22. White Cedar

“Cas?”

Castiel doesn’t look up from his spreadsheet right away, distracted by a sequence of numbers that aren’t behaving. These easy conversations with Dean are growing more and more commonplace, each day that passes helping him grow bolder and more sure of himself. By now, he’s used to Dean’s gentle attempts at small talk, used to his somewhat timid questions and observations, all of which he’s brave enough to share on his own. 

He hums. “Yes, Dean?”

There’s a long enough pause for it to sink in that this is unlikely to be about what they’ll be eating for dinner or some innocuous question about his books, and he just has time to look up before Dean asks,

“Why am I here with you?”

Castiel leans back from his computer, rolling back his chair until he can see the man clearly. The omega has been leaning against the side of his desk for close to an hour, quietly relaxing and absorbing the sunshine that pours into his office from a window he’s never been more grateful for. Now, though, Dean is looking up at him with a determined expression that is quickly becoming familiar, some combination of nervous insecurity and stubborn bravery that never fails to make his heart ache. 

“Not that I…” Dean clears his throat, a light blush dusting his cheeks. “Not that I don’t want to be. You know that. But how come you’ve never fostered anyone but me?”

Castiel contemplates his words before he says them, determined to tell Dean the whole truth this time. “Traditionally, slaves – and honestly, omegas in general – don’t do well around un-bonded alphas. So we’ve never tried to have alphas foster.” That’s not the only reason, not by far, but it’s the biggest one. He hopes Dean will understand what he means, and he seems to. The young man’s face is all too knowing. 

“As for why you’re here, though,” Castiel continues, “instead of at the main campus where Balthazar and Pamela work – we recently took in a large number of omegas, and the law states that a property can only house so many slaves at any given time. We were going to be over-capacity at the facility, which would put all of those omegas at risk of being repossessed.” Dean nods, and, encouraged that he at least understands the basics of slave-law, Cas continues. “Normally, our staff and network of fosterers take any excess residents into their homes temporarily, but we’re over-full even there right now because of the recent bombings.”

Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “Bombings?”

It strikes Castiel like a slap that Dean likely has no idea what happened to him that night. No understanding of the anti-slave movement, or about the divide between his side – the ones who are working to change the laws and save as many people harmed by the trade as they can in the meantime – and the side of the religious extremists, people so vehemently against the sex trade that they’ll kill slaves right along with their masters just to hurt the market. 

And as isolated as he’d been, it’s doubtful that Dean has any knowledge about the changing tide of omega rights, the cases that, in the last few years, have gone as high as the supreme court that have started to redefine how omegas should be treated. There’s so much that he’s missed after a decade as a slave, half that as a captive in the highest degree. He’d been cut off completely from the outside world. And the mere fact that Dean has never asked for clarification before now shows how damaging that time has been to his psyche. 

“Several… brothels… in the state were hit the same week that Hell was,” he says after a too-long pause – one in which Dean has grown visibly nervous. “Not all of the bombs were as damaging as the one that hit Hell. Many of the slaves in those places were voluntarily sold to auction houses because their owners no longer had the facilities to support them legally. And if they weren’t sold, they were repossessed by the state because their masters violated the law by trying to keep them.” 

They’d made many of those calls themselves, Jody keeping a careful eye on the shambles of the brothels and feeding tips to her friends in law enforcement. Once the slaves had been repossessed and put back up for auction, they’d swooped in. 

“Wait. Wait," Dean demands, and Castiel does, falling silent so that the omega can pick through what he’s said. He’s reeling, clearly shocked by the information.  “I thought – who bombed them? Why did they bomb them?”

Suspicions confirmed, Castiel swallows. He tries to make his scent calming beforehand, well aware that what he’s about to tell Dean is likely to scare him. “There are…” He hesitates. “There are groups that are very zealous about their hatred of sexual slavery. Religious fundamental extremists. They want to outlaw the practice, but they also want to…”

“Kill us,” Dean finishes dully when Castiel can’t, not nearly as much fear as he had anticipated in his tone. “Right. ‘Cause we chose it.”

