15. Breathe Deep

Watching Dean work is a pleasure – one he’s careful not to indulge in too often, lest he make the omega uncomfortable by doing so. 

The focus on Dean’s face as he moves around the house with stacks of books in his hands, the way he bites his lip as he concentrates, the gentle way his apple-like scent starts to spread through the house and sink into everything – they’re welcome changes from the terrified young man from before that could not so much as stand in Castiel’s presence. And, if Castiel is honest with himself, welcome changes from the lonely and sterile atmosphere his home had been before. 

Still, he’s under no illusions that Dean is equally comfortable with his presence just yet.

Dean is still skittish; jumpy, his words faltering when he asks for something, even if it’s small. He still eyes Castiel when he walks into the room like he’s waiting to be hit, still flinches if he is startled. Still nervously bows his head and defers to Castiel like he doesn’t have opinions of his own, even when Castiel asks for them. 

What’s worse, Dean appears to be getting less and less sleep, and his plates are left closer to full than ever before. Castiel has to wonder how much of that has to do with the episode in the kitchen, and he kicks himself for the hundredth time for so carelessly disrupting the omega’s routine. 

He’d thought it would be a nice gesture to allow Dean to serve himself, a way of telling him that he could be more independent. But it had backfired. Now Dean doesn't enter the kitchen for meals at all, waiting instead for Castiel to make a plate that he can eat in the safety of his room.

Since he joins him most mornings, Castiel can’t miss the fact that Dean’s bedroom reeks of fear-sick-sorry while they eat breakfast, that the circles under his eyes have darkened. Doesn’t miss that he spends a lot of time absently running his fingers up and down his neck, or that, after Dean’s comment about who he assumes must be his brother, Dean hasn’t said a word in conversation to him other than to answer direct questions.

Unsure of what else to do, Castiel updates Balthazar a few days in. 

“He’s… I think he’s starting to understand he’s not in danger, Bal.” Progress is progress, and the fact that Dean isn’t falling to his knees everytime Castiel walks into the room anymore should really be victory enough. He frowns. “But…”

“He’ll come around, Cassie.” Even over the phone, Castiel can hear the sound of his friend's ever-present racketball bouncing off his office wall. “Bet you could even get the kid’s collar off soon.” 

Castiel winces guiltily. “Um. Well. I sort of… already–”

“You already took it off,” Balthazar interrupts, voice flat. There’s a pause, and then a long suffering sigh as the ball stops bouncing. “Why am I not surprised? You don’t have any tags for him, do you?”

Castiel stays quiet. At the main campus, when slaves’ collars are removed, they’re provided with dog tags as their replacement IDs. Law dictated that slaves needed to be easily identifiable, and it had been the best loophole they’d found that still satisfied that requirement. The omegas can remove them at any time, technically, since the campus is considered private property – there is no law that says they can’t, as long as they keep it on their person and wear it while in public. 

Curiously, the vast majority of the omegas don’t take their tags off. Ever. He hadn’t understood why, but Balthazar had, and Castiel had asked him to clarify early on in their years of rescue and rehab. The omega had stared at Castiel with something hard in his gaze, a curl to his lip that told him he probably didn’t want to know the answer – but he’d asked again anyway.

Bal had looked away, his jaw cocked. And Castiel had been right – he hadn’t liked the answer at all. 

The omegas at the center have no singular owner – they are purchased as company slaves, owned by the organization as a whole. So it had, once Bal had explained it to him, made sense that they would be nervous about their security, anxious to let others know that they were owned by someone and were therefore safe from many kinds of violence and abuse from others under the letter of the law. Had made sense that they would wear those tags as a form of protection.

But he’s not sure that Dean would want the so-called security that a new collar, however loose, would provide. Not sure that he even trusts Castiel enough to feel that sort of safety from being owned by him, anyway. 

Castiel grimaces. “He’s… he’s staying here, so I didn’t think it was necessary.”

Balthazar makes an irritated noise. “And what, are you just planning on keeping him cooped up there all the time?”

“No, I just…” He sighs. “I didn’t think. It was spur of the moment, Bal – and I don’t think I did the wrong thing.”

His friend huffs, but he doesn’t disagree. After a pause, he asks, “How’d he take it?”

