23. Black Pear Tree

Dean wakes up on the couch with sunlight on his face. 

Being off the floor doesn’t spark panic in him, for once. He blinks slowly, shifting slightly under the blanket draped over him. He’s warm, and he’s comfortable. Nestling his cheek into the pillow Cas must have brought downstairs for him with a small noise of satisfaction, he closes his eyes against the bright morning sun and breathes out a long sigh. 

Nothing has been solved, not really. Dean still has no idea whether or not Alastair is alive, whether he’s looking for him. But whatever magic Cas had worked last night seems to have extended into the morning anyway – he’s so calm that he feels like syrup. 

He doesn’t hear Cas in the kitchen, so he figures he must have finally gone to bed at some point in the night and is still sleeping. Dean only vaguely remembers waking up himself, being shuffled onto the couch, the alpha’s warm hands tucking the blanket around him. In any other situation, he would have woken up fighting – kicking, clawing, biting, trying his absolute damnedest to be sure that no alpha could get a hand on his neck. Not without a fight. As per usual, though, nothing about Cas had rung his alarm bells, and he’d been totally content to let the dude manhandle him. 

He can’t say he minds all that much. 

Eventually, he pulls himself from the sofa, stretches his arms over his head, and pads upstairs for a shower. He expertly avoids his reflection as he undresses – same thing he’s done every day since the first night he was here – and hops in, the warm water cascading over his shoulders and head. He scrubs up without really looking down at himself, still unprepared to see what his body looks like in the bright bathroom light. At least the bruises from the cane are gone. Nothing but a bad memory now. 

Even that is enough to make his stomach roll, so he forces himself to think about something else. Mainly, about Cas. 

He knows basically nothing about the dude. The realization has come over him slowly, over the past few days. Now that he’s not in danger all the time, now that he has time to think, he’s sort of realized that Castiel is a complete mystery to him. Not that he’s really asked for any details about his life. Dean’s had a few other things to worry about. 

He knows very little, but he tries to list it off in his head. Cas is well off, obviously, and has been for his whole life, according to what Balthazar told him. He’s an unmated alpha at an age where most people have paired off, if they’re ever going to. He spends all his time working on the computer, lives out in the middle of nowhere, and the only friends Dean has heard him mention seem to consist of an omega ex-slave, a doctor, and a therapist. All of whom he pays. Cas has not mentioned any family, has not said anything about how or where he grew up. Has not even told Dean, really, what he does at his job. 

Conversely, Cas knows a lot about Dean, if only through the dynamics of their relationship. He knows how many times Dean has run away and been caught, knows what he’s been trained to do, has seen the documentation of the worst injuries and the worst days of his life. He’s seen the sheer number of owners Dean’s had, knows he sold himself, knows the incalculable number of ways that he’s fucked up. 

Cas knows about Sammy. Not much, but he does know. The thought doesn’t spark the same raw panic in him that it had before, but it still makes him a little nauseous. He slides soap down his arms and hugs himself in the process, taking a deep breath. 

Dean hasn’t exactly asked the dude for his life story, so he can’t be upset about how little he knows. But just like last night, he feels curiosity unfurling in him, feels himself itching to learn. Itching to figure out why a dude like Cas, who has everything, would spend his time helping people who have nothing at all. Less than nothing at all. Why he would care in the first place about people like Dean, who should be nothing but gum under his shoe.  

The only way he’s going to know is if he asks. The thought makes something nervous, but not entirely unpleasant, flutter inside of him. 

When he finally hauls himself out of the shower and goes to his room, he beelines straight for his phone. He’d left it up here last night, and even though he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, he honestly just wants to look back at Castiel’s messages, wants to feel that little flutter of happiness and comfort that they’d elicited last night. But when he unlocks his phone, he’s startled to see messages from someone new. 

Balthazar had texted him about twenty minutes ago. He taps on the new conversation with a tiny trill of trepidation that intensifies into nausea when he reads it. 

nothing on that alastair bastard yet 

but ive got ppl on it

Dean swallows. Castiel had told him he would look – somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that that would mean he’d rope in other people. But he figures it makes sense. 

He bites his lip, looks down at the two little bubbles. Proof that there’s more people than just Cas who care about him, for no real reason other than that they can. His text back seems pitiful in comparison, but it’s all he can think to say.

thank you. 

thank me when we find smthng

cassie is looking 2, just so u kno

Dean closes his eyes. Makes himself tap out and send his next message, because he needs to know, even if he won’t like the answer.

what happens if hes alive

Bathazar’s replies shoot in like bullets. 

fuck all happens, winchester. 

hes got 0 right to u at this point

he didnt claim u within the window, so he has no case. 

