32. Until I Am Whole pt. 2

Dean is not in the living room when Castiel returns from washing the dishes. 

He frowns, glancing around the room before returning to the kitchen, plopping down at the table. It’s not like Dean to move about the house without telling him – even with his developing sense of freedom and independence, he’s usually careful to tell him where he intends to go. Castiel has figured that it’s his way of asking without doing so outright – voicing his intentions, in case Castiel disapproves of them. 

Sighing, he rubs a hand over his face. With Dean gone, the intoxicating scent of his contentment and comfort is no longer around to distract him. 

He… 

Castiel bites his lip, and fights down a wave of panic. 

He… loves Dean. 

It really shouldn’t surprise him, he thinks. There is nothing about Dean that isn’t deserving of love. He is kind, and brave, and selfless, and he’s beautiful inside and out. He’s strong, and that strength… it fills Castiel with longing, with something aching and wonderful and bright, every time he looks at Dean and sees it in his eyes. He doesn’t know how he could know Dean and not love him – doesn’t know how anyone could. 

Castiel cannot say that he’s ever loved before. He has cared for people, yes. He loves Gabriel in a factual, familial sort of way, even with the distance between them. But he has never felt this sort of ache, before – this sort of pull. This sense that, with Dean by his side, everything in the world is just a little softer and brighter than before. 

Truth be told, he never thought himself capable of it. Castiel thought that he would move through his entire life in the same way: alone. He is not emotional enough, is not good with small talk or with opening up to people. He struggles to trust, struggles to let himself be vulnerable, struggles with his designation and his past and all the expectations placed on his shoulders. 

But with Dean… it feels like all the chains he’s locked around himself, all the walls he’s built up, they just fall away. Dean sees right through him. If Castiel was ever going to love someone, it would be Dean. He feels, somehow, that it’s always been Dean, far before they knew each other. 

Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. 

Castiel… cannot take advantage of Dean. And in this state, it would be all too easy to do so. The power balance between them could not, in fact, be more pronounced – in every conceivable way, Castiel has the upper hand. In a society that has established a rigid, and largely unquestioned, food chain, he is at the tip top, and Dean is at the very bottom. He is an alpha – controlling, dominant, aggressive – and Dean is an omega, his opposite in every way. He is healthy, in both mind and body, and Dean is not; he is wealthy, and Dean is not. 

He is free. And Dean is not. 

It’s the last, more than anything, that confirms he can’t tell Dean how he feels. At the end of the day, Dean is owned. And while it isn’t as though Castiel wants to hold his contract, it doesn’t particularly matter – the fact of it is, he does. Under the eyes of the law, he could do anything he wanted to Dean short of outright shooting him. Even then, he’d probably get away with a slap on the wrist. 

The very thought makes him ill. 

What’s really stopping him, though, isn’t what he’s allowed to do to Dean. It’s what Dean, himself, would do for Castiel. 

If he pushed, he’s fairly certain that Dean would agree to just about anything. He never intends to abuse that power. He has never wanted to abuse that power. But if he were to express a preference, or frustration, or voice concerns – all things that people in relationships do on a regular basis – it’s entirely possible that Dean would bend to his will without Castiel even knowing that he was doing so. Dean might not even recognize that he was doing so.

He is strong, true. But he is also fragile, in his healing state. Breakable as glass. Loyal to a fault. And if Castiel asked it of him, knowingly or not, the omega would shatter himself trying to make him happy. 

Dean will be free, one day. Hopefully, one day soon. Castiel knows this, because the very idea of anything else is intolerable. The man deserves freedom, deserves to be his own person and go his own way. He has more than earned it – had never deserved his fate in the first place. Castiel doesn’t need to know how Dean ended up with a collar to know that. 

And, in all of these thoughts, all of these deliberations, he hasn’t even considered the most important one up until this very moment: Whether or not Dean feels the same way about him. 

He has spent nearly an hour contemplating all the ways in which a relationship with the omega wouldn’t work out in the long term, without even considering the very real possibility that Dean would not be interested in him in the first place. 