“He…” Castiel trails off, pressing his lips together. Thinks about how he could even begin to describe the desperate relief that had rolled off the omega, how his face had crumpled and his body had too, how he’d reached for comfort like a drowning man might reach for a rope, and eventually settles on, “He hugged me.”

Balthazar whistles, long and low. “Bloody resilient kid,” he says, “considering what he went through.” 

Balthazar knows more about that than Castiel does. Personally, he hadn’t been able to stomach more than a quick skim of Dean’s file. He’s seen the basics, has a good idea of the sheer number of disciplinary actions and escape attempts from the thickness of the packet alone. But past that, he’s got no idea about the specifics of Dean’s injuries, about the people that have owned him or the things he’s been “trained” in. He’s not sure he wants to know, not sure that he could handle knowing. 

So he doesn’t understand what Dean’s been through. Not really. The realization that he should, if only to be sure he’s helping Dean as much as he can, makes him guilty. He eyes the drawer that Dean’s file is tucked away in, biting his lip. 

“He’s strong,” he agrees eventually. “But he’s… I feel like he’s backtracking lately. I’m not sure he’s sleeping well.”

“Have you asked him?”

“Once. He said he slept. I don’t know.” Castiel frowns, recalling the way Dean had averted his eyes, how he’d stuttered out something deferential and scared when Castiel had asked after his comfort. “His nerves seem a little… frayed. He’s eating less, and I think he’s having nightmares.”

“That’s normal,” Balthazar reminds him. “Kid’s got a lot of bad memories to sort through.”

Castiel is quiet at that. Dean seemed to have been doing okay – right up until he’d mentioned Sammy. But he doesn’t want to get into that with Balthazar, isn’t even sure if he’d be able to explain the pure fear on Dean’s face that had appeared, the way he’d shut down completely and retreated into himself. “He keeps… touching his neck,” he finally says, knowing what that will mean to Balthazar. “Along his throat, but also…”

“The back.” Bal sounds tired. “You know we’re sensitive back there, Cassie.”

“Yes. He protects it.”

“I’m sure he’s been grabbed by the scruff one time too many,” he replies, an edge of bitterness creeping into his tone. Bal’s acerbic personality makes it easy for Castiel to forget the man’s history – but at times like this, he’s reminded again just how much the omega himself has been through. “Not many alphas will really lay into it, even masters, but…”

“There were bruises back there when he first arrived,” Castiel says quietly. “Pam said it was probably long term abuse.” He hasn’t seen much of it himself – Dean’s been wearing hoodies consistently since that day, careful to hide himself behind layers of fabric. He’s not sure if it’s on purpose, but either way, he’s never really gotten a good look at Dean’s nape – just a glimpse here or there since he took off the man’s collar.  

Balthazar hisses. “Bastard. As if he didn’t have enough power over the kid already.”

Castiel rubs the bridge of his nose, frowning down at his desk. “Can I help him in any way?”

His friend snorts. “Not like you think. He’s gonna have to sort through some of that on his own, and he’s still getting used to you. He’s not gonna trust you with anything that deep yet.” He half laughs. “Hell, you’re probably a mystery to him. You’re a little weird, mate, no offense.”

“None taken,” he replies lightly. He’s used to Balthazar’s ribbing, and he can’t deny that the man’s right. He is, charitably, a hermit, especially now that he’s not coming to work. “You think he’ll start to settle a little after he realizes I’m truly not going to hurt him?”

Balthazar sighs. “Yes, I do. It’s gonna take longer than you think, though, so don’t get impatient. You remember how jumpy I was back then. Give the kid time.”

He nods, a little of the tension inside of him easing. “What’s he doing right now?” Bal asks.

“... Organizing my books,” he admits, a little guilty now that he says it loud

“Let me guess: he asked for something to do?”

“He did. I’ll admit I don’t understand that.” And he hadn’t. He’d thought Dean would have appreciated having nothing to do and no expectations, for once, but it seems that his decision to leave the omega with nothing on his plate had been yet another wrong choice. So wrong, in fact, that Dean, as scared as he is, had managed to draw together enough courage to ask for something different. 