The thing is, Dean doesn’t sound sarcastic. He sounds like he means it, looks like he means it as he folds his arms around himself, making his body small. Castiel wants more than anything to pull at that thread, to hear the story of how Dean ended up where he was, but he stops himself. Now isn’t the time, nor is it his place. 

The omega half laughs, shakes his head angrily. “Can you believe I thought it was because of – because of him? I thought he’d pissed off the wrong person, stuck his fingers in too many pies or… or something. But of course not.” His words lose their ire as he repeats them. “Of course not.”

Dean looks up at him, some guarded emotion swirling in his eyes. “What about me? How’d I end up back at auction?” 

Castiel hesitates, but he firmly reminds himself that Dean is entitled to this information. He won’t hide it from him, even if he is beginning to suspect that it will bring Dean more turmoil than comfort.

“From what I understand, you went unclaimed.” He pauses, but Dean doesn’t react – he forges forward. “After a 72-hour waiting period you became a ward of the state automatically. That often happens with slaves that are found and picked up by law enforcement, but aren’t reclaimed by owners in time.” 

Dean is stiff as a stone now, his shoulders beyond tense as he listens to Castiel spell out his ordeal with his eyes in his lap. And as much as he wants to stop, Castiel keeps going, knowing that hiding things from Dean will only make it worse. “Then, in most cases – this one included – the state sells the slaves back to the auction houses, usually within a few hours.” He pauses. “That’s part of the reason why it took so long for us to purchase you. We knew that a slave had survived the blast, but we couldn’t move to bid until the waiting period given to your… original master expired.”

“They… gave him a waiting period.” Dean’s voice is thin, but there’s no real emotion there – not yet. “I heard the handlers saying I was the only one left,” he says after a moment, his tone carefully neutral. “They just meant slaves?”

Castiel frowns. “As far as I know. Why?”

The blood drains from Dean’s face, and a serpent of fear makes its way over to Castiel, potent and sour. He bolts to attention – but the omega’s expression is utterly blank.  

“Dean?”

His voice is terrible and small. “What about my master?”

It clicks into place, then, and Castiel feels like an idiot for not knowing exactly what Dean’s fear would be. 

He abandons his chair, aligns himself in front of Dean to ground him, get him back in the present. Dean doesn’t react in the slightest to his proximity – he is stiff, frozen, eyes too wide and breath too shallow. 

“I didn’t read the news reports, so I… I don’t know,” Castiel says truthfully. He’d been far more concerned with the slaves’ side of things, and had frankly been uninterested in whether or not the master had survived. The only reason he’d given that alpha any thought at all was to hope that he wouldn’t pick Dean up before the waiting period expired. 

“Dean,” he soothes, heart beginning to race at the mere scent of Dean’s fear, at his bone-white face and drawn up knees. “If your old master was indeed inside, it is very unlikely that he lived. The building, from what I saw on the news, was rubble. It was a miracle you survived.”

Dean lets out a strangled laugh. “Miracle? I wasn’t even in there! I was chained to the post in the shed – I had no fucking clue what was happening! It was all black, and – and I thought I was gonna freeze to death – then there was so much fire, and I thought I was gonna burn to death –” 

One hand snaps up to cover his mouth, the other reaches up to tangle in the hair at the back of his head, and Dean cuts himself off. Abrupt and sharp and merciless. He’s visibly struggling to keep all of that hurt and pain inside of him, eyes screwed shut, hands trembling. 

Castiel curses himself for his careless comment. Dean’s pleas to not be left outdoors make perfect, sickening sense – what he’s describing had clearly not been the first time he’d been hurt in that way, punished in that way. 

Slowly, he reaches out again to take Dean’s hand in his own, pulling it gently away from the tight grip he has on his hair. He squeezes it. “I’m sorry.” He waits for Dean to breathe again, his eyes still closed, his hand shaking in Castiel’s grip as he tries desperately to keep his emotions in check. “But you do not belong to him anymore. There is nothing he could do to you, not now.”

“But – but he’ll – he’ll find me,” Dean whispers, hysteria twisting thorns into his tone with frightening speed. “He’ll figure out I’m alive and he’ll – he’s–”

“He will never hurt you again,” Castiel snaps. 

