1. Maybe

Ghosts and cloudsAnd nameless thingsSquint your eyes and hope real hardMaybe sprout wings

So far, Dean Winchester has not looked at him. Not even once.  

Castiel tries to focus on the road, gripping the wheel a little more firmly. Tries not to think about how the young omega had stepped toward the trunk when he'd led him out to the car, how he'd looked dazed and uncomprehending when Castiel had told him to sit in the back instead. How he’d slid to his knees on the floor rather than sit on the seat and how he’d flinched back when Castiel had tried to unclip the leash on his collar, straining away from him with his eyes wide and unfocused; pale, trembling hands still clutched behind his back even though Castiel had taken off the handcuffs almost an hour ago. 

He tries not to think about how, immediately after the omega had flinched, the scent of sorry and pure fear had flooded the car so fast that Castiel had almost choked, and how Dean had hunched down even further and presented his throat even though every instinct inside of him was probably telling him to do the opposite. Castiel had unclipped his leash with fumbling hands, and with his fingers so close to Dean’s neck, he’s pretty sure the omega had stopped breathing. 

He tries not to think about how, despite his obvious terror, Dean still hadn’t made a single sound.

Almost an hour has passed since they started driving and the young man has not moved from his position on the floor. Head down, hands behind his back. He doesn’t try to brace himself whenever they turn corners – just sways, falls, and picks himself up with more and more difficulty but never any complaints, eyes hollow. Castiel’s knuckles whiten when he stops at a red light a little too fast, and the kid’s shoulder bounces against the passenger seat with enough force to scatter his bill of sale and other documents. 

He’s not a kid, not really, but Castiel catches himself thinking of him that way. Dean turned twenty-seven a few days ago, according to his paperwork. But he’s probably a hundred pounds soaking wet and he’s been in the trade since he legally could at sixteen. So he is young, even though the haunted look in his eyes is enough to tell Castiel that Dean has suffered enough for a hundred of his lifetimes. 

Castiel himself is only thirty, but he feels much older when he looks at Dean. Feels protective, too, and he’s not sure if that’s just his conscience speaking or something more instinctual. He’s never been a particularly… traditional alpha, but the smell of Dean’s fear and pain has awakened something in him that has long lain dormant. 

Dean hadn’t resisted anything they’d done to him at the auction house. He’d passively allowed them to drag him into the room, hadn’t protested when they shoved him down to his knees. But when he’d been ordered to his feet, he’d stumbled, and a handler had impatiently jerked him up off the floor by his collar. Dean had reacted then – he’d made a choked, panicked little noise that had twisted Castiel so hard that it’d broken something open inside. 

And so, he’d bared his teeth, and a deep, furious, alien sound had lunged out of him that had drawn the attention of everyone in the room. 

He’s never growled. It had felt right, at the time, but when he thinks about it now he can’t help but feel a little… feral. He’s lucky they’d taken his behavior as possessiveness and not protest, or he might not have been able to buy Dean at all. It doesn’t bode well for the coming months. If Castiel cannot keep his temper now, he will be even more useless as a caretaker than he’d feared.

He closes his eyes as he waits for the light to turn and tries not to hate Jody for thinking he could do this, for making him pretend to be something he isn’t. He’s not a counselor or a fosterer. He’s the money behind their rescue operation, sure – but that’s all he’s ever been. Castiel has never been hands-on during rehabilitation, both because slaves usually don’t react well to alphas and because he isn’t really cut out for what is, essentially, therapy in the slightest. 

But Dean’s had been an especially tough case – one he couldn’t turn away. Jody had, as usual, convinced him with fire in her eyes as she'd laid out Dean’s story of abuse and escape attempts. His days spent suffering in an infamous brothel. 

Castiel doesn’t know where that runaway in Dean has gone, but he’s not sure that man exists anymore. The omega in his backseat has been badly broken. He hasn’t said a word to Castiel; hasn’t protested aside from flinching, hasn’t even pleaded to be spared. He’s just… empty. Tired. Castiel can smell layers of fear, sour and old on the omega’s skin, an emotion so often felt that it’s now a permanent stain on his scent. He can only begin to imagine what Dean has been through to put him in this state of apathy. 

Hopefully, he isn’t beyond repair. This is his second chance, as sad as that is.

