27. Creature Song

Being back here should do nothing but scare Dean out of his mind. Should make his stomach turn, should make his brain jagged with anxiety and dread. Should remind him of all the pain he has endured on his knees. 

But it doesn’t. 

Out of all the uncertainty, this, at least, is something he understands. Something he can do right. Being down on the ground, being low, having his alpha above him… it makes something inside of him unclench and relax for a million different reasons that he can’t even begin to unpack. Can’t begin to understand. 

Maybe he really was born to be below everyone else.

He’s dipping forward till his brow hits the carpet, till the crown of his head is nudging Castiel’s shoes. He makes a high, pleading noise, not exactly sure who he’s pleading with, or what he’s pleading for. Why he’s bowing. 

It could be that it’s some sick sort of muscle memory – though he’s never done this willingly, he’s still done it. Could be it’s his desperate desire to be forgiven, or his pathetic, bone-deep need to please. Could be all three tangled together, tripping over each other. 

Could be that it’s the desire to be comforted, to feel safe, a need that has gone unmet for the last decade of his life. If not longer. 

His hands twitch on either side of him at the thought. The carpet feels strange under his fingertips, and with a sick lurch he understands that’s because he isn’t used to them being free. To not having his arms twisted behind his back, either with restraints or commands. He’s never been in this position with the freedom to get away. Never chosen this before. But he is choosing now, and he breathes the alpha’s scent in through his mouth, and he tells himself that Cas would never, ever hurt him. 

Cas isn’t pleased by Dean’s supplication like every alpha before him has been – in fact, he sounds almost scared, his voice rough and shocked. “Dean?” 

Dean can’t do anything but shake his head, eyes shut tight. He can’t justify this, can’t even try. He doesn’t even understand why he’s doing it – all he knows is what feels right. “Please,” he chokes out, not even sure what the hell he’s asking for. 

Cas’s hand settles on top of his head, his touch as shaky and light as a falling leaf. It isn’t until Dean lets out something like a strangled plea that he cards his fingers through his hair. 

With a sharp, hitching sob, he presses into the alpha’s hand. Feels the anchor of his touch. Takes shuddering breath after shuddering breath. And Cas keeps petting him. He can’t even call it anything else, because that’s exactly what he’s doing. What Dean is asking for. 

After a while, Cas cups his face with the other hand, warm and steady, and slowly guides him up from the carpet until he’s braced against the alpha’s knees. And Dean thinks that will be the end – thinks Cas will want him to come back to reality, will want him to act like a man and not a quivering, lost child. But when he’s there, the alpha keeps touching Dean, keeps running his hands through Dean’s short, unkempt hair, keeps stroking his thumb under Dean’s cheek. Soothing. Strong. 

It feels good. It feels really good. 

But it’s still, somehow, not enough. He could cry when he realizes it – when he understands that his heart is not slowing, that his anxiety is still twisting through him like white hot snakes. As comforting as the alpha is, it’s not what his body wants. He makes a high, pathetic noise in the back of his throat – a whine, he whines – and clenches his fists in his lap when the alpha’s hands stop. He’s scared, and he’s needy, and he’s so, so confused.

He chokes out another sob, hunching forward. 

“Cas, please –” but he doesn’t know what he wants; all he knows his skin is too tight on his body and he can feel his heart trying to slam its way out of his chest, and if he doesn’t calm the fuck down he thinks he might explode into a million tiny shards of glass, too broken to ever be fixed. 

And then... the alpha’s hand is moving down from his hair, and down further, and then it stops. He’s waiting, holding his breath, and Dean, suddenly understanding exactly what Cas means to do, goes blind and blank with panic and snaps his hand up to close it around the alpha’s, holding him in place. And Cas doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t move a fucking muscle. 

Dean’s hand shakes. He can feel Castiel’s hand underneath his. Warm and strong and safe. Waiting for him. Always waiting for him. 

He knows who Cas is. Knows his guilt and his kindness and his gentle, golden soul. And, for once in his long, godless life, Dean takes a leap of faith. He lets go. 

Cas’s touch moves down just another inch further.

And the world slows. 