He knows that the omega cares for him. But he also suspects that Dean, given time and sufficient cause, would care for anyone in his life in the exact same way. His soul is pure. His love, unfiltered. Castiel himself is not special – he is simply the first kind person Dean has known in far too long. The first person that Dean has had any reason to trust in years.

That doesn’t mean that Dean loves him.

And – even if Dean were to echo the sentiment, Castiel cannot abide the idea that Dean would mistake trust and comfort for love, simply because he has never had a chance to learn the difference. 

Worst of all, Dean has no idea who Castiel is. He is in the dark, and he can’t make decisions without all the facts.  

Castiel has told him nothing of his past. He knows nothing of the awful things that his family has done. Or, perhaps he does – the Morningstars are quite infamous in the trade. But he doesn’t know that Castiel is related to them, that he’s from the same stock as people who profit off of the suffering of others.

He has taken great pains to distance himself from his family, to use the money he inherited as a force for good, as a way to undermine some of the awful damage that his family has done. But it’s not enough – will never be enough. 

He and Balthazar have had this argument countless times. The omega has tried, frequently, to convince him that he is not responsible for the sins of his father and his brothers, has tried to tell him that his actions now are what matters. Coming from him – from someone who has been through what he’s been through, at the hands of the very same family that Castiel is so ashamed of – it should mean a great deal. Balthazar has every reason to hate him, but he’d forgiven him instead, and has been a loyal friend for years. 

So the sentiment should be comforting, but Castiel knows the truth. 

He lived through the majority of his childhood happily blind. Then, when he finally grew up and wised up enough to cut ties with his family, it was without the intention of doing anything about the horrible things he’d seen. It was only Balthazar stumbling into his life that opened his eyes to the possibility of making a difference with the money and influence that he had. 

If Dean knew even a fraction of the things his family has done for the slave trade – a fraction of Castiel’s cowardice – he doubts he’d want to be anywhere near him. 

Castiel should tell him. But he’s not ready. It makes him feel like a coward and a hypocrite, but it’s true all the same. Dean has only just begun to feel safe here. Revealing to him that the very thing that allowed him to be hunted down like an animal was designed by Castiel’s family… 

So, no. He will not be telling Dean. Neither about his past, nor his feelings. He will continue the way he has for the last few months, and will move only with Dean’s best interests in mind. And, as soon as he can, he will tell Dean that he can begin the process for gaining his freedom whenever he is ready to do so. 

It doesn’t matter that Dean will likely leave his life forever, once there is nothing tethering him here. It makes his heart ache, makes the animal inside of him whine pathetically. But he’s not going to place his own selfish desires over Dean’s very life. 

He’s done quite enough of that. 

Absently, he puts his hand in his pocket, wanting to bring out the tags and examine them one last time for defects or misspellings before presenting them. He’d planned to do it this morning, once Dean had woken up, but things had not quite worked out that way. Instead, Dean had awoken from his much deserved rest in the wee hours of the morning, and comforted him, when it should have been the other way around. 

Rather than hating him, Dean had answered Castiel’s betrayal of his trust by offering even more: He had told him about his brother. Opened up about his past. 

Castiel knows that’s meaningful. The first time Dean had mentioned Sam, he’d done so by complete accident, and he’d been so frightened that he’d shut down completely. But last night, he opened up all on his own, told Castiel things that he has probably never told another living soul. All in the name of assuaging his guilt. The gratitude he feels for that… he’s honestly not sure he’ll ever be able to properly express it.

He sighs, rubbing his temples, those warm feelings giving way to trepidation about the tags the longer he sits here. They are a necessary evil, for now, and Castiel cannot keep stalling simply because they make him uncomfortable.

Only… the tags aren’t there. 

He frowns, paws around in his pocket for a moment until he’s sure they’re not inside. He’s certain they were before. He’d been pulling them out and fiddling with them and putting them back when he lost his nerve for hours on end, last night, before Dean had interrupted his wallowing. 

He goes into the living room, sure that they’ve fallen out on the couch while he was sleeping, but they aren’t there either. He can hear the shower shut off – that’s where Dean has gone. The omega’s abrupt departure is starting to make an awful sort of sense. 