Dean’s eyes jump open, his hand still over his mouth. He stares at Castiel – eyes wide, and green, and red-rimmed. And though he doesn’t want to frighten Dean any further with his sledge-hammer alpha aggression, he can’t help but snarl, “I would kill him myself before I let him touch you.”

The rage in his voice shocks him. But even as he hopes that he hasn’t scared Dean, he realizes that the words are absolutely true. 

Dean doesn’t look frightened, though – he looks relieved. He closes his eyes again, his palm gripping Castiel’s hand, and his fear scent recedes the smallest possible amont. “You mean that, Cas?”

“I do.”

Dean is frozen for another moment – then he exhales, shuddering, and the hand that has been clasped over his mouth flutters up and covers his eyes instead. It isn’t fast enough to hide that they’re wet.  “C-Can you – I, uh.” He swallows, the noise thick in the quiet of the room. “I need– I mean, I want–” 

He cuts himself off, jaw working, but Castiel can easily guess what he means. Kneeling down properly, his knees bracketing Dean’s slight frame, he lays a gentle hand right below Dean’s nape and pulls him in. He’s careful to keep the pressure light so that Dean can move away if he wants to, but the omega relaxes immediately, shoulders slumping. He curls forward and drops his forehead onto Castiel’s chest. Inhales audibly. And as ill-advised as their scent bond might be, Castiel is glad for it now, because the sharp edges of Dean’s fear round out almost instantly.

“You are safe here,” he says firmly, perhaps a little of his alpha tone creeping in; Dean doesn’t seem to have any reaction to it other than a shudder of relief. 

But his scent is still swirling with the remnants of his fear, and Castiel wishes that he could read the young man’s mind to find exactly what he needs to hear. He can’t, though, so he just guesses. “You don’t think he would have sold you, given the circumstances? He lost everything.” 

It would have made sense, financially. The alpha’s business was in shambles, the majority of his stock – not to mention clientele – gone in the flames. The income from even one sold slave would have been better than nothing.

“I think he would’a killed me himself before letting me go,” he mumbles into Castiel’s shirt, shame suffocating his words, dampening even the terror in his scent. “Put too much work into making me his perfect little bitch.”

Anger flares in Castiel at the acceptance in Dean’s tone, at the man who’d put it there. He’s careful to marshal it back under control as quickly as possible, taking a deep breath and rubbing Dean’s back a little more firmly. 

He can’t imagine what it would take to break this man down into the pieces he’d been in when Castiel had first seen him; to warp him from rebellion and defiance into exhausted submission and flat, constant dread. Suddenly, fiercely, he wishes that Dean’s former master was alive so that he could kill him himself.

And with that realization comes another: 

The trust Dean has in him is utterly terrifying. That he can even be comforted by an alpha at all is a miracle, and Castiel has no idea how he got lucky enough to be the one to do it. All he knows – utterly knows – is that he has no choice anymore. Not that he ever really had one in the first place. 

He has to protect Dean in the exact way he deserves to be protected, whether he thinks he can or not.  

“Do you know his name?”

Dean shudders, his hands bunching in the fabric of Castiel’s shirt. “He didn’t let me call him by his name, Cas. Master or the whip.”

The last words are strangled, but rote, like he’s heard them many times before, and this time Castiel can’t keep the flare of anger contained, can’t help it when his lip raises up from his teeth in a snarl at the memory of Dean’s whip-marked spine. Dean doesn’t jerk away, though – just stiffens a little before Castiel gets a handle on it, and then relaxes again. Perhaps he is more reassured by the fury than frightened by it, perhaps he understands that it isn’t directed at him – but Castiel still hates himself for giving Dean even a moment of pause. And then he takes in a deep, fortifying breath. 

“Alastair.” 

He whispers the name like a curse, like the mere sound could summon him – and in that tiny word alone, Castiel can hear the echo of thousands of moments of pain and terror and shame. Dean swallows. “I, uh. I heard clients calling him that. Dunno his last name.”