At the start of his freshman year, Dean had gone to school in a little podunk town, smack-dab in the middle of Mississippi. He’d been the only omega male in that grade, and one of about ten omegas total – a tiny percentage of the school, even as small as the town had been. He and the omega girls had all been tossed together at the start of the year for special classes instead of the usual choice of electives. Sewing, cooking, cleaning. Things that made Dean even more eager to drop out completely and spend his time making ends meet, rather than waste it being shaped into a housewife. 

One of those classes had been Omega Health Science. It was a science course only in name, as he found out. Essentially, the class had boiled down to two messages: Keep Your Legs Together, and, somewhat conversely, Get Mated And Knocked-Up ASAP. He’d skipped that fucking nightmare of a period more than any other, still raw from presenting just the year before. Still rankling at being an omega at all. 

One morning in class – one of the few he’d bothered to attend – his teacher had set up an ancient documentary on a boxy TV and had warned her measly little class to pay attention, because today they’d be learning something that would color the rest of their days. Her favorite phrase. Funny, for a woman who’d taught them that all their life would amount to was being someone’s live-in maid and pup producer. The video had started up, staticy and fuzzy with age, and Dean had swallowed his groan at the realization that they were about to be given the talk.

Or, the omega version of it, at least. Starting with the most important bit - the one best suited to scare them.

The narrator of the hokey, 80s era video had called it the scruffing spot, a nauseating little nickname for the sensitive bundle of cells on an omega’s nape that most of them had been too young to even know they had. The teacher had talked right over the biological explanation in the video, had fast forwarded straight through the sexual portion. Then she’d spent the rest of the period stressing how crucial it was for them to find a mate as soon as they could so they could experience the freedom of being owned. How wonderful and natural it was to be put in their place when an alpha took control of their choices and their minds. 

Then she’d really gotten on her soapbox. Had told them how important it was to avoid being “promiscuous” – a euphemism for independent, if you asked Dean – because that spot on their neck would instead become a liability. Would make them easy to take advantage of. How they needed an alpha for protection, because of course they’d never be able to protect themselves, vulnerable as they were. 

Of course, she hadn’t explained that it was essentially an omega stun gun. He’d found that out the hard way.

Dean had just scoffed at the time, fourteen and angry at the world already, and had written off the lesson as fear-mongering; as just another thing alphas made up to scare omegas into being obedient little housewives and baby-makers. After all, he’d touched his own neck tons of times, and nothing scary had ever happened to him. And sure, he’d heard of something like that with omegas before, but he’d been confident he was better than some measly facet of bitch biology. Stronger. He was a Winchester, after all, and Winchesters didn’t yield. 

He’d been wrong. His dad had spat enough drunken vitriol about how much of a pathetic bitch he was that he really should have known it wasn’t bullshit. 

The first time a handler had used it to get the drop on him - just a few miserable hours into his training - he’d thought he’d been drugged. It’d been horrifying to realize that he really did have a built-in off button that anyone could use to get an edge whenever they wanted. And they had used it, had scruffed him the instant he put up a fuss or kicked and fought, had been merciless with their use of it to subdue him when he'd tried in vain to escape some new humiliation.

Then, when he'd been bought, his masters had used it to control him. Had laid their heavy, hot hands there and pressed and squeezed until he was drooling and dazed and compliant, too out of it to protest. He hadn’t once wanted what they did, hadn't once asked for it. He’d fought it, until his own biology had shut him down; something often made pathetically easy when he was already exhausted and malnourished. No matter how long he resisted, an alpha could always hold on longer. Would always come out on top. 

But the trainers – and even the alphas that came after – had never actually hurt him there. It was taboo, other slaves had told him. The abuse of it was steeped in religious and superstitious warnings, in ritualistic significance. Too low for slavers, to hurt him there - to far, even, in the eyes of a God that apparently took no issue with the rest of it. Right up there with the ten big ones, if those slaves were to be believed.

Dean hadn’t had a clue. Probably because the only thing John Winchester hated more than his son being a certified bitch was the thought of him becoming a religious one. After all, his dad had a vendetta against God and those who followed Him that had replaced, and perhaps outgrown, his love for his wife; killed far before her time by that same loving entity. 

Dean had just been relieved that someone’s god was protecting him, even if it was accidental; he’d thought that in this small way, at least, he was safe. It was the one part of his body that could be touched, but never injured – used, but never hurt. And that had held true for years.

