14. Seed Song

Castiel continues to give him space, save for mealtimes. 

Dean can’t lie and say that he isn’t grateful for it. It gives him a lot of time to figure things out, to decide what to believe and what to do with himself. He familiarizes himself with the house, wandering and examining everything around him carefully while the alpha sits in his office and types away at his computer, working at his job that Dean has, so far, been too distracted to be curious about. Nervously, and perhaps stupidly, he sneaks in and out of various side rooms, inspects closets and cabinets, and pokes through things that do not belong to him. 

It’s a few days before he realizes he’s searching for any sign that his master is lying to him. 

He’s not sure what he’s looking for, exactly – he thinks he’ll know it when he sees it. But he can’t find a single suspicious item anywhere in the house. There’s no tools for punishment, no sex toys that he can find. No evidence of a previous slave, either. Then again, there’s not much of anything in the house, so maybe that shouldn’t be surprising. 

No pictures of family, no degrees hanging on the wall, not even any art. Just books and books and more books, lining the halls, taking up entire spare rooms downstairs. There’s everything from fantasy to biographies to medical texts, and his palms itch as he stares at them, wanting more than anything to pick one up. 

He used to read to Sammy all the time. Hell, he’d taught Sam to read, staying up late under the covers of whatever shitty motel or apartment they were in with a flashlight and an arsenal of stupid voices for each of the characters, pride flowing through him when Sam had been able to take over and they’d taken turns reading chapters together. 

The last time he’d dared to pick up a book, it had gotten him beat. Slaves don’t get to do leisurely things like read. It’s bewildering to him that, in just a few short days, he’s gone from fearing for his life to even being able to consider doing something as presumptuous and frivolous as sitting down with a novel. 

The number of times that he’s had to remind himself of his place is beginning to scare him. Castiel has made it easy for him to forget what he is – no demands placed on him, no collar on his throat. No threats and no watching eyes. 

Even with the stillness, though, he’s still jumping at every noise, tensing up at every stray expression from his master. Dean is exhausted at the end of every day as though he is still working, not lazing around, and he doesn’t understand that. His sleep, when he gets it, has been dreamless and deep, the rug and pillow soft under him and the blanket heavy and warm, the twin structures of the wall and the bed large and comforting on either side. He rarely wakes up in the middle of the night, and he’s thankful for it. 

But he doesn’t feel fully rested by the time the sun rises either. He supposes his body is just catching up from years of being snatched from desperate naps and half–dozes. And always, there’s that lingering fear, that sharp terror when he wakes up; seconds after his eyes open, he’s found himself up on his knees more often than not. 

He knows his master smells that fear on him, but he doesn’t bring it up. Castiel doesn’t push him to share anything , which he appreciates, and he doesn’t push him to talk to Balthazar either. While he’s grateful, it leaves him with nothing to do, and despite Castiel’s constant reassurance that he isn’t required to be productive, he’s not made to sit around on his ass for too long. 

He doesn’t dare do anything without Castiel’s permission, though, not keen on having a repeat of the dish incident any time soon. So, instead of cleaning or organizing like he – strangely? – wants to, he takes to curling up on the windowsill in his bedroom and observing the little movements in the bright white snow and trees outside his master’s home. 

There are no neighbors within eyesight. He wonders what part of the state they’re in, how far from Hell he’s managed to get. Wherever they are, it’s beautiful outside, the light sparkling off the icicles in the trees and the branches swaying rhythmically in the wind. It’s been a long time since he’s seen snow without being terrified out of his mind, so he’s determined to enjoy it while it lasts. 

That’s where Castiel finds him for dinner a few days later. For once, he doesn’t knock – if only because Dean’s left the door open. That’s progress, for him, though he can’t pretend like his ears haven’t been pricked for Castiel’s approach for the last hour or so, or that his palms haven’t been sweating with nerves. He makes himself continue to look out the window for a moment before acknowledging him, makes himself not slither to his knees on the ground. 

Sooner or later, he has to figure out if Castiel is serious about not beating the absolute dogshit out of him when he does something wrong. Tactically, it makes sense to do it now – Dean would survive a beating just fine at this point, with days of food and water in him and no serious injuries to put his life in danger, should Castiel exacerbate them. 

The alpha doesn’t appear to want to do anything of the sort, though. He doesn’t come in right away, just lingers at the door. “Dean, can I join you for dinner?” 

