25. Exegetic Chains

Castiel has been… staring. 

Dean had followed him to the car meekly, after their little shopping trip; had sunk into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt without a word. It’s been a long day for him, Castiel knows. Dean is certainly subdued – he tucks his hands into his sleeves and leans against the window. Lets out a slow, soft sigh that fogs up the glass. 

He looks remarkably different. In dark jeans and boots and a button-down shirt that actually fits him, Dean seems… healthier. Almost more human. Gone is the aura of someone in long-term patient care, gone is the somewhat childish flop of sleeves over hands, socked feet, and uneven hoodie strings. In these clothes, Dean looks like the man he is. 

Castiel swallows, and returns his attention to the road. Searches for something to say that will cover how much he’s been… well, staring. 

“Thanks,” Dean says softly, saving him from having to do so. Castiel flicks his attention back to him, raising an eyebrow, and the omega taps his fingertips on his pants in explanation. His eyes are still firmly fixed on the window. “Don’t think I said it before, at the store.” 

“You don’t need to thank me.”

Dean snorts, glancing at him. “Yeah I do, Cas.” He turns back, hides his face. Adds, voice aching, “Last time someone bought clothes for me, they were made of leather.” 

The words are a blunt reminder of the kind of treatment Dean is used to. What he may very well have expected this trip to be. 

Silently, Castiel chews on the inside of his cheek, searching for the right words to say, here; the right way to express to Dean that thanks is the last thing he wants for this. The last thing that Dean should have to give him. But the omega isn’t finished – he smooths his palms down his pant legs, brushing off imaginary lint. “Sorry I, uh. Sorry I kept your jacket.”

He’s glad that Dean isn’t looking at him, because he flushes red at those words. 

The omega certainly doesn’t have to apologize for that. It had made his stomach flip nearly upside down in Hannah’s shop when Dean had come out of the fitting room in these clothes – well fitting, well suited garments, paired with something of Castiel’s own. It had made him warm in the most confusing way possible, had made his brain sort of flat-line for a moment before he’d rebooted and shaken off whatever instinctual reaction seeing Dean in his clothes, by choice, had sparked. He’d crammed his debit card into his pocket without even tucking it back into his wallet so that he could flee and catch a breather outside.

“I have another,” he replies, curious, now, about Dean’s reasoning, “so you’re welcome to it.” More than welcome to it – Castiel wants, inexplicably strongly, for him to keep it. However, it’s starting to sink in that whatever primal reason his brain has cooked up as justification for Dean wearing the thing is wishful thinking. Instead, it’s more likely an indication that something is wrong. Afraid of the answer, he leaves his question unasked. 

Dean answers it anyway. “I didn’t…” 

He pauses, lets road signs and cars flick past for a few silent seconds. “I looked too much like I did before,” he says softly, slowly moving the zipper up and down, tine by tine. “And I should probably want that, right? But it felt…” 

He swallows, stills his hands. Clutches at the jacket like he’s afraid Castiel will take it away. “It hurt.”  

Throat tight, Castiel sets out his hand on the console, and after only a breath of hesitation Dean slips his palm in and grips tight. Castiel says nothing, because in this moment, nothing needs to be said. He cannot possibly hope to understand the shifts in identity that Dean has had to face, cannot hope to comprehend the way that he has had to fight and claw to hold on to some sort of semblance of self. 

Dean scoffs, tiny traces of humor creeping into his tone despite the heavy topic. Predictably, it falls on the side of self-deprecating. “Can’t believe what a little shit I used to be, man.”

He wishes more than anything that he’d had the privilege to know Dean back then, before all of the trauma and abuse and hatred he’s experienced. Wishes that he’d been able to see Dean in his full glory, that he’d known him when he could be completely unafraid, completely himself. “I get the feeling you were quite the rebel.”

Dean snorts. Side eyes him. “Sure, I guess. As much as any omega kid is when they don’t want to play house all the damn time.” He smiles grimly. “Don’t know what pissed my old man off more – the fact that his oldest turned out to be an omega, or that I didn’t want to fuckin’ act like one.”