Right up until Hell. 

Alastair had bruised him there. Bit him there – never hard enough to mate, but hard enough to scare Dean into thinking he would. He had, more than once, whipped him there; it’d been pain like Dean had never known, fire straight from the pit. And it had felt like wrath of an angry God – only it had been brought down on the victim, rather than the aggressor. 

Typical. 

But Cas isn’t Alastair. His touch is always gentle; never sharp, never biting. 

It’s no different now. 

The alpha inhales slowly. Exhales slowly. His hand is frozen in place, and Dean’s heart is frozen in his chest. Then Cas is stroking his thumb in a way that feels reverent, and Dean is gone. 

Someone keens. He thinks, dazedly, that it could have been him. 

He doesn’t understand. It’s never been like this before. The best he could have hoped for from this kind of touch was a drugged haze, dizzying and nauseating vertigo. Something like running in a dream. And in the last few years, touch here had often brought agony, simple and devastating. To the point where he’d slept with his hands wrapped protectively around the back of his neck every single night in Hell, waiting with dread for the moment when Alastair would decide to dig in his claws. 

But this…

This is peace. 

“It’s alright,” Cas is murmuring, brushing away tear tracks that Dean doesn’t remember making. He cups Dean’s face with his other hand, repositions him gently, lays his head against the side of his thigh. Dean lets him, doesn’t even care. “It’s alright, Dean. I have you.”

He makes another embarrassing noise when the alpha bends and presses his brow to the crown of Dean’s head. The even, measured movements of his chest are predictable and comforting. Cas holds him close. Drags his thumb up and down his nape. 

Guided by some unknown force, Dean reaches up and clumsily cups his palm around the back of the alpha’s neck in return. 

He can feel Cas’s sharp gasp, can almost hear his heart accelerate. The touch on his nape jerks to a stop for a split second before the alpha moves so quickly that he fumbles; his other hand snaps up to press Dean’s nose into the crook between his neck and his shoulder. 

Dean takes a shuddering breath. Then another. Cas does the same.

He squeezes his hand, Cas's neck strong and warm beneath it. Alphas aren’t sensitive back there, not like omegas, but what Dean’s doing right now has meaning. Even he knows that, as fucked up as his life has been, and as empty as his head is right now. 

They stay like that for a while, suspended. Floating. Breathing together.

Cas opens his eyes at the same time Dean does. His pupils are blown. And his expression is achingly soft. 

Dean tips his head back. Meets the alpha’s gaze with hooded eyes, heart thudding slowly. Evenly. He bares the line of his throat for reasons he doesn’t understand. 

For Cas. 

The alpha’s face just… crumples. He looks, dangerously, like he’s about to cry. “Dean, can I – I need you up here with me, please. Please.”

Dean’s feet are under him before he even has to think about it, because when an alpha wants something like that from an omega, it’s just instinct to comply. At least, that’s what he tells himself when Cas helps him up from the floor and onto the bed, wrapping his arms around him and pressing Dean’s head to his chest as they lay together. What he tells himself when none of that scares him, not even the alpha’s hand settling on his nape once more, warm and heavy. Not even Dean’s hand returning to the alpha’s neck in turn, an automatic mirror of the gift Cas is giving him - given without a thought.

He closes his eyes, and when he does, the warm, spaced out feeling returns full force. He’s floating. Splayed out on the grass in the sunshine. 

He’s safe. 

“Forgive yourself,” Cas orders. His voice is all alpha. Clearly, he ain’t giving Dean much of a choice; he punctuates the command with a gentle squeeze around Dean’s nape, one that makes him stutter out a sigh. He continues, murmurs the kindest orders Dean's ever heard, rumbles out, “You deserve forgiveness. And you deserve to be happy.”

And, instead of bucking against the alpha tone and touch like he’s done so often in the past, instead of baring his teeth and wrenching away, Dean relaxes into it. Feels himself slip a little deeper, feels pleasant nothingness settle over him like a quilt.

Cas wants him to be happy. He wants him to be happy. God, Dean’s not even sure he wants that, not really - he doesn't deserve it. But if Cas thinks he's earned it, maybe he has. Maybe Dean's wrong.

