33. Dance Music
Dean opens his eyes to weak morning sunlight.
Instead of the looming form of the bed bracketing him in, separating him from the rest of the room and hiding him from the door, he’s staring straight at the window, his view unobstructed. He blinks slowly, confused as to why that is. Confused, too, about why the floor feels so soft under him.
It takes a while for his brain to come back online.
Right. Cas moved the mattress. Because of what happened in the bathroom, and what happened before that.
He closes his eyes, kinda wishing he could just go back to sleep until he can stop feeling absolutely mortified. But since he doesn’t actually want to fall into a perpetual coma, he drags himself upright. The covers slump off his shoulders and he shivers a little. He rubs at his face until he’s somewhat functional.
It’s… nice. To be able to wake up slow. He’s still not used to that. For years, waking up has been synonymous with being afraid. With pain. With kneeling and presenting, with Alastair’s sour breath and cold black eyes and awful, decaying scent. Just another shitty day of torment – another tally mark on the wall.
But now, he gets to… relax. Gets to inhale and smell nothing except fabric softener and the petrichor scent of Cas, still lingering in the air.
Just a few months ago, if someone had told Dean that he’d actually be able to sleep with an alpha in the room – let alone would want to – he’d have laughed in their face. He wonders how long Cas stayed with him last night before he went to bed himself. He wonders why he keeps acting like he deserves that, and why Cas keeps humoring him.
It had been strange, yesterday, to just… come right out and talk. To tell the alpha what had happened. But it’d been surprisingly easy, too, because he trusts Cas. Implicitly, fully. It doesn’t seem possible, because Dean hasn’t trusted anyone like that since Sammy. But in such a short amount of time, the alpha has wormed his way into Dean’s heart. And it seems like he’s there to stay.
Dean limps into the shower slowly, grimacing at the shooting pain in his knee, and is both relieved and mortified to see that his slick soaked clothing has disappeared. He’s got no doubt that he’ll find it washed and folded and neatly stacked on his bed soon, because Cas is efficient like that.
He makes extra sure not to think about how Cas might have reacted to the scent of his slick while he’s showering. The last thing he needs is a redux of yesterday’s shit show.
It’s not like anything happened, anyway. Cas hadn’t even fucking registered that Dean was ten kinds of horny, because instead, he’d been concerned about him being in pain and being afraid. He furiously scrubs at his face and does not cry about the magnitude of that – of an alpha being repulsed by the scent of his agony, instead of excited by it.
Dean’s not stupid. He knows that he’s had it exceptionally rough. Most alphas aren't like the ones he serviced under Alastair, or even the ones he’d had before that. The vast majority are normal people with normal kinks and, if they aren’t exactly nice to omegas, they’re at least not sadists. The people he’d been trapped with for years upon years were the worst of the worst.
But last night, most alphas – even the decent ones – would have said he was asking for it. No one would have batted an eye if Castiel had taken Dean’s arousal as enthusiastic permission to fuck him senseless. He’s just an omega, after all. A slave. And if he’s getting slick, that means he wants it, according to everything he’s ever learned.
Cas didn’t seem to agree, though. He’d listened to Dean’s words instead of his body, and Dean’s insanely grateful for that. Now, he’s that much more comfortable here, because he knows that the alpha can and will ignore even his most base instincts, even if Dean can’t do the same. All in the name of keeping Dean’s trust.
Hell, he’s already taking advantage of it; normally, he picks out his clothes before he showers, so that he doesn’t have to make even the short trek back to his room in nothing but a towel. He’d been too freaked out to do so last night, but it hadn’t made a difference, in the end – Cas hadn’t done anything except blush furiously at his semi-nudity. This morning, Dean steps out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist with a degree of confidence he never imagined possible.
After much deliberation – and man, is it strange to be deliberating on something like clothing choices, when not long ago he hadn’t owned a shred of clothing to begin with – he goes with jeans and a button-down, hoping he isn't supposed to dress up nice. The last thing he wants to do is embarrass Cas, especially in front of his employees. He even tugs on a belt, ignoring the way his skin crawls reflexively when he looks at it.
He takes the time to dampen his hair and attempts to wrestle it into something that’s sorta presentable, rather than the chia-pet look he’s been rocking lately, and laces up his boots for the first time since Cas bought them. The shoes feel a little strange on his feet, but comforting, too – he feels more capable, somehow. Less fragile. The tags bouncing on his chest only add to that feeling of security.
