss Donna and Dr Alicia Banes standing a few feet away, mouths hanging open in shock. A few tense beats of silence tick by, but then Ava crumbles and bursts into noisy tears, though Castiel notes that she makes no attempt apologise or even look in his direction; she just buries her face in her hands and begins letting out loud, hiccuping sobs.

‘Okay, Ava. Why don’t we go take a walk?’ Dr Banes says, approaching and wrapping an arm around Ava’s shoulders, steering her off in the direction of the medical wing. ‘Steve, I think Donna could probably use some help in the kitchen right about now, couldn’t you, Donna?’

It takes Donna half a second to catch on, but then she smiles brightly and says, ‘Oh, you betcha! Think you might be up for peelin’ some potata’s, Steve-O?’ then places a hand on Castiel’s lower back and leads him away towards the kitchen much the same way Dr Banes had with Ava without waiting for an answer.

Once the large double doors wing closed behind them, Donna removes her hand from Castiel’s back, and folds her arms over her chest instead, nodding towards one of the stools in front of a prep table, indicating that Castiel should take a seat. She hands him a potato peeler, and Castiel has the strange realisation that this is another item that could be considered a weapon to most owners, yet Donna hands it over without hesitation. He wonders if he should warn her like he had with Dean.

Before he gets a chance, however, she’s getting situated on the opposite side of the table from him, and begins peeling potatoes with quick, practised strokes, the bits of skin flying off and falling into a neat, efficient little pile on the table below.

‘Anything you wanna talk about?’ Donna asks. ‘That was quite a doozy out there, wasn’t it?’ She hands Castiel a potato, then grabs another one of her own and resumes peeling. It feels wrong to be sitting there, doing nothing, while Donna is working, so Castiel follows suit a few moments later.

‘She was saying terrible things about Dean,’ Castiel seethes, getting angry all over again. ‘It’s like- it’s like she doesn’t even know him at all! He would- he would never do the things she was implying. He’s the- the best person I’ve ever met, and- and-’

To his horror, he finds himself getting choked up, adrenaline from the unexpected altercation with Ava fading, and leaving only a hollow sense of longing in its wake. He doesn’t even know what he’s longing for, only that it feels like something important, something vital, integral to his continued existence is missing, and he knows he needs it back if he ever wants to feel even close to alright ever again.

As if summoned by the disparaging of his name, Dean bursts into the kitchen a second later, slightly out of breath, as though he’d run there.

‘Steve!’ he pants, skidding to a halt next to Donna. ‘Dude, you alright?! I saw you ’n some chick gettin’ into it on the security camera, ’n, uh…’ He trails off, one hand coming up to rub the back of his neck and then through his hair, as though realising that, perhaps, he’d had something of an overreaction. ‘I dunno, man, I just saw you looked upset, ’n the next thing I knew, I was hightailin’ it over here… Probably shoulda just sent ya a text or something, though, sorry.’

Castiel blinks at him, startled as much by his sudden appearance as he is by Dean’s surprising reaction to his altercation with Ava. He hadn’t felt as though he was in danger or unsafe with Ava; he’d simply been pissed.

‘Your concern is appreciated, Dean, but I’m fine,’ he tells the alpha, realising that he’s telling the truth. Dean’s calming cinnamon scent washes over him, and it dawns on him that that had been what he’d been wanting only a few moments ago. It was just like a few days ago in his closet — it appears that Dean is the piece of every puzzle that Castiel hadn’t known was missing — or maybe now that Castiel’s found him, something in him has changed, and now he needs Dean Winchester to feel complete.

Well, he sure as hell doesn’t know what to make of that, so he continues peeling potatoes and shrugs. ‘I was merely… offended by some things that Ava had assumed, but she’s been informed that she was incorrect, and went off with Dr Banes. It’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Well, thank f*ck for that.’ Dean sighs, sagging against the prep table slightly. ‘Don’t think I can handle one more f*ckin’ thing goin’ wrong.’ He pauses, raising his gaze to look Castiel in the eyes, and Castiel notices how worried he appears. Far more worried than some small dining hall spat between Castiel and Ava would have caused, so it must have had something to do with the meeting he’d had that morning.

‘Is… there anything you’d like to talk about?’ Castiel offers tentatively, unsure if he’s crossing a line, since he’s not actually part of The Roadhouse staff, and if it’s another security issue, it’s likely not information he should be privy to. ‘I know I might not have much to offer by way of solutions, but I’d be more than happy to be a sympathetic ear.’

Dean shakes his head. ‘Nah, s’not really somethin’ I can talk about… ’Preciate it, though.’ He glances over to Donna, who gives him a pat on the arm, then heads off in the direction of the walk-in refrigerator. ‘Hey, I really hate t’do this to ya, but my meeting ain’t actually over; I just ran the f*ck outta there like a bat outta Hell, so I really gotta get back. It don’t look like it’s gonna wrap up any time soon, so I’m thinkin’ I’m gonna have to skip lunch today. That okay with you?’

‘Of course, Dean,’ Castiel says, frowning, though not because of the cancelled plans, but rather, the reason for the cancelling. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to talk about? You seem… distraught.’

Dean sighs. ‘Like I said, s’not too much I’m allowed t’say outside the war room back there, but… It seems like there’s still some people tryin’ t’get inside our network for some reason, but we can’t figure out who they are or what they want, only that they’re good — real good. They’ve even got Charlie stumped, ’n she’s, like, a one woman Geek Squad, ’n that’s what’s got me buggin’, cos if it’s someone beyond even Charlie’s level? sh*t, man…’ He runs a hand through his hair again, then forces a half-smile. ‘S’nothin’ for you to worry ’bout, though… You’re safe here ’n with me, I promise.’

‘I know,’ Castiel says, without even having to pause to think about it. He blinks again, surprised at himself, but then he notices Dean’s unscrewed his smile just a little, and he decides he doesn’t care enough to analyse it; it had clearly been the correct response.

Chapter 33: innocent warrior

Chapter Text

If Dean had been stressed before lunch, that’s nothing compared to how worn right the f*ck out he appears when he meets Castiel at the entrance later that day to head home, forty-five minutes later than they usually leave

(Not that Castiel had minded the delay, considering Cain had come to collect him after lunch to begin getting familiar with the apiary, but he did feel the slightest hint of anxiety for what that means for Dean.)

Dean still doesn’t want to talk about it, though. Castiel had asked again on the drive home, but Dean had just shaken his head and mumbled something about not wanting to f*ck Castiel’s day up as well, which, ironically, has only made Castiel more concerned about whatever’s going on with The Roadhouse and Dean.

When they get home, Dean immediately sets up his laptop at the kitchen table and begins typing away, staring at the screen with something between a squint and a glare. Castiel hovers in the doorway for a moment, unsure of what to do now.

‘Do you… have any laundry that needs to be washed?’ he asks finally, feeling slightly pathetic that that’s all he can come up with, but he does actually need to throw a load of towels into the wash, so he figures now’s as good a time as any.

Dean just shakes his head, though. ‘Nah, sorry,’ he says, distracted, eyes still glued to his screen, mouth in a firm, worried line. ‘D’ya need help with anything?’

‘No, I think I can manage, thank you,’ Castiel replies, surprised to hear the slightly sulky note in his own voice. He turns and heads upstairs, rolling his eyes at himself — one missed lunch and distracted drive home on a day where Dean clearly has something heavy weighing on his mind, and Castiel’s pouting like a jilted prom date.