“You have been through hell and back again, more times than any man should. And it has hurt you. I’m so sorry for how much it has hurt you,” Cas says, tightening his hold on Dean for a moment, his voice breaking. “But you are strong. You have so much love inside of you, so much kindness. And you will heal. This is not your end, Dean. It is your beginning.”

“’m scared,” Dean slurs, because he is scared, terrified of this new world and of not knowing his place in it, of hiding any of that from Cas when the alpha wants so badly for him to be better. Only this time, he whispers those fears to Cas because he wants to, not because he thinks that he’s been ordered to.

He wants comfort, and he’ll admit that even though it should make him burn with shame to do so, even though he should be strong because Cas wants him to be. He wants kindness, even when he isn't good enough to deserve it.

And, of course, Cas gives him exactly that. 

Gently, he angles Dean’s face back into the crook of his neck so that he can inhale and ride the high of peace that comes with the alpha’s warm scent; sunshine after a downpour. He wraps his arm around Dean’s back and slides his hand against his ribs, palm flat and warm through his shirt, and holds him steady. 

He feels like he’s wrapped up in a sleeping bag on a cold night in the woods. Like he’s floating in a warm, lapping lake, face to the sun. Like he could fly up into the air and never touch the ground again. 

In this moment, he’s sure he could stay afloat.

Cas speaks, and it sounds like he’s far away; at the same time, his rumbling voice is all-encompassing, the only thing Dean can hear. “It is human to be afraid, Dean. And I’m so proud of you for holding on to that humanity, even through the worst possible circumstances. I’m proud of how far you’ve come.” He cards his fingers through the short hair on his nape, the movement syrupy and calm. “How far you will go.”

Dean can’t even dredge up the focus he would need to reply. He just sighs, presses in closer to Cas, and lets himself be.  

Dean isn’t asleep – not exactly. But he might as well be in a coma for how responsive he is. Castiel is careful to keep still, to keep his breathing even and calm even though he suspects that a train could barrel past the house and Dean would remain undisturbed. His eyes are half-closed, one hand curled loosely into Castiel’s shirt, the other still cupping the back of his neck. He is, quite simply, away. 

He keeps stroking his thumb up and down Dean’s nape anyway, loath to risk rousing him. Loath to take away this peace. 

Castel’s never done this before, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He knows enough about the science of it to have a rough idea of what’s happening, and somehow, his atrophied instinct has managed to cover the rest. 

It has to be enough, because Dean deserves it. 

The omega is in so much pain. So angry at himself for things outside of his control, so quick to dismiss his inherent worth because of what others have done to him. So obviously terrified of losing his place in the world, even if that place is painful and cruel. And Castiel has taken away everything he knows, everything that is familiar. He is beginning to understand just how overwhelming that must be. 

Even the most dire of circumstances can bring strange comfort, once they are rote. Change, however positive, is frightening.  

And Dean had been frightened. He’d postured, and he’d paced, and he’d shouted, but what had looked like fury had really been frustration and fear. He can still smell it in the air – a warped, caustic scent that had burned his nose. Can still feel his ears ring at the broken fury and grief in his voice. And when Castiel closes his eyes, he sees him as he’d been after; bowed so low his head had touched the carpet, broken and pleading for something Castiel hadn't, at first, understood how to give him.

But then… 

Somehow, he'd known what to do. Known exactly what Dean needed. For once, he’d been sure. And Dean had let him – had trusted him not to hurt, not to take advantage. Had allowed Castiel to touch that sacred spot on his nape, even though he’s been hurt there so often, and so badly, that his one consistent defiance – if defense can be considered such – has been to hide it. To protect it. 

He sees the line of Dean’s throat, exposed and pale; the deep pool of pupils under his hooded eyes. The slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, the flush on his cheeks. His hand, warm and steady on Castiel’s skin. 

Castiel has never been around an omega while they’re in this state. Down, lots of people call it, under - and he can see why. Dean’s body is loose, his breathing even and slow, his eyes distant when they open slightly now and again. He is calm, and at peace, but he is not here. Not… present. 

