2. Whole Wide World

For a fraction of a moment, he can see the man that Dean must have been – the runaway, the fighter. The one who had been dragged back to the training centers again and again, and had still kept resisting; the one who had survived nearly five years in a place that was infamous for killing slaves in less than one. 

He takes a breath and prepares to chase him down for his own safety. After all, healthy runaway slaves don’t always make it through recapture, let alone ones that are as emaciated and weak – and likely injured – as Dean is. Not to mention the fact that Dean is barefoot, and it’s snowing, and the tracker in his collar will get him caught in no time at all even though Castiel wouldn’t report him missing.  

But just before he can lunge forward, Dean’s flash-bang defiance sputters and dies all on its own. He closes his eyes, his throat convulsing, and sucks in a tight breath, then another. When he opens them again and stares at the snow at Castiel’s feet, the frenetic aggression has vanished from his expression. In its stead, there is only old, well worn defeat, and fear that makes Castiel’s soul ache. 

His hands drop from the back of his neck and he tips his head to the side to show his throat. His pulse is visible, fast and strained. Even with his limited experience with traditional designation roles, Castiel can recognize this gesture – Dean is showing submission. 

“S-sorry.” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken, and his voice is raspy. Weak. It’s so at odds with the flare of defiance he’d seen a moment ago that he can only blink stupidly for a moment. “I won’t… I won’t r-run. Sorry,” Dean repeats, when Castiel doesn’t reply. His teeth are chattering, and his arms wrap around his middle, but he doesn’t complain about the cold. He just closes his eyes again, crouched low to the ground despite the frigid snow. “P-Please. D-don’t make me st-stay outs-side. P-please.”

Castiel swallows around the hard lump in his throat, fights against the million reassurances he wants to give because his words will mean nothing to Dean – not now, and probably not any time soon. He finds his own voice, after a moment. “No need to apologize. Let’s get you warmed up.”

Dean follows him obediently through the front door, his gait stumbling. He’s obviously in pain – holding himself gingerly, arms cinched around his ribs – but he doesn’t say anything else. He’s shaking violently, even in the warm air of the house, and Castiel wants to kick himself for letting him stand in the damn snow for any length of time. It’s probably the first mistake out of many he’s going to make. 

The collar around Dean’s neck is hard to look at. He tries not to think about how the most recent RFID chip inside of it is loaded with his phone number and address, how he had to give his thumb print for the scanner key. How, if Dean does run, it will be him that the capture-cops will refer to for preferences on punishment, even if they will do what they please at the end of the day. 

His first thought had been to remove the hateful thing as soon as possible, but Balthazar had warned him against that. Something about how it would just make the omega panic. Castiel’s not sure how removing the man’s symbol of enslavement would be anything aside from a cause for celebration, but he trusts Balthazar enough to heed his advice and keep from changing too much too fast.

Dean sways where he stands, struggling to hold himself upright while Castiel drowns himself in selfish self pity, and he snaps back into the present with a guilty start. “Are you hungry?”

The omega’s breath picks up instantly. He steps back against the wall, crouching lower than he already had been, his hands twitching up like he wants to protect his neck. He thinks better of it and goes still. His face is pale.

The first instinct Castiel has is to step forward and grab hold of the man’s hands and pour out reassurances so that he won’t be afraid anymore. The strength of that desire surprises him – he’s never been particularly emotional, never been much of a caretaker. In the end, though, his logic wins out – he has enough sense to know that doing anything along those lines will go very wrong very quickly. So he takes a step back instead.

“Just for dinner, Dean. It’s only food.”

He tries to keep his voice low and soothing, tries to keep the nerves out of his tone, and that seems to help. Dean’s breath slows a little, his hand going out to the table next to the door to keep him steady. His voice is weak when he speaks. “Dinner?”

“Yes. I cooked ahead of time, since I knew you’d probably be hungry when we got home.”

Dean still hasn’t looked at him, but from this close Castiel can see his mouth trembling. His cheekbones are prominent on his face, and though he’s wearing loose clothes Castiel can tell he’s skin and bones. It’s not really a question as to whether or not Dean is hungry – of course he is. He is quite literally starving. The auction houses don’t feed their slaves anything above the bare minimum, and when Dean had been in legal limbo he likely hadn’t been fed at all. 

Now, it’s just a question of whether or not he’ll be trusting enough – or, more likely, scared enough – to eat the food an alpha he has every reason to fear is giving him. 

“What do I… what do I do for it?”