Balthazar snorts. “Kid isn’t used to not having a purpose, as morbid as that sounds,” he says, and Castiel winces. “In his world, uselessness is the ultimate sin. Nobody wants a slave that can’t give them something, and believe it or not, most omegas would rather be wherever they are than those fucking brainwashing facilities.”

Castiel frowns. That certainly hadn’t been true for Dean – he’d had quite a few retraining sessions documented, much more than the average. Something has clearly changed. “So… he’s doing this so I don’t sell him back?” He’d known already that Dean had that fear, but he’d thought they’d moved past it. He’d thought Dean knew better, now. 

He can almost see Balthazar shrugging. “Partially. Think about where he was before all this, mate. He’s not going to do anything to risk being sent away, not after kicking it with your soft self.”

Castiel starts to protest. “I know you’ve told him that he’s safe there,” Bal says quickly, cutting off Castiel’s words with a degree of accuracy that’s typical, “But, as I’m sure you can understand, he’s probably having a hard time accepting that you don’t intend to toss him the moment he’s idle.” 

Castiel sighs. “So… is this a good thing?”

Balthazar chuckles. “Honestly? Yes. He feels like he’s being constructive while doing something that isn’t physically taxing, and you get your purgatory of a library organized. Not to mention he’s got to be working out some nesting anxiety. Win-win. Win.”

“Nesting?”

He can very nearly hear the sound of Balthazar’s eyes rolling. “Yes, Castiel. Nesting. You know, the thing the statistical majority of omegas do to calm themselves down? The super common, biology based behavior that even I have been known to indulge in from time to time?”

Castiel has a sudden and vivid recollection of Balthazar manically emptying and rearranging the cabinets in the staff breakroom, and blinks. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Balthazar mocks, sighing. “Him doing that is a good sign, though. Just so we’re clear. You might check if he’s creating a nest in his room and ask him if he wants any throw pillows to liven it up.” 

Balthazar’s cavalier tone would bother Castiel if he didn’t know firsthand that it was all bluster. Though he’s a little prickly, Bal is easily the best resource he has in terms of relating to omegas. He cares, and cares deeply, and Castiel knows it. So he takes the man’s words as the reassurance they are and allows some of the unease to trickle out of his chest, and replies in the same light tone. 

“He has one already. I gave him that large green one you got me for Christmas last year.”

Balthazar sounds incredulous. “The one I bought to make your office seem less like it belonged to a minimalist sociopath? Didn’t you tell me it was a ‘very adequate napping companion’?” he asks, air quotes audible in his words. 

“Yes. He’s taken to carrying it with him.”

His friend is quiet long enough that even Castiel can pick up on the fact that he’s messed up in some way. “What did I do?”

“You…” Bal hesitates. “I’m not sure you did anything. I’m just surprised, is all.”

“Why? I thought you said nesting was normal.”

“It is, but…” Balthazar sounds a little flabbergasted. “Normally, it is quite ill advised to give even the average omega something that smells like an unmated alpha. He shouldn’t want to be anywhere near that thing.”

Castiel frowns. “But… Dean seems quite attached to it.” He frowns harder. “Do you think I should offer him something else?”

“No,” Bal says quickly. “No, not if he likes that one.”

“But if it smells like me–”

“Him finding comfort in your scent isn’t a bad thing, Cassie,” his friend says. He sounds mildly impressed. “On the contrary, it’s… good. Very good.”

Some feeling he can’t identify – warm and confusing – begins to grow in Castiel’s chest. It hadn’t occurred to him that it was his scent Dean had grown attached to, but the idea that he has pleases him, makes him puff up with pride he doesn’t really understand. “Oh,” he says, a little flustered. “Thank you, Balthazar.”

“Any time, boss,” Balthazar says cheekily, and Castiel blushes. Luckily, Bal leaves him be. “What’s the timeline on me swinging by, you think? Can’t believe it’s already been nearly a month.”

“I don’t believe it will be long,” he says, pondering it. Dean hasn’t asked after it on his own, and he doesn’t intend to push the omega – he wants it to be Dean’s choice. But perhaps he should bring it up again. “He seemed less uncomfortable when I told him you weren’t an alpha.” 