It would be all too easy to hurt Dean while he’s like this. To push his thumb down on his nape and dominate him, erase him. Coerce him to do things he doesn’t want to do. Castiel knows that other alphas have done that to him. He can only imagine how terrifying it must be, to have your willpower sapped away by some errant quirk of evolution, to be able to be coerced by something built into your very body. 

Once, Balthazar had described it to him as a feeling of betrayal. Had told him that, the first time it’d happened to him, he’d thought he’d lost his mind completely. Bal had also made it clear that it could feel good too, of course – quite the natural high – but that, all too often, it was used and abused for the wrong purposes, rather than for the stress relief and strengthening of bonds that mother nature had intended. 

“It’s like your brain slows down,” he’d said, frowning out into the courtyard. It had been early on in their partnership, early on in the center’s opening. And the omega had only just begun to trust him with details like this, things he needed to understand as an alpha that wanted to help omegas. “You start to forget why you were saying no in the first place, the longer it goes on. Not that you can’t resist it – you can. But it gets harder and harder. Like being exhausted and needing to sleep. You can only keep pinching yourself awake for so long.”

Castiel had been sick at the thought. Had clenched his hands in his lap, wondering if his friend had ever feared Castiel might hurt him like that.

If there had been any other path to try, Castiel never would have risked this with Dean. But something inside of him had urged him to do this, to offer this sort of relief. And Dean had allowed him to. Had, in the only way he could, asked him to. He knows that matters. Knows it makes a difference.

But Castiel also knows that, in all likelihood, Dean won’t remember the finer details of this once he wakes up. 

That terrifies him. 

He would never abuse Dean’s trust intentionally, but this responsibility… it scares him. One of the disadvantages of being an alpha that is inexperienced with domination is that he doesn’t really know what to do with the sudden power that Dean has placed in his hands. All he can do is follow his instincts. 

He’s taken great pains to ignore and unlearn those feral alpha tendencies, so he’s more than a little lost.

Dean shifts slightly, his nose pressing closer to Castiel’s scent gland behind his ear. He lets out a little sigh that hits Castiel's skin like lightning. Then he’s asleep, the rhythm of the rise and fall of his chest smoothing out just enough to tell. 

Castiel sucks in a breath and holds it, tries to overcome a wave of something that he doesn’t understand. It’s heady, invigorating. He feels like the world around him has narrowed to just this; just Dean. His soft breathing. The rhythmic stroke of Castiel’s thumb against his nape. The very scent of him, heady and intoxicating; vanilla and apples and flaky, sweet pastries.  

He never wants to let him go. 

As though it is on fire, Castiel snatches his hand from the omega’s neck and turns his face away, eyes screwed shut – pants through his mouth, tries to wrestle himself under control. Blessedly, Dean is out like a light, and doesn’t so much as shift against him. 

He lays there and trembles for a long moment before he has to move. 

As carefully as he can, he slides away from Dean and moves to the edge of the bed, sitting up slowly. Everything in him protests. The feral thing inside him is howling, snapping, telling him to return to his omega and hold and claim and protect. And that’s exactly why he leaves, shutting the door behind him and padding carefully down to his office. He refuses to risk hurting Dean by giving in to those instincts. 

Benny picks up his call on the third ring, and Castiel can’t help but slump in relief. He leans forward in his office chair and listens to the beta’s calm Cajun rumble. 

“Afternoon, boss,” he says. Castiel can hear him typing away on his computer. “What can I do for you?”

“I…” he trails off, not sure where to begin. Dean’s reminder that he needs therapy bounces around inside his brain like a pinball. “Would it be considered unethical to set up an appointment with you?”

Benny makes a low humming noise. “Now, I thought we talked about that. Dean’s gotta make that decision for himself–”

“For me.”

The typing stops abruptly. There’s a pause. “Well, no. It don’t bother me if it don’t bother you.”

Castiel lets out a long breath. “Okay. I’d like to… yes. Schedule that. On the same day that Dean sets his appointment, if possible.” He pauses. “If he agrees to meet you at all, that is. I know it’s his choice.”

Benny’s voice is careful now. He’s undoubtedly sensed the tension in Castiel’s voice. “Sure, brother.” He pauses again. “Or we could just do this now.”

Relief washes over him, and Castiel nods, forgetting Benny can’t see him. “Can I ask what brought this on?” the beta asks, clearly curious.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “I’m… struggling.”