Mindful of his precarious balance, he carefully limps to the kitchen, hand gripping the banister as he goes so he doesn’t tumble down the stairs like a slinky. Cas is already up, unsurprisingly, busy making breakfast. Bacon and eggs and hashbrowns – he’s going all out, from the look of things. Dean even thinks he sees a waffle iron going.
Dean leans against the doorway and just watches him, for a while. The alpha is so sure of himself in the way he moves, tie slung over his shoulder, black socks on his feet. There is no hesitance, no deliberation. He even has a little bounce to his step as he juggles the bacon and a second pan of potatoes, one hand on his hip and the other wielding a spatula like a specialized tool. Dean’s still not over the fact that Cas is cooking for him. He’s not sure he ever will be.
When he realizes the seconds of staring have turned into minutes, he shakes himself. If he's going to move forward from what happened last night, he needs to act friggin' normal, not like some kid with a crush. He straightens and speaks up.
“Mornin’,” he greets from the doorway, a little sheepish, irritatingly nervous about how he looks and whether or not Cas will approve. He feels the urge in the back of his mind to kneel, because he wants the comfort of familiarity after that shit show last night, but he ain’t about to fall on his face trying to get down there.
Cas raises his hand in greeting without looking back, concentrating hard on what he’s doing. He’s already dressed as well, his normal white shirt and blue tie ensemble comforting in its familiarity. Dean finds it a little funny that the alpha has dressed for work all this time, when he wasn’t even going to work, but at this point it’s more endearing than bizarre.
When he does finally look up, he smiles. The expression is pleased, and genuine, and Dean feels a little buzz of satisfaction at that. Fuck his pride, or whatever – he’s happy to make the alpha happy. Makes him feel ten feet tall.
“Good morning, Dean,” he says, glancing him up and down with a visible sort of approval that makes Dean warm. “How is your knee?”
Dean shrugs. He leans back against the kitchen table with his fingers hanging over the edge, a little reluctant to try and sit on his own. It’ll be one hell of a balancing act, if he manages it. “Hurts like a bitch. But it ain’t anything to be worried about, don’t think.” Frankly, it seems a little silly to Dean that they’re even still talking about it. He’s been through a hell of a lot worse.
Cas doesn’t seem to be on the same page, though. “I think we should let Pamela be the judge of that,” he replies mildly. “I’m glad you’re dressed, at any rate, because she does indeed have a slot open today. I thought we could go after breakfast, if that’s alright with you?”
Dean shrugs again, fiddling with the last button on his shirt. “Yeah, okay.”
The alpha studies him for a moment, but if he notices Dean’s nervousness he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he nods toward the coffee pot. “Help yourself, if you’d like.”
Dean would like, surprisingly, and he only feels a tiny squirm of anxiety when he limps over and pours himself a cup. Cas nudges cream and sugar his way, gently insistent without saying a word. Dean adds them with no complaint.
“I drank it black, as a kid,” he says randomly, staring down at the swirling, creamy brown liquid. “Thought it made me look tougher.”
Cas snorts, flipping the bacon in a methodical sort of way, one strip at a time. “I’m sure your peers were very impressed.”
Dean scoffs, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “Well, not really. Didn’t really matter what I did. Nothing made any difference,” he adds, and he can tell that bums Cas out because of the way his scent gets all melancholy and the way he slows his movements. But he pushes forward – this isn’t supposed to be a sob story about his shitty childhood. “Tasted like shit, anyway. This is better.”
“You know, Balthazar drinks his coffee black as well. And his tea. I wonder if there’s a correlation,” the alpha muses, his eyes all squinty like they get when he’s thinking hard about something.
Dean can’t help but laugh. “Dare you to ask him.”
Cas looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “Absolutely not. I would like to live to see tomorrow,” he says flatly, and it’s only because Dean’s standing so close that he can see the slight quirk to his lip, the spark in his eye that shows he’s joking.
Dean wants to hug him.
His hands twitch behind him on the table, enthusiastic about the idea, but he doesn’t move. He doesn’t want the alpha to burn anything. And he doesn’t want a repeat performance from yesterday, either. Dean’s not sure what will set him off, at this point. It feels like he’s picking his way through bear traps that he set and hid from himself.