He reminds himself that he’s put through Dean far more than that with his, Castiel’s, tumultuous emotions, so he really needs to suck it up and just support Dean however the alpha will allow him. He has the sobering thought that there was a time when his master having a bad day at work meant Castiel getting his ass beaten bloody or f*cked into the mattress — sometimes both. When put next to that experience, distracted silence is a blessing.

Then, like it always does, the slightly more evolved part of his brain reminds him that just because something could be worse doesn’t discount his feelings about it now. Dr Banes is always trying to remind him of this, that what he’d ‘been through’ with his previous masters, was the exception, not the rule, but Castiel privately thinks that the doctor has it backwards. The world can be harsh and dark and cruel; it’s the idea that there is or should be better out there that’s the oddity, especially to someone like Castiel.

Needless to say, Castiel is in an incredibly morose and maudlin mood as he loads the towels into the wash machine and starts it up. He slides down the wall across from the washer, lowering himself to the ground, and just stares at the towels swirling around inside the window of the wash machine, feeling as though it was a really good representation of the thoughts in his head that feel as though they just keep whirling around in the same fruitless circle.

He’s not exactly sure how long he sits there, but it’s must be quite some time, because when his phone pings from his pocket, he half jumps out of his skin from the sudden break in the silence.

U ok w takeout for dinner tonite?

The message is from Dean, and even though Castiel doesn’t care at all what they have for dinner that evening, he is surprised by the question. They’ve done takeaway a few times (though they’ve never tried actually going into to a restaurant again, much to Castiel’s embarrassment), but other than that, Dean has cooked for them almost every night since Castiel came to him, which he’s admitted on more than one occasion, he genuinely enjoys.

Of course, Dean. Is there anything I can do to help?

Castiel replies, unsure of what he could possibly help Dean with in regards to takeout, but feeling as though he should offer anyway.

Wanna come down and help me pick a place to order from?

There was a time when Castiel would have interpreted this as a thinly veiled order, but he knows Dean well enough now to know it likely comes from a place of decision fatigue — something he’s noticed Dean suffers from when he’s had to deal with especially trying events at work. It must be hard to be the boss, Castiel thinks, to be the one who has to have a hand in every important decision and to know that there is always so much riding on even the smallest choice. He can’t imagine the burden Dean must feel, and feels bad, himself, for how crabby and selfish he’d been over not getting the same level of attention and interaction he’s become accustomed to.

He descends the stairs quickly and slips into the kitchen to find Dean hasn’t moved from his spot at the table, though he does look up when he sees Castiel enter.

‘Y’sure you don’t mind takeout?’ Dean asks, phone in one hand, scrolling through whatever’s on his screen, even as his eyes continue to dart back to the computer screen ever few seconds. ‘I thought maybe I’d just DoorDash Subway or somethin’ for ya… I’m not really that hungry, so I’ll just grab something later.’

‘Dean, you hardly ate anything at breakfast, then you skipped lunch,’ Castiel points out, slightly cautious, but far more concerned. ‘You have to eat something. Coffee, for all its wonderful properties, is not enough sustenance for a person to survive on.’

He, Castiel, has certainly survived on less, but Dean’s drawn face and tired eyes and mussed hair from running his hand through it countless times, is almost alarming. It’s such a stark difference from the sarcastic, joking, self-deprecating man that Castiel has come to know, that all he wants to do is fix whatever he can for the alpha. Castiel can’t do anything about potential security breaches, but he sure as hell can make sure the man eats a proper meal.

‘If you don’t want to cook and don’t have much of an appetite, how about I make us some soup and salads?’ he offers, thinking that even he should be able to manage heating up some canned soup. ‘Something quick and easy, but filling.’

Dean’s jaw works as he appears to chew on the inside of his cheek — that’s a new nervous habit, Castiel notes — then asks in a voice that can only be described as young, ‘Do… d’ya think maybe you could see if we got tomato ’n rice in the pantry?’

‘Of course, Dean.’ Castiel is up and digging through the pantry seconds later, then returns triumphantly, placing a family size can down on the table in front of Dean. ‘It looks like there was one can left, and it sounds like it should be something I can handle making, if you don’t mind me using your things?’

‘I toldja, what’s mine is yours. Thanks, man,’ Dean replies, shooting Castiel a small, grateful smile, then returning his attention to his computer. ‘Give a shout if you need a hand, alright?’

Castiel hums his agreement, though he privately decides he will do everything he can to avoid having to bother Dean again. Any lingering resentment Castiel had been feeling earlier is long gone now, after seeing how utterly wrecked Dean looks. Whatever’s going wrong at The Roadhouse is really causing him distress.

Even despite his culinary shortcomings, Castiel manages to heat up — and not burn — the soup, and prepare two ‘kitchen sink’ salads, as Dean likes to call them, because they’re loaded down with so many extra ingredients that it barely qualifies as salad anymore. He plates the salads and ladles the soup into two bowls and brings them over to the table where Dean is still clicking away at his laptop.

‘Thanks, man,’ Dean says, taking a spoonful and blowing on it before sticking it in his mouth. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath that comes out in a happy hum that warms Castiel all over.

Despite Dean’s immense appreciation of the canned soup Castiel had managed to not ruin, dinner still ends up being something of a sombre affair. Dean’s mood holds steady at strained and exhausted, though this time he apologises for being so distant and distracted with Castiel. Apologises multiple times, actually, and thanks him for making the soup even more than that.

(To Castiel’s proud satisfaction, Dean ends up going back for seconds of the salad and thirds of the soup, proving how hungry he’d really been. He continues to mutter indecipherable curses under his breath as he types furiously into his laptop at the kitchen table, but at least he occasionally looks up and over to Castiel and offers half-smiles and lame jokes until he finally closes the laptop, still looking more worried than Castiel has ever seen him.)

They turn in earlier than normal, the day having worn them both out more than either of them want to admit. Castiel takes an extra long shower, simply because he can, the hot water beating down on him a physical reminder of everything he has now and how far he’s come. It also goes a long way in grounding him enough that when he finally crawls into his nest and burrows down into the mountain of blankets Dean’s insisted he take from the linen closet, he feels as though he could fall asleep immediately.

He sees something flash on his phone from the corner of his eye and groans when he realises that it’s a notification that the battery is about to drop below twenty percent. He lets out a pathetic whine when he then realises that he’s left the charging cord plugged in by the nightstand, which means he’s going to have to get up to go grab it — a task that suddenly seems insurmountable.

I’m a cat with no legs, he thinks rolling his eyes at his own dorkiness, even as about a hundred memories of saying that exact excuse to Meg and Bal hit him square in the chest. He can’t believe he’d said that to Dean while half-asleep, that the stupid phrase had just come out like that, after having been laying dormant for so long. It seems that, despite his conscious self’s best effort, memories of his old life, his old friends, are finding a way to make themselves known anyway.

The foreign-familiar, out-of-nowhere anger that keeps cropping up out of nowhere suddenly hits him, pummels him to an emotional pulp, and he just- he hates this. Hates the feeling of helpless, impotent, directionless rage, because it’s just so unproductive, which just makes him even angrier. He really thought that he’d be past this by now — he’d hardly thought about his friends the whole time he was in Purgatory, because every spare thought had been focussed on survival.

It just seems so startling unfair that now, of all times, now that he’s as close to happy as he’s been since he was a literal child, now that he’s as close to being real as he can ever remember being… now his past decides to keep infiltrating his present and doing all sorts of stupid things to his heart.