The little piece of Dean’s past that he’s just offered up goes a long way to explain the way he is now, and they both know it. But he leaves it alone, well aware that he has felt vulnerable and exposed enough today. Digging into his family life is not his place, nor what Dean needs right now – and judging by the tense set of his shoulders, he’s fully expecting Castiel to try. So even though he wants to chase that lead, wants to ask after Dean’s mother, wants to know who the youngest in Dean’s family is, if Dean himself is the oldest… 

He doesn’t.  

“I was thinking,” Castiel says after a moment, “about cooking burgers for dinner.”

Dean gives him a wobbly, grateful smile. His shoulders relax. “Yeah?”

“Yes. All it’ll take is a quick grocery pick-up,” he says, and when Dean’s smile falters, he adds, “I’ll just run in. Would you mind staying in the car so I can leave it running? I’d like to keep it warm.”

He knows that Dean sees right through his excuse, but the omega doesn’t call him on it. He just relaxes back into his seat, letting loose a small breath. Gives his hand a pulse. “Sure, Cas.”

Dean fiddles with the controls on the car door, flicking the lock on and off a few times before he drops his hand back in his lap with a sigh. The heater chugs away, and after a while, he has to shuck Cas’s jacket before he starts to sweat. He feels bare without it.

He hates that Cas had to leave him in the car. He feels like a friggin’ dog. The thing is, though, he knows it’s for the best. The last thing he wants to do is have a meltdown in the Wholefoods in front of God and everyone, and he’s pretty sure he would, with his nerves stretched as thin as they are. One public appearance has been more than enough for today. 

Grimacing, he thinks about what his sixteen-year-old self would have to say about the patheticness of that. 

There’d been days where Dean had spent hours upon hours trying to hustle up the money he’d need to feed himself and Sam, cumulative years of his life spent out in the cold trying to scrape together enough for rent or another night in the motel while their dad was out doing who the hell knows what. 

He’d had odd jobs, of course. Under-the-table bussing, serving. Few people would hire a kid, though, and even fewer would hire an omega-male to do the job of a real man. That had sort of been solved when he'd started taking scent blockers, but even then, he'd struggled. More often, he’d been snatching five-finger discounts, stealing out of tills, and pick-pocketing to get by. On bad weeks, he’d hustle darts or shark pool, taking advantage of men who underestimated him for one reason or another. 

On worse ones, he’d let those same men take advantage of him. The sale of a sloppy hand-job or two, over so fast that he hadn’t had to practice much, had paid the bills more than once. As had a few inexpert attempts at head in gas station bathrooms.

That had been risky, for obvious reasons. 

But when times had gotten really hard, when his dad had gotten so deep into debt or the bottle or had been gone for so long that he and Sam were going to starve, Dean had always done what he’d had to. There’d been no shortage of truckers who’d been willing to shell out a twenty or two for a teenager with doe eyes and a pout – even when he was on suppressants, even when he was passing as a beta on black-market scent blockers that only worked half the time. 

While he’d had more than a few close calls, young as he’d been, somehow he’d avoided anything worse than a split lip. The most he’d had to deal with were a few alphas who got carried away and tried to take more than he was willing to give. A swift knee up or a pocket knife pointed at the jewels, and most had been sufficiently discouraged from taking it any further. The rest hadn’t been able to catch him when he’d booked it, shouted threats lost to the night air. 

He’s lucky John hadn’t been able to smell those alphas on him, because the beating he’d have received would probably have killed him. No son of his would have been caught dead doing anything like that – never mind that Dean hadn’t exactly been enjoying it. Never mind that he’d puked his guts out after his first attempt at sucking someone off, never mind that he’d gone back the next night anyway because Sam was hungry, his father was gone, and he’d been out of options. 

It hadn’t lasted long. Really, just one long winter. Because just a few months after Sammy had presented, the kid had sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose, had looked up at Dean with those big ol’ puppy dog eyes, and asked where he’d been. Dean had quit altogether. He hadn’t wanted his little brother to have any idea what he’d been doing.

The memory of those days, of the singular, deeply ingrained drive to keep Sam well fed and clothed, to keep a roof over his head… as rough as they’d been, he misses them. And maybe that’s fucked up, to be nostalgic over giving shitty hand-jobs to creepy old men, but at least he’d chosen that. At least he’d been doing it for a reason, for something bigger and more important than himself. 