He asks the same question every time, even though Dean’s answer has never been no. It’s part of the reason that he’s not really all that afraid, anymore, that the alpha will snap and hurt him out of nowhere. He has to remind himself that it doesn’t mean that Castiel won’t ever hurt him, just that he doesn’t seem to be partial to the random fits of rage that so many of his previous alphas had. 

Dean looks over and nods, just a little nervous. Castiel steps inside and whatever he’s made tonight smells awesome. Dean’s mouth is watering. It’s amazing how fast he’s gone from surviving on one meal a day or less to now, where he’s getting hungry and being fed every few hours, only minimally suspicious that Castiel will deny him. 

The alpha pauses in the middle of the room, looking around, and Dean feels the muscles in his back tense and quiver as he waits. He’s always been on the floor until now, so this is new territory. 

Castiel finally shrugs and plunks himself down on his usual spot on the rug, offering Dean his plate with no anger on his face or in his smell, and Dean looks down at him incredulously. 

He can’t stand it for more than a few seconds. Before he knows it, he’s slid to the ground and is resting with his back on the window seat. He’s still getting used to Castiel being at the same level as him – it’s far too much for him to be sitting below Dean. It pricks at some anxiety that he can’t name. 

Castiel just smiles at him and hands him his plate. “I imagine that you are growing bored,” he comments, and though there’s no inflection in his tone Dean can’t help his heart from skipping at the words. Jesus, it feels like the man can read his mind. 

Being bored is a luxury that slaves cannot afford. His hands grip the plate so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t break. Bored slaves get beat for not doing their duty, get sent back for retraining so they remember their place. Masters find new and inventive ways for bored slaves to spend their time, and if they can’t… 

Slaves with no purpose get sold . 

“Dean?”

Castiel’s voice is soft, as usual. A little worried. Of course, the alpha can smell his ramped up anxiety. Dean bites his cheek and tries to get ahold of himself. Castiel has already told him he isn’t going to hurt him, and that he isn’t here to be trained. And he’s already told himself that he believes it. 

His hand twitches to his neck and touches his bare throat and a little, if not all, of his anxiety calms. His master’s eyes track the movement, concern creasing his brow. It strikes Dean, all of a sudden, that Castiel is waiting for him to speak. 

“I’m just… I’m not used to this,” he says after a moment, gesturing at the room with a shaky movement. “Not used to just… sitting around.” He doesn’t know how to explain more than that, doesn’t fully understand it himself. Doesn’t get why he’s incapable of enjoying the quiet. 

Castiel’s gaze is serious. He doesn’t chastise Dean for being ungrateful, doesn’t brush him off. Instead, he nods slowly, like he’s really taking the time to think over what his slave has to say. It’s weird. 

“I wish that my home was less… hum-drum,” he says after a moment, a little self deprecating twist to his mouth that might be a smile, might be a frown.

Dean can’t help but laugh, a little shaky. He folds his arms around himself. “I’ll take hum-drum over…” he trails off, swallowing. “I ain’t exactly complaining, is all I’m saying.” 

Castiel studies him, and while the silence makes him a little uncomfortable, it is nice to feel like he’s being listened to. It’s a foreign feeling – normally, having an alpha’s undivided attention is something he would try and avoid at all costs. 

“Is there anything you would like to do?”

The question makes anxiety squirm in his stomach, though he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because any alpha who had tried to figure out what he wanted before now had done it so they could be sure and dangle those things over his head, just out of reach. It might be naive, but he believes Castiel’s question is earnest. Still, he can’t open his mouth, can’t make himself ask for something just to be denied. He just twists the strings of his hoodie around his knuckles and pulls them tight till his fingers are white. 

“I don’t know if you’d be interested,” his master eventually says, “but as I’m sure you’ve noticed, there are plenty of books around. You’re welcome to any of them.”

Dean freezes. Is the alpha reading his damn mind? Castiel must sense his surprise, because he smiles. “Is there a subject you’re interested in? I could look around and find those books in particular.” He rubs the back of his neck. It’s not a movement he’s seen from an alpha before – an indication that they’re unsure, or maybe even embarrassed. Dean blinks at the thought. “I’ll admit I don’t have a particularly robust organization system, so it may take me awhile.”