It's this that’s even more upsetting than thinking of those motherf*ckers who’d ruined his life, because rather than fighting ghosts, when it comes to his own sh*t brain, the enemy is himself, and ‘ain’t that some sh*t’, as Dean would say.

He tries to remind himself that- that his friends have likely moved on from their childhood friendship, that they never looked for him, that he’d spent years hoping that they cared enough to at least try, and had been let down time and again.

This is a well-trodden road he’s heading down now, one that he’s traipsed countless times since coming to Dean’s, where he oscillates between despair over lost friendship and lost years, hurt and fury over having been so clearly and easily forgotten, and understanding that his hopes for rescue and remembrance should not have rested on the shoulders of two teenagers. It’s not fair to them, he knows, but then another voice in his head will argue that none of it was fair to him, so he is in no way obligated to give a f*ck about fairness to anyone else, ever.

… Then the guilt sets in, because it’s that kind of selfish, toxic mindset that allows the world to keep turning on this unjust axis in the first place.

It’s exhausting, going through these mental motions like the steps of a dance that by now, he knows by muscle memory. It makes him want to skip all the legwork between missing his friends and being sad and angry at them, and jump right back to deciding they’re better off without him.

His phone feels heavy in his hands, the charging cord seeming to call to him from out in the bedroom, and ugh, if he doesn’t get up now to charge the damn thing, he’ll surely regret it in the morning. He crawls out of his nest, and goes to retrieve his charger.

He plugs it into the power strip that Dean had extended into his closet, even cutting a small notch into the bottom of the door so that if Castiel wanted to close it ‘for privacy’, he could without having the cord get in the way. The phone vibrates gently when it is connected to the cord, and for a moment, Castiel just stares down at the green battery icon, the stupid lightning bolt charging icon reminding him briefly of Harry Potter, which, of course, brings him back around to Meg and Bal.

Goddamnit.

He’d meant it wholeheartedly at the time when he’d said in the beginning that letting go was the right thing to do, that leaving Castiel Shurley and anything having to do with him behind once and for all was the wise move while he was trying to find a place for himself in Dean’s world, but now? Over the course of the past month or so, he and Dean have fallen into a sort of comfortable camaraderie that Castiel hasn’t known since back before-before, when it was him, Meg, and Bal against the world.

He’s missed it, missed this.

He’s missed them… still.

It hurts.

Still.

Maybe, he thinks, feeling his heart rate pick up suddenly, maybe… it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to just… loosen the hold he has over his self-control in that regard, just a little? Maybe if he allows himself to remember them without guilt, the rest of the negative emotions will be a little easier to let go as well?

But also… maybe not. Maybe that’ll just make everything that much harder, because the worst part — the most painful part — isn’t missing them, it’s the not knowing why. Why didn’t they look for him? Why didn’t they care enough to try?

Why… didn’t he matter as much to them as they clearly still do to him? What did they think happened to him?

An thought occurs to him then that causes his heart to stutter in his chest at the sheer audacity (and possibly stupidity) of the idea, but once it’s in his head, it’s like a parasite, consuming every unsuspecting braincell until it’s the only thing reverberating around his skull.

What if he were to just… find out?

Castiel has a phone now, thanks to Dean, and it comes equipped with Internet access, which Dean insists he is free to use, despite the laws stating otherwise.

(Dean had told Castiel that ‘Uncle Sam can get the hell out of his ass and let him Internet the way he wants to Internet’, whatever that means.)

Castiel could, theoretically, look himself up and just- just see if anything came up, if his brothers had reported him as missing or something, just to save face.

He doesn’t know what would hurt more — finding that they had, and then knowing that his friends had just given up on trying to find him, or finding out that they hadn’t, and having to live with the knowledge that his friends hadn’t tried on their own. Either way, at the end of the day, it means that Castiel has been forgotten.

But either way, now the can’t get the idea out of his head, and he knows he’s going to give in sooner or later, so he might as well just do it, and then he’ll know once and for all.

Hopefully.

Heart pounding in his chest, brow wet with flop sweat, and hands shaking so much that he drops the phone twice, he ‘fat finger types’ (as Dean calls it when he uses just a single finger to ‘hunt ’n peck’), C-A-S-T-I-E-L S-H-U-R-L-E-Y, and holds his breath while he waits for the results to load.

Chapter 34: long lost child

Chapter Text

‘Boss, we have to talk.’

Dean looks up, surprised to see Charlie hovering in the doorway, gnawing on her bottom lip, a file folder clutched in her hands like it’s her last lifeline while lost at sea, striking a remarkable resemblance to the morning she’d thrown Steve at him and turned his entire world on its ear. He groans — it’s only Tuesday morning, and this whole week can already go f*ck itself straight to Hell.

Monday had been absolutely miserable — the security meeting twice as long, and twice as f*cked up as he’d thought it was going to be. He and Bobby had had to shout everyone down, because the unofficial Roadhouse war council, consisting of Dean, Sam, Bobby, Ellen, Jody, and Ash, had been split down the middle over Charlie’s co*ckamamie plan to infiltrate Angel Radio. Dean stands by what he’d said to Sam on the phone Friday night — it simply wasn’t worth risking catching the Shurleys’ attention if it wasn’t them trying to break through their cyber security.

(In the end, they’d decided to continue to play defence, though with more safeguards in place. Charlie and Ash had set up a program that alerted them any time anything even vaguely having to do with Angel Radio Corp showed up on their network, to try to narrow down if the constant barrage of attempts at breaking in were, indeed, from that f*cking family. At least then, they’d know for sure, and have a starting point if Charlie ends up being correct.)

‘Charles, you do know I only got the one spare room, right?’ Dean asks, raising an eyebrow. ‘The only other room is the Dean Cave, and that there’s sacred territory. Converting that into another guest room would be like cutting down one of those three thousand year old trees. The people would riot, some hipster would chain themselves to the jukebox to stop the bulldozers ’n start chanting hell no, we won’t go…’

Surprisingly, Charlie doesn’t laugh, and she doesn’t loosen her grip on the manilla folder. Nor does she come any closer, which is a far cry from the chick who usually not only bursts into his office unannounced on the daily, but also usually kicks him out of his own chair, because it’s the one with the good back support. Dean feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

‘Charlie?’ he asks, nervous now. ‘Hey, kiddo… everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost or somethin’.’

Charlie lets out a shaky huff of laughter. ‘That’s… actually not that far from the truth,’ she says, sounding almost reluctant. ‘Listen, Dean, I have no clue if I’m doing the right thing right now, because on the ‘hacktivist’ side of things — I’m Inception level awesome. On the ‘friend’ side of things… I’m not even sure I should be here. This is my ‘save MJ or a cable car full of children’ moment.’

Dean can’t help but smile at the Spider-Man reference, remembering Steve’s shy, gummy smile the first time he wore the Spider-Man shirt Dean had gotten for him as a surprise. ‘Well, my queen, with great power-’

‘I’m not joking, Dean,’ Charlie interrupts, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. Between her using his real, human name, and the seriousness of her tone and expression, he realises in no uncertain terms that something big is about to go down.

‘Okay…’ he says slowly, trying to figure out what the right move here is. ‘What’s up?’

It looks as though she’s having some sort of serious debate with herself, but then she sighs, shakes her head, and hands him the folder. He opens it cautiously, which makes him feel a little silly — it’s not as though the damn thing is rigged to explode or anything — and begins reading.