He does have to wonder, though, how Cas would react to the knowledge that he’d been a whore long before anyone forced him to. The thought makes him slump down in his seat, stomach twisting. 

He’s received so much kindness that he doesn’t deserve.

Hoping for anything at all to focus on besides his less than stellar childhood, he sighs and looks back out the window. The parking garage they’re in is vast, mostly empty, folks passing by every once in a while to get to the elevator that will take them down to the store. None of them pay him any mind. It’s just before noon on a week day, and Dean figures that ain’t exactly prime time for people to do their shopping. It’s just as well; anyone that strays too close to Cas’s car makes him tense up, gripping the armrest a little too firmly. 

It’s stupid – it’s not like anyone knows he’s an omega, not like anyone would try and bust open the window to get him even if they did. He’s perfectly safe. But the sight of so many unfamiliar faces has him on edge. 

Like he’s caused a disturbance in the force with his emotional state, someone texts him. The little ping startles him a little, but he fumbles the phone out of his pocket and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that it’s just Cas, rather than Balthazar with some fresh way to freak him out. He unlocks it.

Just finishing up. The line is quite short. 

Dean smiles. It’s a pretty transparent way to check on him, but he appreciates it all the same.

all good here. 

can’t help but feel bad for the gas i’m wasting.

He snorts when the three little dots pop up immediately.

It is more than worth it to keep us both warm.

There’s small lull, and then:

Do you see my debit card in the car anywhere? I’ve misplaced it.

Dean glances around, even going so far as to check inside the console and contort his body to peer under the seats. But there’s no sign of the fancy gold card he’d seen Cas flash at Hannah’s shop.

i don’t see it, sorry.

It’s fine. I’m sure it’s in one of my jacket pockets, or somewhere equally silly. 

Dean frowns. He doesn’t remember, exactly, but he’s pretty sure he saw Cas put it in his back pocket along with his wallet. He’s confident that the alpha would have checked there, so he doesn’t say as much – but he does peer through the window, wondering if it’s on the ground somewhere around the car. He doesn’t see it, even when he leans over to check through the driver’s side, so he falls back into his seat, dropping his temple against the cool glass with a thump and a sigh. 

Only to spy the damn thing a dozen yards away near the elevator, half under the back bumper of an Escalade. 

Shit.

found it.

Oh, good. Where was it?

Dean starts to reply. Then he hesitates. Slowly, he backspaces until the message is deleted completely. 

He’s pretty sure he knows what Cas is gonna say – namely, to stay put. To not worry about it. He’s gonna insist that he can handle it, that it’s not worth Dean freaking himself out over; not in so many words, of course, but that’s what he’ll mean. Dean knows that Cas left him in the car on purpose, knows that the alpha is never going to push him to do something he’s uncomfortable doing. 

So that means, of course, that he has to push himself.  

It’s such a simple thing. A quick jaunt across the aisle, and a quick jaunt back. It’s stupid that the very idea makes his heart pound, makes his palms start to sweat. He’s faced down so much worse than this, has fought and kicked and spat in the fucking faces of people who held his life in their hands. But he’s been nothing but a yellow-bellied coward all damn day. 

His phone pings in his lap, the first message followed by the second after a small lull.

Dean?

Is it on the ground?

The longer he waits, the higher the risk that some jokester picks it up; even as he sits here, a man passes so close by it on the way to his car that he nearly kicks it. He looks up, catches Dean staring, and holds his gaze for a moment. Dean drops his eyes. He’s wary of drawing attention to himself. 

When he glances up again, the man is gone. His phone vibrates and pings insistently.

Dean, please answer me.  

I’ll pick it up on my way out, alright? I paid in cash.

Please, stay in the car.

He locks his phone and the screen goes dark. Puts his hand on the door handle, something violent twisting in his gut when he thinks about opening it. It’s ridiculous that he’s afraid, right now – nothing is going to happen. There are cameras in this parking garage, he’s sure, and people all over the place, it’s the middle of the day… no one is going to touch him. He probably still smells too much like Cas for other alphas to be interested, anyway. 