“You mean… I can read?” He stares at Castiel, and Castiel stares back, so he clarifies. “Like, I can… You would let me touch your books?”

Castiel looks at him a little strangely. “Of course you can.” At Dean’s bewildered expression, he softens. “Nothing in the house is off limits to you, Dean. I suppose I should have made myself a little more clear about that.”

Dean shakes his head a little, unwilling to agree with a critique of the man who owns him, and still processing his words besides. Castiel’s mouth twists. “You’re welcome to any of them, anytime. The television too, if that interests you.”

Dean licks his lips, nerves pricking at him. “Honestly, uh. That would be great, Cas,” he says, and it’s the only the third time he’s used his master’s name. Only the first time on purpose – not by accident or as a slip of the tongue. And just like he had been hoping, Castiel beams.

Seized by a moment of what must be insanity, he pushes his luck even further. “Can I…” 

He swallows, breaking off the question, but Castiel cocks his head to the side and waits patiently. It doesn’t seem to annoy him that Dean is daring to ask him for things that he definitely doesn’t deserve – on the contrary, it seems like it’s making him a little excited. 

“I want to… I need to do something around the house,” he finally says, wincing at how presumptuous he sounds. “I can’t just… I can’t keep sitting here,” he finishes helplessly, gesturing at the window seat. “I’m not supposed to do that.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, Dean,” his master says, and it’s so patient and honestly confused that he finds he isn’t afraid, just abashed. He feels small and ungrateful, frustrated because he feels useless and angry at himself for being unable to be what his master wants him to be when it should be easy. 

Dean ducks his head down. “I know. Sorry.”

Rather than be satisfied by his deferential tone, however, Cas frowns. “I would like to hear your thoughts on the matter, though. They obviously do not align with mine.” 

Under any other circumstances, Dean would be scared shitless at those words. Disagreeing with the man that owns him has never brought him anything except for pain and suffering. But Castiel doesn’t sound angry or even dissatisfied – only curious, genuine and kind, and it’s reassuring enough that he takes a chance and, for once, speaks openly. 

“I could maybe…” He trails off, still not sure if he’s overstepping, hoping to God he isn’t, “If your books are, um, all over the place? Like you said? I could organize them. If you wanted,” he amends quickly, voice shaking a little. He doesn’t know what just pushed him to ask that, doesn’t even really know why he wants to do it in the first place.

Castiel cocks his head to the side again. The movement makes him look strangely non-threatening, for an alpha. “Is that something that would bring you happiness?”

What a weird fucking question to ask a slave. Dean flushes, averts his eyes. He’s not even sure why, but honestly? Yeah. It would make him happier – or at least, more at ease. He just knows that he needs, desperately, to be useful, and that the idea of organizing something appeals to him in ways that he doesn’t understand. 

Even back when he was free, he was always busy. Cleaning, cooking, working, hustling. Helping Sam with his homework, sharking pool to pay the bills, or wiping up after another of his dad’s drunken rampages. The few times he’d fucked around and gotten lazy were times where he and Sam had been in the most trouble, the most hungry. 

So he bites his lip, and he nods. 

His master doesn’t mock him. He just carefully cuts some chicken into a bite size piece on his plate and spears it with his fork, thinking his words over. Belatedly, it hits Dean that he hadn’t even noticed the alpha had a knife – an unthinkable lapse, back in the day. Something that could have gotten him killed . But now, he isn’t even phased. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind being able to actually find the book I’m looking for,” Castiel says lightly, smiling a little.  He eyes Dean knowingly. “It’s a task that is going to occupy you for a long while, I’d imagine. If it will bring you some peace of mind, I would certainly appreciate it.”

Dean lets out a breath, shoulders slumping. He drops his head against the windowsill.

It’s not exactly a solid foundation, but at least he sort of has a purpose now.

The morning – or night, really – that he sneaks downstairs and starts pulling books off the shelves, he feels like an interloper. Like he’s broken into Castiel’s home and is rifling through his things without permission. He’s so nervous that he can’t even pick up a book at first, and it takes twenty minutes of him staring at the shelves while Castiel sleeps for him to make sense of the titles. 

A few hours later, when Castiel wanders out of his room, there’s only a few small piles on the ground. The alpha’s cheeks are flushed from his morning shower and there’s a towel around his neck. The collar of his shirt is damp, his feet are bare. 