His voice is hardly louder than a whisper, broken in all the wrong places, and Castiel can’t make himself think about why that might be the case. “You won’t have to earn meals here. I expect you to eat.”

Dean’s brow furrows. It’s clearly not the answer he was expecting, but Castiel can’t explain right now. Can’t tell him that he won’t have to earn his keep anymore, can’t tell him that he won’t have to fight tooth and nail just to survive anymore. He wants to, but Bal had said to keep it simple at first. To lay out his expectations in the form of what he wants Dean to do.

Sure enough, the omega gives a slow nod to show he’s understood. If it wasn’t so quiet in the house, Castiel would have missed the whispered, “Yes, master,” that accompanies it. 

He feels dizzy. He feels sick. “Please, don’t. Don’t call me that.”

That’s not what Bal told him to do, but he doesn’t care. He can’t stand the thought of Dean calling him that hateful word, of him expecting Castiel to do the same things that all the rest of his owners have done. He can’t. 

Dean’s mouth opens, a question on the cusp of it, and then it snaps shut like a rat trap. He doesn’t say anything else. He just continues to shiver, tips his chin back even further to show his jugular. A new fear has seeped into his scent. Understanding slaps Castiel in the face – Dean thinks he’s made a mistake and that he is going to be punished for it. 

Castiel can’t even begin to imagine what he could say to make Dean understand that isn’t the case. So he says nothing. He leads Dean into the house, snagging a blanket off the couch on his way to the kitchen. When he hands it over, the omega holds it like a live grenade.

While he starts getting dinner ready, Dean hesitates in the doorway to the dining room, his eyes flicking around nervously while he thinks Castiel isn’t paying attention. Castiel grimaces at what he must be thinking. He is a very wealthy man, and though the vast majority of his assets have been poured into the center, it still shows in his home. He’d bought it, and most of the things that furnish it, many years before he started the work he does now, back when he’d been a young, stupid alpha with his family’s blood money burning holes in his pockets. 

Considering that the first entry of Dean’s file had been a record of him selling himself into the trade at the far too young – but at the time, legal – age of sixteen, Castiel doesn’t think he’s going to look too kindly on shows of excess. He wonders who that money had ended up with. Young omegas, he knows, typically go for high dollar on the market. 

“Are you thirsty?”

Dean jumps, startled by the break in silence. With far more hesitance than Castiel can understand, he nods. “Okay. Sit down, and I’ll get you a glass of water.”

He pulls the casserole he made earlier out of the fridge, turns up the oven, and slides it in. Focused on keeping his hands from shaking as he fills a glass from the sink, it’s not until he turns around that Castiel realizes his mistake – Dean is on his knees on the tile, hands behind him as he grips his own wrists. Head down. The blanket is in front of him in a crumpled pile, not touching him in the slightest. 

Castiel bites his tongue. This, too, Bal had warned him about. Told him it would be normal for Dean to kneel, to ignore furniture. He’d been trained that way. Just another way that slaves are dehumanized. It rips something open inside of him when he thinks about how a man like Dean must have been treated for that behavior to be his first and only instinct.

He steps forward slowly, crouching in front of the omega and swallowing an apology when he cringes lower, away from his alpha scent and his alpha hands. As gently as he can, he picks up the abandoned blanket and drapes it around Dean’s shoulders because, honestly, he doesn’t know what else to do.

Dean is utterly frozen under his gaze for a moment. Then, he panics – breath picking up and fear scent wrapping around them both like a noose. 

“I– I’m sorry, I didn’t – I didn’t unders-stand why you – I d-didn’t mean to – I –” He’s babbling, the words spilling out of him like marbles on tile, frantic and horrified, sure that he’s just signed his own death warrant by refusing his master’s implied order. 

“It’s alright, Dean.” He resists the urge to grab the young man by his shoulders, keeping his voice calm and steady instead, because even he can understand that’s what Dean needs right now. “I’m not angry. I simply didn’t want you to be cold.” 

He steps back, gives him space. Dean shakes, pale and scared and small on the tile of his ostentatious kitchen, his eyelids screwed shut as he tries to calm himself down with a practiced sort of desperation that makes Castiel’s heart twist in his chest. Eventually, he manages to pull himself together enough to hold the blanket around his shoulders with one white, trembling hand. “Th-thank you. Sorry,” he whispers again, and there’s no small amount of shame in his voice. It makes Castiel’s teeth clench.