“Well who can blame him? You’re all a right bunch of knotheads,” he teases, the lightness in his tone at total odds with what Castiel knows to be the truth. He met Balthazar many years ago, and though the man had been free for a while already he’d been wary of Castiel; snappy, aggressive, teeth always bared in an unfriendly smile that had reminded Castiel of a fox in a corner. Distrusting, till Castiel had convinced him otherwise, and it had taken quite a lot of time to do so. 

His designation perpetuates the worst of the many crimes against omegas – it’s no surprise that Dean is wary. 

“Yes, thank you,” he agrees dryly. “I’d like to set him up with Benny soon as well.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Bal says. “I know having an omega with you at home is unprecedented territory, but we should stick to what we would have done if he was a traditional resident as much as possible.” 

Castiel hums his agreement, choosing not to bring up his reservations about his ability to care for Dean again. Balthazar had shot him down without mercy the first time he’d argued that he wasn’t fit to foster, and he’ll no doubt do the same now. 

“Lovely chatting with you, Cassie, but some of us have work to do, so…”

Castiel smiles. “I can take a hint. I’ll speak to you soon, Balthazar.”

“Likewise. Ciao.”

He wanders out of his office after hanging up, feeling a little lighter. Dean is not in the living room, but there are piles of books everywhere. He’d left the system of organization up to the man and it seems that Dean has gone by topic, judging by the stacks he can see. 

He’s examining the tallest in that corner of the den – gardening books, it turns out – when there’s a crash from the spare bedroom.

His heart is in his throat when he skids to a stop in the doorway, and the wave of terror that hits him is so strong it makes him stagger. Dean is against the wall, curled up, hands over his neck as he cowers. There’s a shelf crumpled over next to him, a flimsy thing that was never meant to hold the number of books that Castiel had absent mindedly crammed onto it, shelves akimbo and splintered after its untimely impact with the ground. 

He has to carefully pick his way around the scattered books to get to Dean, keeping his breathing slow and even as he does so, trying and probably failing to push out some combination of pheromones that combats Dean’s frantic terror-no-please-sorry scent. He recognizes those sour notes of fear in the air as the same ones that have been in Dean’s bedroom in the mornings, and wonders how far Dean is from this room right now mentally.

When he crouches next to Dean and puts a hand out to touch his back, he gets his answer. The omega flinches away more harshly than he has since that first night, a whimper clawing out of him, his scent jagged and please-no-please-no-PLEASE. “Dean,” he murmurs, fighting to keep his voice steady, to keep the low growl he wants to let loose inside of him and his hands to himself. “It’s alright. Deep breaths.”

Dean doesn’t seem to hear him, entrenched in whatever horror he’s flashing back to. His eyes are shut tightly, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Bloodless with tension, his hands are clenched behind his neck, covering his nape, and that sends a white hot pulse of anger through him that he has to wrestle back under control. Castiel doesn’t want to think about why this position is instinctual for him, doesn’t want to consider what’s been done to Dean in the past. 

He scoots forward, tries to reach out again on instinct, but Dean flinches away with a pleading whine – the sound tears at his heart. “Relax, Dean. I’m not going to punish you, remember? Do you know where you are?”

The omega quivers, breathing fast and shallow, and then he’s babbling, voice high and terrified and muffled by the ground that he’s pressed against. “Sorry! I’m so sorry. Please don’t – please.” His words are broken, as though he already knows the effort will be futile. “I’m sorry, please don’t put me on the post, please, I’ll do anything, God, please, please –”

“You will not be going anywhere,” Castiel says firmly, raising his voice enough that Dean cuts off abruptly. “I would not do that to you, Dean. Not ever.” He doesn’t know exactly what Dean’s referring to, of course, but it’s clearly something horrific. He clenches his hands in his lap so they don’t reach out again. “Deep breaths. In and out. In, and out.”

It’s difficult to keep himself calm, but he tries, slowing his breathing so that Dean gets a sense of the right rhythm to follow. But he continues to cower, continues to stutter out pleas here and there, and it’s a very long time before he goes silent.

And then, like a breath let loose, his fingers loosen from his neck and slide up to cradle his head instead. His shoulders start to shake for a different reason entirely. 

He’s crying. 

Trying his best to contain it, but crying all the same, his hands gripping his hair as he shudders and turns his head away from Castiel, his forehead pressed to the wall. The sheer grief rolling off of him is enough to make Castiel’s chest ache like there’s an axe in it.