Dean takes all of that in with a well-practiced once-over – an automatic threat assessment, something he’s learned to do as a means of protecting himself. Thing is, there’s nothing threatening about Cas at all. Nothing ringing his extensive system of alarm bells. He’s tense anyway, always nervous in unprecedented territory. 

The alpha must sense his wariness, because he smiles that small reassuring smile. “Good morning, Dean. I see you’ve gotten an early start.”

He’s crouched on the ground right now, a book on orioles clutched in his suddenly sweaty palms. He should probably stand. Or kneel. One or the other. “Um. Yeah. Is that – Is that okay? I know I didn’t really, uh, ask –”

“It’s perfectly fine,” the alpha rumbles, toweling off his hair until it’s scattered in a hundred different directions. It’s strangely distracting. “I’ll admit I don’t understand your enthusiasm for this project, but I certainly am not planning on begrudging you the activity.”

Dean feels his shoulders relax as Castiel moves into the kitchen, feels his breath leave him in a slow stream as he listens to pots and pans banging around. He sets the book down and wipes his palms on his pantlegs. 

He can’t smell any kind of aggression from the alpha – can’t get much of anything, really, other than Castiel’s usual base smell, a little muted from the shower he just took. He can trust that, he thinks, because most of the time alphas are real bad at hiding their scents, and Cas has made his emotions pretty obvious so far. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but all he can pick up on is the bacon that Castiel is apparently frying for them both. 

Because Dean eats the same thing he does. And Castiel doesn’t mind cooking for him. 

He shakes himself, a little angry that he’s still so jumpy. It would be nice to just be able to relax, to accept that he’s won the fucking lottery and Castiel’s every waking breath is not going to be spent making him miserable. But the looming feeling of the dangling second shoe hasn’t really dissipated, just changed shape. 

Once, he’d been taken in by a master that told him he would only be doing housework. He’d brought him home, drug him around by his collar, made him repeat the rules, and then promptly acted like he didn’t exist. The alpha had a little sour beta wife who did little more than glare at him and give him the shittiest scraps to eat, and two kids who ignored him at best and poked at him like he was an interesting insect at worst. 

Compared to the last house he’d been in, it had been a paradise. For a few months, he’d done nothing but clean or cook or take care of the yard, and even with the extra, remote controlled and perimeter triggered shock-collar around his neck, he’d started to relax. 

Then the alpha had come home from work with red-ringed eyes.

His wife had left that morning with the kids, gone for the week to visit family. So there’d been no one to stop the man from getting exactly what he wanted, no one to keep him from using Dean for the purpose he’d no doubt bought him for in the first place. The alpha had chased and then cornered him with a leash in his hand, the scent of his rut choking the breath out of him as effectively as the collar did when he’d dragged his head to the floor.

He’d stepped on the leash while he’d fucked him, like Dean was nothing more than a dog.

Three days later, while the alpha slept it off, Dean had pried the extra collar off with a squirreled away screwdriver, powered through the punishing shock that had sent him straight to the ground, and hurled himself over the fence in the backyard. When the capture-cops found him a week or so later, his neck was still scorched from electrical burns and his ass was still bleeding.

So, while Castiel has made him feel safe, has given him plenty of reasons to trust him, Dean can’t. Not yet. All he can think about is the moment when his master is going to remember how he’s supposed to treat Dean. How the rest of the world is perfectly okay with him treating Dean. Castiel may want to baby him now, may want to treat him like a pet while it’s fun to do so. But Dean can’t help but wonder when the novelty of that is going to wear off. 

However, he’d also do well to remember that after the escape attempt from the family, he’d gone back to the retraining center and then straight to Alastair. It had taken less than a week for him to miss that family, for him to regret running away. 

So, even if he can never trust Castiel, he can still appreciate how good he has it here. 

By the time the food is cooked, Dean has moved exactly one book from the shelf to the coffee table, and has resolved not to be ungrateful for any moments of peace he can find.

For the first time in a few days, they don’t eat on the floor in Dean’s room – instead, Castiel announces that breakfast is ready if he’s hungry. When he inches into the kitchen, the alpha is leaning against the counter next to the stove with a plate balanced in his hand. He looks relaxed. 

