12. Pure Gold

Dean is… confused. 

When he’d understood that he was here to be trained, some of the little scattered pieces in his brain had clicked into place. It made sense. Somehow, they had found out about the kind of slave he’d been for Alastair, and they sent him off to be punished. Molded back into shape. Castiel can call it helping him if he wants to, but he understands what that really means. 

His first bitter thought was that they’d already succeeded. 

After all, he’s ready to do anything he’s asked in order to stay here. Hell, he’s already begged, and that’s more than he’d ever done for Alastair without being brutally forced to. Castiel’s insistence on him eating and sleeping sort of make sense, too – he’s going to want a clean slate to build him up from, unless he wants Dean to keel over from malnutrition in the middle of a training session. If Castiel had put him through half of what retainers usually did to him when he’d first arrived, he probably wouldn’t have made it. 

But now, days past the alpha’s explanation to him as to why he’s here, he’s grown less sure of himself. There are lots of things about the alpha’s reasoning, he’s realized, that don’t make any sense at all. 

For one, Castiel owns him. He’d seen the man sign the documents. And that confuses him, because trainers never own their slaves – they just borrow them or prep them for someone else, get them whipped back into shape for their actual masters. He’s been through enough training centers to know the drill. So the fact that Castiel bought him throws a wrench in things; he doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know how long he’s going to get to stay here before Castiel passes him on. And if there’s anything that makes Dean more anxious than outright aggression, it’s those kind of mind games.

For another, this place is like no training center Dean has ever seen. First of all – it’s a house, clearly his master’s home, and it’s the exact opposite of the clinical, sterile atmosphere of a training center that Dean has come to know. And as far as he can tell, Castiel is the lone occupant; the house is big, but there’s been no sign of any other people living here since he’s arrived. 

And then, of course, there’s the matter of the alpha himself. He’s the worst trainer Dean has ever had. Impersonal and stone-faced, the handlers at the centers had at least always been consistent with what they wanted Dean to do, and consistent with the punishments for his disobedience. But Castiel, so far, has not told him to do anything at all. Has not punished him even once. 

Right now, Dean is kneeling on the plush carpet of the living room by himself, picking sliced fruit off of a plate on his lap at an arctic pace. After his little breakdown, he had retreated to his room and waited to be told what to do – but the alpha had simply brought his meals upstairs for him and left him alone. And, because he’s a coward, Dean had milked that for all it was worth – he’d hid there for days, afraid to even go down the first step of the staircase.

Driven by nerves more than anything, today was the first time that he’d dared to go back downstairs. Castiel had looked delighted – he’d greeted Dean and hopped up from his seat on the couch to hurry into the kitchen, abandoning the news he’d been watching entirely. When he’d returned, he’d handed Dean a plate, made noises about getting the right nutrients and vitamins into his system; assurances that Dean had only half heard as he’d tried to get over the shock of being greeted like a welcome houseguest rather than property or a nuisance. 

Castiel’s excuses about nutrition don’t explain the careful way he’d sliced the strawberries and apple and melon for him, don't explain the little dollop of creamy yogurt he’d placed in the middle of the arrangement. The way he’d waited until Dean’s hands were steady before letting go of the plate. The way he’d gone upstairs and reappeared with the green pillow and given it to Dean with no comment at all, his scent replenished and fresh on the fabric. 

Dean eats another strawberry and savors it. He’d missed fruit. He’d missed it a lot, years of tasteless mush and sour powder almost enough to have made him forget. Currently, he’s forcing his brain to focus only on this; on the sweet tang of the yogurt and the texture of the apples and berries. He wants to enjoy it. 

Castiel is not in the room with him, which makes that a little easier. He’d disappeared behind the solid wooden door of his office without him, for once. Told Dean to make himself comfortable and that he had work to catch up on, that he could call out to him if he needed something, but it seemed like he needed some space, and would he mind being alone? Dean had been too shell-shocked to reply, and his master had taken that for the answer it was.

That had been almost two hours ago, and as he eats the last chunks of fruit he has to admit he’s out of excuses to continue to sit here. 

For the first time since arriving, he’s alone in the den and not choking on his own terror or passed out from exhaustion. He takes the opportunity to look around. The place is… nice. Warm and dark and spacious, shelves of books all over the place. Aside from that, though, the room is largely empty. There are no pictures on the walls, no art, none of the personal detritus and bric-a-brac that usually makes up a person’s home. 