He wants to destroy everything that has made Dean feel this way. 

“Are you back with me, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes are pressed closed, but he nods jerkily. 

“May I touch you?” he asks, careful to keep his tone neutral in case Dean wants to refuse. He does, at first, shaking his head no – but after a moment, he lets out a dry, pleading sob and nods yes and then yes again. Castiel, torn between the savage desire to fix this and to respect the omega’s boundaries, rests his hand between the man’s shoulder blades, his touch feather-soft. He can feel Dean quivering under his fingertips, can feel his emotions wracking through his skin. Can smell the devastation in the air, the scent that’s morphing from fear into shame and sorrow.

He makes a decision that he desperately hopes isn’t the wrong one. 

Carefully, slowly, he slides his arms under Dean’s and pulls his too-light body toward his chest. Dean doesn’t resist – makes no effort to pull back at all, and Castiel doesn’t know if that’s because he doesn’t want to or because he’s too scared to. He prays it’s the former. He wraps his arms around Dean and rubs his shoulders, his side, hoping to bring him away from whatever horrible place he’s in with gentle, soothing touch.  

Dean is stiff against him for a long time, but when he does move it’s to drop his hands from his head and clench Castiel’s shirt into his fists. He takes one shuddering breath, his head curled beneath Castiel’s chin, and then angles his face into his chest and lets out a harsh sob. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice thick with tears, “’m sorry, Cas.”

Castiel feels tears pricking in his own eyes, but he ignores them, pressing one hand to Dean’s shoulder and the other to the back of his head, holding him close. He shakes his head. “There is nothing to apologize for.” And he means it, whether Dean is apologizing for toppling the bookshelf or for forgetting he is safe or for needing reassurance. “Nothing at all.”

Dean’s breath is hot against his chest. He sucks in a breath. “I know you won’t – you said you won’t – hurt m–” he shudders, chokes on the words. “I’m sorry. I’m trying, I’m trying, but I can’t sleep, and I – My head is so messed up – ”

Castiel’s heart aches for him, a pang so deep that it feels like a dagger in his chest. Dean so desperately wants to believe he’s safe, and so clearly cannot, and it’s tearing him apart. Even now, he’s hyperventilating, his hands fisted in Castiel’s shirt, his head pressed to his chest while his body jumps and shivers at the contact, waiting for pain that isn’t going to come. 

“You can trust me, Dean,” he says, but Dean flinches like he’s been slapped.

Scent darkening with shame and fear, Dean starts to pull away, but Castiel won’t – can’t – let him go, not so soon, and the omega squirms half-heartedly for just a brief moment before he goes slack again, panting against him.

“You’re safe here, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it,” he says, and the words are a promise that comes from somewhere inside his very soul, a rumble deep in his chest. But Dean, inconsolable, just cries harder, his breath coming in short gasps, and it’s all Castiel can do not to shake his shoulders to snap him out of his panicked state of mind. As it is, he grips Dean closer to his chest, and rather than being reassured he starts to panic more, shaking his head and turning away as far as Castiel will allow him to go.

Guided by some instinct he cannot explain, he bends down further, exposing his throat. When he guides Dean’s nose toward the crook of his neck, the omega makes a sharp, panicked noise, attempting to pull away in earnest, terror spiking his scent again. And Castiel can’t. 

“Dean, breathe,” he growls firmly, his voice foreign and commanding and dominant. 

Dean, abruptly, goes slack. 

And does. 

The omega inhales once, sharp and frantic. Then, after a beat, he does again, and again, and then he’s surging up to press his nose on Castiel’s scent gland just behind his ear, his breath hot against the sensitive spot. It makes him shiver, something curling at the base of his spine.

Castiel hopes that he’s smelling safety. Security. Biologically, he’s telling Dean what he needs to hear, even when he can’t logically believe it. This – what they’re doing – is incredibly intimate. He has no ill intentions, but he’s still aware. This close, he could scent Dean right back, could bend just a few inches and press his nose into the scent glands at his nape. Could stroke him there, if he wanted, could make the omega smell like him. 

He doesn’t. 

He wants to. 

The primal urge frightens him.

