8. Heights

The thing about omegas that people tended to forget was that they needed to be in ideal conditions to have natural heats – needed to be healthy. For that biological clock to turn on, Dean would have needed to feel secure enough to raise offspring, and he’s not sure he’s ever felt that safe in his life. He figures it’s supposed to be evolution’s way of being sure that kids weren’t born into starvation. 

So, of course, it had never occurred to him that he would have to worry about getting knocked up by any of the alphas who had taken him under Alastair’s ownership. After all, he'd already been a slave for years before he’d arrived in Hell, and had never once had a pregnancy scare. 

Alastair hadn’t felt that biology was insurance enough, though. 

He had wanted to be sure Dean would never get pregnant – he’d be useless like that. He’d made that clear, and the very first time Dean had tried to run he’d used it as his excuse to execute the crude surgery. “Who knows if the little bitch got knocked up while it was gone,” he’d hissed, and then all Dean had known was white hot agony. 

He expects to see disgust or disappointment in Pamela’s eyes as she stares at the scar – he’s useless as he is now. An omega bitch that’s broken, inside and out. His big secret revealed. But when she meets his gaze, it’s soft, matronly, and she takes a deep breath. “They did a number on you,” she finally says, and Dean looks away, something hot pressing against the back of his eyes as he struggles to keep his shit together. 

“How long ago was this?” she asks quietly, thumbing the scar with a light touch. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers. Ashamed to admit that he has no idea how long he’s been in Hell. The days had blended together enough that he doesn’t even know for sure what year it is, let alone the month or the day. “A long time.”

Pamela reaches up and lays her cool palm over one of his hands, squeezing gently. “I’d have to do an ultrasound to be absolutely sure,” she says softly, “but I imagine you already know what I’m about to say. It would have been unlikely for you to conceive, anyway, but this…” she trails off, mouth pressed into a thin line. “This makes it impossible.”

He nods. Blinks back wetness in his eyes that makes no sense. 

He had never wanted kids, anyway, so it’s stupid that her assessment twists something inside of him. The last thing he needed was to bring a baby into his fucked up world, to a fucked up dad and a fucked up life. Maybe he should be grateful that Alastair made sure he couldn’t. 

He’s not, though. No matter how many times he’s tried to convince himself. 

“Please don’t tell my master,” he chokes. He doesn’t know why he bothers – his new master is going to see this scar. He’s going to know regardless of whether Pamela tells him or not. But he can’t stomach the thought, doesn’t want to face consequences faster than he has to. Can’t stop clinging to the stupid idea that he can convince his master that he’s worth keeping anyway, as broken as he is.

Pamela squeezes his hand. “I won’t, Dean.”

He believes her. He can’t say why. 

Thankfully, she moves on after that, and he can go back to pretending that scar isn’t there. His pelvis is essentially one big bruise and there are more stripes from the cane pretty much everywhere. Pamela skims her hands over them clinically, but gently. He still shudders. 

She straightens and gestures to his pants and he pulls them back on in a hurry, hands shaking a little more than he’d like. It’s not like he isn’t used to being naked. But it’s never brought anything good. She helps him sit back down on the island, her touch gentle.

“Did they use lubrication?”

Dean shakes his head before he can lose his nerve, mortification washing over him along with more than a little fear. He prays she won’t tell his master this either. The men who had taken him usually wanted it to be as painful as possible. That’s the kind of bitch he was, after all – a plaything for sadists. It’s not like he’d been turned on enough to slick much, to make it easy on himself. So from anyone’s perspective but his own, the damage down there is really his fault, because he’s a broken omega that can’t take a knot like he’s supposed to.

She nods at that and pulls a few more bottles from her bag. “These are for possible infection and these are to deal with any STIs – your paperwork from the auction-house says you don’t have any, but I think we’re better off safe than sorry, especially because there’s no specific mention of your abdominal scarring on it. I want you to take one of each every day with a full meal.”

He just nods, a little numb. The bottles feel big in his hands. He thinks, cautiously, that the exam might be over – it sure looks that way, because Pamela is once again packing up her bag. He can hardly believe it. They’d been telling the truth. 

And then it all comes crashing down, as if the universe is punishing him for having the audacity to hope. 