Dean shudders. He’s so, so glad that he hadn’t. Hadn't shown up to the auction house, furious and smiling in that sick, empty way of his, looking for his favorite whipping boy. But there’s still that lingering voice inside of him, the whispering little hiss that tells him Alastair would never have let him go if he’d had the choice. That the man was not the type to let his toys out of his clutches, regardless of the cost. 

The alpha’s awful possessiveness is something he will never forget. The claws in his hair, holding his head down against his hips; the jerk of the chain on his collar when the man would drag him from his room to a client's for the night. The hand around his throat, on those nights his master had kept Dean to himself. The whispered, sour, mine that had slithered into Dean's ear like a venomous snake. 

So, no. Alastair wouldn’t have let him off easy. 

He prays that means he’s dead. Because the alternative means that Dean can only rely on slave law to keep him safe – not exactly something he’s got confidence in. Alastair didn’t give a shit about slave law. That had become more than clear the first time Dean had escaped. 

He should have been reported missing. It should have been capture-cops that found him, or bounty hunters. He should have gone to be retrained for a minimum of a few weeks. That had always been the case before. After all, slaves that weren’t brainwashed enough were dangerous. They had to be broken in again before being returned to the outside world. S,o Dean had been confident that he’d get at least some reprieve from Hell, some moments of torment that were at least a lower level of sadism than he’d come to know. 

Instead, it’d been one of Alastair’s gang that had caught him. And Dean had gone right back to Hell, no stops along the way.

His master hadn’t reported him missing – he’d hunted Dean himself. Dean knows for sure, now, because there’d been no reports of escape attempts in Alastair’s portion of the file.

Abbadon had been the one to catch him unaware - or, at least, the one sent to fetch him. She’d found his attempt at escape hilarious, had cornered him and snatched him up by the collar in an abandoned house he’d holed up in, had twisted it till he couldn’t breathe even to beg for air. She’d stabbed a needle into him that had knocked him out cold.

And then he’d woken up with a knife in his gut.

Dean shudders. He presses his hand protectively over his abdomen.

It must have been the same every other time he’d run, too. Alastair, he’s sure, had somehow hacked or bribed his way to the tracking database that cops and bounty hunters used to hunt runaways down. For whatever reason, he’d much preferred punishing Dean himself rather than letting the training centers do it.

That’s… well. Now that he thinks about it, that’s probably pretty important information. 

i ran three times when i was with him.

come again? 

no mention of THAT in ur file.

he didnt report it.

p sure he tracked me himself.

There’s a slight lull before Balthazar replies. His words, while a little harsh, do a lot to settle the anxiety twisting his stomach into knots.

wouldve been good 2 kno earlier. 

but that actually makes my job easier

puts his grubby little prints all over the network

He doesn’t explain how, but he doesn’t really need to. Dean trusts that Balthazar isn’t the type to offer up useless platitudes. So if he says it is a good thing, it probably is. 

speaking of

hows that new-tech learning curve coming along?

Dean huffs out a small laugh. It’s nice to talk to someone who has an idea of what he’s going through. Cas is great, obviously, but Balthazar has been there. Knows his fears, knows the cause of his fears better than Dean probably does himself. It’s a relief not to have to explain, for once. A relief not to have to deal with someone’s sympathy over something no one can change. 

The older omega knows exactly what it means that Alastair caught him himself, and understands that the fact that Dean had stopped running shows exactly how bad the man’s punishments had been. And rather than dig in, or make him relive it or talk about it, he’s changed the subject. 

not all that great. 

turns out a lot of stuff changes when you aint paying attention.

well ur typing. thats a start. 

did cassie tell u about google yet?

Dean frowns. He remembers Google – Cas doesn’t have to teach him about that. He’s not that clueless. He types his reply defensively, annoyed with the idea that Balthazar thinks he’s slow or something. 

i do remember some stuff. not totally stupid.

who said u were stupid? 

just wanted 2 kno if he showd u how to use it

Dean stares at the message for a second before he can comprehend it. He feels like he should be having some sort of reaction to that, but instead he feels a little blank. A little like he’s holding his breath. It’s probably a solid minute before he can type out,

what do you mean

i dont mess with his computer

Balthazar doesn’t answer him right away – the three dots appear and then disappear a few times. When the message does come through, it’s followed up by several more, popping on the screen one right after another. 

i meant u can google stuff on the phone 

its like a mini computer 

u can use the internet on it

he can show it 2 u 

Dean stares down at the little device in his hands. He’d known that phones had changed a lot since he last had one. He knows they can video stuff and take pictures that don’t look like shit, he knows they can play music. That’s all stuff he’s seen his masters do. But this – the idea that he has unlimited access to information – floors him. 