What if he found the tags? What if he didn’t react well? Dean had asked for them, had seemed to want them, but if he changed his mind…  

Cautiously, he sniffs the air, and sure enough, there is a faint hint of fear scent. It’s layered under others – Dean’s cinnamon sugar contentment, his green apple pride, and something sweeter, an emotion that he doesn’t really know how to place. But the fear is clear, flashing like a neon sign in the darkness. 

Without thinking much of it, Castiel hurries up the stairs to go knock on Dean’s door and see if he’s alright. He rounds the corner, worry pulsing through him – 

And nearly smacks right into the omega, who is only just now walking out of the bathroom. 

He’s not dressed. 

The man stares up at him with wide eyes, frozen like a prey animal, a large towel slung around his shoulders. It’s big enough that it’s covering anything that might be alarming for Castiel to see, but it’s still a jolt. It’s not normal for Dean to go anywhere undressed, even after a shower – he’s quite meticulous about being fully clothed when he’s out and about. Castiel can easily understand why.

All of that races through Castiel’s head, but only distantly, because he’s too busy trying to wrap his brain around what’s on Dean’s neck.

The tags are already there. If he’d been expecting anything, he hadn’t been expecting that. He stares like an idiot, mouth agape, floundering for what to say. 

Abruptly, broken out of whatever state of shock he’d been in, Dean flushes bright red and drops his eyes, backing up a step. And then, just as abruptly, his knee gives way under him. With a sharp cry of pain, he collapses, hand shooting out to the counter to try and catch himself. 

Castiel lunges forward without thinking, intent on helping, but Dean flinches away from his touch like he’s wielding a red-hot iron, the blood draining from his face as he stumbles back. 

“Don’t!” he cries, just one desperate syllable, but it’s enough to smack sense back into Castiel’s head; he steps back with his hands up, out of the bathroom, and looks away. It’s his cheeks that are flushing now. 

“I– I’m sorry, Dean, I didn’t mean to… I didn’t realize you were…” 

He can hear Dean’s breathing, now – sharp and erratic, like he’s being chased. He stays crouched against the cabinet, frozen still, and it’s all Castiel can do not to pull him to his feet. But that would be a bad, bad idea; Dean is one step away from being naked, and he’s vulnerable, and his scent has already sharpened with fear – 

And with pain. 

Castiel stiffens. “You – your scent,” he says, unable to finish the thought. Panic has already begun to flood his system – Castiel’s not sure he’s capable of stringing a coherent sentence together at the moment. Because right now, he’s thinking about Dean, shivering and cowering in the snow, and Dean, kneeling on the carpet with Castiel’s hands around his hidden, bleeding wrists, and Dean, flinching on the kitchen island, exposed and hurting and terrified. 

Dean doesn’t respond, just continues to breathe rapidly; panting, sharp little noises, pulled through clenched teeth. “Dean, what –”

The omega doesn’t answer his question, but he does speak – or, rather, he pleads. His voice is fragile and shaking. Terrified. “Cas – alpha – please, I don’t want it. I don’t, I know it smells like I do, but I don’t–” 

“What are you talking about?” Castiel says sharply, looking back down in spite of himself. Dean, pale as a ghost, is staring at his chest instead of his eyes, calling him alpha like he had all those weeks ago, like he’s sure Castiel is one step away from grabbing him and forcing him to–

“Please,” the omega repeats, and now Castiel can see that his eyes are red from crying, can see that Dean is holding his towel around himself with two shaking hands as though he’s afraid it will be ripped away. 

He takes a larger step back, and then another, aware that Dean needs space. It pains him to do so – he wants to crouch down, to bring Dean to his chest and scent him and comfort him – but he can’t. He’s essentially cornering Dean in the bathroom, right now, and that’s not okay. He moves to the side, leaves him a path to his bedroom so that Dean can flee if he so desires. But the omega doesn’t move a muscle. Afraid to come near him?