“That’s enough for me to do some research,” Castiel promises, rubbing his hand up and down Dean’s back comfortingly. And he will do some digging, as much as he can. He doesn’t know if he’ll find anything – brothel owners keep themselves anonymous to avoid retaliation, and, on top of that, the so called victims of attacks like Hell endured are never identified, whether they live or not. Some misguided attempt by the government to protect them from further violence, should they survive. But the tip about Dean himself had come from an inside source, and so it’s possible that the information is out there somewhere.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it turns out that the man is alive. If he hadn’t tried to retrieve Dean within the three-day waiting period, it’s unlikely that he ever intends to do so – not that he legally could now. But that will bring no comfort to Dean, terrified out of his mind by a man who spent years making his life a living nightmare. 

“It doesn’t matter either way in regards to your safety, Dean. I meant that.”

Dean nods, a little hitching motion, and Castiel can’t tell if it’s genuine belief in his words or not that causes him to do so. 

And after a bare few minutes of comfort – far less than Dean really needs – the omega pulls himself away, wiping the back of his hand over his eyes quickly. There is steel in his jaw, and even though his fear is still very much a tangible presence in the room, he huffs a short breath out of his nose and shakes his head as though he thinks himself ridiculous. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, his eyes cast away. “Know it sucks for you when I’m… when I wig out like that.”

“Dean,” Castiel says, almost exasperated by the omega’s misplaced concern for him. “Please don’t apologize to me for a perfectly reasonable reaction.”

Dean’s mouth tightens. “No point in it, though,” he mutters. But when it looks like he’s about to say more, to talk down on himself further, Castiel simply lets out a frustrated breath and pulls him in again. 

At first, he’s concerned that this is crossing a line, that he is yet again pushing too far. But, to his relief, Dean goes willingly, not even putting up a token protest. He just snakes his arms around Castiel’s middle and breathes in his scent at the crook of his shoulder, sagging against him.

“You are unimaginably brave,” he can’t help but say, tightening his hold when Dean makes a disbelieving noise. “So brave,” he repeats, firmer this time, his tone booking no argument at all. 

Dean swallows thickly, nestles in closer, and doesn't protest again. 

For once, Dean doesn’t deny himself the urge to pull all the blankets and pillows off of his bed and arrange them just so in between the bed frame and the wall when he turns in for the night. He figures he’s earned this little act of insanity, after tonight. After learning that Alastair might still be out there. 

His stomach twists, but he just scrunches his nose and takes in Castiel’s warm scent off his shirt, remembers the feeling of the alpha’s hand below his nape. His panic reluctantly slithers back into the shadows. 

It’s not gone completely, of course. Probably won’t ever be, not unless Alastair really is dead. But he feels okay enough – and determined enough – to be able to push it back.

If he’s gonna have nightmares – and man, is he – he might as well make it as obvious as he can that he’s not in Hell when he wakes up. No better way to do that than this, other than maybe sleeping next to Cas. 

And isn’t that a thought. He shakes his head. 

It’s absurdly cathartic to push and tuck blankets and pillows into the little nooks and crannies of his hidey-hole, beyond comforting to curl into his nest of pillows and blankets with the one quilt he usually allows himself draped over him from head to toe. It’s still daytime – the sun hasn’t even begun to set – but he and Cas had eaten an early dinner, and he knows by now that he’ll be alone until morning. So he indulges his weird little urges far more than he ever has before, far more than he probably should. 

Especially considering that Cas apparently thinks he’s sleeping on the bed still. 

Before they’d eaten, he’d asked Dean if he needed to wash the sheets, and he’d almost slipped up by telling him no. Luckily, he’d caught himself just in time, and he’d followed Cas around as he’d stripped Dean’s bed and dumped it in the washer with a frankly insane amount of fabric softener. Dean had only noticed after that it was a brand made especially for omegas – scent neutral. 

It had struck him then how many little things Cas has done for him to make his life more comfortable. He remembers that first terrifying night here, how scared he’d been when Cas had opened the bathroom door to give him the very hoodie he’s wearing now. Only recently had it occurred to him that Cas had not touched those clothes, had made an effort to leave them in a bag so they wouldn’t smell like him. Cas must have also been careful not to go into his room – a room in his own house – so that it didn’t smell like an alpha when he arrived. 