He tells himself these things in a stern, sneering voice that sounds a lot like his dad’s, and quickly presses the push-button start to cut the engine so that he’ll have to get out. But still, he can’t make himself unlock the door, can’t make himself step into the world all alone without an alpha in front of him. His stomach churns. 

His phone starts ringing, and suddenly he’s standing outside with no memory of opening the door. The ringtone is nothing more than than a muffled noise inside the car a moment later.

He’s frozen, for a moment. The air is brisk on his face after the warmth of the car, and a shiver wracks through him – he forgot Cas’s jacket, but if he turns back now, he’s going to wimp out completely. 

The garage is loud. He can hear the engines of countless cars driving up and down the floors, the echo of voices below and above ricocheting off the concrete pillars and barriers, the buzzing of harsh white fluorescent lights. He presses against the cold metal of the door, and can feel his heart pounding in his palms. 

The card seems very, very far away. Miles. 

He takes a jerky step toward it, stops in his tracks when he thinks he hears a noise – but there’s no one. Ducking his head down low, eyes flicking back and forth along the aisle, Dean takes another tentative step forward, then another, until he’s out of the cover of the row. 

All of a sudden, he’s forgotten that his fear is pointless and is instead doing all he can to work around it, clenching his hands into fists at his side. With one last nervous look back to safety, he ducks his head low and barrels forward, getting as close as he can to running without making an absolute fool of himself. 

It feels like it takes a very long time to reach it, but he’s there before his cowardice can suffocate him. He crouches quickly. Blind, from this angle, he has to lean awkwardly to the side and paw at the cold concrete until he can feel the edge of the card under his fingertips. Fumbling, hyper-aware of his shaking hands, he nudges the thing until he can slap his palm over it. 

Despite the fear twisting in his gut, he feels a burst of victory as he drags it toward himself, even when he has to grip the wheel in front of him to keep his balance. He half laughs as he crams it in his pocket and turns to dash back to the car.

The hair on his neck snaps to attention. 

There’s an unfamiliar pair of shoes in front of him. 

Dean stumbles back so quickly that he slips and lands on his ass. A man, tall and lean, is looming above him – it's the same one who looked at him earlier, the one who nearly kicked Cas’s card. 

He’s an alpha. 

His scent hits like a metal bat against a windshield. It takes everything in Dean not to gag – it’s metallic, sharp as battery acid, and instantly he knows that this alpha is not here to offer him a friendly hand up or an innocuous greeting. He’s here to take. 

“Little omega, you’re lookin’ pretty lonely,” he croons, a crooked smile on his face. Dean swallows, frozen, staring up at the man with his heart pounding hard in his chest. “Where’s your alpha?”

Dean can’t talk. He tries, he tries. But when he opens his mouth, the only sound that escapes is a tiny breath of air. He knows the scent, knows the stance. Knows exactly what he’s after. 

The alpha takes a step closer. “All alone, then?” He sniffs the air, glancing around the garage to check, ostensibly, for witnesses. Dean scoots back on reflex, but in the wrong direction – he ends up pressed against the car, nowhere to run. He makes the mistake of looking the alpha in the eye and instantly regrets it; his insides drop twenty degrees when he sees the man’s large pupils, his hungry gaze. 

“You don’t smell mated. Lucky for both of us, ain’t it?” 

He reaches down, picks Dean up from the floor by his arm. He stumbles, cramming into the ice cold metal behind him as the alpha moves closer, and closer still, knee hot where it presses between his legs, his grip still firm on his arm. 

“My,” Dean tries, but his voice is weak. Shaking. “M-my alpha, he’s…” 

“You ain’t got an alpha, little omega,” the man says, almost gentle. “‘Least, not a real one. And that’s a real shame. I bet you’re hunting for someone to help you out, though, right?” He leans in closer, his sour breath hot on Dean’s face as he strains and turns away. “Someone with a nice big knot for that tight little hole?”