Dean looks for his serving on the ground near the table where he’d usually eaten it when they dined in the kitchen, but doesn’t see one. There’s a second plate on the counter nearest to him. It’s empty. 

He’s rooted to the spot. 

Castiel nods at the plate. “Help yourself, Dean.”

This feels like a test. In order to get to the food, he has to cross Castiel’s path or make it incredibly obvious that he’s skirting around him. He presses his lips together, picks up the plate. Castiel takes a long sip of coffee. 

He takes one step, then another, till he’s crossing in front of his master to get to the frying pan that’s still warm on the counter. How much is he supposed to eat? The same as Cas? Less? Only eggs, no bacon? His hands are shaking so bad when he picks up the spatula that the scrambled eggs slip off of it and splat onto the stovetop.  

The clink of a plate on the counter makes him jerk around. Castiel is looking at him closely, a little frown on his face. “Dean?”

His hand spasms and he lets the spatula drop back into the pan and it’s only through sheer force of will that he doesn’t drop to his knees on the ground right there. “I made a mess,” he confesses immediately, as if Cas can’t see that all on his own. “S-sorry, I’ll – uh – just, give me a second –”

“I’m not concerned about the food. I’m concerned about you,” Castiel says, his voice a touch stern, and Dean freezes in the middle of trying to scrape the egg off the expensive gunmetal stovetop with his hands. The alpha’s eyes soften when Dean dares to meet them. “Can you tell me what’s bothering you? I’m not sure I understand.”

Dean huffs out a sharp laugh, nervous. “I’m – I don’t know how to explain.”

Castiel regards him quietly for a moment. “Would you try?”

The question is plain, no force behind it. For the first time, Dean wonders if Castiel actually does mean it as a request, and not as a thinly veiled demand. 

He swallows. “It’s just – I’ve never really, you know. Eaten the same things as – uh. As my…” he trails off, not sure how to refer to the alpha. It’s clear he doesn’t like being called Dean’s master, and doesn’t like being called alpha either, so he’s at a loss. Castiel seems to understand, though, because his mouth draws in at the corners until it forms a little frown. 

“I’ve told you that you won’t eat different food here,” he reminds Dean, and that makes his heart speed up a little because when a master has to remind you of what he said, it’s usually more forceful the second time around. More painful. But Castiel said he wouldn’t do that, and Dean reminds himself that he believes him. 

“Right. That’s right, I’m – yeah. Sorry,” he says, stupid and quiet. And he starts to leave it at that, but Castiel doesn’t look satisfied by his deferential words. Unlike every other alpha that has owned him, he doesn’t seem to like when Dean blindly agrees with him. 

He takes a breath. 

“Only, uh. Here’s the thing?”

Castiel cocks his head to the side, prompting him silently to go on. “I sorta, um, logically get that. Like I understand what you’re saying, and I don’t… I don’t think you’re lying, or nothin’.” He stumbles over his words, trying to explain in a way that Castiel will understand. “Only, my brain ain’t gettin’ the memo. You know? I’m still kinda… waiting.”

Castiel still looks a little mystified. “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting to fuck up,” Dean finishes, worrying his bottom lip. “Waiting for… I don’t know. To eat too much or not enough. Or take something I’m not s’posed to. Dunno,” he repeats, feeling small, hating his ugly, ignorant southern drawl more and more as he speaks. Hating that, because he’s nervous, his words shrink to sounds that are almost unrecognizable as English. He sounds uneducated, compared to Cas. Low. 

Castiel nods slowly, digesting what he’s said like his words actually matter. For the first time, he considers that to Cas, maybe they do, Kansian, high-school-dropout accent or not . 

His master taps the counter, considers what he’ll say before he says it like he so often seems to. “Would it help you if I told you that I have plenty of food, and that the only expectation I have is that you eat as much or as little as you please? That anything in the kitchen is available to you anytime you wish, and nothing is off limits?”

“I…” Dean swallows around something hard and lumpy in his throat, his eyes burning a little. “That’s…”

“The truth, Dean. I’ve no shortage of food and no shortage of funds with which to buy more. It is important to me that you feel secure that you will not ever go hungry.”

“I’ve eaten more in the last week than I ate in a month back at… back there,” he blurts. He needs Castiel to know this, for some reason – needs him to know just how fucking different this is, how grateful he is. “I know you ain’t trying to starve me, Cas.”