Cas makes him a plate, and Dean’s relieved – he was afraid that, after yesterday, he’d be expected to feed himself every time they ate. The bravery he’d dredged up to do that is nowhere near being an everyday thing, unfortunately. The alpha doesn’t seem to mind.
He does, however, seem to mind that Dean intends to sit on the floor. Frowning as he sets the plates on the table, he eyes the tile like it’s personally offended him. “Please don’t strain your knee,” he says, as close to an order as Cas ever seems to get. Dean understands what he means – don’t kneel, and probably, don’t sit on the floor either.
So Dean doesn’t. He stands, not quite brave enough to sit in the chair like a real boy, but smart enough to know that he isn’t going to be able to get up by himself if he makes it to the tile in the first place. Cas doesn’t exactly look pleased with his solution – he frowns again, sighing as he sits down himself – but he doesn’t argue, and Dean’s grateful. He can only handle so many new things at a time.
They’re both about halfway through their meal before he manages to say what’s been on his mind all morning.
“Thank you.”
Castiel pauses mid bite, looking up at him with a question on his face. “Breakfast is no trouble, Dean. I’ve said that.”
“No, I mean…” Dean bites his lip, searching for the right words. “Thanks for just… for letting me…”
He flounders. He’s not sure how to express this feeling inside of him – this warmth. He’s just so damn grateful that he ended up here, that he’s with someone he can trust. That Cas respects him enough to let him make his own choices, even if they’re stupid ones.
Cas’s eyes are soft, when he manages to look back up at them. “I just mean, thanks for being you, I guess,” he finishes lamely, blushing when he hears how childish he sounds. But he means it.
Cas doesn’t look like he wants to make fun of Dean, though. In fact, his face sorta screws up like he’s getting emotional, and that’s not what Dean was trying to do, but it’s too late. “I dislike,” he explains quietly, “that basic human decency is something you feel the need to thank me for.”
Dean makes a frustrated noise before he can stop himself, dropping his fork on his plate. “Don’t do that,” he bites out.
Cas is taken aback, clearly – and it’s nearly enough to make Dean backpedal and apologize. But this is important, and he needs to say it, and no amount of cowardice is going to stop him.
“Don’t… don’t make this seem like something small,” he says, a little angry as he gestures at the spread in front of him, at his clothes, at the fact that he’s able to eat and stand and look him in the eye and just be without any fear at all. “You never let me be grateful.”
Cas opens his mouth. Closes it. “I… I just don’t want you seeing me as if I’m some sort of saint,” he explains, his voice more timid than an alpha’s has any right to be. “Just because I am treating you like you deserve to be treated–”
“You’re not listening,” Dean interrupts, almost desperate for Cas to understand what he means. “Like, okay, yeah. I am thankful for the food, and the clothes, and I’m glad that you give a shit that I'm hurting. Because three months ago, ‘round this time of the morning, I was naked and cold and starving, and my master wasn’t happy unless I was in pain.”
As he spits the words, Castiel flinches like they are physical blows, the color draining from his face – but Dean doesn’t let up, because he can’t, not if he wants Cas to understand. “I get that you think this is basic, Cas. But to me, and to anyone else like me? It ain’t.”
Dean takes a breath, tries to get his beating heart under control. Cas’s scent has gone all sad and horrified, and he hates that – he didn’t want to turn a pleasant morning into a pity party. “I didn’t even mean that stuff right now, anyway,” he adds petulantly, crossing his arms.
“Then what did you mean?” Cas asks softly, and Dean can hear it – the earnest desire to know, to understand. It makes his hackles go down.
Dean shrugs, looking away. “I meant… I meant that I’m grateful you don’t make me sit in that chair, even though we both know it’s what you want. I’m grateful you pulled the stupid mattress off the bed-frame last night instead of making me sleep up there, because you didn’t want me to have nightmares. I’m grateful you made me a breakfast you know I like because it’s gonna be a rough day, probably, and you wanted to start it off good. I’m grateful that you’re nice, ” he stresses.
Castiel just scoffs, like he genuinely doesn’t think that any of that impossible stuff qualifies as kindness. He hates that the man can’t give himself any credit. Anger seeps back into his tone as he doubles down. “Dammit, Cas, you are. You’re thoughtful. You don’t have to be – you could feed me boring, healthy oatmeal, and tell me to sit at the table like I’m supposed to, and you could make me go to stupid friggin’ therapy. And you’d still be treating me with more basic human decency than I’ve ever fucking had – you get that, right?”