“I don’t have to tell you that you shouldn’t be penetrated any time soon,” she says flippantly as she organizes her stuff. Her voice is light, as if it doesn’t matter at all that she just signed his death warrant. 

The blood drains out of his face. 

“No – no, I can," he blurts, heart racing. “Please, please don’t tell my master. I can still do it, it’s fine, I’ve done it before–”

“Dean, honey –”she says, looking up sharply. 

“Please! ” 

Her hand is on his arm again and he gulps in a breath, then another, desperate to keep his panic under control so he can fix this, so he won’t be sold back. He’s standing up. He doesn’t remember standing up. Pamela’s eyebrows are drawn together. “Castiel doesn’t want to hurt you.”

He shakes his head, heart in his throat. “No, I know, so I gotta – I gotta be good, and I can be, I swear! I can!”

She lets him back up a step without chasing after him. And she isn’t looking at him. 

Dean feels his world narrow to a pinprick as he takes in the alpha in the doorway, gripping the frame. He takes another stumbling step away from them both, then another, till he’s in the middle of the room. His chest is heaving.

Pamela puts her hands on her hips, a tight frown on her face as she looks at him. “I was just telling Dean that penetration is not a good idea, Castiel.”

His master immediately bristles, rage clear on his face and in his scent, and Dean shrinks back another step so quickly he stumbles. Of course his master is pissed – he bought a sex slave and now he’s being told that he can’t use it, that Dean is broken or off limits somehow. It’s on the cusp of his mouth to protest, to say that he’s been dealing with it for years and he hasn’t died yet, that his mouth and hands are still good if nothing else and they don’t have to hurt him, or immeasurably worse, send him back to another Hell. But the alpha smells so angry, and it’s cloying and terrifying, and Dean backs up a step more, unable to speak even to beg, and the next thing he knows he’s back down on his knees with his hands over his head. 

His master snarls and Dean would probably have wet himself just now if he’d drunk more than a few sips of water this morning. “Jesus, Pam, of course not,” he snaps. “What kind of monster do you think I am?”

Pamela just puts her hands on her hips, not apologetic in the slightest. Dean may be hallucinating, but he would swear that she steps between them deliberately, putting herself in front of Dean like it means nothing to her to face down the rage of an alpha. “Just want to make things clear,” she insists, staring him in his eyes. Dean still can’t help but cower when his master takes an angry step forward, dropping down to the ground even further, a tight little ball of fear. 

“Novak,” Pam snaps, and it’s like she flips a switch.

The man’s eyes find Dean and instead of grabbing him up or slapping him or spitting rage and claiming his property like he should, his shoulders slowly fall. He swallows. The aggression in his scent fades to nothing and Dean is almost sick, he’s so confused. 

“Right. I’m – I’m sorry,” the alpha says quietly. “Sorry, Pam. Dean– ”

“I can still do it,” he blurts, and he’s shaking again. He’s so tired of shaking. “Please – please. I can be good for you, alpha. However you want me. Please.” There are tears gathering in his eyes. He feels weak and so very stupid, feels pathetic because he’d rather this strange new master hit him and punish him and fuck him than send him away. He doesn’t want to leave this place. For the first time in years he might be able to earn some peace, and that has to be worth something. “Please.”

His master closes his eyes for a moment, something spasming across his face that Dean doesn’t understand. “I – Dean, you’re not… I don’t expect…” He trails off, something wavering in his voice. “You’re doing just fine. I don’t – you don’t have to worry about that. You aren’t in trouble.” 

The words should reassure him, but they don’t, because he still has no idea if the alpha plans on getting rid of him. He forces himself to stop talking, stop begging. It won’t help him, never has. He takes a shaky breath as his master moves backward and then forward again, rocking between his feet like he’s not sure where to put himself. Then he backs out of the room, and Dean is left there, shaking and pathetic, his hands flat on the cold tile beneath him as he wrestles with the fact that he just begged to be fucked. 

Pamela puts a hand on his shoulder, slowly enough that it doesn’t startle him, and squeezes gently. “It’s alright, sweetheart.”

