31. Until I Am Whole pt. 1

Halfway up the steps, he stumbles, trips, hits his knee hard on the wooden staircase. Dean only distantly feels it – he just scrambles back up and sprints the rest of the way to the bathroom, slamming the door closed behind him and very nearly flinging himself into the shower fully clothed. As it is, he barely has the presence of mind to jam the knob over to warm, can hardly get his shirt off with how hard he’s shaking. 

The spray is still cold when he gets in, but it doesn’t matter. He needs a cold shower. Icy water soaks him, flattens his short hair to his head. Drips off his eyelashes, snakes down his sides and makes him shiver violently, his arms wrapping around his chest on instinct alone. He hates being cold.

There’s a trail of something wet and warm dripping down the inside of his thigh. 

Slick. He’s slick. And he’s hard. 

Fuck. 

He wants to scream. Wants to dig his nails into his skin and tear it off. He’s fucking disgusting, and he hates himself, hates himself, hates himself. One modicum of kindness, an inch of trust, and Dean’s stupid, traitorous, broken body has to fuck everything up. He’s throwing all the nice things that Cas has done for him right back in his face, by acting like this. Dean wanted to be good. 

But he’s bad. He’s so fucking bad. 

His knees are pulled up to his chest and he’s hugging himself before he even knows he’s given up on standing, his breath coming in short, sharp pants. He’s aching and he’s empty and he’s turned on and he hates it because he doesn’t understand, can’t wrap his mind around this at all. And the worst part is that he wants to touch himself nearly as much as he doesn’t want to touch himself. 

But he can’t, because he’s an omega. And omegas come on a knot, untouched, or they don’t come at all, and even then he’s not allowed unless an alpha gives him permission, because he’s nothing, he has no control, no right, and he doesn’t fucking deserve it– 

With a sob, he realizes that the hateful, hissing voice in his head is not even his. It's Alastair's.

Alastair, who had literally beaten into him that he could have no pleasure for himself. Who had whipped Dean bloody the first time he’d dared to come on some random alpha’s knot without being told to do so. Dean hadn’t even meant to – he just had, some betrayal of biology twisting him up a little tighter every time the alpha nailed that spot inside of him, until he’d gasped and whited out and came, so out of it that he hadn’t even realized what had happened until after. 

Alastair had been furious, had punished him for daring to do so, for doing anything with his body without permission. He’d seen it as a failure in his training. And Dean… well, Dean had almost been grateful to be hurt, that time. He’d wanted to be punished for taking pleasure from something like that.

But that hadn’t been the end of it, of course. Dean hadn’t learned his lesson. Because, no matter how much he didn’t want it, he was an omega, and sometimes he couldn’t help it. Sometimes, the alpha using him did it in a way that wasn’t too painful, and sometimes they grabbed his dick and pumped it in time with their thrusts because they liked the way it made him tighten around them. And sometimes that was enough for his stupid body to get off. It didn’t matter that he didn’t want it, didn’t matter that he hated taking pleasure from what those alphas were doing to him. He hadn’t gotten to choose. 

His master had punished him every time. Mostly, it was just the whip, his go-to for just about everything. Rarely, when he was good and frustrated, he kicked him. But worst of all, there were times when he fucked Dean himself, so hard and fast and vicious that orgasming was the last thing on his mind, yanking on his collar until Dean was arched backwards and choking.

One time, Dean came anyway. 

It was right after one of his false heats, the drugs in his system lingering just enough to push him over the edge when Alastair knotted him. And that time, Alastair had gone much farther to punish him. 

He’d dragged him to a room that Dean had never been in before. Something small, and dark, far away from the beds for the customers. Slowly, almost lovingly, like Dean was a prized possession, he’d tied him down in position – tightened every strap and buckle until he’d had him so firmly in place that Dean could barely breathe to beg him for forgiveness, to tell him he hadn’t meant to and he was sorry.  

For a while, he had simply trailed the tips of his fingers over Dean’s back; over his quivering arms and the insides of his thighs and between his legs, not hurting him but just touching him, owning him, staking his claim like Dean could ever have forgotten who he belonged to. He’d petted Dean’s nape – the first time he’d ever touched it with anything approaching kindness – and lulled Dean into a false sense of calm. 

And then Alastair had jammed a fake, vibrating, alpha knot inside of him, and strapped that down too. And he’d left Dean all alone.

Dean had come so many times that, by the time his master came back, he was hoarse from screaming and dry heaving and sobbing, so exhausted that he couldn’t even shake anymore, couldn’t even make his babbling, begging words coherent. Somewhere along the way, in that dark little room, his mind had snapped. He would have sold his own soul, in that moment, for even a second’s worth of freedom. 

He can remember the way Alastair had looked at him, then; the flush on his cheeks and neck, the way his eyes, black like a shark’s, had raked over him. Utterly dispassionate to his pleading, utterly voracious for his suffering. Dean had never felt more hopeless in his life. And he’s pretty sure the only reason his master eventually turned the hateful thing off and let him up was because Dean wouldn’t make any money as a brain-dead vegetable.