He nods and returns to his original task, placing the glass of water in front of Dean rather than handing it to him. But Dean just looks at it, then at him, his eyes wide and confused. 

“You can take it.”

He does, after a short breath of hesitance, holding it in his hand like it might come alive and bite him. It takes far too long for Castiel to realize that he’s waiting for permission, and it makes his skin crawl when he realizes he has to say, “You can drink it, Dean.”

Dean does, moving fast enough that Castiel knows he was desperately thirsty. When the glass is empty, he holds it far away from himself like he’s showing Castiel that he’s followed his orders. 

“More?”

Dean’s grip tightens around the glass like he’d been expecting a kick rather than kindness, but after a moment, he nods, the movement as cautious as if he were picking his way through a field of landmines. Castiel’s fingers barely brush his when he takes the cup, but it’s enough to make Dean flinch, head tucking down further into his chest when he snatches his hand away. He resolves to be more careful.

When he’s refilled the water three or four times, Dean finally lowers the glass from his mouth without finishing. Castiel looks at him questioningly and he flinches, raises it back up as though he believes he has to drink, and it’s all he can do to not yank the cup out of his hand. “You can stop, if you are no longer thirsty,” he blurts. 

It’s only now hitting him that this is the level of cruelty Dean expects from him – to not even be able to control how much water he drinks. 

God, he is in far over his head.

The glass falls from Dean’s mouth, a relieved slump to his shoulders as he pulls away. He sets the cup in front of himself so gently that it makes no noise on the tile, even though his hands are shaking when he holds the blanket close to his chest. 

By now, the casserole is warm, and Castiel scoops more than he normally would onto a plate and sets it in front of Dean as well, along with a fork. Dean doesn’t tear into it right away, staring down at it instead. The expression on the young omega’s face is one of desperate confusion. Dean’s scent is screaming malnutrition, screaming starvation, but the man still isn’t eating. He’s too scared to do so. 

“You can eat that,” he says, and he can’t get the words out of his mouth fast enough.

But Dean doesn’t tear into it like Castiel expected him to, like he’d done with the water. The fork is gripped in his hand like a blunt instrument instead of a utensil. Castiel doubts he’s had much practice with them in the last few years. The scent of his fear is layered, stale under fresh, and clings to him so strongly that Castiel cannot tell what Dean is supposed to smell like, cannot even get a whiff of him. 

Trying to give the man space, he retreats back to the counter and fills up his own plate, the knife clinking against the dish in the silence. He sits down at the table without much fanfare, digging in despite his lack of appetite, hoping that it will put Dean more at ease. But instead of being reassured by his enthusiasm for his food, the omega is looking down at his own with naked confusion. His eyes dart up to Castiel’s plate every so often. He wonders if Dean knows how to eat this, if he remembers actual meals that are cooked with care and eaten with a fork at a table. 

“You can eat, Dean,” he says again, stomach curling at the knowledge that Dean is too scared to do so even with express permission. 

Dean takes a breath, his eyes low. His voice is no louder than a whisper, painfully raw from abuse that Castiel never wants to consider. “But you’re… this is… mine? Too?”

Castiel frowns. There is obviously something in particular that’s scaring Dean – something bad enough that he’s choosing to starve when he has a plate of food in his hands, choosing to question someone he’s terrified of – but he doesn’t know what the problem is and he doesn’t think it would be fair to the omega to ask him to explain himself. “Yes. That’s food for you.” He’s not sure how else to communicate that, so he reluctantly changes his suggestion into an order. A gentle one, but an order nonetheless. “Please, eat it.”

Dean ducks his head back down, nervous, and apologizes quietly. “That’s alright, Dean. You don’t have to apologize for asking questions. I know that this is… probably different from what you’re used to.”

The omega’s eyes linger on Castiel – somewhere around his shins, he thinks – before he nods jerkily. The fork shakes when he lifts it and stabs it into the casserole, and only half of what’s on it makes it to his mouth. But when he chews and swallows the relief on his face is enough to make Castiel’s chest ache with sympathy, and, as Dean releases a quiet sigh, the sharp sizzle of hunger fades ever so slightly from the air.

He speeds up after that and it’s not long before the plate is empty. Castiel has to make himself look away and appear disinterested when Dean carefully sets the fork on the ground and uses his thumb to spoon up the little that remains on the plate, methodically licking his shaking fingers clean. 

He assumes it’s because Dean isn’t sure when he’s going to be fed next, and the thought makes his eyes sting. 