The word is what breaks him. No one has called him that since his mom died. No one in their right mind would think he’s sweet, not now, but he doesn’t hear a lie in the doctor’s voice, and his face crumples like a paper bag. “Oh, honey,” she murmurs, and then he wraps himself in his own arms and sobs.

Castiel gargles and spits again, trying to avoid eye-contact with his haggard appearance in the mirror. He’d just barely made it to the bathroom. 

Dean had been begging for the unspeakable. Why? Hadn’t Castiel told him that he shouldn’t expect the same treatment here? 

But now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t recall ever specifically reassuring Dean that he isn’t here to be raped. The most basic thing in the world, and he didn’t think to do it. His understanding was that telling Dean he wasn’t going to be punished meant he wasn’t going to be hurt at all. Obviously, though, in the omega’s mind, sexual assault doesn’t qualify as punishment. It’s just par for the course. 

Dean’s been living in terror for the last 24 hours and Castiel has done nothing but exacerbate it. He selfishly hopes that Pamela is picking up the pieces in there while he hides. 

He hadn’t been able to stay in that room for one moment longer. Not with Dean looking at him like that, with such abject terror in his eyes, with that sick smell of fear and horror that had wrapped around everyone in the room as the kid pleaded. His alpha instincts, louder than ever before already, had roared at him to scoop Dean up and make him feel safe – but because he’d known that it wouldn’t have helped anything, he’d made himself leave instead. 

In spite of what his instincts insist, he can’t rescue Dean from what he’s afraid of; namely because the omega is afraid of him. He’s ashamed of himself, disgusted with his inability to hold his emotions in check. He’s never thought of himself as an unruly alpha male, never had issues like this before. Not till now.

Pamela had made it absolutely clear how abysmal he’d been at controlling his emotion – he hadn’t even known he’d been scaring Dean, he’d been so angry. But she’d pulled him out of the room and hissed at him in no uncertain terms that he was being a knot-headed jackass and needed to cool it, accusations he’s never once in his life needed to hear. He’d scared Dean so many times in the last hour alone that he’s not sure how anyone could think he’s the right person for this. How Pam even allowed him back into that room at all.

Maybe they thought he could handle it because of his normal state of being. He’s been accused of being robotic and emotionless and even cold, before now, often looked down on for his lack of the stereotypical alpha passion. So if this is what that passion feels like, he’d rather do without. It’s like there’s some unrecognizable predator snapping and snarling inside of him, and he hates it. It’s the exact opposite of what the omega he’s been charged with caring for needs.

Still, it feels wrong to be hiding in the bathroom while he can hear the muffled sounds of Dean crying even now.  The omega’s distress is making his throat close, he hates it so much, and he puts a palm over his nose and mouth and tries to find his center. 

Dean had been a runaway, a fighter, for the first half of his enslavement. Castiel can’t imagine what must have been done to him in Hell for him to beg to be raped. Whatever alternative punishment he’s imagining must be truly terrible, and he must be truly terrified of Castiel to try and use his own body as leverage for protection. 

It’s a long time before the scent of Dean’s distress fades back to something approaching normal – normal for Dean, anyway. When it does, he steps out of the bathroom and leans against the wall for a moment, breathing slowly. It won’t help Dean if he’s all worked up – his alpha pheromones will only stress him out more, as Pam had not-so-kindly reminded him. He’s determined to stop scaring the omega with knee-jerk reactions that he knows he can control better. 

When he finally drags his pathetic self back into the living room, he swallows at what he sees, shame kicking him in the ribs. Dean is wrapped in a blanket, bundled up on the couch. His eyes are red and he looks tired, even more tired than he’d been yesterday, and that’s his fault. 

And he’s supposed to be helping the man. Ha. 

Pamela is sitting next to him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder. She looks up at Castiel and he’s relieved to see that she doesn’t look accusatory. Only weary.  

“Sorry, alpha.”

Dean is staring down at his lap as he speaks, voice so rough and quiet that Castiel has trouble hearing him. The bags under his eyes are dark as bruises. “For freaking out like that, I mean. Won’t happen again. Promise.”

Castiel opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. It’s so damn wrong for Dean to be apologizing that he has no idea where to begin. No idea how to explain to the man that there’s no one here at fault except for Castiel himself. 