The alpha’s shoulders relax at that. “That’s… good. I’m glad.” He examines his plate, glances at Dean’s still empty one. “Does it help when I portion your food out for you? You seem less… uncomfortable.”

Dean’s cheeks burn, but he can’t lie. “Yeah. Sorta. Can’t fuck it up if you’re the one doing it, you know?” He laughs nervously, but the sound doesn’t ring as happy. 

Castiel sighs, and Dean is hit with the stomach-sunk feeling that he’s disappointed the alpha somehow. But when his master looks at him again, it’s with kind eyes and a tired smile. “Well, if you’d like, I’ll gladly make you a plate. Do you like bacon?”

And just like that, the discussion is over, and Dean’s no longer under the microscope. He releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and steps away from the stove. Back to his place. “Yeah. Used to eat that stuff like candy.”

Castiel looks up at him with a half smile, sliding some onto his plate. “Did your parents often cook it for you?”

Dean chuckles. “Oh, nah. I mostly did the cooking. Sammy liked it when–”

The blood drains from his face.

His master looks up at him sharply when his mouth snaps shut. He steps back, away from the counter, away from the alpha.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” he says softly, after a long, tense moment of Dean’s silence. 

He blinks hard, trying to get hold of himself. He doesn’t know why he said that. Doesn’t know why he so casually revealed something so precious about his old life to this alpha. It scares him. “Sorry,” he blurts out, the apology automatic, “I just, uh –”

“You don’t have to explain.”

He appreciates the hell out of that, appreciates the gentle waft of soothing scent, of relax relax relax from the alpha even more. He makes himself step forward and take the plate from his master’s hands. 

And just to show that he ain’t a bitch, he kneels down right there and starts eating. Never mind that his stomach is rolling, never mind the cold sweat that immediately breaks out on the back of his neck. Never mind that he’s terrified of being so close to his master while he’s on the ground and the alpha is looming above him, the position a reminder of his first days here and many, many days before that. 

“Dean.” The word is quiet, but there’s just enough alpha in it that Dean’s head snaps up and he locks eyes with his master’s throat. “Perhaps we should eat in your room?”

He lurches to his feet and follows the man obediently as they climb the stairs. 

They eat in silence. 

That night, he has his first true nightmare since he became Castiel’s. 

He jolts awake in the darkness of his room, the walls spinning around him until he’s not sure if he’s back in Hell or still in his dream or somewhere else entirely, and he huddles down on the ground and covers his neck till he can breathe again. Till he remembers that he doesn’t belong to Alastair anymore, that his master isn’t going to open the door any second and step on the chain on his collar and pound into him without so much as a threat. 

Till he remembers that Sam is safe from the world Dean lives in. 

He’s still shaking when he sits up, shame all over him like slick.

He didn’t really think he’d be free of those memories, but he’d hoped. He’s gone nearly three weeks now without a nightmare. Three weeks of thinking about his old master or his old life for only a few seconds before thoughts of his new one interrupted. True, he wakes up terrified most mornings, but it fades quickly when he remembers where he is, who he’s with. And it hits him anew how strange that is – that it’s an alpha that is calming him down. An alpha making him feel safe. 

Complacent. He’s grown complacent. 

Nothing proves that more than his slip-up in the kitchen. In all the years he’s been a slave, he’s never told a single soul about Sammy. No one. Sam has always been his one safe thing, the one memory he’d been able to keep for himself through all of this. The one light he could look to when things got hard. When he was exhausted, or starving, or in so much pain he thought he might keel over, he could always remember Sam and know, despite it all, it was worth it. 

And this morning, over some bacon and a smile, he’d thoughtlessly given up his little brother’s name to the man who owns him. Talked about his family with an easy grin on his face like his master is his friend. 

He’s too far gone. All his master had to do was show him some human decency, and he’s completely come undone. 

Logically, his master can’t do anything with Sam’s name. His brother is grown now, a white alpha man in a world that caters to white alpha men. And there’s no doubt in Dean’s mind that Sam is strong, that he’s accomplished – he was too smart to ever become anything else. 

It still makes him uneasy, the thought that a rich alpha knows who Sam is. He never wanted his brother exposed to this world. Not even an alpha like Castiel is safe. 

In the darkness of his room, he wraps his arms around his legs and gives up on sleep, fear curling around his throat like a snake.