He can look up anything. Anything. 

That… does not seem like something he should be able to do. He feels, suddenly, like he’s doing something wrong, like he’s overstepped his bounds. Like he’s taking liberties he absolutely shouldn’t. 

Because he doesn’t have the right, does he? There’s no way that Cas would want him to do that. The alpha cares about him, sure, but there’s still some things that a slave just… doesn’t do. 

i cant do that.

He types out the message numbly, sends it numbly, not sure what else to say. But Balthazar’s responses are quick, like he’d expected Dean to reply that way and has been preparing an argument. 

yes u can 

cassie set it up with internet and he wants u 2 use it 

if u want 2

There’s a small pause, and then,

a lot has changed, winchester. u gotta rejoin the world at some point.

Dean swallows. He puts the phone down, then turns it over for good measure. And before he has to think about it, before he has to make any sort of choice, Cas turns on the morning news downstairs and gives him the perfect excuse not to.

He leaves the phone where it is, shoves his nerves down and away, and retreats downstairs for breakfast. 

“I was thinking that you might appreciate some more appropriate clothing.”

The alpha’s words are neutral, non-threatening as always, but they still make Dean’s stomach do a little flip.

Dean looks up from his bowl in surprise. Cas had opted for a simple breakfast, claiming that he didn’t want Dean to have to wash yet another pan. Dean’s just as happy with the cheerios as anything else. He’s nowhere near the point where he’s going to start being picky with food, bell peppers aside. His stomach is still unsettled after his and Balthazar’s discussion, anyway – this bland food is a blessing. Castiel munches his portion silently, waiting for Dean to respond with trademark patience. 

“I don’t need more clothes,” he says blankly. 

He’s got no complaints. He’s comfortable in these soft fabrics, plain as they are. They smell familiar. Comforting. The sweatpants and hoodies the alpha had given him are more than enough – he hasn’t even done the laundry yet. Cas did it himself a few days ago, and to Dean’s satisfaction that had meant that his scent had been all over his shirts and pants when he’d discovered them folded neatly on his bed. He’d had to stop thinking about that very fast and has carefully skirted around the idea that he enjoys smelling like Cas ever since. 

Being comforted by his scent is one thing. Carrying it around like a badge on his clothes is another. 

Cas raises one thick eyebrow at his outfit. “That sweatshirt is at least two sizes too large.” He pours more cereal into his bowl and offers the box to Dean, who shakes his head. “Besides, I meant that you might like to have clothes that aren’t strictly lounge wear. If nothing else, you need a proper winter jacket and some boots.”

The alpha doesn’t say it specifically, but he figures that means that he might want Dean to… go outside. It’s been so long since he’s looked at snow with anything but dread that he’s not sure how that will go. Probably badly, if he had to guess. 

“Oh.” He sounds stupid. Ungrateful. But he can’t do anything about it, because his throat feels like he’s been eating insulation instead of cheerios. “Uh. Okay.”

Cas cocks his head to the side. “You seem less enthusiastic than I’d anticipated.”

Dean ducks his head, and the alpha waits patiently for an explanation. Dean definitely owes him one. “I’m grateful for what I got, Cas,” he says helplessly, and Castiel’s expression softens. 

“That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve more,” he replies, gently insistent. 

Dean frowns down at the little o’s of cereal floating around in his bowl. He doesn’t deserve anything that Cas has done for him. And he knows without having to ask that the alpha doesn’t expect him to work off the cost of these gifts, either. It makes him feel strange. Just one more thing to add to his growing pile of debt.

Just one more reason he’d be absolutely destroyed if he ever went back to Alastair. The only reason he’d worn clothes there was so that an alpha would get the savage pleasure of ripping them off.

“You just gonna order some stuff, or what?”

“I was actually thinking we could go out and look in person.”

Dean feels his mouth go dry. “Go… like, go to the store?” Cas looks at him steadily. “Both of us?”

“Yes. If you’re ready for that.”

He isn’t. Jesus Christ, he isn’t. 

It’s been a really long time since he’s been out in society and he’s not sure he remembers how he’s supposed to act, how slaves are supposed to act in public. Most of his previous owners had kept him within the confines of their home – he wasn’t trustworthy enough to be an errand boy. Too much of a flight risk. 