“Dean…”

The omega looks at him. Or, near him – at his chest, he thinks. Dean hasn’t looked him in the eye even once. He chews on the inside of his cheek and decides to sit down, perching on the edge of the armchair diagonal to the couch. 

“I am not upset with you,” he starts with, and he swears that Dean relaxes at that, his shoulders slumping minutely. “You will never be in trouble for expressing how you feel.”

Dean stares at him. “But…”

There’s nothing else, so Castiel pushes gently. “You have been through quite a lot. It’s natural for things to be overwhelming for you, and I can’t possibly begrudge you your emotions.” He rubs a hand against his chin. “I just want you to be healthy, both physically and emotionally.”

Dean’s brow furrows at that, and it breaks Castiel’s heart. 

Pam gives the kid’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “I’ve got to get going,” she says, gathering her bag from the floor as she goes. “Remember what I said, Dean.”

Dean nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

“None of that. I’m not old enough to be a ma’am,” she jokes, smiling at him, but when she turns to Castiel it’s with a grim look. He stands and follows her, taking the hint. 

When they get to the door, she hugs him, and he’s too surprised that he’s not being screamed at that he can’t do anything but wrap his arms around her and hug back. She breathes deeply, steadying herself, and then pulls away. 

He’s shocked to see a shine in her eyes. Pamela has seen a lot, in her line of work, and though she is unfailingly kind and gentle she’s naturally grown calluses that protect her. It’s not often that Castiel has seen her this affected. 

“I gave him my card,” she says finally, her voice a little rough. “Make him keep it if he tries to give it to you. Get the kid a phone, please – and for God’s sake, set him up with Benny ASAP. He’s ten kinds of messed up in the head from everything that’s happened to him.”

Castiel’s throat is tight. “Okay. Thank you for… you know. Thank you.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t thank me. It’s my job.”

“I’m sorry that I… I know you were just trying to reassure him. I shouldn’t have lost my cool like that, it was…” He swallows. “Unprofessional, to say the least.”

She shakes her head again, squeezing his shoulder. “Should’a warned you, Novak. I know you’d never do that, but I thought he needed to hear it. It didn’t really have the effect I was going for, though.” She looks around his home with tired eyes. “Not used to this kind of set-up. Normally when I tell newbies that, they’re relieved.”

After a moment, she sighs, tapping the strap of the worn leather doctor’s bag on her shoulder absently. “I’ll come back in a week or so to check up on everything – eventually I’ll look into getting the kid on heat suppressants, too. He’s way too underweight and too scared to be able to handle them right now, but that will change eventually.” She rubs her hand over her mouth, something haunted in her eyes. “Castiel, he’s… they did things to that kid that I can’t even…”

He rests a hand on her shoulder, awkwardly giving the comfort he can. “Those bastards, ” she spits, shaking her head, “were beyond cruel. He’s only 128 pounds…” Her gaze hardens. “Those bruises on his nape… That certainly happened more than once. I can only imagine what he’s been through.” Castiel shudders, and Pam squeezes his shoulder in a mirror of his comforting gesture. “It’s going to be difficult.”

He grimaces. “Still sure I’m cut out for this?”

She gives him a hard look. “Yes. You are, Castiel,” she insists when he shakes his head, grabbing his wrist. “You’re exactly what that kid needs – neither of you know it yet, but you are.”

He doesn’t think so. He thinks Dean would be far better off at the campus, with trained betas and omegas that would be able to help him through his journey to freedom with actual expertise and astronomically less fear. But that isn’t an option right now, so instead, he decides to accept her wisdom and stop looking for an out. He breathes out. “Okay.”

The door shuts behind her with a solemn kind of finality, and his hand lingers on the knob for a while. This is going to be one hell of a conversation, and he’s not sure he’s ready or if he’ll ever be ready. 

He almost chickens out. 

Then, he thinks about Dean, his eyes wide and frightened, frantically insisting that he can be good and useful – and he finds his courage. 

Dean is back on the ground when he returns to the living room, blanket folded neatly on the couch in his place. Castiel hesitates for a moment, waiting in the doorway where Dean cannot see him, still trying to figure out what it is that he can say to convince the young man in front of him that he means him no harm – and, in the meantime, he witnesses more than he should.

