13. Great Loyalty

Dean can’t stop touching his neck. 

He’s in the shower now, after retreating with his tail between his legs from Castiel’s office, head aching from crying, muscles weak from shaking. The alpha had let him go with no comment, but his touch had lingered; Dean can feel it even now, buzzing against his cheek, his upper arm where Castiel had wrapped a hand and held him tight to his chest; can still feel the fingers in his hair, the palm pressed into his side. 

His fingers skitter across his throat again, unhindered, and he ignores the jolt of anxiety he gets from the movement as best he can. The skin is raw, hypersensitive, deeply bruised from a million different jerks against a million different chains. The hot water burns like fire, but Dean welcomes it, tipping his head forward and letting the spray pound down on the back of his neck. 

It’s the only feeling he has right now that makes sense. He clings to it, pressing the bruises on his wrists as well to remind himself that he is here, and this is real. 

He doesn’t know what to think about anything. 

He feels… calm. Not the sort of calm that comes from dissociation, the screaming emptiness of too much that he has felt so often in the most recent years of his life. No, this is the kind of calm that comes from bone-deep weariness, from being able to put down something heavy that’s been on your shoulders for far too long. He wants to sleep for a year.

He doesn’t know if he can logically believe that Castiel actually wants to help him. The cynic in him is trying to warn him away for all he’s worth, pointing out all the ways that Castiel can (will?) hurt him, all the ways in which he has complete power over Dean. The voice is loud, insistent, and if Dean was being rational he would be listening to it. He would be packing up whatever he could steal and running. 

The fact of the matter, though, is that the rest of him has already decided Cas is trustworthy. Castiel, who has soothed him with his low rumbling voice and his rain and honey scent, who had held him as he cried like a fucking baby into his shirt. Who has fed him and cared for him and protected him, even from himself.

Something about that – the pheromones, the gentle touch, the alpha-calm, the kindness of the gestures – maybe all of it – has let the omega inside of him relax for the first time since he signed the documents that took his life away. No longer is his hindbrain sending out frantic panic signals, no longer is everything in him screaming fight, or run, or submit. 

It’s only now that the feelings are gone that he realizes how strong they had been. How much of his brain they had been occupying. He feels lightheaded from their absence. 

As far as he knows, the omega bitch in him is a naive idiot. It’s forgotten that Castiel literally owns him, can do whatever he wants to Dean. It’s forgotten that Castiel is an alpha and Dean is an omega and the basic math that those facts always equate to. It’s forgotten everything Dean has had to learn the hard way.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars, letting out a careful, slow breath. The tile is a little cold when he folds himself down onto it, hugging his knees as the shower spray digs into the aching muscles of his back, but the need for something familiar is overwhelming in its intensity. He touches the tips of his fingers to his chin and drags them down until they meet his chest. Drags them back up again. 

He can’t see why his master would remove his collar. Can’t fathom it. From the instant it went around his neck it’s been used as a tool to control him, as a convenient handle for him to be moved exactly where someone else wanted. He’s never been able to overcome the raw panic of having his air cut off, no matter how many times it happened. Has never been able to keep himself from begging when it pushed against that sensitive place on his nape, Alastair’s favorite way to string him up. 

He supposes that is probably the point of the thing. Just one more way to get him to submit. 

More than that, though – the collar was a safeguard against him trying to run. Dean couldn’t have taken it off himself without setting off all kinds of alarms and shocking the fuck out of himself, in the extremely unlikely event that he could have cut through the metal embedded leather in the first place. It’s tight, obvious, impossible to hide from anyone looking for it. Not to mention the tracker that’s built into it, the one that had led capture-cops, and later, Alastair to him time after time. By taking it off, Castiel has made it incredibly easy for Dean to escape. 

But. 

He’s run plenty of times before and knows that even in the most ideal of circumstances, it’s a long-shot that he’ll get anywhere near freedom. He’s still in the system as a slave, meaning he won’t be able to find a job, can’t even get a credit card to pay for travel or food. And that’s not even counting the fact that his face will be everywhere by the end of the day, prime real estate for capture-cops and slave hunters to make a pretty penny off snatching and returning him. 