“With Dean?”

“With myself.” He shifts uncomfortably in his chair. “I’m worried about how I’m… reacting to him.”

Benny hums, urging him on. “Which part, exactly?”

“I’m worried about… about my alpha… instincts,” he fumbles, and flushes immediately. He’s glad the therapist can’t see him. “I’ve never… I mean, I’m not really an alpha male, Benny. You know that. I’m beta in every way except my designation title.”

Benny considers that for a moment. He doesn’t contradict Castiel, but he also doesn’t agree, and that makes something uncomfortable squirm inside of him. “I’m hearing that you think you’re experiencing real alpha instincts for the first time, and they’re freaking you out a little. Do I have that right?”

Castiel swallows. “Yes.”

“Could you give me an example?”

“I…” 

He doesn’t really want to walk out the story of yesterday again, not so soon. But he thinks he needs to, to give Benny a full understanding of where his head is. So he does, and the beta doesn’t, surprisingly, seem all that perturbed by it.

“Without getting into the nitty gritty,” the therapist says, his voice compassionate, “you were working off of a pure limbic system fight response there, boss. With that much adrenaline, it’d’ve been real hard for your brain to walk it back and switch gears into comfort mode. Almost impossible, especially since you ain’t really used to that alpha aggression.”

“That’s not an excuse for what I said to him,” he says, miserable. He feels like he’s having to repeat himself. “It’s… he didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” Benny agrees, though he doesn’t sound at all hostile. “But you know that already. And you’ve apologized, and you’ll continue tryin’ to make it right. ”

His throat hurts. “Of course.”

“So, there,” Benny says, like it’s really that simple. “No need to stress over it anymore. You’ll see it through.”

“Easy to say,” he chokes, voice rough. 

Benny sighs. “You’re doin’ pretty good for someone with no real training, brother. Don’t forget, you got thrown into these rapids with no raft. You’re gettin’ the hang of it, and in the meantime, it’s an accomplishment to keep your head above water. Even if it don’t feel that way.”

It’s nice to hear Benny have some degree of confidence in him, even if it’s unwarranted. Makes the pain in his chest ease a little. But when he thinks about what just transpired between him and Dean, he’s so not sure he deserves that relief. 

“There’s more, ain’t there?” Benny presses calmly.

The therapist waits patiently as he gathers his thoughts. He closes his eyes, feels the ghost touch of Dean’s nose on his scent gland, his hand on Castiel’s neck. How can something that felt so good be so inarguably wrong? 

“I…” He feels dirty, feels… primal. But he admits it anyway, because Dean deserves the best help he can get. And if Cas wants to help him, he has to get himself in order first.  

“He sort of, um. Had what I believe would be called a panic attack,” he sums up lamely, not sure how else to describe the torrent of frustration that Dean had let burst forth. It isn’t really his place to expose the specifics of Dean’s emotional turmoil, so he skips over the details, and jumps right to the heart of the matter. 

“He let me touch his nape. He… I guess I? I sort of asked him if I could, because he was…” He closes his eyes. “He was lost. I’m not sure how else to explain.”

“I can’t say I’ve heard it put quite like that before, but I think I follow,” Benny says encouragingly. “Though, I still ain’t exactly clear on what the problem is.”

“He let me.” Castiel closes his eyes. “I brought him down.”

“Never done that before, huh?” Benny asks. He clearly knows the answer. 

“No. It was…” He’s not sure how to describe it. How to put words to the raw feeling that had rushed through him as he’d watched Dean fall apart at his feet, the wrongness of that. The dizzying sensation of rubbing away the omega’s distress with his touch alone, the heady pride of being trusted. 

“It felt good.”

The calm, blunt way Benny says it makes Castiel’s shoulders slump in shame. “... Yes. It did,” he admits, misery making his words small.

“That’s normal, boss.” He can hear Benny cracking his knuckles, and imagines him leaning back in his padded leather office chair. “Just biology. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Castiel blinks. “I don’t understand. I’m happy to help him,” he clarifies, “but this was… different. More primal. I’ve never felt anything like it.”