Swaying in exhaustion as he kneels, Dean nearly topples over and touches his hands to the carpet to steady himself. When he realizes what he’s doing, he snatches them back, and they flutter around his body for a moment like he can’t decide where to put them. Eventually, shaking as he does so, he grips his arms behind his back like he’s done a few times before now. 

Numb, Castiel watches as he spreads his knees a little further, leans forward to keep his balance in a movement that looks well practiced, and takes a deep breath. 

And then freezes, having picked up on Castiel’s scent. 

“Please don’t put your arms behind your back, Dean. That can’t be comfortable,” he says awkwardly instead of a greeting, well aware that his very presence terrifies the young man in front of him. He can see Dean’s throat bob as he swallows, but after a moment, he drops his hands from the small of his back. He’s already shaking again. 

Castiel wants to tell him to sit on the couch, but he’s not sure how that will go over. Pamela had done it, obviously, or Dean wouldn’t have sat there, but it’s telling that he’s back on the ground now. Telling that he keeps cinching his hands behind him like the shackles are still there.

He sighs. Rubs his eyes. When he sits down on the sofa, he puts his head in his hands for a moment, trying to parse out how exactly to convince Dean that he isn’t going to be raped when the man can’t even understand he doesn’t have to kneel. 

When he opens his eyes again, Dean is on the floor right in front of him. 

He jerks back and Dean flinches, eyes down. His scent is sharp and scared. “Dean?”

“I can be good,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Just – give me a chance. I can do it. I can make you feel good, alpha, please. Please let me t-try. I know you c-can’t use me right, but please, let me try.” His hand reaches up, edging toward his belt buckle, and – 

Shit. 

Nausea rolls in his stomach and he stands up abruptly, so quickly that Dean tumbles back and lands on his ass, staring up at him with wide eyes. His scent spikes and intensifies and Castiel takes a beat to calm himself down before he gives the omega a heart attack.

“Dean. Could you – um.” He struggles to get himself together, well aware that Dean probably thinks that he’s about to get beat. “Could you go and sit in the kitchen? At the table. In a chair,” he tags on stupidly, just wanting to put some distance between them so they can both calm down. Dean scrambles up to do what he’s told and is gone in a heartbeat. 

He takes a deep breath, then another, trying to ignore how badly he wants to puke. This is the second time that Dean has tried to do something like that, tried to offer himself in the only way he thinks Castiel wants him. The first time, Castiel thinks he was doing it automatically, too tired and too bewildered to default to any other behavior. 

This time, though, Dean was clearly terrified. Clearly unwilling. But he did it anyway, because he’s that scared of losing the safety that Castiel has promised him. The very same man that had run and fought for years to get away from people who wanted to take advantage of him is now offering himself up like a meal because he’s desperate to stay in Castiel’s good graces. 

The sheer degree of power he holds over Dean hits him, then, with a wave of nausea to match. 

When he draws up the courage to follow Dean into the kitchen, he starts to pull out the chair across from him. But the omega is perched on the edge of his seat like it’s going to bite him, back ram-rod straight, hands gripping the edges. His eyes are glazed, face pale, and when he looks up at Castiel it’s like he’s been caught doing something wrong.

“You know what? Actually, let’s just…”

He settles himself on the ground with little preamble, crossing his legs and leaning against the cabinets. Dean stares down at him for half a second before he’s scrabbling to his knees, hunched low so he’s beneath Castiel even now. He’s mouse-small. Castiel’s heart hurts.

“I need to make some things clear,” he starts, and Dean’s hands twitch where they’re laid flat on the ground. “But first, I need to ask you something. Is that alright?”

Dean quickly nods. He’s still not looking at him. 

“What are your expectations of me?”

It’s not an easy question, but he asks it anyway. He has to start somewhere, and he figures that the best place is wherever Dean’s head is. How else is he supposed to know what Dean thinks is in store for him? How else is he supposed to reassure him that it’s not?

There’s a long pause while he waits for an answer. “I – I’m sorry, but – what do you mean, alpha?” Dean asks, the edge of panic in his voice sharpening a little with his confusion. 

“I mean… what do you think that I expect of you?”