It’s one of the few moments where he’d had a clear, present, tangible desire to die. 

Dean would absolutely have put a bullet in his own brain before going through that again. Threatened with that little room, with darkness, with that vibrating fucking toy and being all alone, he’d have done anything; would have rolled over for anyone, would have lain down and taken beating after beating without a word of protest or pleading, would have fucked and sucked and done whatever they’d wanted. He’d have been happy to. 

And maybe Alastair had seen that. He’d never repeated the punishment. Never even threatened to. Not because he cared for Dean, of course, but because slaves with fight left inside of them, slaves that could be overpowered and forced because they weren’t just passive, mind broken play-things… those kinds of slaves made him more money.

And now he’s getting wet, now he’s wanting things, like he’s forgotten entirely the consequences for daring to do so. 

He curls farther into himself, locks his hands behind his head and pulls at his own hair and presses his elbows together, trying desperately not to lose it completely. He makes himself inhale and exhale. Makes himself open his eyes and stare at the wet tile of the shower, makes himself watch the condensation drip down the wall so that he won’t have to see Alastair’s empty black eyes. 

He touches his own nape. Thinks about Alastair’s touch, and presses his palm over it protectively. 

But it helps, anyway – his nape doesn’t hurt anymore, and that’s a good reminder that he’s about as far away from his old master as he can get. His fingers brush the little chain of his new tags and remind him that there’s no collar there anymore, either, and he grabs hold and presses them into his palm. His fist shakes against his chest.

He ain’t Alastair’s anymore. He never will be again. Cas owns him, now, and Cas… He’s different. He won’t hurt Dean, won’t punish him, not even for this. He won’t. 

The raw, ugly panic he’d felt so intensely when he’d realized he was slick… it fades away. His breathing slows. He’s not gonna be punished. The fact swims slowly up from the depths, like a whale surfacing for air; closer and closer, until it’s so big that it’s all he can see. Cas will never do anything like that to him, not even if he does break the rules. Dean knows that. 

He’d forgotten, for a little while. But he knows. 

Uncurling, he leans back and rests on the cool wall of the shower. He grimaces when he stretches out his knee – damn, he’d hit it hard – and has to stare blankly at his crotch for a good thirty seconds before he even understands that he’s not hard anymore. 

He looks up, blinks back confused, frustrated tears, and tells himself he’s relieved. Tells himself that it’s good that the urge has passed. ‘Cause no matter how nice Cas is, Dean’s still not allowed to touch himself. That’s a cardinal fucking rule, one of the first things they beat into him at the training center, long before he ever got to Alastair and actually believed it: his body is not his own. He controls nothing, least of all things that make him feel good.

So, probably, even Cas wouldn’t want him to… to touch himself. That’s too far for a slave to go, even for an alpha as lenient as him. 

Right?

He feels nauseous when the rest of his brain flickers back online – and then he feels guilty. Christ. No, not right. 

Cas isn’t like that. He’s not like any master Dean’s ever had, and he doesn’t care about what he’s supposed to do. The rules are different here, because Cas cares about him – he knows that now. Believes it now. So, no – his alpha wouldn’t care at all if he... yeah. In fact, with as weird as he is, Cas might even be happy if he did. He’s told him over and over again that he’s allowed to make his own choices. That he wants Dean to heal and to be happy.

It’s dizzying to consider. In such a short amount of time, Dean’s whole life has been flipped upside down. Before, any hint of pleasure, any inkling of autonomy, was punished with violence and hatred. And now, he’s in a place where he not only won’t be punished, but would probably be praised if he decided to take something for himself. His head is spinning. 

This is not a problem he ever thought he’d have. Not something he’d ever even considered that he’d have to deal with. 

He knows there are omegas out there that like sex. Ones that have people who care about them. Ones that are not owned, but simply… loved. Dean just figured he’d never be one of those people – figured that sex would always be too tangled up in his head with violence and fear to ever be something he actually wanted, outside of a desperate, drug-induced heat. 

But, like with so many other things, Cas has shifted something inside of him that he thought was permanently rusted. And even though he’s disgusted with himself for wanting any kind of sex at all… 

If he was ever gonna want it with anyone, it’d be with Cas. 

It makes sense that Dean would want him. Because, hello, of course he does. Cas is everything. He’s handsome, and he’s kind, and he’s good. He protects Dean, and he’s strong, and he’s trustworthy, and he’s… he’s friggin’ amazing. And he believes that Cas will never, ever hurt him, not even if they were to – well. Dean flushes at the thought alone.

And Dean… Dean has never had that sort of faith in anyone, before. No one else has ever even come close. He trusted his brother, of course. Trusted Bobby. But what he feels for Cas… that’s different, somehow, and he’s smart enough to know that it goes beyond simple desire. He can’t name it – or, really, he doesn’t want to name it – because he’s afraid to open that door. But whatever the feeling is, it’s strong.