His lip curls in disgust as he reads the words at the top of the first page — an article about ‘Angel Radio Corp.’ from some business magazine. Back in the day, Angel Radio used to just be some stupid right-wing assholes who controlled a good portion of the media, but in the early 2000s, they partnered with several tech companies to ‘revolutionise’ slave collars by implanting standard collars with GPS trackers that made it virtually impossible for a slave to run away.

By the late 2000s, the Omega Registration database went from using fingerprints and physical description to keep track of omega slaves, to giving owners the option to microchip their slaves like friggin’ animals thanks to another leap in technology from Angel Radio.

Only then, the CEO and founder, Charles Shurley and his wife, Naomi, were tragically killed in a car accident in the early 2010s, and the company was inherited by their oldest sons.

Right at the top of the article, there’s a photo of the current owners of Angel Radio Corp — Michael and Lucifer Shurley, the dynamic duo from Hell, who have caused far more than their fair share of headaches for Dean and his coworkers over the years. It had been bad enough when Charles — egotistical, but relatively harmless — was running the company, but under his leadership, the company had spent their time and resources thumping Bibles and backing sleazy evangelists and right-wing politicians.

After his untimely death, however, Michael and Lucifer have expanded the company’s interests to include a technology sector, and throw most of their money behind making it harder and harder for a slave to run away, some even going so far as to cause physical harm to the slave, should their owner report them as missing, or if the slave were to try to dig the chip out of their arm themselves.

The f*ckers at Angel Corp really have some real Suicide Squad bullsh*t going on, and Dean gets furious every time he thinks about it, so he shakes his head and returns his attention to the papers in his hands.

According to the article, there’s another Shurley brother named Gabriel, who seems to spend most of his time crashing imported luxury sports cars and banging p*rn stars, and a young college-aged son who’s barely mentioned at all.

This middle child, Castiel, Dean has never heard of before, but after skimming the article, the reason why becomes clear. Apparently the kid had been killed in some sort of boating accident shortly after his eighteenth birthday, and for a moment, Dean almost feels sympathy for the monstrous older Shurley brothers. He can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a brother, much less one who still had so much more life to live.

A moment later, however, Dean feels as though someone has stolen all the air from his lungs, because on the next page, is an obituary of the poor, deceased middle Shurley child.

Wide blue eyes gaze up at Dean from the photo above the words CASTIEL SHURLEY — SEPTEMBER 18, 1994 - OCTOBER 2, 2012.

‘Ch-Charlie?’ he croaks.

Chapter 35: hiding here, unknown

Chapter Text

‘We gotta talk,’ Dean says brusquely when he approaches Castiel at lunchtime in the dining hall. He turns abruptly and stalks out the back door, not turning to see if Castiel is following, walking off in the direction of the greenhouses.

Castiel hurries to catch up, anxiety already thrumming through his veins at the strangeness of the situation, at the barely controlled fury in the alpha’s voice. It’s almost enough to- to send him back to a very dark place, memories of the last time he’d been taken outside by an irate alpha threatening to overwhelm him. He’d been dragged out of Purgatory’s main compound and into the tiny, freezing woodshed, then beaten unconscious and left for dead.

Dean wouldn’t do that — he couldn’t, both because Castiel would like to think that he knows Dean well enough by now to be reasonably sure that he never would do such a thing, but also because 1: Ellen or Jody or Bobby or Sam would never allow him to punish Castiel in this way — or, at the very least, would come looking for him, so he wouldn’t be left to starve to death in a woodshed, and 2: there literally isn’t a space like that on the property. The closest they have is the greenhouse, and Castiel is fairly confident that Dean would not be able to chain him to the floor of the greenhouse the way he had been in that shed all those months ago.

He’s is so lost in these contemplations that he’s trying to logic his way out of, that Castiel almost doesn't realise that Dean has just led them to the pond out behind The Roadhouse, not into the woods. When they reach the water’s edge, he gestures to one of the benches along the shoreline and turns to face the water, his back to Castiel, who sits obediently, awaiting further instruction, heart pounding in his throat.

‘Dean-’ he starts after several exceptionally long beats of silence pass without the other man saying anything at all, but it’s then that Dean decides to speak.

‘So,’ he says, still facing away from Castiel. It’s then that Castiel notices the tension in the long line of the alpha’s back, the square set of his shoulders, which only serves to ratchet up his anxiety by several degrees. Dean clears his throat and continues. ‘So,’ he says again, ‘I just had a very interesting conversation with Charlie earlier today. See, she has alerts set up to ping her any time anyone on our network does anything… questionable on their cellphones ’n computers ’n whatever, cos lately we’ve been tryin’ to figure out where the hell our breach in security is comin’ from. Little did I know it’d be from a phone registered in my goddamn name!’

He’s yelling by the end the end of the sentence, and he’s yelling at Castiel, who is on the ground, damp earth soaking the knees of his jeans before his mind can catch up to his body. Distantly he has the thought that when they head back inside, he might have to ask Donna for laundry advice if the mud leaves stains, but when his gaze focusses on the furious alpha towering over him, he realises there’s a very good chance the only place Dean is going to be taking him is back to the omega centre.

‘I- I don’t- I don’t understand, Dean,’ he says, words tumbling over each other in his desperation to learn what he’s done, so he can figure out how to make up for it. ‘I- I haven’t- I haven’t touched your phone, I swear. I don’t touch your things unless you ask me to, p-please believe me-’

The scent of Dean’s anger is heavy and potent, even out here in the open space, and Castiel feels as though he’s choking on it — or that it is choking him, which actually doesn’t feel like that far of a leap, considering Dean is glaring at down him like he’d like nothing more than to throttle Castiel.

‘Not my phone — your phone, Steve,’ Dean bites out. His next words make make Castiel’s blood run cold. ‘Or should I say: Castiel.’

For a moment, it’s like the entire world grinds to a screeching halt. Castiel feels like his whole body has gone numb, or like his heartbeat is thundering so hard and fast, he can feel it in his teeth. Distantly, he finds he’s grateful to already be on his knees, because there’s no way he would have been able to remain upright after hearing that.

‘Wh-what did you say?’ he asks numbly, and even his voice sounds weird — faraway and shocked. ‘H-how?’

He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He stares blankly ahead at the pond, just hoping against hope that Dean isn’t going to hold him under there, that if he’s going to be punished for- for that name, it won’t be that. Near-drowning was always the worst of the worst — he’d be grateful to Dean for chaining him up in the greenhouse. If it meant not being held underwater, he’d beg for it. Happily, and without a single shred of dignity.

In sharp, jerky motions, Dean pulls several sheets of folded paper from his back pocket and begins to read. ‘Castiel James Shurley, born September 18, 1994 to Charles and Naomi Shurley of Pontiac, Illinois. Two older brothers, Michael and Lucifer; two younger brothers, Gabriel and Samandriel. Graduated from St Anthony’s Academy in 2012, and attended the University of Chicago for a few months, until his untimely death just after his eighteenth birthday.’ Dean lowers the pages and glowers at Castiel, who is still frozen on his knees in the mud. ‘I gotta say, Castiel, you’re lookin’ pretty friggin’ spry for a dead guy.’

‘Dean, I…’ Castiel says, but there really isn’t anything he can say. Dean has- he’s opened his home, his work, his entire life up to Castiel, and this whole time, Castiel’s been keeping one hell of a secret from him. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘So it’s true, then,’ Dean says flatly, pain at Castiel’s deception shining in his eyes. ‘I thought maybe… somehow, Charlie might’ve gotten it wrong. That maybe you had some- some doppelgänger walkin’ around out there, or maybe some Parent Trap sh*t goin’ on, but it really is that this whole time you’ve been playin’ me for a fool.’