“Do you want more?”

Dean doesn’t move his eyes from the plate. It’s a long time before he speaks. “Do you want me to eat more, alpha?”

Shit. Dean calling him that does nothing but make his skin crawl. It’s supposed to be a term of endearment between alpha-omega couples, but Dean says it like he’s been trained to. He probably has. “I want you to listen to your body and make that decision for yourself. If you decide that you want more later, you will be able to eat. This isn’t a one-time offer.” 

Dean lets loose a breath, and Castiel counts it as a win that he was able to suss out what the omega’s fear was on his own. “I’ll… I’ll be sick,” he finally croaks; hesitant, even, to say that much in his own defense. 

Castiel hadn’t even considered as much – big surprise. It’s painful to realize that Dean is familiar enough with this scenario to be cautious all on his own. He’d probably only told Castiel because he’s scared of what will happen if he does vomit. 

“Okay. Then there’s no need for you to keep eating.” He waits until Dean nods before going on. “The bathroom is down the hall. There are bottles of soap and shampoo inside the shower that I want you to use to clean yourself. There are also towels for you.” He’s careful to be explicit – on the advice of Balthazar, he should be clear about what is for Dean and what isn’t. 

He can’t think of anything in the house he would deny him, but Dean doesn’t understand his motivations. And he isn’t in a place to, not yet.

Dean nods. He stumbles to his feet, nearly losing his balance, and Castiel physically restrains himself from lunging forward to grab him – he doesn’t want a repeat of what happened out in the yard. Dean finds his bearings and holds his plate and fork and cup against his chest with one hand, looking around for the sink. “Don’t worry about that,” Castiel says quickly. “Just leave them on the table.”

The omega hesitates, but he does what he’s told. Head bowed low, his hands clenched around the blanket that’s still folded around his shoulders, he pauses in front of Castiel for a long moment. Then, he drops back to his knees and bows, folding his too skinny body nearly in half.

“Thank you for the food, alpha,” he says, clearly trying to make his voice louder than it’s been. It cracks painfully, but there is true gratitude there – it makes Castiel sick to hear it. Sick that Dean should feel the need to thank him for something as simple as a meal. 

It’s a moment before he can respond, his heart in his throat. “You’re welcome, Dean,” Castiel says eventually, voice rough. He makes sure he stays seated. Less of a threat, Bal had said. He can’t give in to the voice that’s telling him to hoist Dean off the floor as quickly as he can. “Please, get up.” 

Dean does, moving slowly, his face turned away but still visibly screwed up into a grimace. Castiel wonders what kinds of injuries are hidden under his clothes. 

“It’s the first door on the right. Take your time, okay?”

Dean nods and retreats. From this angle, Castiel can see how bad he’s limping. The auction house that he had been sent to in the interim didn’t have too bad of a reputation for abuse of their stock, all things considered, so Castiel guesses that he was injured in Hell before the shutdown. Maybe by the bomb, maybe before that. Probably both. 

The plan is to have Dean checked by Dr. Barnes tomorrow – a house call, since there is no space in the center for a normal appointment. He’ll have to warn Dean about that tonight so he’s prepared. Castiel doesn’t know how often, if ever, Dean’s received real medical treatment, so it’s a tossup on how he’ll react. His file had plenty of documented visits from a slave doctor, but Castiel knows better than most what kind of “medicine” they practice. 

He sighs and gathers the dishes, dumping them in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. He’d gone out to buy clothes yesterday, not sure what to expect but knowing Dean would have absolutely nothing to his name, and he goes to retrieve them now.  They’re all simple, just sweatpants and henleys and hoodies in dark colors, all made of the softest materials he could find. They’ll be big on the omega, he realizes now, but at least the pants have drawstrings. 

He leaves them in the bag so his scent won’t touch them, yet more advice from the head of omega rehab that he never would have considered himself. They should have been put in the bathroom beforehand, but it’s too late now. Shaking the bag, he ties it closed and holds it for a moment, grounding himself as best he can as stress washes over him like a tidal wave. 

He pushes away the certainty that he is not cut out for this and tries to focus. Thirty seconds of picking through Dean’s file had been enough to convince him to swallow his discomfort and misgivings about being responsible for someone so fragile – he’d given in to Jody’s attempts to sway him far before her steam had run out. The photo of Dean taped into the documentation from the latest auction house had hit him like a kick to the chest, and he tries to keep that photo in his mind’s eye now. 

He can do this. 

He has to do this.