Face twitching into an unsteady smile, he huffs out a short laugh. Dean’s pretty sure that if he’d been a normal person instead of a slave, he’d have been barking up Cas’s tree a long time ago. Tall, dark, and a little scruffy; that’s, apparently, how Dean likes ‘em. 

Not that it really matters. 

His smile fades. 

Cas has already said that he doesn’t want Dean like that. He’s said it over and over. And Dean’s pretty sure he doesn’t, because if he did, he’s had plenty of chances to do something about it.

Of course, Cas wouldn’t have forced him anyway, especially if he thought Dean was scared. But even right there at the beginning, Dean would have let him do pretty much anything. He’d have done it… if not happily, then at least willingly, if it meant staying here and away from someone like Alastair. And after he’d understood that Cas really wasn’t going to hurt him or send him away, he’d been more than ready to show his gratitude with his hands or his mouth or by bending over, if Cas wanted. 

But Cas has never asked for anything like that. The few times Dean, well, offered, he’d made his feelings on the subject loud and clear. 

And really, that shouldn’t surprise him. It ain’t like Dean’s a catch. The years have not been kind to him. He’s used up, and he’s scarred, and he’s a step or two away from emaciated – and that’s after a couple months of consistent food. Dean is broken, in every sense of the word. Cas ain’t even seen the half of it. 

The alpha could have someone whole, someone free. No one would settle for someone – some thing, really – like Dean.

He hates himself for wanting anything at all, and, more than that, he hates himself for wanting someone he’s never going to be able to have.

The frustrated tears finally fall, now, and he’s glad he’s in the shower so Cas won’t be able to scent his distress. He probably reeks of it. After everything that’s happened to them over the last few days, the last thing the alpha needs to deal with is another friggin’ melt-down. Especially over something as stupid as this. He drops his head back against the tile and closes his eyes, shivering a little even under the warm spray of the shower as the last of his adrenaline leaches away. 

In its place, his chest aches. 

Cas was, what? Nice to him? And Dean popped a fucking boner over it.

Is he really that broken? Is he so messed up in the head that he can’t just take kindness for what it is, can’t appreciate good things without wires crossing in his brain, until gestures that are platonic and innocent feel sexual? After years and years of being treated like a sex toy, maybe it’s not that hard to believe that he’s starting to think like one. To act like one. The desperate whore that Alastair always said he was, deep down.

A few months ago, Dean would have given anything to never have to think about sex again. He would have chopped off his hand for the chance to go untouched for the rest of his life. He’s never… God, he can’t remember the last time he got slick himself, can’t remember a time when he’s wanted anything from an alpha except distance. 

And now he’s getting twisted up over the one alpha he can actually believe when he says that he won’t touch him. 

God, he doesn’t even know what did it. Doesn’t know if it was Cas’s compliments that turned him on, that made him desperate, or if it was what had happened after. He can’t tell if it was the genuine delight and affection in the alpha’s voice, or if it was the thumb under his chin. The calm dominance in his gaze. 

Maybe it was both.

Either way, it’s fucking pathetic. Sad. The exact opposite of how Dean should be, after years of getting fucked against his will. But even just thinking about the alpha, and his rumbling kind words, the dizzying warmth of his praise, and his firm but gentle touch on Dean’s face… 

Like it has learned nothing at all, his dick starts to try to twitch to attention. 

He presses his hands over his face, bites his lip so he won’t start freaking out again. He’s wet and loose and wanting. There’s a dull ache in his gut, twinges of desire that, in another life, might have been pleasant. 

He wants so bad to be normal. Wants to go back to being a stupid teenager, jacking off in a motel shower with the music turned up loud so Sammy won’t hear him. Wants to go back to the days where he could ride out a passing urge with his fingers, without thinking twice about whether or not he was allowed. 

Maybe… maybe he can.

Even though that rings as false, even to himself, the thought fills him with a shaky, tentative hope. Something that doesn’t feel solid but might be enough to keep him sane. 

It seems possible that his body, now that it’s safe, is going back to his old status quo. Maybe, if he just… if he just gets it out of his system by himself, he’ll be fine, and he can go back to the way it was before. He can put those kinds of thoughts about Cas out of his mind. The alpha will never have to know that he wanted this, will never have to see.

Experimentally, he drops his hand down low, and – 

No. Nope. The pure, instinctual fear that shoots straight through his spine is enough to kill whatever’s left of his arousal. 

He… he can’t do it.

He’s scared to touch himself. 

That fear, he understands now, is something wrong with him; something he’s been trained into. And that hits him like a baseball bat – shatters what is left of his composure until he’s shaking again, covering his face with his hands and curling into a little ball so he can cry like a baby.

It should make him angry, that this has been taken from him. Should make him furious.  

But it just makes him grieve.