He’s pacing now, furious strides back and forth at the water’s edge. Little flecks of mud and water splash out from his footsteps and fly off of the ends of his shoelaces as he turns, but neither he, nor Castiel acknowledge them, not even when Castiel feels something cold and wet slap against his face. Dean turns at the quiet splat of the muck hitting Castiel and makes an aborted gesture, like he wants to wipe it from Castiel’s cheek, but he doesn’t, and that almost hurts most of all.

‘Jesus Christ, man, I- I trusted you,’ Dean says instead, every word laced with hurt and betrayal. ‘What the hell are you even doing here? Gonna go report back to your big brothers ’n let ’em know the ins and outs’a this place? Cos that really f*ckin’ blows, dude. We ain’t just some- some f*ckin’ market competitor or some sh*t like that. If you try to take down The Roadhouse, you’re f*cking up people’s lives. Even if your story ain’t real, the rest of ’em here are. This place might not look like much compared to your silver spoon, 90210 life, but the work we do here matters. It might not seem like much to you, but I can promise you that it means a hell of a lot to every single person who walks through those doors… myself included. Everyone here welcomed you into the fold with open arms… I thought that that meant something to you, too.’

‘It did!’ Castiel says. Dean’s every word feels like a blow, and not just because of the blistering unfairness and inaccuracy of it all — it’s the fact that after everything, Dean thinks that Castiel would ever repay his kindness with duplicity. He makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob. ‘Dean, it’s meant everything to me. N-no one has ev-ever been as open with me as you’ve been. I’m not- I’m not here at Michael or Lucifer’s behest, I sw-swear… as far as they or anyone in my family is concerned, Castiel Shurley died twelve years ago in a boating accident on Lake Michigan, because they didn’t w-want anyone to have any reason to come l-looking for me after they-’

He’s hit with a sudden wave of terror and dizziness when he realises that he’s about to speak the whole truth about his past life, which is strictly, strictly forbidden. Even though he knows he’s safe now — well, as safe as he can be, considering his current circ*mstances — having the words on the tip of his tongue like this causes a wave of anxiety that makes him feel as though he’s going to be sick. He’s waiting for the electric shock of a taser or bite of a whip or for harsh hands aiming to hurt to clamp down on his nape, ready to administer punishment. It takes what little self-control he has remaining to keep his own hands from flying there to protect the sensitive spot. Every fibre of his being is screaming at him to shut the hell up, but he can’t.

He can’t, because this is Dean, and Dean deserves to know. If he still kicks Castiel out after that, then that’s his prerogative, but Dean has laid himself bare for Castiel, shared the very softest, most well-guarded pieces of his heart with him, so the very least that Castiel can do to return the favour is let Dean know who the hell he is.

‘My brothers,’ he says, forcing the words out, and fighting the urge to shove his face down to the ground, into the mud, and plead for forgiveness for speaking of that time, but he forces himself to go on, ‘sold me two weeks after I turned eighteen. My parents were killed in a car accident a week before that, and for whatever reason, had named me the executor of their estate. I think they- they knew what Mike and Luke were like, and they didn’t want… well, it doesn’t matter, either way. My older brothers saw me as a- a threat to their inheritance, so they… they called in some favours and-’

He breaks off, because even all these years later, the sting of his brothers’ betrayal still makes him feel as though he can’t breathe from the pain of it all. He squeezes his eyes shut and continues, ‘I was the only one to present as an omega, as far as I know. Mike and Luke are alphas, and after I presented as an omega, my parents took my younger brothers, Gabriel and Samandriel, for genetic testing, and they had all the markers that indicated they should present as betas, which was a disappointment, but at least didn’t cause the same shame as being a bitch did.’

Castiel spits the last few words, still hearing them in his late mother’s hushed voice as she and Father argued over what could have caused such a disgraceful outcome. He swallows hard, remembering what came next.

‘For the second time in my life, I realised that I was going into heat — I’d only had one prior to that right after presenting — and the last thing I remember before- before it all went- well, before, was going to lie down in my room. The next thing I knew after that was waking up s-strapped to a-’

Remembering the sick terror he’d felt when he’d woken up in a strange room, barely lucid from his heat, and surrounded by the scent of alpha arousal and aggression, Castiel fights the urge to vomit. It wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him by far, but that first time was definitely one of his darkest memories.

‘When I woke up, I was- I was st-strapped to a b-bench,’ he says, voice shaking, ‘and surrounded by alphas. Some I kind of recognised as friends of my brothers and parents, but not all. They- they all- they all-’

Even though he wants to, he doesn’t think he can go on. Somehow, having to say the words out loud just makes it all too… too real, too humiliating. Too painful.

He’d… he’d wanted it then, when he was young and dumb and in heat and absolutely, wretchedly desperate for the feel of another person’s hands on his body. He’d just wanted the ache to go away, and he hadn't cared who made it happen.

‘I begged for it,’ he admits in a whisper. ‘It hurt so much, but I still- I was- I was burning up, and I just wanted it to stop, so I begged them to f*ck me. I think it lasted about a week, just a- a constant rotation of alphas visiting me in my- well, it was more of a cell, than a room. I’m pretty sure they kept me drugged the entire time… and when I wasn’t, I sure as hell wished I was.’

Castiel feels himself trembling now, but unlike times before, it’s not from the feeling of wrongness for speaking of his past life, it’s from the memory of hands and hands and hands and alpha-red eyes and snarling, gnashing teeth. Of pain and pleasure blending into one, leaving him utterly, utterly wrecked.

‘When my heat finally broke, and the garbage they kept shooting me up with was flushed out of my system, I realised I had no idea where I was, who I was with, or how I got there. There was a man — Zachariah — who was one of my family’s business partners… when I first saw him, I thought he was there to help me.’ Castiel laughs bitterly, disgusted. ‘He wasn’t… he’d just wanted to come in and let me know that no one knew or cared where I was, and that it had been Michael and Lucifer who’d arranged it. They’d given him explicit instructions to make sure I knew exactly how I got there and why.’

Even all these years later, even knowing how his brothers are, the betrayal is still a fresh wound, one that Castiel suspects he will never heal from.

His brothers and he had never seen eye to eye on the direction in which the company should look to the future. Back, before-before, Castiel had made no secret of his disdain for the slave industry, and the role their parents and their parents’ company played in upholding it. It had been a logical conclusion to draw, that when Castiel had been named executor of the Shurley estate, that the company’s continued support of the many right-wing causes that were so important to Angel Radio’s investors and associates would be rapidly coming to an end.

‘And then… even Zachariah was gone, and I was left with strangers — trainers. They waited until I was fully lucid again, then dragged me into a room that could have been an interrogation room in one of those old mob movies. They asked me ‘what is your name?’ and when I told them ‘Castiel Shurley’, they… they’d beat me, or shock me with a taser, or hold my head underwater. I didn’t understand… they didn’t tell me what answer they were looking for. After days of this, of being beaten and f*cked and f*cked up and- and drowned, then brought back to life again and again, they asked me one last time. They t-told me that if I didn’t give them the right answer, they weren’t going to let me back up, out of the water, so I finally just said, ‘I don’t know’… and for the first time since I woke up after my heat, they stopped. They said, ‘good’, and they told me that my name was Steve Allen.’

Castiel barks another broken laugh, between shallow, hitching breaths.