Cas does stuff like that for him all the time. Speaks softly, announces his presence wherever he goes. Frequently asks for his preference when they eat, always asks permission to enter his room. And as he lays here in his nest of blankets and pillows – all of which do smell like Cas, now, probably intentionally so, since he knows they’re bonded and knows how much it helps Dean – he feels a sharp stinging in the back of his eyes. 

The alpha had helped him make his bed. Had lingered after they were finished, eyeing Dean like he was worried about him, like he wanted to offer to stay. But when Dean had said nothing, he’d eventually left him alone, if only with a firm reminder to come downstairs if he wanted company.

Christ, he’s so fucking lucky. 

Dean could happily spend the rest of his days just like this. After all, it’s the happiest he’s been in years, the safest he’s been since he was a little kid. It’s such a far cry from his life with Alastair that he feels like a different person, almost (but not quite) like the Dean from that time was some poor bastard that he can’t relate to anymore. 

He would be content to live this way forever. He has a feeling, though, that what he sees as the pinnacle of his existence is just the beginning of what Cas wants him to do with his new life. 

The thought scares him. He’s acting like he’s free – but he isn’t. And the line is getting so blurred that, one of these days, he might manage to forget completely that he is still owned. That he can still be hurt and punished and have everything taken away from him at a moment’s notice. 

He’s beyond worrying that Cas will ever do that to him, but he isn’t the only alpha Dean will ever interact with again. At this point, he’s terrified that he won’t remember how to be a slave at all when he’s finally expected to be one again. Alphas in general usually expect omegas, especially omega slaves, to behave a certain way; hell, most betas wouldn’t let Dean act like he does here. 

And if Alastair finds him… 

He tries to chase that thought off, tries to curl tighter into the blankets and enjoy the warmth and peace all around him. He even feels himself drifting off once or twice as the sun sets and the moon rises. But every time sleep tries to take him, a memory of his former master creeps into his head, clawing and twisting up his peace until he’s not sure if he’s going to be able to sleep at all. There’s a low, constant dread in his bones, buzzing just loudly enough that he can’t ignore it. 

By the time he gives up completely, the moon is high in the sky.

There’s a small ping somewhere to the left of him, and it startles him so badly that he jerks upright, nearly scrambling all the way to his knees. But it’s just his phone, of course. His phone, which Cas gave to him free of charge. He’s been plugging it very carefully into the outlet next to his bed, mindful of Castiel’s warning that it would need to be charged frequently to work. 

Heart still pounding, he fumbles with it for a moment before he remembers how to unlock it, and when he does he’s greeted with a little bubble on the screen with Cas’s name in it. 

Are you asleep, Dean?

He reads and re-reads it a few times before it makes sense. Closing his eyes, he blows a slow breath out of his mouth and waits until his shoulders relax. Afraid of a friggin’ phone, dammit.

He pokes at the thing till he’s sure he’s actually replying to Cas’s message, self-conscious about how long it takes. 

wide awake.

He sends it off, then waits for a reply, his nose a scant two inches from the screen, the blanket over his head. It appears a few seconds later. 

Oh. 

I’m glad I didn’t wake you. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, weirdly giddy from such a normal conversation. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since he was able to use a phone at all. He’d seen other people use them, of course – his masters’ phones had evolved with the times over the years, obviously. But the only thing Dean had been worried about was if they’d been using those phones to record him. Not that he could have done anything about it. 

It’s just such a… such a normal thing. Probably the most normal thing he’s had in a decade. Cas didn’t need to get him a phone, but he did, and now Dean can ostensibly call or text anyone he wants. It doesn’t really matter that he doesn’t know how to use the thing, or that he’s got a grand total of three contacts. It’s the gesture that makes his stomach flutter with some emotion he doesn’t understand, makes him want to thank Cas any way the alpha will let him. 

Makes it to where it’s almost possible to put Alastair out of his mind completely. 

After a while, three little dots appear and then disappear, appear and then disappear. Dean figures that’s some sort of indication that Cas is typing, and he watches them avidly.

How are you feeling?

Dean snorts. Scared out of his mind? Confused as hell? Terrified of his future? 

im ok.