He glares at Cas, who is staring back at him with wide eyes as though he’s spouting ideas he’s never even considered before – and that just goes to prove his point. “But you… you do better than that. Above and beyond, even if you don’t think so. You let me choose, like my opinion matters. Like… like I matter.”
As usual, when it comes to the defense of anyone other than himself, the alpha manages to find his voice. “You do matter, Dean.”
Dean nods, a little harsh, because he’s still not sure he believes that – but he knows, without a doubt, that Cas does. “So then, I’m gonna be grateful for you, and you – you can’t stop me,” he says stubbornly, hiding his hands under the table because he doesn't want Cas to see them shake. “If I matter, then… then my feelings matter, too. So take them seriously, and don’t assume I’m a kicked dog who only likes you ‘cause you kick me less. I know you better than that.”
He looks down, abruptly running out of steam, abruptly remembering that he shouldn’t even be talking like that in the first place. The silence sits heavy between them. But he refuses to take any of it back, because he means it, and it’s been so long since he’s felt this passionately about anything that didn’t have to do with his own survival. So he looks up into Castiel’s eyes, and juts out his chin. “Okay?”
Cas blinks. Once, twice. His eyes are a little watery, and his scent is all over the place – confused, and a little overwhelmed, and maybe even a little pleased. “Okay, Dean,” he says softly. He sort of laughs, sniffing a little, and Dean feels his heart do a weird little flutter. “I apologize.”
It’s not the first time that Cas has said sorry to him, but it still makes him feel strange. Alphas don’t apologize, and they really don’t apologize to omegas. But Cas does, and he clearly means it. So Dean nods, picks his fork back up, and ignores how fast his heart is beating as he finishes his breakfast.
Whatever bravery he’d dredged up to ream Cas out over their morning meal disappears abruptly the moment the car pulls out of the garage.
Dean sinks down into the passenger seat, his hands gripping the armrests a little too tightly. It’s overcast – heavy, oppressive clouds hang over the road, penning him in. There’s been no fresh snow for a few days, so everything is gray and dirty. The world feels a little too cold for him to be comfortable.
“It’s about a forty-five minute drive,” Cas says absently, flicking on his turn-signal for absolutely no one as he pulls out of his driveway. “Closer to the city, though still far enough out that there’s some decent land around the building. I wanted more of an isolated area to avoid, um. Trouble,” he finishes, clearly uncomfortable with the thought. “So far, it’s worked.”
Dean just nods. He doesn’t know where all his words went. He can feel Cas looking at him out of the corner of his eye, can picture the worried little frown pinching his face.
There’s a click and a buzz, and then the radio is on.
Dean doesn’t know the song. It’s some buzzy, irritating pop tune he’s never heard before, probably something that’ll be popular for a few weeks and then fade into non-existence. But he still jerks his gaze toward the stereo with wide eyes, sitting forward in his seat like it’s the first time he’s heard music in his life.
Cas notices, because of course he does. He waves his hand at the stereo, glancing out his rearview as they pull up to a stoplight. “Feel free to change the station to your liking. I’ve never pre-programed them, if you can believe it.”
Dean can – the dude hasn’t even bothered to decorate his house, so it tracks – but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he tentatively reaches out and taps the tune button, excitement zipping through him like he’s a kid on Christmas.
Tap, tap, tap. He scans through Christian rock, and a cumbia or two, and a couple of talk shows. Then he lands on a familiar riff, and he freezes, his hand hovering over the stereo.
He’s twelve. In the Impala, with his dad. Dean hasn’t hit much of a growth spurt – hasn’t hit puberty. He’s not an omega, not yet. He’s just a scrawny little kid with a spit-fire attitude and a right hook to match. His dad still loves him, he thinks, even if he’s spending more time away from home, more time drinking. Even if he’s yelling more and more, coming home later and later. Even if he’s hitting him harder than he used to, when Dean screws up.
In the memory, his dad isn’t yelling, and he’s stone cold sober. He’s teaching Dean to drive. Too early, in most people’s opinion. But John had lived a unique lifestyle, and it’d been important to him that his eldest knew how to operate a get-away vehicle if the need ever arose. So they’d left Sammy at Bobby’s, and his dad had driven out to an old, lonely farm road, and he’d sat Dean in the front with the driver seat pulled all the way up. Dean had been nearly sick with nerves, he remembers – he’d wanted to do everything perfectly. Had wanted to make John proud, as usual.