‘I remember thinking- ‘if that’s what you wanted from me, why the f*ck didn’t you just say that in the first place?’, but- but I think they wanted to completely break me away from my old identity first, because I swear, Dean, I haven’t even thought the name, ‘Castiel Shurley’ u-until recently, when you gave me the ph-phone. I just… I wanted to know what they told everyone happened to me, what my friends thought.’ He swallows hard and adds quietly, ‘I’d wondered for a while, why no one tried to find me, but I figured they’d forgotten about me. Turns out, they think I’m dead… it’s probably better that way, anyway.’ He trains his eyes on the ground and mumbles, ‘Sometimes I wonder if everyone would have been better off if that had been what actually happened to me.’

‘Don’t f*cking say that.’

Dean’s tone is harsh again, making Castiel flinch, but when he turns to face Dean again, it appears that this time, Dean’s anger isn’t directed at Castiel, so much as the words he’s just said.

In fact, Dean looks as though he is about to shake apart, himself — his eyes are suspiciously bright, his jaw is clenched, and his hands are trembling. ‘Don’t you dare ever say that anyone would’ve been better off if you were dead, you hear me? Don’t you f*cking dare, Steve, or I swear to God-’

‘Don’t say what, exactly?!’ Castiel snaps, hot, angry tears springing into his eyes. ‘That it’s less shameful for my friends to think that I died, rather than learn what I turned into? That I would have been better off dead, than having- having to become a- a pathetic, f*cking whor*? You have no idea, Dean, none, so- so don’t you dare — don’t you dare say that Zachariah putting a f*cking bullet in my brain the moment my brother’s lackeys dumped me at the training centre wouldn’t have been a kindness.’

He’s properly crying now, face buried in his hands, as he sobs for- for all of it. For the boy that he was, and the man he turned into. This wasn’t what he’d wanted for himself — ever. He cries for the life he never got to live, and for his friends who- who would have grieved him — they must have. He cries for every night he wakes up, heart pounding, choking on the scent of his own terror, and for every day that passes with him feeling as though he’s just- just trying to trudge through the mud to get to the other side, only to have to get up and do it all over again tomorrow. Hell, he cries for Dean, for having had this broken, sh*tty omega dumped on him, that he now feels accountable for, because surely this isn’t what he’d wanted for himself, either.

‘You should just return me,’ Castiel chokes out between sharp inhales as he tries to get himself back under control. ‘I won’t say anything about you or The Roadhouse. You, of all people, should know now that I- that I’m capable of keeping a secret.’

‘Thought you wanted to stay.’ Dean’s voice is ragged, like he’s barely keeping ahold of his own emotions. His scent is like a thunderstorm after a forest fire — damp and burnt and harsh all at once. ‘Thought you didn’t- didn’t wanna… that you- that you weren’t gonna leave…’

The word me at the end of his sentence is so hoarse that it almost gets lost in his exhale, but Castiel hears it.

His gaze whips up to Dean’s face, and sees that the other man’s eyes are shining with unshed tears. He sees the way that Dean’s fists open and close around handfuls of the hem of his shirt, the way that his nose twitches as he sniffs, at the sudden, whisper-thin tendril of want weaving itself into Castiel’s scent of its accord.

‘Would you… would you really allow me to stay?’ Castiel asks quietly, afraid to hear the answer, but more afraid to not ask the question. ‘After everything I’ve done, all the things I kept from you? Knowing who my parents were, who my brothers are? Why would you even want me around? I… I don’t deserve that, Dean. I don’t deserve you, and you sure as hell don’t deserve to be stuck with a broken toy like me.’

‘You’re not a toy,’ Dean says fiercely then. The vehemence in his words is laced with tears; the first rain after a forest fire. It feels like absolution that Castiel doesn’t even dare hope to achieve. ‘You’re a person, St- Castiel. A whole ass real person, ’n I know we were joking around about it before, but dude… I could- I could murder every son of a bitch who ever told you otherwise. Slowly, and without remorse.’

Dean’s never before threatened violence even jokingly, something Castiel’s pretty sure he’s made point to avoid out of respect for Castiel’s broken brain. He realises that he should probably feel some sort of way about hearing it now, but said broken brain is too busy flipping out over hearing Dean say his name. His real name.

He’s not sure he likes it.

‘Steve,’ Castiel hears himself say. He swallows hard. ‘Please. Just for now can- can I just be… can we still…’

It feels so stupid to be asking something so ridiculous, especially since it was something forced on him so long ago, but… but lately his life as Steve Allen has brought him a peace he hasn’t known in years. It’s dumb — as dumb as when he’d asked Dean if they could pretend Castiel was his, so he could be allowed to stay with him at his house. He feels so foolish and wrung out and shattered that he can’t bear to finish the thought, but Dean, of course, seems to understand anyway.

‘Yes,’ he answers, slightly hoarse. ‘Yeah, Steve we can. Until you decide otherwise.’

Chapter 36: a wall between two gardens [interlude]

Chapter Text

I have learned silence from the talkative,
toleration from the intolerant,
and kindness from the unkind;
yet, strange,
I am ungrateful to those teachers.

Sand and Foam,
a book of aphorisms, poems, and parables
by Kahlil Gibran

‘What is your name?’

‘S-Steve,’ Castiel chokes out, eyes glued to the tub of water he’s kneeling in front of, the hard metal lip digging into his chest as he’s pushed forward. ‘Steve- Allen, my name is Steve Allen, please, d-’

The word ‘don’t’ is lost in a stream of bubbles as his head is shoved under the water, and he’s choking; he’s drowning, he can’t breathe-

‘Hey, uh- uh, everything okay in there?’

Hands pull him back up and slap him across the face as he’s gasping and spluttering and coughing, trying desperately to dispel the water from his lungs.

‘Please, please,’ he tries again, ‘I don’t know-’

‘Your name!’

But… he said it. He said he doesn’t know. That’s supposed to- last time, it made it stop. It’s supposed to make it stop.

‘Steve Allen!’ he cries again.

The water surges up to engulf him.

‘Steve? Buddy? Hey, you’re kinda freakin’ me out, man…’

He’s pulled out of the water again, gasping and crying.

When he finally dares to pry his eyes open just a crack, what he sees when his vision clears makes him wish he'd never opened them at all.

‘Okay, I’m, uh- I’m comin’ in, dude, so speak now or forever, uh- well, you know-’

Dean glares down at him, one hand still wound in Castiel’s hair, yanking his head back, forcing Castiel to look him in his rage-red eyes.

‘Winchester,’ Dean snarls, the scent of his fury so potent that Castiel is choking on it. ‘Mine.’

The last thing Castiel knows is suffocation — from the water, or Dean’s anger, he’s not sure, but he’s crying, screaming, begging… and everything goes black.

‘Steve? Steve! Hey, wake up, man, you’re having a nightmare… it ain’t real. Whatever you’re seeing, it ain’t real. sh*t, f*ck- it ain’t real, St- Castiel! Hey, Cas, y’gotta wake up…’

Something about that name, that name he’s not allowed to say, not allowed to think, tugs at the back of his brain, pulls his consciousness towards the surface, even as hands keep pushing his head down, down, down into the water.

‘Aw, sh*t… C’mon, Cas, work with me here. f*ck. Ya gotta wake up, buddy.’

‘Please, please, please, please, please-’ Castiel isn’t sure what he’s begging for, but he’s on his knees, on the ground, the air thick with the scent of alpha distress, and oh God, oh God, he has to fix this. He squeezes his eyes shut, lowers his forehead to the ground, then turns so his cheek is pressed into the carpet, throat bared. His hands grasp his wrists behind his back, he spreads his knees further apart, presenting, showing the alpha he knows his place, knows what he’s good for, and he just hopes it’s enough.