Dean bites his lip. “Um. That I’m… good?”

“And what would that look like?”

He can see Dean struggling, his mouth twisting into a little line. “Do what I’m t-told. And, um. Give you…” He trails off, struggling. “Be a good omega. Be useful? Make you f-feel good. Be yours to – to use,” he chokes out, and it sounds like he’s parroting someone else’s words. 

Castiel is horrified, to put it lightly. “No,” he blurts, and Dean flinches, cowers lower to the ground than he already is. “I mean – that’s not what you’re here for. Not that. None of that.”

Dean’s voice wavers as he pleads. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. But I wanna try. Please let me try before you – before you punish me, ‘cause I can’t– I don’t–”

“Oh, Dean,” he interrupts gently. “Oh, no. No. You don’t have to do anything like that to protect yourself. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Dean sits there, frozen for a long time, before he draws in a tight breath. “I don’t understand,” he blurts, and his voice is small and afraid. “I… I’m not acting right.” 

Castiel bites back a sigh. “Can you look at me?”

He does, making eye contact for the briefest of flashes before he drops his gaze to Castiel’s chin. His eyes are red and watery. Mouth trembling in exhaustion. 

“You’re doing so well right now, Dean. I know this is difficult. Thank you,” he murmurs, and Dean visibly shudders with relief. Castiel’s stomach twists. “I’m not going to punish you for anything you’ve done today.” Or anything he will ever do, but clearly Dean’s ability to believe those words is severely limited. 

Dean sags into himself like a popped balloon. “Thank you,” the omega whispers. “I know I made you angry. Thank you.”

“I wasn’t angry with you,” he says carefully. The omega looks back up at him blankly. “I was angry with Pamela for implying that I would want to hurt you. Angry that other people have hurt you.”

“But…” Dean swallows, and Castiel thinks he didn’t understand most of what he said just now, because it doesn’t align with his expectations at all. “But I was… I didn’t do what you asked.” His fists clench. “I was bad, and bad slaves get… they get…”

Castiel’s heart twists up in his chest. “You weren’t bad, Dean. You’re just scared. It’s not the same thing.”

Dean’s expression says that he very much disagrees, and a flash of fury sparks like lightning inside of him as he thinks about the men who have put that look on the omega’s face. He tamps it down quickly before Dean can smell it and think it’s directed at him – they don’t need an encore of what happened just a few minutes ago. 

He takes a deep breath. “You have nothing to fear from me. I do not want anything sexual from you,” he says, as emphatic as he is awkward, but Dean doesn’t relax any more than he already has. He doesn’t seem to register what Castiel just said, and that worries him. “You’re not going to be hurt. Not here.”

“But… what about when I mess up?” Dean asks, and his voice is choked with misery.

“Mess up how?”

The omega winces. “I…. I don’t know. I messed up a lot, before. All the time.” His back is hunched, taut, and his spine is prominent against the fabric of his shirt. And all Castiel can think about are the crisscrossed crimson and white lines he’d seen on Dean’s lower back, a hundred awful badges for all the bravery the young man has been forced to show. He wants to argue, wants to tell Dean that nothing he could have done would justify the things that have happened to him, but he can’t. Dean is not going to believe him anytime soon. 

And so, finally giving in to an instinct that he cannot name or understand, he leans forward and places a careful hand on the sharply empty space between Dean’s shoulder blades.

He’s careful to keep his palm well below the part of his neck the omega has instinctively covered several times, and he leaves his hand in place there even when Dean flinches, even when his hands snap up to protect his nape. Even when he bows so low that his forehead touches the tile.

He just doesn’t know what else to do. 

Concentrating, he sends out as many breathe, relax, safe signals as he can, hoping that he’s doing it right. He’s never manipulated his scent like this before, not on purpose, and he’s painfully unsure that it will work. Unsure that he’s even alpha enough to do this at all.

Dean freezes under his hand, his eyes closed tight, his mouth pressed into a thin line, clearly expecting the gentle touch to become painful at any moment. But Castiel rubs his thumb into the younger man’s spine slowly and evenly, matching his breath to the rhythm to coax Dean to do the same, hoping that he’s not making things worse. 