When his dad had popped in a cassette and turned up the speakers, Dean had practically bounced in his seat with excitement. “Theme music,” John had said, a gruff little smile on his face.
Dean had eased his foot onto the gas and had probably gone a grand total of four miles an hour, but Black Dog had made it feel like he was flying. By the time they’d gotten to When the Levee Breaks, Dean had been entertaining dreams of drifting around corners and kicking up gravel, on the run from whoever would be foolish enough to chase the Winchesters.
He blinks, and he’s back in the car with Cas.
The alpha is looking at him strangely, the beginning of a question on his face. They’re sitting still, Dean realizes – he must have pulled off on the side of the road. Probably to be sure that Dean wasn’t about to freak out. He looks down and notices that his hand is shaking; slowly, he closes it, and drops it in his lap. The song plays on, fades into silence after that last riff, and jumps straight into another that’s just as familiar; a nearly forgotten tune from a nearly forgotten life.
“Dean?”
“I knew how to drive,” he hears himself say. He’s staring at the dashboard, a weird, numb feeling in his chest. “I was pretty good, I think.”
Cas doesn’t say anything, at first. He just sits there, and he feels oddly far away from Dean – or maybe it’s Dean who feels distant, who feels like he’s surrounded by thick panes of glass.
“Tell me about it,” the alpha says.
So Dean does.
“My dad, he drove this old muscle car. A Chevy Impala. Black as night, wicked fast. He took care of that car better than anything else,” he says, and it’s true. His dad had washed and buffed and tuned up that old four-door more than he’d ever checked in on his kids, more than he’d ever asked them how their days at school had been. Maybe he’d taken for granted that his kids would continue to function without his care. “He loved that thing. So I thought he’d never let me get within a foot of the driver’s seat, you know? But one day he just, he took me out into the middle of nowhere, and he taught me how to drive stick, and he…”
His throat feels a little tight. He’s not sure why – this is a good memory, one of the few he has of his dad that is untainted by the fury and hatred that had, like rot, slowly overtaken the man. Feelings that had only seemed to accelerate when Dean had presented, not long after that day behind the wheel.
“I was good,” he chokes out. “Learned real fast. He was proud of me. Even said he was.”
He feels pathetic even saying it.
Cas intertwines his fingers with Dean’s, his touch somehow reaching through that weird distance from before. “I’m certain it was one of many times that you made your father proud,” he says, so sure of himself that, for half a second, Dean wonders if it’s true. But he knows better. John Winchester hadn’t had much room in his heart to be proud of anyone.
The alpha must be able to sense some of that, because he shakes his head. “And if that isn’t the case, he was a blind fool.”
Dean feels something hot behind his eyes at that. He wants to snap out a defense, like he used to as a kid – wants to tell Cas that his dad was only ever doing his best. But where Dean is today is the ultimate proof that that isn’t true, so he doesn’t bother.
“We could look into getting you a license,” Cas offers, painfully earnest.
The idea makes his chest ache with longing. What a normal, beautiful thing, to be able to get behind the wheel and have the freedom to go where he pleases, to drive fast with the windows down and his music turned up loud.
But he knows better than to think something like that is possible. “I’m a runaway, Cas. It’ll never get approved.”
The alpha just squeezes his hand, his scent swirling with sadness a tinge of anger. For the first time, Dean wonders what his childhood might have been like with someone like Cas watching his back. Dean hadn’t had a single friend, by the end – he doesn’t count Sammy, because Sammy was obligated to him as his brother. But he thinks Cas might have been one, given the chance.
“Don’t give up hope,” the alpha says, and it’s almost a command, his voice is so strong.
Dean shakes himself. There’s no point in having a pity party over things like this. So much has been taken from him and done to him that it seems stupid to be upset over not being able to drive. He turns to Cas with an apologetic smile on his face.
“Can we, uh. Leave the radio on? I promise that I won’t get all mopey every time I hear Led Zepp.”
Cas doesn’t laugh. He just squeezes Dean’s hand again, and pulls back onto the road. “I wish I’d known you back then,” he says wistfully, a perfect echo of Dean’s thoughts from before.