“I don’t understand,” he says carefully, trying to hide the scent of his own anxiety so he doesn’t ramp Dean’s up any more. “What’s going on? Why are you–”

Dean makes a rough little choking noise that sends Castiel’s heart rate through the roof. “I– I don’t know, I just – I don’t know what’s wrong with me! But, I – I know you won’t hurt me, but please, I don’t – I thought I wanted it, but I don’t–” 

“Why are you in pain?” 

The omega’s mouth clicks shut at his outburst. For a moment, they just breathe, staring at each other, both shaking and frightened and bewildered. 

“What?”

The word is small. Timid. Dean looks so lost, crouched on the floor like he is. So vulnerable. 

“Your scent,” Castiel repeats sharply, trying not to let his words morph into a growl. “You smell hurt. What happened?”

Dean blinks at him, his eyebrows drawing together slowly. “You mean you don’t… you can’t smell it?”

Castiel does growl then, frustrated and upset, but Dean doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he looks shell shocked. “Of course I can! You haven’t smelled like that in so long, and I– I can’t–” 

Understanding dawns in Dean’s eyes. He sags in obvious relief, falling back so that he’s sitting on the ground rather than crouching. “Christ,” he breathes, one shaky hand coming up to cover his eyes. “Christ, Cas, I thought…” 

Castiel waits, forcing himself to be patient. His hands twitch at his sides – he wants to do something, wants to soothe away whatever is paining his omega. But he can’t, because he isn’t sure if Dean is okay with being touched. 

“We,” he says, forcefully calm, “are obviously not on the same page.”

Dean laughs, strained. “Yeah. No shit.” 

He shifts until his left leg is poking out of the towel, and taps his knee, wincing as he does so. Castiel can see it, now – a blooming bruise, one that looks like it’s going to be nasty in the morning. “I fell on the stairs,” he explains, looking up at him. “Knocked it pretty good, and I just – I forgot about it, and it went out from under me when I stepped back. That’s all.”

Castiel searches his eyes for any hint of a lie, but he can’t find one. Dean’s scent is rapidly calming, the fear fading away; and, yes, now that he isn’t straining the injury by crouching, his pain is fading too. 

He’s so relieved that he has to sit down as well. They stare at each other, several feet away with Castiel’s back pressed into the wall of the hallway, both visibly shaken by what just happened. “Oh,” he says weakly. “Well, that’s…” 

Dean just looks at him, something tender and tired in his gaze. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Cas,” he says, apologetic. “I didn’t know that’s what you were talking about, when you were asking about my scent.”

“What the hell did you think I meant?” he asks, running an agitated hand through his hair.

Dean pauses. Looks at him searchingly, cautiously, as though he’s trying to figure out if it’s safe to answer – and that shouldn’t hurt Castiel, but it does. What in the world would Dean be so scared of that he’d revert back to how he’d been before? What would make him think Castiel would violate his wishes, or his space? “Dean–” 

“I got slick,” he blurts. 

Castiel doesn’t understand, at first – and then he does. That’s what the sweet scent had been, downstairs. It’s the same one he can smell trickling out of the open bathroom door, off the clothes he can spot crumpled up in front of the shower, now that he’s not zeroed in on Dean’s pain. It’s heady, strong – fundamentally Dean, and he thinks that under different circumstances, he’d have an arousal problem of his own. Right now, though, the scent of Dean’s fear and pain is cancelling out any reaction he might have to the scent of his slick. 

When he looks back to Dean, the omega is bright red.

Castiel opens his mouth to reassure Dean, only… he can’t. He seems to be at a loss for words. So Dean fills the silence for him, hitching his towel a little more securely around his shoulders as he does so, an edge of something like shame in his voice. “Don’t know why, exactly. But, uh. Yeah. I did. Downstairs. And it, well, freaked me out – surprise surprise,” he tacks on bitterly, looking down. “I thought you smelled it. Thought you’d…” 

“You thought I was going to assault you,” Castiel finishes, hollow and horrified. 

But Dean looks up at him sharply. “What? Cas, no,” he scrambles to say, leaning toward him. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.”