He bites his lip. Decides he can afford to be a little more honest. 

well. as ok as i ever am i guess.

cant sleep.

Cas doesn’t wait long to reply. 

You are welcome down in the living room.

Dean feels a smile tugging at his face, feels his chest lighten. Cas had only told him the same thing about fifty times before he left after dinner, and Dean’s gotta wonder if the alpha is just as interested in his company as Dean is interested in his, considering what time it is.

Before he can think better of it, he extricates himself from his cocoon of bedding and pads downstairs, snagging a blanket to wrap around his shoulders as he goes. 

Cas looks up at him right away when he tentatively inches through the arch that makes up the doorway. He looks sleep-rumpled, hair in every direction and clothes wrinkled. His phone is gripped in both hands. But when he sees Dean, he smiles, the expression genuinely pleased, and some of the tension fades from his shoulders. 

“Would you like some tea?”

Dean’s never drank tea in his life. But he nods anyway, smart enough to recognize that Cas probably just wants to feel proactive. He used to be the same way with Sam, when the kid was sick or even just feeling down – constantly moving, cooking and cleaning and hovering a little too much. But it had made him feel important, made him feel like he was actually helping when he could get Sam to eat something, to drink his favorite hot cocoa; to laugh at a story, a joke. 

He settles down against the couch, already more at ease with Cas’s scent curling around him. Eyes drooping, he relaxes, listening to the faint noises of Cas bumbling around in the kitchen, the low murmur of the television in front of him, nearly inaudible. 

Cas’s low voice startles him a little, and he jumps. “It’s warm – be careful,” he says, handing Dean a mug. It’s got a goose with an honest to God bow-tie on it, like the old lady dishes he used to find in droves at the thrift store. It makes him grin. 

Oblivious, Cas settles in next to him. Their knees are touching. Just for something to do, Dean takes a sip of his tea. 

His grimace must show on his face – Castiel chuckles. The sound is so gentle that Dean doesn’t feel a hint of nervousness about being so obviously ungrateful. “Chamomile. It’s not for everyone.”

“Tastes like a candle,” Dean admits, holding the mug in both his hands anyway. It’s warm. He blows on the steam. Gives in, and asks, “How come you ain’t asleep, Cas?”

The alpha makes a low noise, sipping on his own tea. “I could ask you the same.”

“Yeah, but you know why I can’t sleep.” 

Cas has a small, sad smile on his face. He’s looking at Dean out of the corner of his eye. “I suppose so,” he admits, taking another long sip.

Dean nudges his knee with his own; insistent, for some reason, even though he’s nervous to push. There are bags under the alpha’s eyes that he doesn’t like, wrinkles in his forehead he doesn’t like, and he’s gotta know why they’re there, all of a sudden – gotta know what could be so bad that it could get under the skin of an alpha like Cas. “What gives?”

With a sigh, Cas lowers his mug. “I’m not sure, honestly. This is not out of the ordinary, though. I am not what you would call a… routine sleeper.” 

“Insomnia?” Dean asks, the word tasting strange in his mouth. It’s a term from a long time ago, some half remembered vocabulary from his childhood that by all rights shouldn’t be in his brain anymore. But it is, and Castiel nods slowly. “You do this a lot, then?”

Cas quirks his mouth into something like a smile, something like a grimace. “Yes. I do this a lot.”

Suddenly, Dean can identify the feeling that’s been curling into his chest for the last few minutes. 

It’s curiosity. 

It’s… weird. He’s had no reason to be curious about much of anything in a long, long time. He's dreaded things, and he’s waited for things, and he’s worried about things. But he hasn’t had the luxury of being curious for a while now. To do that, he’d need to have a second to breathe, to feel safe enough to care about anything except his own safety and continued survival. 

He has that time, now. And he finds that, more than anything, he wants to understand the man sitting on the ground next to him. Wants to know what’s keeping him awake, so he can put it to sleep. 

Unfortunately, Cas doesn’t seem all that open to being psychoanalyzed, right now: he sighs and reaches back to plunk his mug down on the side table instead of answering Dean’s unspoken question. The shadows under his eyes seem as obvious as bruises. Dean has to wonder how long they’ve been there. Wonders why it took him so long to notice. 