He wonders what kind of man Castiel must be, to live by himself in the middle of nowhere in a space so empty of personal items. Then again, he technically doesn’t live alone anymore. Not with Dean here, taking up space and resources while offering, frankly, nothing in return. He feels out of place among the nice furniture and plush carpet, the bronze light fixtures and the leather-bound books surrounding him. A cheap knock-off among hand-made treasures.

If Castiel’s supposed to be training him, he’s doing a pretty shit job of it. Dean’s never been this useless in his life. Even before he signed his contract, he’d been in a constant stream of motion; watching out for his father, taking care of Sam –

He freezes in place as his brain shuts off, a familiar pattern of self-protection. 

He’s not thought about Sam this often in years. 

Grimacing, he can admit after a moment that he’s lying to himself. Sammy is always in the back of his mind, his only constant even after countless years away from him. It’s just that he can’t bear to think of what Sam might think of him now, his strong older brother unmasked as the little omega bitch that he always was underneath his bluster and bullshit. 

He can’t think about it anymore without wanting to cry and he’s done more than enough of that in the last few days, so he rubs a firm hand over his face and stumbles to his feet. Footfalls silent once he gets feeling back in his legs, he pads toward the kitchen, puts his plate next to the sink, and tries not to think about the one he’d broken into a million pieces.

The kitchen is even more impersonal than the living room, not even a colorful potholder to break up the monotony. There are several take-out menus on the fridge and Dean gets the odd feeling that Castiel doesn’t cook for himself as much as he’s cooked for Dean in the short time that he’s been here. It’s another thing about the alpha that doesn’t add up with anything Dean knows about the way they’re supposed to behave. 

He stares blankly at the counter in front of him and tries not to let the novelty of having nothing to do and no one to watch him scare him. If nothing else, Castiel is an alpha, and alphas always seem to know exactly what they’re doing. If he’s fidgety and uncomfortable it’s probably because his master wants him to be, and who is he to question that?

Laying his hands on the counter slowly so that he can’t dig his fingers into his palms anymore, he finally admits to himself that there’s nothing of value that he could really contribute to this household. Everything is clean save the dishes, and he’s not allowed to touch those. Castiel doesn’t want to fuck him, right now at least. And he’s got no skills to speak of aside from half-remembered mechanic lessons from Bobby and dollarstore style meal prep. 

This place is beyond different from any house he’s ever lived in. Normally, he’d be acting out, trying to drive his master to return him. He’s done it a million times in the past, fighting and clawing and running, shuffled from owner to owner or sold back to the auction house when he became more trouble than he was worth. Now, being returned is something he’s desperately trying to avoid rather than search for. 

His collar feels tight around his throat. He wants to stay here. Wants to stay with these books and these soft rugs and these warm blankets, wants to stay with Castiel’s safe scent and gentle silence and strange kindness. 

The same fear that drove him to start cleaning the dishes that awful morning drives him to Castiel’s office door, the pillow in one limp hand because he’s starting to feel naked without it. The alpha has dropped it into his lap so many times that he figures it’s okay to keep it like it actually belongs to him – it’s one of the many things his master has done that don’t make any sense at all, things that serve no purpose other than to make him feel less afraid than he has in years.

Still. He lingers, not sure how to ask to be in the alpha’s presence. It feels presumptuous to knock on the door, even worse to summon his master like he’s the one calling the shots. So he just stands there, looking dumb as a box of fucking rocks, waiting for something to happen. Wondering why he’s even bothering to ask, as though he deserves to know. 

“Dean?”

He jumps about a mile into the air, heart in his throat. He must be stupid – of course Castiel can smell him.

“You’re welcome to join me, if you’d like.”

It’s phrased like an invitation, not an order, but Dean isn’t dumb enough to pretend he has a choice here. He pushes open the door before he can bolt, standing there stupidly as his master looks up from his desk expectantly.

There are little glasses perched on his nose and the glow from the computer screen lights them up. He abruptly realizes he’s been staring at his alpha’s eyes and drops his gaze to the floor, a shudder rocking through his spine and lungs at the misstep. That alone would have been enough for Alastair to beat the shit out of him just a few weeks ago. But his new master doesn’t even smell irritated.