“How intimate have you gotten with omegas in the past?” the man asks pointedly. He knows Castiel’s history pretty well - knows that he and Balthazar were, and are, strictly platonic - so the question is rhetorical. He plows on. “Did you hurt him?”

“No.” The very idea makes him queasy. 

“Did he appear to be afraid of your actions?”

“Well… no.” Quite the opposite, in fact – Dean’s fear scent had vanished the instant he’d touched him. 

“Well, alright then. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that I liked the way it felt too much, Benny! I liked the control!” he bursts out, frustrated, overwhelmed by the sudden whiplash of being so out of control. “I wanted to – God, I wanted to… to keep him, or something, I don’t even know. He trusts me, and trusts that I won’t hurt him, and that feels so… it feels so good, so right. But how can I be worthy of that trust if I have this animal shouting in my brain that tells me to – to take hold – and – ”

“Deep breaths, brother.” Benny’s low, Louisiana baritone interrupts him, jars him out of his panic spiral. “In and out with me. In…. out.”

He breathes, and breathes some more, and eventually the room stops spinning and he’s back on solid ground. “I’m alright,” he finally says, quiet and more than a little ashamed by his outburst.

Benny sighs. “Boss, you’re an alpha. There are certain parts of your biology that you just can’t ignore, no matter how hard you try. I don’t mean you have no self control – it’s obvious that you do, or you wouldn’t be on the phone with me right now,” he rumbles, calm and reassuring. “I’m just talking about you feelin’ those protector instincts.”

“... Protector?” Castiel repeats skeptically. He’s not sure what he’d been protecting Dean from. There’d been no one in the room but them. 

“Yes. Think about it. You’re hardwired by evolution to guard vulnerable members of a pack, yeah? That’s why alphas are typically a little bigger, why they tend to be a little more aggressive, why they keep their heads on a swivel. Makes you a better protector. It’s easier to do that if your body is inclined toward it physically, right?”

“I… I guess,” Castiel says slowly. He doesn’t understand where Benny is going with this. 

“Alright. So you’re hardwired to protect, and in front of you, you have a person that needs a hell of a lot of that. You’re scenting his distress day in and day out, and naturally, that upsets you, as it would anyone.”

“Of course.”

“Now add to the mix that the person who is in distress is an omega, the designation that is most likely, in that same pack setting, to have kids. To raise offspring and further generations. Way back when, it was in humans’ best interest to keep those members safe from all harm." He chuckles. "Just in terms of species survival, if nothin’ else.”

“But that was then!” Castiel bursts out. “We live in modern society – we aren’t hunter-gatherers anymore. I don’t care about him just because he’s supposed to be fertile,” he spits, disgusted. 

“Stick with me, brother. That’s true, and we both know that. No one doubts it. But the roots of evolution don’t just go away.”  He pauses, waits for Castiel to acknowledge he’s paying attention. 

“I’m listening,” Castiel says, albeit reluctantly. 

“Good.” Benny pauses. Sighs. “It’s a lot easier to safeguard someone from harm if you know exactly how they feel, and have the tools to fix it. Ergo, the more physically intense alpha-omega bond that so many people with those designations experience. That desire to keep each other safe and content.”

Castiel supposes that makes sense. For as much as he’d been puzzled by his more intense bond with Dean, he’d never stopped to consider why that relationship might have formed in the first place. Never considered the science behind it. “I think I understand,” he says slowly. “At least, I get why I was able to… to help him. But why did it feel so… right?” He swallows. “Why did I want to…” 

To keep going. To hold on, even when Dean didn’t need him anymore.

Benny hums. “This is sorta conjecture, at this point, because only you know why you feel the way you do about your actions. But I’d hazard a guess that it’s got a lot to do with your body’s biological reward system. Ain’t so different from having endorphins in your blood after a workout. That sort of feeling can get addicting.”

“I can’t just let instincts control my actions,” he growls, frustrated with himself. “He’s scared of people touching him there, and I know that, and I did it anyway. And it worked out this time, but… but what if…” 

Castiel trails off, throat tight. “Just because I’m inclined to act a certain way doesn’t mean I should.”

“Well, no. Of course not,” Benny agrees easily. “We’re intelligent. We can overcome instincts that are harmful – plenty of alphas and omegas do every day. And betas too, believe it or not,” he adds, the edge of a laugh in his voice. 