“Is it… me?” he asks after a while, clearing his throat. “I mean, like. I know it makes you all…” he makes a vague fluttery motion with his hand, “when I’m nervous. I didn’t mean to...”

“It isn’t that at all, Dean,” Cas says, shaking his head. His mouth is pressed into a frown. 

Dean stares at him. Hard. “Really?” he asks, skepticism clear in his tone even though he probably shouldn’t be so friggin’ obvious about it. 

Cas opens his mouth, probably to argue… and then he deflates. A little sheepish, he rubs his hand on the back of his neck. “Well. Perhaps a little.” He looks over at Dean ruefully. “I had no idea that it would affect me to this degree.”

Guilt worms its way into Dean’s stomach. Just like him to crash land in someone else’s life and fuck it up. And he isn’t even allowed to be ashamed, apparently, because Cas gives him a sharp look a moment later, his eyes narrowed. 

“You cannot help how you feel, and I won’t have you apologizing for it,” he says, almost cold with how serious he’s being. “If you think our suffering is in any way comparable–”

“It’s not the goddamn trauma olympics, Cas,” Dean bites out, angry without exactly knowing why. He’s entitled to be fucking worried about someone, isn’t he? He’s entitled to care? Or is his life still so fucked up that it’s laughable to think he can possibly do anything to help anyone else?

He closes his eyes, presses his lips together so nothing else stupid comes out of them. Who the fuck does he think he is? Cas doesn’t need his help. No one needs his fucking help.

Castiel’s hand on his isn’t a surprise, at this point. But his words still sort of are. “I’m sorry,” he starts, his words soft and so genuine that Dean can hardly stand it. “I only meant that…” he takes in a breath. “That you shouldn’t berate yourself for hurting, Dean. Or blame yourself for my lack of experience in handling these… instincts.” 

Dean looks over at him – he’s frowning down at their joined hands. Cas looks… he looks lost, if Dean had to put a word to it. And sure, Dean’s been through some shit. But that doesn’t mean that what Cas is going through doesn’t matter, doesn’t mean that he isn’t allowed to be confused or complain about things he doesn’t understand – things that, sometimes, Dean thinks might actually scare him. 

Cas is trying to act like the only one who’s allowed to suffer is Dean, and that just isn’t the truth. So he takes a deep breath and pushes all his bullshit to the side, at least for a little while. Buries the uncertainty and the guilt and the fear. Finds that little nugget of a calm center that he’s carried with him all this time, and brushes the dust off. 

Initially, Cas stiffens when Dean leans against him. He’s obviously surprised, and with good reason – Dean ain’t exactly been the one to reach out first for this kind of stuff, not since Balthazar came over. But he does now, twining his fingers with the alpha’s and reminding himself that he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe. 

And the more he says it, the more he breathes in this house and these books and Cas, the more he believes it. And the more he believes it, the more Cas relaxes against him, too, till he’s got his head leaning on top of Dean’s own. It’s a comfortable weight. 

They both sigh out, long and low. 

“Would you… would it be helpful, I mean. If...” Cas starts and then stops, weirdly hesitant. It’s a sharp contrast from his alpha mode from before, so different from the way he seems to automatically take charge whenever Dean is freaking the hell out. He seems almost scared; Dean can hear him swallow, he’s so close. 

“Probably, yeah,” he says after a moment, trusting that whatever he has in mind is probably in his best interest. 

Castiel laughs a little, but he complies; after a moment’s hesitation, he maneuvers Dean until he’s got his arm wrapped around his shoulders. Dean’s a big fan – no doubt about it – but he needs a little more, so he just slumps until he’s pretty much horizontal, his body still wrapped in the blanket enough that he’s got a flimsy barrier between himself and Cas. When he drops his cheek against Cas’s thigh, facing away, the alpha just rests his arm on top of Dean’s chest and holds his hand, the long line of him warm against Dean's ribs. He can’t suppress a pleasant shiver when his other hand reaches up to card through his hair. 

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas rumbles after a while, his voice warm and relaxed. 

Dean’s asleep before he can reply.