“Would you like to come in?”

The alpha’s voice is smooth, calm, betraying nothing at all, and Dean can’t make himself stand anymore while his master is seated. He takes a few steps into the room and kneels, thankful once again that the plush rug in the living room is mirrored here. He feels his anxiety fade a little once he’s on the floor where he’s supposed to be; once he feels the soft, plush pillow against his stomach.

“Is there something bothering you?”

He says it with no inflection, but Dean can’t help but flinch. Just a few days ago, the alpha ordered him to confess every time he felt anxious, and he’s already broken that rule by waiting. He rocks back on his heels so that he doesn’t drop his forehead onto the carpet – Castiel doesn’t really seem to like it when he does that, oddly enough. 

“Alpha,” he starts, and his voice is weak even to his ears, so he clears his throat and tries again. “Alpha, what… what am I supposed to do?”

It’s probably not the right way to phrase it, but he’s been a bad slave for too long to remember how to be a good one. Alastair hadn’t believed in training centers, preferring to handle Dean’s defiance all on his own, so it’s been years since Dean was last officially reconditioned. He’s sure there’s a textbook way to ask this question but he doesn’t know it and doesn’t really want to try and remember, because it’s going to open up a can of worms so deep he could drown in it. 

Castiel doesn’t answer for a long time. When he finally does, his voice is measurably softer than before. “I don’t expect you to do anything, Dean.”

Hands clenched on his knees, Dean closes his eyes and tries not to give in to the raw fear lancing through him. “But…”

It’s dangerously close to an argument with the man who owns him, so Dean shuts his own mouth before he can dig himself in any deeper. He knows, distantly, that he’s starting to spiral, can feel panic clawing into his chest like a burrowing rat. The chair squeaks a little as Castiel stands and Dean can feel his shoulders ratchet together. 

But then, yet again, Castiel is at eye level with him on the ground. He looks up with a nervous swallow, taking in the alpha in front of him with a surprisingly low level of dread. Maybe it has something to do with how Castiel is sending out those same calming pheromones, or maybe it’s because the man hasn’t laid a hand on him except to help him, or maybe it’s because he has spent hours on end asleep right in front of the alpha with no bruises to show for it, all while clutching a pillow that smells a lot like him – but Dean isn’t as frightened by his proximity as he should be. 

“I bought you,” Castiel says, tone gentle and patient, “so that you could begin to heal. You are not here for any other purpose.”

Dean scrubs a hand through his short hair, a nervous gesture that gets him out of his proper position but one he does anyway. Castiel doesn’t comment. 

“I don’t understand,” Dean finally allows himself to say. It’s a dangerous thing to do, questioning his master, but he can’t take not knowing. The thought that at any moment Castiel might send him off to someone new scares him more than being punished for disrespect, so he locks his eyes on the alpha’s throat. “Why does that matter to you?”

The sadness that suffuses his master’s scent surprises him, and before he can stop himself he flicks his eyes up to meet Castiel’s, lingering long enough to notice details for the first time. They are blue, crinkled at the edges, and there is no malice there that he can see. Still, he only manages to hold eye contact for a second before he drops his gaze back down. 

His voice is low when he speaks. “You have been mistreated for a very long time, Dean. I want to help you because it’s the right thing to do. I didn’t buy you so you could serve me.”

Dean squeezes the pillow to himself, self-soothing and childish, and bites his lip. He wants so badly to believe Castiel, but he can’t. Not now, maybe not ever. He knows that this is too good to be true, that the alpha is going to end up using him like everyone has, because in his experience alphas don’t do much else. What else is he good for, besides that?

The only thing he can figure is that Castiel wants to build him up so he can break him all over again, and the thought scares him down to his bones. The first few months of being enslaved had been some of the worst days of his life; maybe even worse than his time in Hell, in a way. He’d gone from being a human to being a thing, no better than a toy with no will of its own. 

If Castiel treats him like a person for too long, it will hurt just as bad as it did then when he’s put back in his place. So rather than allow him to do that, Dean’s going to have to remind himself of what he is, keep himself where he belongs. 

“I just… I want to be good enough for you to not...”