At first, he thinks that he might be. Dean is stiff beneath his touch, still as rigor mortis. But as time passes, the omega’s breathing slows from the quick, shallow pants it had been before to something a little deeper and more even, and he begins to shudder and then, just as slowly, stops. 

And then, all at once, Dean’s strength fails him – he slumps, cheek pressed into the cold tile as he curls up right there on the ground next to Castiel’s legs, hands limp around his neck.

Frozen for a moment, stunned, Castiel can only watch as Dean takes in breath after shuddering breath, his knees curled into his chest, the soles of his feet perched against the leg of the looming wooden dinner table above them. The omega’s eyes are firmly closed, his mouth a thin, shaking line, and Castiel can smell that he’s still afraid – but the scent is, somehow, dissipating. So he keeps going – keeps stroking him, keeps his touch even and firm. He can see, with no small measure of relief, that tension is seeping out of the omega at a steady rate, can feel his breathing slow under his arm, now draped over Dean’s ribs to reach his back.

Before long, Dean is nothing but a puddle of limp muscle and soft, even breaths, and when he opens his eyes, they’re glazed. 

He’s high, Castiel realizes. High on pheromones. Outside of heats and ruts, this sort of state is rare – but he supposes that Dean is scared enough and malnourished enough and exhausted enough that the higher functions of his brain are starting to shut down. He’s undoubtedly more sensitive to hormonal suggestions in this state, less able to fight against a very natural biological reaction when he’s been pushed to the limits of what a human can endure. 

After minutes of gentle touch and steady breathing, Dean’s hands finally drop from his neck, curling into loose fists behind his head instead. If he wants Dean to actually hear him, he’s going to have to speak now. So he does.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Dean,” he murmurs. “I don’t have any desire to do that to you.”

Dean shudders, and Castiel hopes that means he understands. But his next words, soft and dazed, confirm that he doesn’t.

“Dunno what’chu want, though,” Dean finally slurs. He’s staring at nothing, with wide dark pupils and slow tears on his face, gone on pheromones that Castiel can barely understand himself. “Dunno how to act right. ‘M sorry. Jus’... wanna be good.”

Castiel has to look away so that the omega can’t see him blink back tears. “You are good, Dean. You’re safe.”

There’s a long, trembling sigh. And then Dean is asleep. 

Castiel had known, on some level, that alphas were supposed to be able to calm omegas on at least a superficial basis based on their scent. But he’s certainly never done anything like this before, and he hadn’t been at all sure that it would work on Dean. Not with what he’s been through. He has no idea when or even if Dean has ever experienced this sort of treatment from an alpha. It may very well be the first time that he’s felt this sort of primal safety in his life.

The thought makes him ache as though someone is reaching inside of him and twisting. 

Guilty, he pulls his hand away from Dean’s warm back, breaking the connection of their touch despite the feral little voice inside that's growling at him to do no such thing. It feels wrong to have done this to the man – to have reduced him to this. But he also knows, logically, that Dean desperately needs the rest.

He bites his lip. Then, before he can think better of it, he crouches down and scoops his limp, sharp body into his arms.

He can’t in good conscience leave him on the hard tile, after all. 

He pauses when he’s able to get to his feet, holding his breath as he waits for Dean to stir or protest. He needn't have worried – the man is basically unconscious. He doesn't so much as sigh.

Dean is light, lighter than Castiel thought possible for a grown man, and it makes that same fury rise in his chest again as he thinks about the cruelty the omega has faced over the years. Cradling his head against his heart as he climbs the stairs, he moves slowly, his grip careful as he thinks about the bruises and the whip marks littering his skin.

The last thing he wants to do is hurt him again. 

The quilt is missing, and he stares at the room for a moment before he sees it peeking out from behind the bed. Castiel is pretty sure that Dean slept on the rug last night, too scared to trust that he is welcome on the furniture for reasons he can easily guess at. He sets Dean on the mattress gently and tucks the blanket around him, and then adds another, hoping the added security will make him feel less… hunted. 

He pauses in the doorway, something burning in the back of his throat when he takes in Dean’s too-small body under the covers.

It’s only three in the afternoon, but he turns off the lights and shuts the door softly anyway, hoping that Dean will sleep through the night. 

He needs it.