Paralysis abruptly gives way to flight. Dean tries to dart to the side, but the alpha is too fast – he whips his hand out and snags around the scarf that Cas so gently wrapped around him this morning. He yanks, and Dean chokes when he collides with the alpha’s chest, nausea twisting inside when the alpha inhales against his throat, revulsion crawling on his skin like spiders. 

“You smell good, bitch,” the alpha murmurs. “Can’t believe how lucky I am. Got you all to myself.”

He almost, almost tells the alpha his master won’t like that. That he is already owned, and he can’t be touched by someone else without his owner’s permission – it’s against the law. 

But so is being a slave with no collar. Either the alpha won’t believe him, or he will, and he’ll get Cas in trouble for breaking the rules. Get himself in trouble, too. And a thought that hadn’t occurred to him before now snakes its way into his brain: Dean could be taken away from Cas for that. Back for retraining. 

In comparison to that, this is nothing. Dean's a whore, anyway. This isn’t anything new to him - he's been doing this shit since he was fifteen years old. He should be used to it.

So he says nothing, and the opportunity is gone – the alpha yanks him down by the scarf so that his knees hit the concrete, and then he steps on the fabric, till Dean is half bent forward. He’s so fucking terrified that he cries out, loud, and he’s not supposed to do that, not supposed to protest, Alastair will punish him for that – 

The alpha has a hand on his belt, a hand on the button of his pants, and Dean can’t do anything; he just kneels, exactly like he’s been trained, fingers splayed out on the dirty ground to hold him up. But when the alpha leans forward, when he grabs the back of Dean’s hair to angle him toward his bulging pants, Dean’s desperation outweighs his trained obedience. He starts begging.

“No. No,” he chokes, still pitifully quiet, only a token resistance because the reality is that he’s a coward, and he’d rather this happen than risk being taken away from the only sort of safety he’s ever known. He wraps his hands around the scarf, tries to pull away, but his voice is still no louder than a whisper. “Please.” 

The alpha just scoffs, gives him a rough shake, like Dean’s begging is annoying him, and Dean closes his eyes as the terrible and familiar sound of a clinking belt buckle and a zipper pulled down surrounds him – 

And then the alpha is nowhere. 

A blur of movement and a sickening thud are all Dean can comprehend before he’s scrabbling backwards as fast as he can, cramming himself against the barrier wall between the garage and the fifty foot plunge below. 

Cas is here. Cas is here. 

There’s fury in his alpha’s eyes as he pins the man to the car, two hands curled into his lapels. His nose is an inch away from the other alpha’s, and he snarls, and if Dean were any closer he’d probably have wet himself at the sound. As it is, he can’t move. Can’t even think about moving, crouched down on the cold, smooth concrete, hands still tangled into his scarf. 

“How dare you,” his alpha is hissing, teeth flashing and pointed in the harsh light. In this moment, the gentle, patient man that Dean has come to know is nowhere to be found – he’s been replaced with something feral, something primal. Something that hunts.  

“I didn’t know!” The other alpha is already squealing, squirming to try and get away from Castiel’s ironclad grip. “I didn’t know he was yours, okay? He ain’t mated, how was I supposed to know?”

Castiel lifts him forward, slams him back. Hard. The man’s teeth rattle in his skull, and he gasps, fighting for breath as the air gets knocked out of him. 

“He said no,” Cas snarls, his voice low and terrifying. “I heard him. You heard him.”

The other alpha raises his hands to waist height, nervously laughs, his tone jittery but placating as if he thinks he’s going to be able to talk Cas down from this. “Yeah, but, come on man. They always say that, but we both know what they really wa–” 

The alpha makes a strangled sort of noise when Cas lifts him off his feet. Whatever he’d been about to say is crushed beneath a wave of Castiel’s rage, so harsh and fiery that even Dean flinches away. The alpha’s voice is suddenly very high. “Sorry, sorry!”

“Shut,” Cas growls, “up.” 

He does.

The garage is silent, now, as if everyone else here instinctively knows what’s going down. A fight like this isn’t gonna get interrupted by anyone short of the cops – a pair of alphas coming to blows over an omega isn’t something anyone wants to get between.

“Dean,” Castiel says slowly, his eyes still locked on the alpha’s. As he stares, the man drops his gaze, slowly turns his chin to the side. Swallows. He’s afraid. “Go and get in the car. Now.”