The unfinished words hang in the silent room like a gunshot, a direct contradiction of what Castiel just told him. He’s basically calling his master a liar. Dean’s nostrils flare, taking in Castiel’s scent, searching for the anger that must be coming. But there’s nothing more than a little more of that sadness from before that he doesn’t understand. 

Castiel aches Dean’s confusion, his heart hurting for the young man who has been abused so badly he cannot recognize kindness for what it is. 

“Is that why you were doing the dishes, that morning?”

Dean nods minutely, eyes lowered. “You said you don’t want me for… for other things.”

He swallows thickly. “No, I don’t.”

Strangely, Dean looks pained at that. “Didn’t want you to think I was useless.” He’s pale when he adds, “Still don’t.” 

Back to this, then. Castiel holds back a grimace. He doesn’t understand Dean’s conviction that he’s supposed to be working – somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that Dean would be anything but relieved to have no responsibilities. “You won’t be punished for inactivity,” he tries, wondering if that’s where this anxiety is stemming from. 

The omega presses his lips together. He looks… frustrated, if Castiel had to put a word to it. He thinks back to what Balthazar has taught him about routines, about how slaves have been trained to act and think. He doesn’t understand Dean’s mindset, but he wants to.

“Would you…” he trails off, not sure how to word his offer. “Would it help if you were able to ask me some questions? So you can get some… clarification? Some idea of what the ground rules will be while you are here?”

Dean stares at him, a little caught off guard, but the expression that creeps onto his face is hopeful. “You can ask me whatever you’d like, Dean. Nothing is off-limits, and I swear that I will not punish you for anything you say.” He doesn’t know how much that promise is worth to the omega, but his scent eases minutely. Relief softens his face, easing the tension there more than Castiel has ever seen before. He nods.

“Alright.” Castiel takes a breath. “Right. Can you sit up before we start? Actually sitting, not kneeling?” He tries to frame it like a question, but Dean clearly takes it as an order. Slowly, he moves until he has his knees drawn up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, the pillow laying beside him as though he thinks he’s not allowed to hold it in this position. The way he squeezes his legs is clearly a self-soothing movement, something well-practiced. 

The scent of his nervousness sharpens, but Castiel just doesn’t think he can handle this conversation while Dean speaks to the carpet. He waits until Dean’s breathing evens out a little before continuing. “What would you like to know?”

The omega rests his chin against his knees. He’s silent for a long time. “How come you’re sitting on the floor?”

Castiel huffs. Of all the things he'd have guessed Dean to be concerned about, he hadn't considered this. “Because you’re sitting on the floor.”

“I’m supposed to do that.”

Castiel bites his tongue against a million different protests. Don’t overwhelm him, he reminds himself. “You were panicking. I didn’t think that standing over you would have helped you calm down, and I think I was right.”

Dean considers that for a long time, finally nodding. He chances a glance over at him, and for the first time Castiel can see a glimmer of what Dean should be under all the fear and anxiety, a sparkle of intelligent curiosity. “But I’m okay now, and you’re still there.”

Castiel smiles. “Perhaps I’m just comfortable down here.”

The omega snorts quietly, but he doesn’t respond. He just rubs the knuckle of one thumb with the pad of the other, thinking things over. “Why do you keep giving me things?"

“Things?”

Dean’s eyes flicker to the pillow. His fingers fidget with the fabric of his pants. Clearly, Bal had been right – Dean doesn’t understand the concept of gifts freely given. Not anymore. 

“I simply want you to be comfortable. The things you’re referring to take nothing away from me,” he says, and then adds, “and I don’t want anything in return.”

Dean blinks. Digests that. “And you cook for me.”

He shrugs. “Cooking for two isn’t any harder than cooking for one.”

“But… you’re not supposed to…” he swallows, rephrases. “I’m not supposed to eat the same food as you.”

“Says who?”

Dean stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “We’re not the same,” he finally says, as though it's obvious. “I don’t deserve it.”

Castiel doesn’t have the time or the energy to tackle that one, but he does shake his head. “I’m not going to feed you gruel, Dean. If there’s ever something you don’t like or don’t want you can absolutely tell me and we’ll work around it, but I refuse to treat you like… like you’re an animal,” he finishes carefully, wondering how Dean will take that. 

“Is that why you don’t want me to call you ‘master’?” 

He chews on the question for a moment, wondering how honest he should be. “I don’t want you to call me that because it makes me uncomfortable.”