So running, as tempting as it is, would be stupid. And even if he thought he had a chance… 

Regardless of Castiel’s motivations and his long term plan, whatever it might be, Dean can’t avoid the fact that this is the best he’s had it. Pretty much ever. He would be an idiot to run from this and risk going back to something worse. Maybe that’s the voice of the broken coward inside him speaking, but that one's a hell of a lot more convincing than the one telling him to hightail it. 

He’s dried and dressed and standing in the middle of his room, still lost, when Castiel knocks on his door. He freezes, feeling like he’s done something wrong without the weight of the collar on his neck. It makes no sense, since Castiel is the one who took it off in the first place, but his heart is still pounding like he’s about to be caught red-handed. He waits for the door to open. But it doesn’t. 

“Dean? I brought up some lunch, if you’re hungry.”

Dean shakes himself, rubs a hand across his mouth. Down his neck. 

The door swings with a slight squeak when Dean finally opens it. Castiel is well back from him, two plates balanced in one hand precariously while the other holds two cups in a wide grip. The pillow is under his arm. Dean waits for him to come in, but he doesn’t - just stands there waiting. His expression is caught somewhere between cautious and hopeful. 

It hits Dean, then, that his master is waiting for permission. 

He takes a step back. Tries to open his mouth to invite him inside, but can’t get the words out because they sound far too presumptuous. Ludicrous. 

“Can I join you?” Castiel asks, smiling encouragingly. When Dean just keeps staring at him, his smile falters a little. “Or – I can just give you your plate and I’ll eat downstairs, if you prefer –”

“Please.” The word bursts out of him, cutting his master off. “Please, uh. Come in.”

Castiel lets out a breath, his smile returning. “Thank you, Dean.”

While his presence in the room is large, it is not looming, and Dean sinks slowly to the ground. His knees are a little sore, but the carpet is thick. It doesn’t hurt, not really. It hurts even less when Castiel nudges the pillow in his direction and he holds it to his chest, trying not to be obvious when he inhales the alpha’s scent off of it. 

Castiel doesn’t remark on his lack of enthusiasm. Instead, he settles down on the ground as well, carefully placing Dean’s plate and the cups between them, looking for all the world as if he’s perfectly satisfied with eating his lunch on the floor with a slave.

On the carpet. Castiel is sitting on the carpet. And even though he’s done it more than once now to calm Dean down when he’s panicking, this is the first time he’s done it just because. 

Dean watches him for a beat, then leans to his side. Sits down on the ground, off his knees, legs tucked under him. 

He only understands after he’s done it – this is the first test. 

Castiel doesn’t remark on his incorrect posture. He just glances up from his food and gives him a small smile, then resumes eating, acting as if this is normal in any way, shape, or form. 

Letting loose a breath, Dean slides the food toward himself – a sandwich of some sort, some kind of meat and cheese and lettuce. There’s chips, too, and sliced carrots with dressing. The visual of the alpha in front of him squeezing ranch into the fussy little ramekins makes him feel sort of hysterical. 

“You don’t actually have to wait for my permission. Just so you know,” Castiel rumbles. He takes another bite, giving Dean time to formulate a reply of some sort, but he can’t think of anything to say that won’t sound either contrary or pathetic. 

He dips a carrot into the ranch and brings it to his mouth with only a small degree of hesitation as an answer instead, and Castiel smiles gently at him again. That smile is growing familiar – small, kind of hidden, but there all the same in his eyes and across his cheeks. 

The alpha catches him staring, and when he raises an eyebrow Dean drops his gaze to his food, swallowing nervously. 

“What are you going to do with it?”

The bravery of the question surprises him – he has no idea where it came from. He winces at his own audacity, at the stupidity of bringing up the collar so that Castiel knows it’s important to him. That this is something the alpha can hurt him with that goes beyond the physical. 

As if the whole crying in his lap thing hadn’t been indication enough. 

Castiel sets down his sandwich and takes a beat before he replies. When he does, his voice is low and serious, and the gentle ease from before is gone. “Currently, it is locked in the safe in my office. I’d like to destroy it, but that would send an alert to the local center and I’d rather not deal with those kinds of questions.”