‘Steve!’ the alpha barks again, and Castiel breaks under the weight of his unhappiness.

‘Winchester,’ he sobs, breath hitching catching in his throat so quickly that he can’t tell if he’s being suffocated again. ‘Winchester, Winchester. I’m yours, I know I’m yours, Alpha, I’m sorry, please!’

The silence he’s met with is sudden and absolute. It’s terrifying.

Chapter 37: tomorrow's resolutions

Chapter Text

There’ve been countless times in Dean’s life when he’s hated himself. The time he convinced Sammy to jump off Bobby’s shed in a Batman costume and the damn kid broke his arm being one. The time he got caught making out with Jenna Contreras in the janitor’s closet senior year, when he’d already been seeing Amanda Heckerling being another. The time John had had to bust in during an underground auction house raid that Dean was supposed to be spearheading, to save Dean’s dumb ass from becoming target practice for some slumlord, and ended up getting shot in the shoulder definitely makes the top ten.

And then, of course, there’s Lisa. There are so very many regrets shoved into that bucket that Dean wouldn’t even dream of trying to rank those sins in the Dean Winchester Hall of Shame.

None of those, however, come even close to how much he wants to throw himself off the f*cking planet when he bursts into Steve’s room that night and finds the omega shaking apart at the seams on the floor of his closet, choking on Dean’s name, and promising he knows who he ‘belongs’ to.

Dean doesn’t even- he has no idea what the f*ck to do in this situation. He’s not even sure Steve’s awake. He’s talking — sobbing, really — but his eyes are jammed shut, his arms are clasped behind his back, and he’s in that f*cking wretched presenting position again.

(There was a time when Dean found that position kind of hot with past hookups, in a p*rn-meets-reality kind of way, but after having Steve default to ‘head down, ass up’ every time he’s scared of being hurt — or worse — well… if Dean never sees anyone do that ever again, he’ll die a happy man.)

He tries to think back to when John would have nightmares and flashbacks — whether from the war or the fire, it didn’t really matter. Both needed to be treated with kid gloves, and both could result in Dean getting clocked in the face or chokeslammed across the room before his dad realised who he was, but this is- this is different. Steve’s not a threat here; he’s terrified, and Dean is terrified of making things worse — with good reason, evidently.

The omega still hasn’t opened his eyes, hasn’t acknowledged that he recognises Dean at all. He’s just repeating the same mantra of ‘sorry’ and ‘Winchester’ and ‘please’ and ‘Alpha’, and Dean wants to run towards him and run right out of the room — out of the damn house — in equal measure.

Instead, he forces himself to do the right thing, the scary thing, the hardest thing he’s ever had to do in his waste of a life, and confront the total and complete clusterf*ck that he’s created. He crouches down, still a few feet from where Steve’s kowtowed, braced for God knows what.

‘Steve?’ he asks, voice coming out shaky and unsure. ‘Uh- You, uh- You awake, buddy?’

There’s still no indication either way, only the ragged, jagged sound of Steve’s breathing, like he’s afraid that every breath might be his last, like if he doesn’t inhale immediately on the heels of every exhale, he’s not going to get the chance.

The memory of Steve’s voice saying, they told me that if I didn’t give them the right answer, they weren’t going to let me back up, out of the water come to mind, and the f*cking penny drops, nailing Dean right in his stupid, stupid head.

Steve’s afraid of being drowned, being f*cking waterboarded if he gives the wrong name, and he’s afraid that Dean is going to be the one to do it.

Every single splintered, shattered shard of everything Dean’s broken with his big mouth and stupid f*cking temper and epic lack of- of common sense and f*cking decency rises up and stabs him in the chest.

He hopes it bleeds him dry.

But standing (well, crouching) here, wallowing in his self-loathing is doing exactly zero f*cking good for anybody, so he grits his teeth, and tries to remember something, anything, that Alicia Banes has told him about dealing with someone with PTSD without f*cking them up worse.

Remain calm, Dean hears her recite in his head. Well, that one’s heading straight out the window, because he is freaking the f*ck out, but he knows he can’t, because one of them needs to be in their right mind right now. He forces himself to breathe.

Avoid sudden movements is considerably easier, considering he’s rooted to the spot like some big, stupid statue on his knees, a few feet from Steve, too scared to get any closer, which he supposes is good for the avoid crowding or touching them without permission thing.

He’s already sort of done the gently tell them they’re having a flashback thing, (possibly minus the ‘gently’ part, because he’s an uncouth f*cking idiot), when he considers his fumbling, bumbling attempt at telling Steve that he was dreaming ’n what he was seeing isn’t real, but it doesn’t seem to have registered, and the dude’s not lucid enough for encourage them to breathe slow and deep and describe their surroundings.

Even though it’s only been maybe a minute or two since he entered Steve’s room, every second ticking by feels like it’s seconds being counted down on a pack of dynamite in some old Bond film or something, and Dean can feel his mounting panic making him stupid. Well, stupider, which is the last thing this situation needs, considering it was Dean’s massive f*cking penchant for idiocy that’s caused this whole goddamn mess in the first place.

Just as Dean’s debating whether or not he should call Benny or Max or Pamela, Steve’s eyes fly open, scent spiralling into panic and despair and then, finally, resignation. He tilts his chin impossibly more to the side, baring his throat to Dean, showing his submission, even as a paper-thin whine escapes from between his clenched teeth.

‘Steve…’ Dean says, because he’s got literally nothing f*cking else in his empty, useless head. ‘Dude…’

Something about these two inadequate words must resonate with Steve, however. ‘Dean,’ the omega gasps, eyes unfocussed still, but partially open now, thankfully. He lurches forward, upward, dragging himself up, out of that awful position, then slumps back so he’s half sitting, half leaning against the wall. His hands reach blindly for Dean, fingers winding into the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling Dean to him.

(For one wild moment, Dean’s half-coherent brain expects the omega’s hands to be stained blood-red when he releases his grip — the unhappy consequence of grasping something dangerous, something hazardous, so tightly in the palm of your hand.)

‘Dean,’ Steve repeats, the word transitioning into another quiet whine low in his throat. ‘Dean, please, I- I can’t, I- I can’t breathe.’

He raises his eyes to Dean’s then, unseeing, but wide and imploring — pleading. Steve is pleading with him, but for what, Dean has no clue.

‘Please don’t let them- don’t let them hold me under again,’ Steve whispers, shame making his voice choked, his words sandpaper-rough. ‘Please, just- just stay. Tell them I’m yours. Tell them I know I’m yours.’

‘Steve…’

The name feels heavy leaving Dean’s lips, like his heart knows it’s a lie and is trying to keep it inside his mouth, but- but Steve said, he asked to still be Steve Allen, and who is Dean to argue with who the guy says he is, especially now. Especially when the omega is slowly falling apart in front of Dean’s eyes because of people telling him who he is.

Because of Dean telling him who he is.

And frankly, who is Dean f*cking Winchester to tell anyone anything about anything after witnessing the destruction caused by his presumptuous thoughtlessness.

‘Stay with me…’ Steve asks again, reeking of desperation, as though he’s convinced that Dean is his last hope, the final tether connecting him to any semblance of reality. Dean recognises this and, for once, knows what to do.

‘Okay,’ he replies, hoarse and wrecked. ‘Yeah, okay, Steve. I’ll stay. Long as you want me to, I’ll stay.’