The words bring him no comfort. Castiel feels nausea twist his insides as he recalls Dean’s exact words – I don’t want it. I know you won’t hurt me, but please. 

Dean had, in fact, thought Castiel might rape him. He’d just believed he’d do it gently. 

“I would never,” Castiel grits out, “touch you without your consent. Never, Dean.”

Dean cocks his head to the side. “I… I know that,” he says, bizarrely, because if he did know that they wouldn’t be having this conversation. “But I was asking you to.”

Castiel doesn’t understand a single fucking thing that Dean is saying. He’s so frustrated, so confused, and Dean must pick up on that – he bites his lip, eyes flicking around like he’s trying to figure out how to make him feel better. 

This... this is his fault. He’d just wanted to stop Dean from speaking badly about himself, before, and he’d reacted without thinking – he’d let some degree of dominance, some measure of alpha into his tone. Without considering the consequences. And obviously, he confused Dean. Made his body react inadvertently to alpha-omega biology that neither of them really understand.

“You said you didn’t want it,” Castiel points out, trying to stay calm. “I fail to see how that’s you asking for anything.”

Dean opens his mouth, but shuts it after a moment, genuinely perplexed. “I got slick,” he repeats, as though that should be answer enough, as though it explains literally anything at all. 

“That’s –” He pauses, takes a deep breath because he feels like he’s about to start pulling out his hair, or throwing things, or both. “That doesn’t mean anything, Dean.”

“But…” Dean trails off, blushing. He mumbles, “I got slick for you.”

And, God, that makes his stomach swoop. There’s a million things to unpack, there, a million different hopes and fears born all at once inside of him at those simple words. But he can’t react, not right now. This is far more important. 

“Your physical reactions,” he starts, “and your actual consent are two different things, Dean. You cannot always control how your body responds to – to certain situations,” he says awkwardly, stumbling over the words, and Dean winces. “But that is not the same thing as actually wanting to do something sexual.”

Dean looks lost. “But… if I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t be, uh,” he falters for a moment, obviously searching for the right words. “I wouldn’t have gotten all, um. Worked up. Right?” 

He sounds so painfully young. And really, he is – though Dean has experienced a lifetime of sexual trauma, he’s never had the chance to understand his own body. Never had the chance to make his own choices or discover what makes him happy. 

Castiel breathes in through his nose, steeling himself. “If I had tried to have sex with you, just then,” he says, his voice tight, “would you have been okay with that?”

The omega flinches like Castiel hit him. “I – I don’t…” He swallows. “I know you wouldn’t, um. M-make it hurt –”

“That’s not what I asked,” Castiel interrupts sharply. “Did you desire, in that moment, to have sex? Would you have enjoyed it?”

Dean looks down at his lap, fiddling with the towel. “I…” He swallows. “I know you’d be good to me. So it ain’t nothin’ against you. But… I don’t think so,” he whispers, and God, he smells so ashamed, as though he’s admitting something awful.

“So that wouldn’t have been consensual, Dean. That would have been me raping you.”

The words are harsh, but he needs Dean to understand. He needs this to sink in, because this cannot be something in between them. Dean cannot grow or heal if he’s afraid that Castiel will take advantage of him. 

Dean’s lips are pressed together when he looks up, his mouth twisted to the side. “Slaves don’t get raped, Cas.” 

He’d looked young, before. Now, he looks a thousand years old. 

He doesn’t understand, at first. Of course slaves are raped – their choice is constantly stripped from them. But then he gets it. 

Dean has been conditioned, for years, to believe that he has no choice. That his consent is not only disregardable, but also meaningless. He has been told, over and over again, that he is an object, that he has no say, that he cannot be violated because he would need to have a will of his own to violate in the first place. 

“Oh, Dean,” he says softly, heart aching in his chest. “That’s not true.”

Dean scoffs, looking away from him. “I knew you… you wouldn’t think so,” he says, words sharp as broken glass. “You don’t follow the rules. But that’s how it is. I’m just a toy.” 

“You aren’t,” Castiel says. “You aren’t, Dean. You’re human.” 