He’s terrified that he’s going to fuck it up if they go out into the real world, that he’s going to embarrass Cas in some unforgivable way, get them both in trouble. 

But… 

He clenches his fists. Once upon a time, Dean might have been able to call himself brave. He’s fought, and he’s run, and he’s resisted for years. Being here, with Cas? Away from everything and everyone that could conceivably hurt him? It’s spoiled him. Made him forget that he’s not allowed to hide forever. 

A trip to a friggin’ department store shouldn’t be where he draws the line in the proverbial sand. He can tell that Cas wants this – the dude is probably getting stir crazy, locked up in the house with only him for company for the last couple of months. He owes it to the man to agree, to reward Cas’s hopeful look with an attempt to act normal. 

He has a feeling that he’ll regret it, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, okay. Let’s do that.”

Cas smiles. “I’ll go and get ready.” He pauses, frowns. “My shoes will be large on you, I think, but they’ll do until we can find something in your size.” Then he hesitates, looking at Dean carefully. “I also have a pair of jeans that may just fit you, at least with a belt, and a winter jacket. They’re both freshly washed, but…”

He doesn’t have to explain. Dean knows that they will smell like the alpha, and with anyone else that would disgust him – he’d feel claimed, feel like Castiel was being territorial. Instead, the idea that he’ll be carrying around the alpha’s scent brings him nothing but relief. And, Dean’s comfort aside, it will tell other alphas that he belongs to someone already. It won’t stop all of them, but it will discourage a few, and that’s more than enough for him to be okay with this. 

“That’s fine, Cas. You smell good.” And goddammit, he blushes as soon as he hears himself –  like a giggly fucking middle schooler. “Uh – I mean. You know. You don’t reek, or anything.” 

Cas, God help him, actually looks a little smug. It’s the closest he’s come to teasing Dean since he got here. “Knothead,” Dean accuses lightly, and he doesn’t even have time to be afraid of what he just said before Cas bursts out laughing. The sound is contagious enough that he grins, too, finally chuckling a little as the alpha goes on. It is a little ridiculous that either of them are hung up on this, of all things – he and Cas have already scent bonded, and on the scale of one to embarrassing as hell, he’s maxed out with that alone. 

“Apologies,” Cas finally says, a little smile on his face. “I’ll admit I’m not really used to this odd alpha obsession with scenting.”

“Never had an omega before?” Dean teases. There’s a double meaning to the words that Cas doesn’t miss, and the alpha shakes his head. 

“No,” he says bluntly. Then, in a slightly more sheepish tone of voice, “I’ve never had a serious relationship with anyone, really. Just a few short-lived beta partners in college.”

Dean blinks at him. Cas is an omega housewife’s wet dream – tall, lean and muscular, chiseled jaw and bright blue eyes. He finds it more than a little weird that he doesn’t have a string of admirers at his beck and call. That he hasn’t bonded with anyone else before now. 

Then again, with everything he’s learned about Castiel’s personality, he shouldn’t be all that surprised. He doesn’t seem the type to take things like that lightly. Doesn’t seem like the type to prowl bars and give false promises. 

He feels an odd little kernel of something like pride in his chest. That means that Cas has only ever scented him. He knows that their scent bond was accidental, but… 

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I ain’t really all that up to date with my instincts either,” Dean half jokes, trying to move past his weird little moment of smug satisfaction. “I’m not sure I do a single damn thing that omegas are supposed to.” Not willingly, anyway. 

The alpha shrugs. “You are nesting, at least.”

Dean opens his mouth automatically to disagree, to say that he hasn’t ever, won’t ever be caught doing something as nauseating and girly as nesting. But then he looks around at the stacks of books surrounding them, thinks of his little pile in his bedroom that he had to carefully dismantle this morning… and flushes scarlet. 

Shit. He is nesting. 

He can feel Cas frowning at him even though he’s dropped his eyes, picking up immediately on his embarrassment. “Have you not… nested before?”

Dean shrugs, trying to brush it off, but the gesture doesn’t come off as nonchalant as he wants it to. “Sure, I guess I sort of did when I was a kid. That was just cleaning to me back then, though, you know? Keeping the place in order and all that.” He swallows, desperately stepping around the memories that statement drags up. The last thing he needs to think about right now is his dad. Or Sammy.  

“And, uh. Not like I had a lot of reason to. Um. After.” 

The thought of doing something like nesting in Hell was… Yeah. No. Even if he’d felt any inclination to do so at all, it wouldn’t have mattered – Alastair hadn’t even let him keep a shirt for any length of time, let alone a blanket or a pillow, or the freedom he’d need to organize his space. 