Dean goes. Goes as fast as he possibly can, sliding past the pair of frozen alphas with his breath held, nearly tripping over himself as he flees. He almost can’t get the door open, his hands are shaking so hard, but he does, and he’s inside, and the door doesn’t close fast enough for him to miss the sick thud of flesh on flesh, the groan of the blonde alpha as he hits the concrete. 

Silence.

The trunk opens with a hiss of hydraulics. Paper bags, rustling in the quiet, are set inside. The trunk closes. The driver-side door opens. Closes again.

Dean can’t make himself look. 

Cas smells so angry. 

“Are you hurt.”

Cas’s voice is like iron. It doesn’t sound like a question. Dean shakes his head, eyes down on the floorboards. Hands still gripping his scarf for dear life. It’s pulled too tight around his neck, a choke collar and leash. He doesn’t loosen it. 

Cas doesn’t say anything at all in response. He just silently puts the car in reverse, pulls out of the spot. Drives past the alpha that’s gingerly picking himself up off the floor, his nose gushing blood, pants still undone – Dean snaps his eyes away from the sight with a sick jolt. 

It’s like he’s holding his breath. They pull out of the garage, turn onto the main road. 

The silence is so heavy that it’s loud. 

“Why,” Cas asks, a slow, measured breath between words that feel like blows, “did you get out of the car, Dean?”

Dean opens his mouth. Tries to find the words to explain himself, but they won’t come. He disobeyed. He disobeyed an order, and Cas is angry, as he should be, because Dean nearly got himself used by someone else just now. Nearly disrespected his alpha in the worst way possible.  

Castiel tolerates his silence for longer than he should, but when he speaks again, his voice is a degree sharper. A degree harsher. “What made you think that was a good idea?”

“I–” Dean starts, falters. Swallows. “Your. Your card. It was on the, um. On the g-ground–” 

“I would never,” Cas interrupts, voice like broken glass, “have asked you to risk yourself over something so frivolous. Never.” 

Dean’s throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, but it isn’t good enough, because Cas is talking right over him. 

“You put yourself in danger,” he’s growling, hands gripping the wheel so hard they’re shaking. “You could have been assaulted, or abducted, with no one to protect you, and you thought it’d be a good idea to get out of the car anyway–”

“I didn’t think– ” 

“No, you didn’t think,” Castiel snaps, slapping his hand on the wheel. “If that man had hurt you–” 

“He didn’t!”

“But he could have!” the alpha roars, the windows shaking with the force of his rage. “Dammit, Dean! I don’t understand! Did you want to be hurt?”

All of a sudden, Dean can breathe again. The problem is that he’s doing so way too fast, sucking all the oxygen out of the car, and he can’t see because suddenly the sun is gone and the lights are gone and everything is turning black, and he’s going to be sick– 

“Cas,” he whispers, and he must sound desperate enough that the alpha understands immediately – he swerves to the side of the road and Dean barely gets the door open before he’s on his knees, dirt and dead grass and snow crunching under him as he heaves. 

A hand touches his shoulder after a beat or two, but he flinches forward, unable to be touched by anyone or anything, not right now. Not with that alpha’s stench and sweat all over him. Not when he’s choking on Castiel’s anger, on his own shame. On the scarf that's still cinched like a noose around his neck. 

Cas doesn’t try again. 

When Dean’s done puking his guts out and tries to stagger back to his feet, he stumbles. Nearly falls back into the dirt. But he makes it to the curb, sinks down until he’s crouched on the side of the road, one hand in front of him, planted against Cas’s car. He’s dizzy. Breathless. 

Cas settles in next to him, after a moment. Far enough away that Dean knows he isn’t going to try and reach out again – he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or heartbroken. He closes his eyes. Feels guilt rising in his stomach like bile. He’s shaking. Hands grabbing his own hair.