“These say different,” he replies flatly, hooking a thumb through the chain around his neck.

He must see Castiel flinch, because his voice softens. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to wear these. I want to wear these,” he admits, shame sneaking into his voice. “I got no problem belonging to you, believe me – no complaints. But, Cas, even you gotta know that if it was anyone else’s name on these tags, I’d have been fucked on my first day here, and every day since.”

The words are awful. So difficult to hear that Castiel wants to put his hands over his ears rather than acknowledge them. But they are also far too close to the truth. 

He leans back, looks at Dean for a moment. The omega is tired. Emotionally bushwhacked. They both are. Neither one of them can handle a single other thing, he thinks. He stands up, walks forward, and is glad that Dean doesn’t flinch when he offers his hand. 

“Well, you aren’t a toy to me,” he says gently, and Dean’s rock-hard expression cracks. Just a little. “And that’s what matters.”

Dean’s lips give a small, grateful twitch that might be the beginnings of a smile, if it weren’t so sad. He grabs his hand and allows Castiel to pull him to his feet, wincing as he does so. Clothed in only a towel, he leans into Castiel’s side with a hiss. Even now, Dean trusts him. And that trust is a balm. 

“Is it your knee?” he asks, supporting Dean’s weight as they hobble to his bedroom.

“Mm,” Dean grunts. He avoids eye contact. “Been a minute.”

It’s been a while since he’s been in pain like this, he means. It sounds suspiciously like he’s making excuses for letting that pain show. Castiel tightens his hold, but he doesn’t say anything. 

When they finally make it to his room, they stand in front of the bed for a moment. Dean stares at the mattress like it’s a live crocodile. 

“I don’t think you should sleep on the ground, with your injury,” Castiel says softly. Dean’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t say anything. It’s still a sore spot, obviously. “Can you sit here for a moment?”

Dean allows himself to be steered to the window seat, allows himself to be gently pushed down onto it. He looks as though he’s sitting on a bed of nails, for how comfortable he is, but he doesn’t protest. Castiel has seen him sitting here before, of course, but he has a hunch that Dean’s reluctance has more to do with his presence than his general aversion to sitting on furniture. He’s never stayed seated here for long, after all. 

“What clothing would you like?”

Dean makes a soft, plaintive noise. “Can’t you just…”

He glances up. Dean is staring down at his lap, biting the inside of his cheek. “Just gimme something?” he mumbles, and Castiel translates that to, please pick for me so I don’t have to choose. He thinks Dean’s had about enough of making difficult choices, today. Figures he deserves a break.

Sliding open the omega’s dresser, he fishes out a soft, long-sleeved shirt that he’s seen Dean wear quite a few times, along with a pair of boxers and pajama pants. He adds a pair of socks for good measure. “Put those on. I’ll be right back.”

By the time he returns with a warm cup of tea, Dean is fully dressed, his towel crumpled up beside him. He is still on the window seat – though he looks incredibly uncomfortable. 

“Here. Drink that,” he orders, albeit gently. Dean looks relieved to have something to do, some direction to follow. He lifts the cup to his mouth and sips it with only a faint grimace at the taste. 

“May I propose something?” he asks after a lull of silence, and Dean glances up at him curiously, nodding. “Perhaps we could simply put the mattress on the floor?”

Dean flushes, embarrassed. “Stupid,” he mumbles, fiddling with his cup. “I know there’s nothin’ to be scared of.”

“Maybe you do when you’re awake,” Castiel says softly. “But when you’re asleep, your mind is unguarded. More susceptible.” 

The omega shrugs unhappily, but he doesn’t argue, so Castiel takes it upon himself to make the arrangements. He tugs the mattress off the bed frame and drops it to the floor, leaning the empty frame against Dean’s unused closet door carefully. Dean watches him quietly, the cup traveling to his mouth every so often. 

“Pamela texted me,” he says, while Castiel is fixing the bed covers so they’re neatly pulled back. It’s a fairly transparent excuse to get his scent on the sheets, though neither of them acknowledge it.  