“But… ” Dean seems genuinely confused, his brow furrowing as he looks at Castiel from the corner of his eye. “You own me. That’s what you are.”

That probably shouldn’t sting as much as it does, but Castiel can’t help but wince. He knows that what his foundation does is good, he knows that they help people. It doesn’t change the fact that they are putting money into a trade that does this to human beings. He hopes for a day where he will be able to help slaves without buying them, but today isn’t that day, and it probably won’t be for a long time.

“The person that owned you, before. Did you call him master?”

Dean shudders, turning his face away from Castiel. He nods.

“I don’t want you to think I’m anything like him,” he says gently.

“You’re not,” Dean blurts, a shaky sort of desperation in his voice. “God, you’re not.”

“I’m glad you don’t think so,” he says, when he can swallow around the lump in his throat. “Can you see why I wouldn’t want you to call me the same thing you called him?”

Dean nods, and this time Castiel really does think that he understands. He flicks his eyes up at Castiel. “Is it okay that I call you alpha?”

He grimaces before he can stop himself and Dean catches it. His shoulders draw up defensively. Castiel hastens to reassure him while being careful not to lie. “I do not particularly enjoy that, either. But if it makes you more comfortable, you can continue to refer to me that way.”

Dean is quick to shake his head and dismiss his own comfort in favor of Castiel’s preferences. It’s not exactly surprising. “What do I call you instead?”

Castiel taps his foot on the ground a few times. “I would prefer that you call me by my name, but I realize that may be difficult for you.” 

Dean’s eyes flicker to his, then back down just as quickly. “If that’s… what you want.”

“What do you want?”

Dean stares up at him silently, his eyes blank. Castiel wonders if he understood the question. “Dean?”

“Why do you care what I want?” 

The question is quiet, but frustrated, and Dean’s looking away again. His arms tighten around his knees. 

“You’re a person,” Castiel says, when he can get the words out around the lump in his throat. “And people’s choices should be respected.”

Dean actually laughs at that, shaking his head as the weary sound slips out of him. His eyes close. “I’m not a person, though. I haven’t been a person in a long time.” He inhales. “Not sure I ever was.”

Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment, debating with himself. He looks at Dean’s collar, at the mark of ownership, a little too tight to ever be forgotten. At the bruises that still, over a week after his purchase, circle his neck under and around the leather-covered metal. 

Dean truly believes what he’s saying – and why shouldn’t he? For the last decade of his life, he’s been treated as less than human. Trainable. Disposable. And suddenly, Castiel’s head is spinning from how angry he is at the whole damn system. He feels ten feet tall, feels like he could split bricks in half with the force of his rage, could tear down the auction houses and training centers that have hurt Dean like this with his bare hands. 

Of course Dean smells that anger, and of course he begins to tremble. When Castiel looks at him, he bares his throat, eyes averted, showing submission in the clearest way he knows how without kneeling, and Castiel is disgusted with himself for how little control he has over his emotions – and even more angry that Dean has to be afraid. 

“Sorry,” the omega whispers. “I’m sorry, I’m – no more questions. I’ll be good.”

Nausea twists inside of him. 

They can’t move forward this way. 

He reaches forward before he can think better of it, and Dean tenses, throat bobbing as he swallows audibly. Still, he doesn’t flinch away. Castiel wonders how much self control that must take. 

When Castiel’s fingers hook around his collar, however, the omega does jerk back, already babbling apologies, already begging, his scent screaming terror terror terror. His hands scrabble at Castiel’s wrist and squeeze, and he tries to kick out and scramble away, legs digging against the carpet as though his life depends on it. 

Considering the other things Dean had been willing to do without protest, the fact that he’s fighting now speaks to just how terrified he is. Castiel moves forward so Dean doesn’t hurt himself and wills his hands to stop shaking, digs within himself and finds the will to be calm so he can get his thumb on the tiny scanner under the metal buckle and press down before Dean chokes himself.

The collar hits the ground with a dull, nearly soundless thud. And it’s so loud that Castiel will hear it in his dreams for years to come.

Dean’s stream of pleas cuts off mid-word. He’s staring at the strip of leather between them, his eyes wide and blank, hands still wrapped around Castiel’s wrist.   