Dean shudders. He can see it now – capture-cops bursting in the door, tasing him, flattening him to the ground to be recollared and probably sent off for retraining. His hand jumps to his throat, reassurance that it really is off, and Castiel’s eyes track the movement. 

“So… will you… you’re gonna put it back on me?” he asks, very carefully, but even still his scent spikes at the thought. Castiel’s gaze is knowing when he dares to meet it, and when he replies, he stares intently as though willing Dean to believe him. 

“No, Dean.” He waits a beat, probably to make sure that Dean is listening. “As long as you’re in this house, you will not wear that hateful thing again. I will do everything in my power to keep you from having to wear it outside the house, too.”

Dean closes his eyes, relief shuddering through him. If Castiel wanted to win his loyalty he’s found the quickest way to do it. It’s possible, of course, that his master is lying, but once again the omega in him is sure that the alpha is being truthful. 

As much as he can be, anyway – he knows the law. He’s a slave, and he’s supposed to be marked like one. Going out in public with his neck bare is asking for trouble for the both of them. Dean would be punished severely, of course, but even Castiel could be fined. 

But his shoulders relax anyway. “Thank you,” he says quietly. “Nothin’ I can do can pay you back for that. So, whatever your reason for doing it. Thank you.”

The words are pitiful, inadequate, but Castiel seems to understand anyway. He nods. Then, hesitating, he opens his mouth and closes it a few times, seeming to search for the right thing to say. It’s a level of thoughtfulness he hasn’t ever seen from an alpha, and for a moment, all his worries fall to the wayside as he considers the strange man in front of him. 

“I… ” he begins, and Dean notices that he’s fiddling with a carrot, spinning it in his fingers. He looks strangely nervous. “I need you to know that this is not a tit-for-tat situation. I am not doing any of this because I want you to feel like you owe me, or as though you need to repay me in some way. I’m doing this simply because it is right, and far too many people have done you wrong.”

Dean swallows against something uncomfortable in his throat. He doesn’t really understand what Castiel is trying to tell him – it’s like the alpha has seen into his mind, somehow, had known that Dean would be questioning his motivations. It makes him uncomfortable, to say the least, that his suspicion is that transparent. He still wants to stay on the alpha’s good side, and he is grateful for all Castiel has done for him so far. But he can’t deny that he’s waiting to hear what his master wants in return. 

Like has happened so often in his life, the logical part of his brain is battling with the instinctual one. Half of him thinks that Castiel absolutely must be playing him, somehow; the other half insists that he’s not, that he’s genuine and exactly the kind of master that Dean had stopped praying for years ago. 

“As I told you, I am part of an organization,” Castiel continues eventually when Dean says nothing, shifting his food around on his plate in what Dean would swear looks like a nervous tick. “We purchase slaves that are in particularly bad situations and do our best to help them. Medical care, therapy. Education, if needed. Essentially, rehabilitation.”

“You want me to be a person again,” Dean sums up quietly. The idea, for some reason, makes him want to laugh. Or maybe cry. 

The alpha gives him a long, measured look. “You are already a person, Dean,” he insists, “though you have not been treated like one in far too long.” 

It is strange, Dean thinks, to hear his name said so often. He has not been referred to by his actual name in so many years that it’s a wonder he hasn’t forgotten it. Alastair had called him all sorts of things, none of which made him feel as though he were human, and thinking about his former master’s nasally, cruel voice makes him suddenly sick. The sandwich on his plate looks unappealing, blurring around the edges as he blinks back tears that make no sense to him. 

Oh, if he could see Dean now. He’d probably laugh in his face before putting him back in his place. Laugh at him for pretending he’s worth anything at all. For having hope. 

He sets the plate down on the rug slowly. Castiel must sense his sudden drop in mood, because he moves on to the next subject, his voice gentle. “There are specific people employed with us whose job it is to work with you. When you’re comfortable with the idea, I’d love for you to meet a few.”

Dean looks up sharply. “I – I thought you said I’d be working with you?” 