His tone regains some of its gravity, though, when he goes on. “You’re right, though – some give in. Some warp their actions into possessiveness and trade protection for ownership, and suddenly it's more important to them that their omega is under their thumb than it is that they are happy. It becomes a relationship about overpowering and controlling the other person, rather than cultivating mutual trust. That’s what Dean has experienced, I’d imagine.”

Horror creeps into him. Dean had consented to his touch, Castiel is sure of it. But the line feels awfully blurred as to whether or not he asked for it, or simply gave in to it. Now he’s afraid that Dean did that based on instinct too, that he didn’t truly want it. That it was an action driven by terror, and that Castiel’s reaction – the feeling deep inside his chest that Dean belonged there with him, that he should never be anywhere else… 

“Is that what I did?” he whispers. “Overpowered him?”

“No.” Benny says calmly, and it’s enough for Castiel to be able to breathe again. “Boss, you’re on the good side of things. You’re tryin’ to stop him from being scared. For any alpha worth his salt, that’s the most basic inclination that there is. And any omega who ain’t too far gone has a matching instinct to search for that feeling of security.” His voice is gentle. “Dean has been hurt in the past, but he obviously trusts you.” 

When Castiel says nothing, he pushes a little harder, speaks a little more firmly. “You did what you were supposed to do. You protected your omega. And your brain rewarded you for that, and will keep rewarding you for that. That’s all there is to it.” 

“I… He’s not my omega,” Castiel finally chokes out, zeroing in on that part of Benny’s explanation because it’s the only one his brain seems to be able to sink its teeth into. “That’s… that’s barbaric.”

“He’s your slave,” Benny corrects him bluntly. Castiel flinches. “So in the most literal sense, he is yours, even if you got no intention of takin’ advantage of that. But even if he weren't,” he continues, his voice a little softer, “he’s still in your home. You’re still around him on every day that ends in y. He’s still reaching out, lettin’ you touch him and touchin’ you in return. So, unsurprisingly, you’ve formed a pack-attachment.”

The therapist snorts. “Or, you know. Call it whatever you want – a friendship, scent bonding, hell – just decency. You have a vulnerable, scared person in front of you, and the worst thing your brain wants to do is keep him safe. What’s so bad about that?”

Castiel scrubs at his face, anxiety finally beginning to fade in the face of the beta’s calm, logical reasoning. “You don’t think I did anything wrong? You don’t think that I’ll…  hurt him?”

“Brother, I’m not sure you could lay a hand on that man if you tried.”

Relief floods him, chased by a smaller pang of self loathing. He’s familiar with it. This is what he gets for running away from being an alpha his whole life. He doesn’t resent Dean for awakening these things inside of him, but he is afraid – mostly of himself. He’s always been scared of what he doesn’t know, what he can’t control. 

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he says finally, and he means it. It feels foolish, now, that he’s taken up the man’s time to discuss things he should already know.

“If havin’ talks like this bothered me, I’d be pretty goddamn miserable,” Benny jokes, his voice a low, gentle rumble. “We all need an outside perspective sometimes. No shame in asking for it. No honte, as we say in Lafayette,” he adds, a smile in his words. “You believe in the power of askin’ for help when it comes to other people. Extend that same grace to yourself, why don’t you?”

Castiel’s mouth twists. “I just… I feel as though these things should not have to be explained to me,” he admits quietly. “I’ve seen so much of the bad side of alphas that I seem unable to understand what behavior is normal, or harmless, and what isn’t.”

“You ain’t those alphas,” Benny says simply, rooting straight through his words to the core of his fear, “and you never will be. You just don’t have that cruelty in you, boss.”

Castiel isn’t so sure, but the reassurance is a balm all the same. He clears his throat. “Thank you, Benny.”

“Anytime. And I mean that. We can talk more after Dean’s session, if you still want to.” He chuckles. “Gotta say, I’ve been wantin’ to get you in my office for a while now. So don’t be a stranger.”

He half laughs, not sure how to feel about that. It seems to be clear to everyone around him that he needs help – to Balthazar, to Dean, and, apparently, to his own resident therapist. “Thank you. And… I won’t.”

“Aye,” Benny says wryly, and the call ends.