It’s not the first time he’s touched Dean. It’s not even the first time he’s held him. However, it is the first time he’s been pushy, the first time he’s made Dean do anything at all. He hadn’t meant to use his alpha voice, but to be honest he’s not sure he’d have been able to stop it if he’d wanted to. Something inside of him had snapped, had not been able to deal with Dean’s panic and fear for one more second, and had taken control. 

He has unquestionably broken Dean’s trust by doing so. 

Castiel is worried that he’s gone too far, that Dean will be afraid of him anew when this is over and the shock of pheromones and fear wears off. But, in this moment of sudden stillness, he can’t make himself regret his actions. 

The fact of the matter is that Dean has had far too little positive touch in his life, and he obviously craves it, needs it in a way that Castiel has never been in the position to understand. How hellish it must have been, to need to be touched and then to be trapped in a place where the only people around to do so were the ones who wanted to hurt you? To want it so badly and yet be afraid to accept it, even from someone like Castiel, who has sworn up and down to keep him safe?

Dean seems to be having no such trouble now. He nestles in closer, pulling Castiel toward him like he’s afraid the alpha will try and move away – as though he would ever want to. Castiel doesn’t have to command him again, because the omega is doing it all on his own now.

Omegas are no more driven by biology than any of the other designations, but it is true that they tend to crave physical comfort above other forms. Scenting, warmth, comfort items. The center has had good results with massage therapy, with weighted blankets. They encourage omegas to reach out and seek comfort, and he’s seen it work wonders with even their most fragile cases. So it’s not odd to him that Dean needs this – he’s carried around that pillow often enough that Castiel knows he has a deep, pressing need for familiarity and comfort. 

It’s just baffling that Castiel is able to provide it, that Dean would allow him in any capacity to do so. He acknowledges and tries to push away the bizarre joy he’s feeling right now, ignoring the smug alpha inside of him that’s panting happily at the way Dean is soaking up his scent. It’s the same strange buzz of energy he got during his conversation with Balthazar; an odd, primal feeling of strength and pride. 

That part of his brain isn’t helpful, and it isn’t what Dean needs. 

His breathing has grown even and deep against Castiel, his nose still buried behind his ear, his chin in the crook of his neck. The only reason he knows that Dean isn’t asleep is the tense way his arms are still holding Castiel close. 

He waits for the fear scent, for Dean to cover the nape which Castiel is perilously close to touching, but he gets neither. His scent is still shame and sorry, not much better but at least far away from terror.

Unlike the last time they did this, Dean doesn’t pull himself together and retreat red faced from the room after he calms down. Instead, his body simply goes limp. He hides in Castiel’s neck when he tries to pull back and look at the omega, holding him tighter so that Castiel cannot move him far enough away to see his face. So he sits still and strokes his hair for a long time, waiting until Dean relaxes completely against him.

“Did the bookshelf trigger that?”

Dean half laughs, an awful sound. His voice is quiet and rough, worn out from crying and pleading with invisible and terrifying ghosts. 

“One time I, uh. I broke a headboard. They’d – he’d –” He falters, hands tightening and pulling at Castiel’s shirt, and Castiel rubs his hands up and down the omega’s back gently to keep him in the present. He lets out a sharp breath against Castiel’s collarbone. 

“He left me there. For days,” he chokes. “I was hungry. I was thirsty. I didn’t know when he was coming back. So I kicked the shit out of the wood until it broke, and I slipped free.”

Castiel swells with pride and sympathy, the two emotions hitting him like twin tsunamis. 

“I didn’t even try and run, that time. I just wanted some water. He found me in the bathroom.” Dean shudders, his shoulder blades drawing together in remembered pain. “Chained me up out in the shed, arms up, feet barely on the floor, and he –” 

He chokes off, can’t finish the sentence, but Castiel can fill in the gaps when Dean reaches up and brushes his fingers against his nape, hands shaking. “It was– ” He takes a deep, calming breath, clearly trying to steer himself away from the edge.

“I thought I was gonna die, Cas.”

His voice breaks on Castiel’s name and he tightens his grip around the omega’s shoulders. “Never again, Dean. I can promise you that.” He doesn't know if the omega believes him. He hopes so.

But Dean does not look up at him. There is no moment of disbelieving joy, no spark of hope in his gaze. He simply breathes against his chest and lets the silence answer.