Dean just has to nod. “Um. Yeah,” he says, his voice only a little scratchy. “Me too. Things mighta been different, you know?”
He can tell that the alpha wants to question him. Wants to push. But he doesn’t. Instead, he stares out the front window, his hand still around Dean’s, and makes a valiant attempt to lighten the mood. “I didn’t get my license until I was twenty one,” he says, a little self-deprecating smirk around the edges of his mouth. “Never was talented at driving, and before then, I’d never had a reason to learn.”
Dean can’t imagine that – can’t think of a reality in which he wouldn’t want the control of having his own transportation. “That’s sorta crazy, to me,” he admits, laughing a little. “How the hell did you get around before then?”
Cas shrugs, his eyes distant. “As a child, I had a driver. And when I left for college, there was public transportation. I did a lot of walking,” he jokes, smiling a little.
Dean shakes his head. Somehow, he keeps forgetting that Cas grew up with money - probably because he doesn't act like a pretentious douche bag. “A driver. Richie Rich, over here,” he mutters, though it’s good-natured. Cas rolls his eyes, and the petulant expression looks so funny on him that Dean has to laugh.
There’s a comfortable silence between them for a while. “For all your father’s faults,” Cas says finally, something sad in his voice, “I’m glad he was there to teach you things.”
Dean can sense a whole mess of backstory behind that. Somehow, he gets the feeling that the alpha has always been lonely. He’s not sure Cas has ever felt the support and strength of a family. As fucked up as Dean’s life had been, he’d always been able to count on the love of his brother, had always felt the distant but ever present love of his adopted uncle. Sometimes, even the love of his dad. He has to wonder if Cas has ever felt anything like that.
“What was your family like, Cas?” he asks, curiosity getting the better of him.
He should have known better. Castiel stiffens, his grip going a little tight around Dean’s hand. His focus on the road seems intentional, now, like he doesn’t want to look at Dean at all, and discomfort curls into his scent like coffee that’s been in the pot too long and has gone black and burnt.
“Never mind,” he says hastily, shaking his head. “Never mind. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t wanna.”
“No,” Cas interrupts. He takes a breath. “You’ve told me so much about yourself, and I haven’t returned the favor. It’s alright,” he says, his fingers still intertwined with Dean’s. He hasn’t pulled away, and that means something, Dean thinks.
“My father was… distant. I never really knew him,” he starts, his tone strange and clinical. Dean hasn’t ever heard him like this. “I grew up away from the family estate. I think he was…”
He trails off. Takes a breath. “My mother was an accidental conquest, I believe. An affair. I don’t actually know, because she was not around either – I was told that she passed away shortly after I was born. I think that he felt responsible for me financially because he was my sire, and because the media had gotten wind of the affair, but past that he wasn’t interested in raising me – nor was his wife, understandably. So I lived with nannies and tutors and grew up away from my half siblings.”
Dean feels something hot in his chest. “Fuck him,” he spits, and Cas jerks his head and looks at him in surprise. “Fuck that. He had no right to do that to you.”
There’s something soft in Castiel’s gaze that Dean is too pissed off to understand. “I was probably better off,” he says gently. “My family was… is. Not progressive. To say the least.” He sounds supremely uncomfortable. “Being raised away from them and those ideals probably kept me from becoming a much worse human being. So I suppose I’m grateful.”
Dean cocks his jaw. “Still. Bastard didn’t have a right to make you grow up alone.” He tries to imagine growing up without Sammy, and can’t. Who would Dean even be, if not for his brother?
Castiel huffs out a little laugh, at that. “I suppose not. He’s dead now, at any rate – no point in holding a grudge. My half brothers… well. One of them is decent, I suppose. We do speak, every once in a while, though it has been a long time.” He shakes his head. “The two eldest, though? I’m better off without them.”
His tone turns dark. Angry. There are storm clouds in his eyes. “They are bad people.”
Dean feels a little shiver at that. Now he’s the one who wants to push, he’s the one who wants to pick at Castiel’s walls until they crumble so he can see what’s inside. But if Cas is going to give him the gift of privacy, the least Dean can do is return the favor. He aches for Cas, hates that he grew up without the love of a family. As shitty and messed up as Dean's was, he knows it had made all the difference.
“Well, fuck ‘em, then,” he decides, squeezing Cas’s hand. “You’re better than them, anyway.”
Cas gives him a weak smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.
“I hope so.”