Panic, he knows. He’s familiar with it. Has felt it hundreds of times. But this time, there’s nowhere to run – nothing to run from. So it doesn’t make sense that he’s terrified, right now, doesn’t make sense that his rib cage is about to shatter apart, that his heart is going to lurch right out of his open chest. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he’s babbling. He’s probably been doing so for a while, the words hardly coherent as he begs. He’s just so damn terrified that Cas thinks he wanted that, that he asked for it. Terrified that Cas thinks he let the alpha take what doesn’t belong to him or Dean. He’s horrified that he almost did. 

His hands are around his head, around his neck, protecting him from nothing and no one. “I swear, I swear, I didn’t, d-didn’t let him, I didn’t –”

“I know,” Cas soothes. Gone is the rage from moments ago; the alpha sounds like he’s choking on nails. “I know. He tried to hurt you.” He takes a breath. “He nearly did.”

“But I –” he stutters, tripping and falling over his words, “I didn’t want him to touch me, I didn’t want that. I didn’t want that!” he shouts into his own lap, eyes screwed shut, desperate that Cas understands he knows his place, that he isn’t some desperate whore who actually desires to be hurt - all evidence to the contrary. 

“That’s not what I meant, Dean. Not at all. I know you would never ask for something like that.” His voice is low, painful to listen to. “It was an awful thing to say. I’m so sorry. I do not blame you.”

Dean curls in as far as he can, knees nearly touching his chest. He can’t even wrap his brain around that, has no idea why Cas is apologizing to him right now. Because Dean is the one who fucked up; Dean is the one that nearly ruined everything. But the alpha’s rage is gone. No anger left in him. 

Unable to understand why, he starts tearing up. He shouldn’t – he’s safe, and Cas is telling him that this wasn’t his fault, and everything is okay now. But all of a sudden he’s blinking back tears, choking on something sharp in his throat. 

Anyone in their right minds would blame him. He disobeyed. He flaunted himself, he didn’t take any precautions. Didn’t even try. And he didn’t even fight, when push came to shove – he was just gonna let that alpha take whatever he wanted, like he doesn’t know he’s already owned. 

Guilt burns him up from the inside, and he’s talking before he can think to stop. “I – I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t – I don’t have a collar, but he didn’t believe me when I said my alpha wouldn’t like it – wouldn’t want him to–” 

Castiel sucks in a sharp breath, and Dean hastens to reassure him that he didn’t give him away. “But I didn’t say anything. I didn’t…”

He nearly can’t get the words out. “I didn’t say anything.”   

Suddenly, he’s unsure how, exactly, that’s supposed to make either of them feel better. It’s true that he didn’t rat Cas out, but for some reason, he isn’t exactly proud of himself for it. Instead, he feels like even more of a coward than he did before. Feels like he’s choking on cowardice. 

He grips his hair. Listens to the sounds of traffic, passing them by. “I’m sorry.”

“This situation,” Cas says, his voice oddly strangled, “is my fault entirely, Dean. Not yours.” 

“But–”

“No.” He says it with finality, and Dean shuts up. “No. I knew you needed tags, but I foolishly decided that they would be unnecessary. I have forgotten, despite what my job entails, how unsafe and unkind the world is for someone in your position.” 

Dean takes a breath. And another. He didn’t want a collar, either, but he did know what the consequences could be. But even now, he’s still not sure that he’s gonna be able to handle that leather around his throat again, even if it’s only there to keep him safe. He feels his heart speed up at just the thought. 

“Are you gonna…”

When Cas doesn’t answer right away, Dean finally looks up. 

The alpha looks… defeated. Small, hunched against the wind on the curb, just like Dean is. So different than he had just minutes ago, so vulnerable in comparison to the towering, wrathful figure he’d been against that alpha. And the sight of those familiar, gentle eyes makes something inside Dean twist until it threatens to break. 

Cas slowly offers his hand. Dean takes it.

“Just tags. Metal, embossed tags, on a chain. Completely removable, when they aren’t needed. You can take them off whenever you want.”

Dean had known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that that sort of thing was an option. Only, he’d also known it was just for privileged slaves. Well behaved slaves. Not an option for someone like him. 

He sags. Relieved. Exhausted. Whatever fight or flight was left in him whooshes away, fleeing from the warm touch of the alpha next to him. 

“Oh,” he says weakly. 

It’s not nearly enough. But it’s all he can say.