He starts shaking. “Why – why did you – ”

“Because you shouldn’t have to wear it,” Castiel says quietly, very careful to be still, to keep his tone even. “Because you’re a person, not an animal, and you shouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of your circumstances. Because you don’t deserve it,” he finishes, and his voice breaks a little despite his effort for it not to.

Dean’s eyes are wet – tears are tracking down his face, still going from when he thought Castiel was going to do who knows what with his hand on his collar, but he doesn’t think the omega even knows that he’s crying. He still hasn’t let go of Castiel’s arm, his grip weak and his hands warm as sunlight.

He seems stuck – frozen – unable to wrap his mind around what Castiel is saying. His words, when he speaks, are slow. Uncomprehending. “You’re… getting rid of me? Selling me?”

It truly clicks, then, what Dean has been so afraid of. Maybe he had, on some level, believed Castiel when he said that he wouldn’t hurt him. His fear had been deeper than that – he’d been terrified that Castiel would grow tired of him. That he would be trained up and sent off to someone new.

That he’d be thrown away.

“No,” Castiel replies. His voice breaks. “No. You’re not going anywhere.”

“But…” his eyes move slowly from the collar to Castiel himself, still too empty, still too blank. “I don’t… you said… you were gonna train me.” His voice is weak, strangled. Too afraid for hope. 

“I said I wanted to help you,” Castiel corrects him gently. “Help you heal from what has been done to you. Nothing more, Dean.”

Dean’s eyebrows draw together, his gaze impossibly green as he stares into Castiel’s eyes, searching for something he clearly thought to be impossible. 

“You’re not gonna hurt me?”

Castiel’s heart breaks into a million sharp pieces at the disbelief, at the confusion, in the omega’s tone. “No. Never, no matter what. You’re safe now.”

Dean is still for one more heartbeat. 

And then he’s crashing into Castiel’s chest, grabbing at whatever fabric he can reach as a sob wrenches its way out, his body folding nearly in half with the sheer force of the relief ripping out of him. Castiel does the only thing he can – what his instincts have been screaming at him to do since he first laid eyes on Dean – and wraps his arms around him, holds the omega’s head to his heart, and soothes him as best he is able. 

Castiel can feel wet streaks on his own face, uncontrollable. He gently threads his fingers through Dean’s short hair and hopes it won’t scare him, but help him instead; will help him ground him and show that Castiel is not a threat and that he’s safe here, hopes that Dean’s instincts will take over and help him understand what the rest of him seems incapable of grasping. He says soothing things, breathes deeply and hopes that Dean will match the rhythm of his chest, strokes his thumb across Dean’s face and pushes away tears.

It’s all he can do. 

It takes a long time for Dean to stop sobbing, for his chest to stop heaving up and down. Shuddering every once in a while, he breathes raggedly through his mouth, air hot and humid against Castiel's skin even through his shirt. He doesn’t let go, doesn’t loosen his grip at all, and so Castiel doesn’t move either.

But. When he looks down, he can see the bruises around Dean’s neck clearly now, exposed fully from underneath the collar. Bruises that have come from others whose intentions were not so pure. He pulls his hand away from Dean’s face, wary of making him feel trapped; but it has the opposite reaction than what he’d hoped. 

Dean stiffens at the loss of contact, pulling away as if burned. “S-sorry. Jesus,” he says, voice breaking, eyes lowered as he rubs tears off his face with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to – I’ll get off. I’m pathetic. Sorry–”

Castiel’s response is to put his hand right back, and Dean stops talking. He slumps immediately, head dropping back to his sternum, ear against his heart.

“You have nothing to apologize for," he says firmly. Then, a little more unsure, he adds, "Are you comfortable like this, though? Do you want me to let you go?”

Dean hesitates for only a split second before he shakes his head, cheeks flushed and eyes closed tight. So Castiel doesn’t. 

They sit like that for a long time, long enough for Dean’s breathing to come even and slow, for Castiel’s butt to go numb on the floor. Dean’s scent is vibrant against him, sweet and soft like most omegas but with an edge of a bite, something like cinnamon. Nothing like the sour fear that has trailed him everywhere he’s gone since Castiel first laid eyes on him.

He has to wonder what Dean’s life might have been like if he’d never become a slave. Who he could have been.

Who he might become, now that his journey back to personhood has begun.