Steve nods, the scent of his relief flooding the small space — the Steve Cave, as Dean has so oafishly christened it. A whole closet for the guy to call his own and feel safe in, complete with a single f*cking extension cord.

Somehow even when Dean’s trying to do something nice, he still manages to fall pitifully short.

The omega’s eyes close again, but just before he slips back into unconsciousness, he reaches for Dean once more, clinging to the fabric of Dean’s shirt with one hand like a lifeline, like he thinks that being close to Dean, of all people, is the secret to staying safe.

A moment later, Steve drifts off to sleep.

Dean… does not.

Life sucks balls after that night, and it’s all Dean’s damn fault.

He slips out of Steve’s room at the crack of dawn, thinking that starting his day face to face with the guy who’d apparently been drowning him in his dreams is probably the worst thing for Steve, so he slinks out before Steve’s alarm goes off, like the goddamn coward he is. If Steve feels any sort of way because of it — or even remembers the night before at all — he says absolutely nothing about it when he comes downstairs an hour or so later.

In fact, he doesn’t say too much of anything at all. It takes barely any time for it to become painfully clear that any progress that Dean had made with getting Steve to trust him appears to have been blown to hell by Dean being a hotheaded, irrational piece of sh*t.

This is an opinion shared by basically everyone who was even vaguely aware of the situation with Steve and his true identity and the security concerns at The Roadhouse — which is to say, Bobby, Ellen, Jody, Sam, Charlie, and Pamela. While the general consensus is that the conclusion Dean had jumped to wasn’t all that insane, the way he’d handled it leaves much to be desired.

Sammy is furious with him for yelling at Steve the way he did. Charlie is barely speaking to him, throwing the with great power comes great responsibility line back in his face. Even Bobby had made a comment about Dean being an ‘idjit’ for ‘givin’ his inner John Winchester a chance t’show his ugly mug’, which is just about the worst thing he could’ve said about the situation. Dean knows better than anyone exactly what that means — it means he f*cked up, and f*cked up good.

(Steve, himself, doesn’t have too much to say on the matter. Even though Dean wants to beg the guy for forgiveness, every time he so much as tries to explain how sorry he is, Steve cuts him off and tells him that there’s nothing to apologise for. He says that he understands Dean’s reaction, that he, Steve, is the one who owes Dean an apology for ‘deceiving’ him, as though he’d had any real say in it at all, and doesn’t that made Dean feel as though he’s rubbing elbows with the scum of the earth. Steve says all of this without once looking Dean in the eye, though, which just makes Dean want to tear himself to shreds to escape his own self-loathing.)

The days are long and lonely, which is no less than what Dean knows he deserves. He just doesn’t know what to do to fix it.

Despite this, Steve does continue to accompany Dean to The Roadhouse every day, proving that the omega is ten times the man that Dean is, mumbling something about promising to help Cain with his damn bees, before taking off in the direction of the Mullens’ cabin. Even though there is no love lost between Dean and those striped, sad*stic little f*ckers, he finds himself grateful that there’s at least something that brings a little light to Steve’s eyes, cos it sure as sh*t ain’t thanks to anything Dean’s doing.

(Steve does not, however, ever mention anything about meeting Dean for lunch, like had become their habit, and Dean sure as hell doesn’t have the balls to bring it up himself. The unexpected solitude during lunchtime almost feels like a breakup, which is just goddamn absurd, but tell that to Dean’s stupid, selfish, aching heart.)

It’s because of this proverbial No Man’s Land between them that Dean assumes that the trip to the farmers’ market on Saturday is a no-go, but when Steve meets him at the exit of the main lodge after work on Friday, loaded down with tote bags full of all sorts of green sh*t, he realises his mistake. Steve flashes him a tight smile when Dean reaches down to take some of the bags he’d been struggling with — the first one Dean’s seen since before he’d lost his sh*t.

It feels like a gift — one Dean knows he doesn’t deserve, but wants so badly to accept anyway.

(He tries not to think about how reminiscent it feels to the winter break of his junior year when he’d hidden his school progress report from Bobby and Ellen because he’d really been hoping for a digital camera for Christmas, and had known there was no way that was happening if they saw his Trigonometry grade.)

They wordlessly make their way out to the parking lot, Dean helping Steve load the bags into the backseat before climbing into the driver’s seat and turning the car on. His heart feels as though it’s thudding in his chest as he tries to think of anything he could say to try to coax that tiny, tentative spark of interaction into a flame.

‘Uh,’ he begins brilliantly, running a nervous hand through his hair. ‘So, uh- I take it ya wanna go back to the market tomorrow, seein’ as-’ He gestures vaguely to the backseat full of bags.

He’d meant it to be an innocuous icebreaker, but Steve flinches, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth for a long moment before speaking.

‘Apologies, Dean. It was presumptuous of me to assume that we- that you were still amenable to bringing me to the market. I should have asked — I’m sorry.’

The note of hurt defeat in his voice is like a punch in the chest. ‘No, no, no, dude,’ Dean hurries to say. ‘No, I, like- I’m totally down for the market again if you are, I just meant- Well, I don’t really know what I meant, I was just, like- just talkin’ sh*t for somethin’ to say, ya know? I’d love to go to the market again with you tomorrow if that’s what you wanna do. I just- I wasn’t sure if that was something you wanted, y’know? Cos of- you know. Me ’n my f*ckup ’n all’a that sh*t, or whatever. But, uh- yeah. Farmers’ market’s cool, s’far as I’m concerned. With me, I mean. Not that it’s not, like- cool by itself, cos it is. I’m just saying that it’s just also cool, like…’

He trails off, eyeing a lamppost as they drive by, wondering if he were to steer his side of the car right into it, if it would help at all in getting him to shut the f*ck up.

Steve blinks at him, head co*cked to the side in that ‘confused puppy’ way of his that Dean’s really come to miss the last few days. He’s just about to apologise for rambling like an idiot, for making sh*t weird again, for causing the whole stupid, awkward, awfulness between them in the first place, when Steve lets out a seemingly involuntary exhale of laughter.

‘That was more words than you’ve spoken to me the entire time since- since you learned who I really am,’ he says, somehow managing to sound both amused and wistful at the same time. ‘It’s been so… so quiet lately.’

‘You callin’ me a loudmouth?’ Dean asks, the words sounding a bit too strained to his own ears, the joke a bit too forced, but he- he’s trying. He doesn’t know what else to do.

The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts slightly in a half-smile. ‘Well… perhaps if the shoe fits, as they say,’ he replies mildly, eyes flicking over to Dean, then back out the windshield. He swallows, wets his lips, then says, ‘But back to the original issue — if you would still be… interested in going to the farmers’ market tomorrow, I would… I’d really appreciate it. Cain’s given me some honey from what we’ve gathered in his apiary, and he helped me gather more berries, as well as the last portion of ramps that were able to be harvested. We left the rest so they’ll hopefully grow again next year. Cain said since now we know of the greenhouse’s existence, we can harvest them earlier next spring, which should mean a better product, and possibly even more interest in them at the market.’

He says all this so casually, as though completely unaware that he’s just implied that he intends to still be around a year from now — and what’s more, he intends to still be around Dean and go to the market with him a year from now as well.

It takes a moment for Dean to register the expectant silence suddenly filling the car. Steve’s looking at him, very obviously waiting for some sort of response from Dean, who suddenly finds his throat very tight. He clears it, gripping the steering wheel just the tiniest bit tighter.

‘That sounds good, man,’ he says, hating how thick his voice sounds, but forcing himself to go on anyway. ‘That sounds real good.’