The alpha’s frown deepens until it’s almost painful to look at. “That’s something you could talk to Dr. Lafitte about. I believe Balthazar mentioned him, when you saw him last? He’s our resident therapist.”

The words sting sharply, and he flinches a little before he can hide his reaction. 

He ain’t exactly keen on exposing his issues and damage to some random dude he’s never met before – and he doubts it would help anyway. He can see the hope in Cas’s expression. Hope that someone else, for once, will be able to deal with Dean’s long list of issues. His good mood sours until it’s gone – how could he have forgotten, even for a moment, the life he lives, the burden he is?

But rather than make some pussy-foot excuse about not feeling comfortable about the idea, Dean aims for dismissive – he shrugs again, a little angrily this time around. “Talk about what? That I don’t understand how being an omega is supposed to work?” 

“Yes,” Castiel replies gently, and his failure to rise to Dean’s bait pisses him off and embarrasses him in equal measure. “Nesting is a very basic omega instinct, one you should be quite familiar with at this point in your life. The fact that you aren’t isn’t your fault,” he adds, when Dean visibly flinches, “but the sooner you become accustomed to those parts of yourself, the more comfortable you will be.”

Dean scoffs, his throat tight. “Don’t worry about that. I’m plenty familiar with my friggin’ bitch side.”

“Do not refer to yourself that way,” Castiel snaps. 

Caught off guard, Dean takes an involuntary, stumbling step backward. The alpha’s anger is sharp as razor wire, wrapping around him, squeezing at his throat. He isn’t breathing. He almost drops to his knees on instinct alone, and the only reason he doesn’t is that he can’t seem to move. 

The tension lasts about half a second before the irritation drops off of Castiel’s face, and he blinks, as if confused by his own behavior. The fury in his expression – and his scent – fades, and then suddenly Dean can move again. He sucks in a shaky breath. Takes another step back, keen for a little more distance, because he thinks that if he doesn’t get it he’s going to end up on the floor even now, from the lingering scent of an alpha’s anger alone. 

It’s a harsh reminder of his place.

He can’t look Cas in the eye, but he can feel the alpha’s gaze on him. “I,” Cas starts, and then stops, his voice a little strained. “I apologize. I don’t really… I don’t know what that was.” 

Dean tries to glance up, tries to meet his eyes and brush it off… but he can’t. His heart is too busy trying to pound out of his chest.

Cas smells guilty.

Dean swallows, makes an effort to still his shaking hands. He knows the alpha can smell the fear on him just as clearly, and that makes this all the worse. He’s embarrassed, more than anything, by this reaction – he believes that Cas doesn’t intend to hurt him, but he can’t stop the instinctive flash of terror when he sees anger in an alpha’s eyes or hears it in their voice.

“Dean,” Cas says gently, when he says nothing, and that’s worse than the rage, because the dude probably pities him. “Truly. I am not angry at you. I apologize for acting as though I was.”

Dean just shakes his head, dismissing the apology as unnecessary as best he can since he still can’t seem to talk for some reason. Alphas don’t say sorry, in his experience, especially not over their anger – no matter how irrational it is. But Cas’s scent doesn’t ease. In fact, he seems even more guilty and upset, and Dean hates that. Hates that the alpha can’t even speak his mind without Dean falling apart. 

There’s a balance, here. Some safe space between being the slave he was trained to be, that he’s supposed to be, and being the normal, unbroken person that Cas wants him to be. But, just like with Balthazar’s revelation that he apparently has unfettered internet access, Dean is paralyzed by too much freedom. Too many choices. 

Because he always seems to make the wrong ones. 

He tries to brush it off, tries to be indifferent and irreverent because that’s how he’s always dealt with his discomfort, with his shame. He forces his head up, forces himself to make eye contact. “Maybe I ain’t the only one that should be talking to a therapist.”

As soon as he hears himself, he pales. He’s prepared for the words to piss off the alpha more, prepared to be told to leave the room or shut his stupid mouth. Prepared, even, deep inside in the corner of his brain that refuses to realize that he’s safe, for a backhand across the face. Wrong choice, wrong choice. 

But Cas just sighs, deflates like Dean’s popped him with a pin. “You’re right, of course.” His mouth twists at the side, not quite a smile. “Perhaps I should book an appointment alongside yours.”

Dean shakes his head, his shoulders dropping as he lets out a breath. For a moment, Cas looks like he’s going to reach forward, to pull him in and let him scent like he has so many times before. 

Then he doesn’t. 

Dean swallows around bitter disappointment, and tells himself it’s exactly what he deserves.