He hates the fear in his voice, the transparency of his cowardice. But he’d just begun to understand his place and his boundaries with the alpha, and now his master is bringing even more people into the equation. More people he’ll have to tip-toe around and please, if he knows what’s good for him. 

“You will be, for the most part,” Castiel reassures him, attuned to his anxiousness, “but there are people who are better suited to help you than I am in… well, to be frank, in most areas.” He leans forward, pulls out his phone and begins to scroll through it, holding it up to show Dean a picture of a grinning man. He’s slightly older than Castiel, blonde, his arm thrown over his master’s shoulders. “For instance – Balthazar. He's the head of rehab, and one of my good friends besides. He would come by the house and help you get settled, help you understand your next steps. When you’re ready.”

Dean swallows, suddenly cold. He’s experienced that before – masters bringing friends over. It never ends well for him. Shoving an omega into a room with more than one alpha is usually a recipe for pain that will last for weeks. 

“Dean?”

He blinks. For some reason, he thinks that Castiel has probably said his name more than once. He pulls his hands down from over his face, not remembering putting them there in the first place, and deliberately wraps them around the pillow instead. 

Castiel is staring at him, clearly confused. “Are you alright?”

Dean nods, his lips pressed together, but Castiel doesn’t relent. “What’s bothering you?”

His heart pounds in his chest. One of the only orders Castiel has given him is that he is supposed to tell the man when he’s afraid. So far, he’s fucked that up pretty much every time. “I’m scared,” he blurts, and blush colors his face when Castiel’s face morphs into one of surprise. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says after a beat, the sandwich in his lap all but forgotten as his eyes nail Dean down with laser focus, “but may I ask why?”

Dean presses his nails into his palms, willing himself silently to calm down. “I just – if you’re bringing other alphas here, I, uh. I might be a little…” he trails off, not sure how to explain in a way that won’t offend his master, regardless of what he has planned.

But Castiel just blinks. “Oh. Well, that won’t be an issue. Balthazar is an omega.”

“He’s – what?”

“He’s the head of our rehabilitation team, so it would only make sense that an omega was hired for the job.” For some reason, this sounds like an explanation that Castiel has given many times before; his voice is a little tired. A little taut. 

This is the exact opposite of everything Dean knows about how his kind are treated in society. He’d only been an out omega for a few years while he was free, but it’d been more than enough for him to learn about how the world worked. He’d gone from badass to bitch, from respected by his peers to leered at by the very same boys, still children themselves. Nothing about his personality had changed – he’d still been defiant, still been a protector, still liked classic rock and drove his dad’s car without a license. But as soon as he’d presented, the instant his scent had changed, he’d been shoved aside, pushed around, treated as lesser. 

It was only when he’d taken scent blockers and heat suppressants and passed himself off as a beta that he’d had any sort of respect. He’d fought against his designation until he couldn’t anymore.

He knows that female omegas struggle to find work outside of caretaking or housekeeping, knows that even in those trades they are still paid less than the other two designations. Knows that male omegas make up more of the sex-slave trade than both alphas and betas combined, despite the fact that there’s far fewer of them in the population proportionally. The apparent fact that Castiel, an alpha – and a privileged one, at that – seems to have no problem with a male omega holding such a lofty position says a lot about him. Dean stares at him with naked confusion, and Castiel seems to know exactly what he’s thinking. 

“I’m not a man who holds outdated prejudices against omegas,” he says, chin jutting out slightly as if he expects Dean, of all people, to belittle him for that view. “Your designation is just as capable as the other two and it’s ridiculous to assert otherwise.”

Dean can’t help the half-laugh that escapes him, more of a sound of surprise than anything else. “You know, Cas, there's a lot of people who don’t agree with you on that one.”

It’s only after he’s spoken that he realizes that he referred to Castiel by his name – by a nickname, in fact. He stiffens, prepares automatically to be reprimanded for his lack of respect. But when he looks up at Castiel, the man is smiling at him. 

“Be that as it may,” he replies, not mentioning Dean’s slip-up at all but clearly quite pleased about it, “it’s still the truth.”