Hell – the brothel, aptly named – had finally been shut down. Firebombed, in fact, by anti-slave extremists. Dean had been the only known survivor. Other brothels all over the state had been hit in the same week with more amateur bombs, ones that had ruined the buildings but left most of the occupants alive. The operators who had survived the blasts had been forced to sell their stock, or go bankrupt – none of them had back-up properties where they could legally house that many slaves. 

So, naturally, there’d been a flood of slaves on the local market. Novak Rehabilitation and Reintegration had purchased every one they could, pushing their resources to the limit. They’d gone far over their normal capacity. Hence, why Castiel has Dean in his car, and why he’s taking him home rather than to the main campus. 

There’d been literally no one else to take him. 

Someone honks at him and he startles, wrenching his eyes away from Dean. Raising a hand in apology, he eases his foot onto the gas and turns through the last few streets left in the city before he begins the long trek through the backroads that lead to his home. For once, he’s grateful that he lives out in the middle of nowhere, and that he has a house that’s far bigger than he’d ever need. Both will be a boon to the recovery of the man in his back seat. 

Probably the only pros in a long list of cons.

The snow has stopped falling by the time he pulls up in his driveway, and he opts not to pull into his garage so that the already spooked omega doesn’t feel too penned in. Outside, the world is quiet, any noise muffled by the snow and the low clouds, and again he’s thankful for them both that he lives far away from prying eyes. The pretense he’d had to keep up at the auction house will never be needed here.

Dean is already shivering by the time Castiel opens the passenger door, his eyes low, his hands still locked behind him even as he sways in exhaustion. He doesn’t look up. They’ve been in the car for a little over two hours – Castiel is, frankly, shocked that the omega is even upright. 

“Dean,” Castiel prompts gently, heart clenching when the omega flinches at the sound. “We’re here. Can you get out of the car for me?”

He wishes he’d thought to bring an extra jacket. But, as is typical, his common sense has failed him, and with the campus as overwhelmed as it is Balthazar had not been able to help him prepare as much as either of them would have liked. Dean is wearing nothing but the loose slave garments the auction house provided for him, threadbare and dingy. Castiel would shuck his own jacket for him in an instant - had almost done so the moment they'd stepped outside - but he knows that will do nothing but scare Dean more. His scent - alpha scent - won't help anything.

With no hesitation, despite his obvious exhaustion, Dean scrambles to do as he’s told. He lurches out of the car and onto the driveway – and, arms flailing as he goes, immediately loses his balance and slips precariously toward a pile of slush. 

Castiel grabs him by the back of his shirt reflexively, attempts to lift him to his feet – his bare feet, which he is only now remembering – and that’s finally enough to make Dean’s composure break. 

The omega cries out, wrenches himself away, eyes white and wild as he covers the back of his neck with his hands and crouches low. It’s only now that Castiel remembers he shouldn’t have touched anywhere near there. Dean takes a step back and into the yard, into the snow, and Castiel wishes he’d decided to pull into the garage instead. He hadn’t wanted to make Dean feel trapped. Little good it has done him now. 

“Relax,” he coaxes, hands held low where the omega can see them. Far from Dean’s collar. “Take a breath. Just relax.” He tries to make his scent soothing, tries to convey with his tone and his posture that he isn’t a threat, no matter how much of one Dean sees him as. “It’s very cold out here, Dean,” he says slowly, careful not to move forward and spook him more, “and it’s quite warm in the house. Don’t you think it would be nice to go inside?”

He’d known Dean would be a flight risk when he opened the door, and he still hadn’t put the leash on his collar. Hadn’t been able to make himself. He’d only done it at the facility because it was expected, and he’d feared they wouldn’t have allowed him to leave otherwise. Keeping up appearances was a good idea if he wanted to be able to purchase slaves in the future – no one would sell to someone planning to free their stock. So he’d reluctantly clipped the lead to Dean’s collar and had walked excruciatingly slowly to the car, careful not to pull or put any pressure on the young man’s neck, and as soon as he’d been away from prying eyes he’d unclipped the stupid thing and thrown it over the seats. 

From the way Dean had cowered away from his hand even then, he should have been able to guess that any kind of touch would not be welcome.

Dean’s breathing is harsh and loud in the quiet of his yard, puffs of air escaping him like a train, and quite suddenly Castiel has to confront the reality that the omega might bolt. He’s sure he’s about to, in fact, because the man’s muscles tighten like coiled springs, and his fear-scent floods Castiel’s nose in a wave – and he snarls.