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. She wants me to, um. Come up to your job. For a check-up, I guess. I told her I’d ask you when we could go.” 

“Well that works out well,” he says absently, picking up a pillow to fluff it (read; rub his wrists across the fabric as subtly as he can manage). “We can go tomorrow, if you’re alright with that, and her schedule is free. That way, she can look at your knee while you’re there. It’s probably just a deep bruise, but we’re better off safe than sorry.”

Dean’s quiet, at that. Castiel looks up at him from his place on the floor, leaning over Dean’s blankets and pillows as he tries desperately to make the omega comfortable again. His eyes flick to Castiel's, and then away. “Will you, um. Stay with me? While we’re there?” 

He asks the question like he’s sure he’ll be mocked for it. Castiel cocks his head to the side. “Of course, Dean. Why wouldn’t I?”

Dean shrugs, looking away. He crosses his arms over his chest and picks at his sleeves. “I don’t know. You ain’t been back there in a while. I figured you’d want to check up on things, or something.”

“I’m sure I will,” he says slowly. “But you’d come with me.”

Dean relaxes, letting loose a breath. “I thought you’d wanna drop me off in that therapist’s office stat, after what just happened,” he admits, flicking his eyes up sheepishly. 

Castiel’s heart twists. “While I do think it would be an extraordinarily good idea for you to see Benny,” he says, and Dean grimaces, “I’ve no intention of forcing you into it before you’re ready.”

Dean laughs in the back of his throat, just once, and his obvious lack of belief stings. He looks so worn out. 

He allows Castiel to help him up and place him on the mattress with no grumbling, curling into the turned down blankets and yanking them over his head, nuzzling blatantly into the spot where Castiel’s touch had lingered the most. He looks up at Castiel through hooded eyes. Offers his hand. 

Castiel, settling down on the floor next to the bed, takes it. 

“Sorry,” Dean whispers after a while. Castiel just rubs his thumb over the omega’s palm, waiting for him to voice his thoughts. “I don’t actually think you’re a, um. A r-rapist.”

He forces the last word out like he’s unsure. Not about whether or not Castiel is one, he thinks - hopes - but about whether what might have happened could qualify as rape in the first place. He’s not about to dive back into that argument, not right now, when Dean is hanging on to his composure by a thread. 

“It’s okay, Dean,” he reassures him, squeezing his hand. And it is okay, truly. Even if the way Dean had looked at him – like he was sure that Castiel was going to use him – impacted and reverberated like a kick to the chest. The omega can’t control what he’s afraid of; it would be foolish and naive to believe that Dean knows better than that, now.

“It really ain’t,” Dean argues faintly. “I hate making you feel like a monster. Hate making you feel like you’re anything like those other alphas.”

Once again, Dean has effortlessly seen through him, has burrowed down to the root of his insecurities. Castiel takes a deep breath, considering his words. “I do not like scaring you,” he finally says, not sure what else to say.

“I think I scare myself, most of the time,” Dean admits, closing his eyes. “I get all… all twisted up in my brain, till I can’t tell up from down. And I start acting like things are the same as they were before, even though I know they aren’t.”

Castiel gives in to the urge he’s been pushing away since he nearly ran into Dean, reaching down to card his fingers through his hair. Dean arches into the touch with a soft noise. “You’re making progress. You did tell me no, when you realized you didn’t want it. Would you have done that before?”

Dean opens his eyes a sliver. His pupils are round, gaze a little distant. “No. Don’t think so. It wouldn’t have done any good,” he says, voice miserably matter-of-fact. “Sometimes telling them to stop would just… would make it worse. ‘Cause I think some alphas, they like that. Forcing someone who doesn't want it.”

Castiel wants to tear each and every one of those alphas limb from limb. He would, given half the chance. But right now, he can only focus on Dean. “But you said no to me.”

Dean smiles at him. The expression is tired, and a little strained. But it’s genuine. “Only ‘cause I thought you’d listen.”

Castiel has to blink back tears, at that. It’s a relief to hear. But when he opens his mouth to say something – to thank Dean, to reassure him further – the omega is already asleep.