45. Nobody Says Anything

Castiel is still not sure that this is what he should be doing. 

The distance from Dean feels…wrong. He understands, logically, that Dean had asked for this – that he’d wanted to be alone to deal with his thoughts. With his grief. It is difficult to mourn with an audience, and even more difficult to mourn if you are worried that the simple act of it is hurting someone else. 

But the more miles he puts between himself and the omega, the more tense and fidgety he becomes. 

It helps that Dean’s scent still clings to him. Despite a change of clothes, the smell of the omega seems to have somewhat melded with his own. He takes a deep breath of it just to calm himself down. To reassure himself that, grieving or not, Dean is perfectly alright. 

Bess greets him with a smile as he walks into the center, though her expression is somewhat puzzled. “Dean isn’t with you?” Castiel’s face must crumble, because hers softens with understanding. “Rough day?” 

He swallows. Hesitates as he affixes his badge to his lapel, wondering how much he is allowed to share. “Yes,” he finally says, something tightening in his chest. He taps his fingers on the counter. “He’s… having a difficult day. Some alone time was in order.” 

She nods knowingly, a hand resting comfortably on her ever-growing stomach. The newest member of the Fitzgerald family, Castiel knows, is due quite soon. It makes something inside of him fiercely happy, and something else softly ache.  

Her other hand reaches up to rest over his. “It’s a good thing – that he asked for that, I mean,” she says gently. “It means he trusts you.”

Castiel gives her a quick smile. “I know. It’s… it’s just not easy for me to watch him go through difficult times. I’ll be alright, though,” he says, shaking his head. This isn’t about him. “As will he.” 

Bess pats his hand. “Of course.”

The elevator ride is startlingly quiet, and the space feels a little larger than normal. Castiel supposes that it’s simply because Dean is not pressed into his side, nose buried in the fabric of his shirt as the floors blink by. He misses that contact immensely. That is, perhaps, a little worrisome – only a few months with Dean by his side, and he’s already having trouble imagining life without him. 

As is usual, the highest floor of the center is quiet. Castiel likes it this way – it’s easier to concentrate, easier to isolate himself. He’s well aware that many of his employees have opinions about his tendency to barricade himself in his office, but Castiel is still certain that it’s for the best. He isn’t the only alpha that works here, but he is the one that the residents, ostensibly, would have the most reason to fear. 

He shuts his door softly behind him, looks around his little office, and again is struck by how barren it feels. He looks at the couch and can’t help but feel that Dean is missing from it. Which is an entirely ridiculous thought. Dean is his own person, not his entertainment, and they are not attached at the hip. Castiel sighs, frustrated with his own unruly thoughts. He plunks himself down at his chair, perhaps a little harder than necessary, and flicks the power button on his computer. 

He’s gotten precisely no work done by the time that Balthazar senses his presence in the building and comes knocking. He kicks back, crossing his legs on the coffee table and folding his hands behind his head. “Where’s your little ray of sunshine?”

Castiel sighs without looking up from his computer screen as the login page loads. It seems he isn’t the only one that feels Dean’s absence. It’s not escaping his notice that Balthazar is now the second person to immediately question why Dean is not by his side. He’s not sure what that says about him. 

“I didn’t think you were capable of prying yourself away from your sweetheart for any length of time… color me impressed. Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces to no one, sweeping his hand in a dramatic gesture, “the alpha is resilient.” 

Castiel grits his teeth. The computer finally finishes booting up, and he jabs in his password.

“You’re – Cassie. The keyboard did nothing to you. Stop attacking it like that,” his friend says, some of the levity fading from his voice. 

Castiel takes a deep breath and leans back in his chair, finally turning to look at Balthazar. “He’s home. He… asked for some alone time.” 

Balthazar blinks, obviously taken aback by that. It makes Castiel feel worse, something he hadn’t known was possible. “Any idea what’s eating at him?” 

He does, obviously. It’s clear that Dean’s brother is a constant weight on his mind, and today of all days Dean is going to be entangled in memories of his past. But he’s not sure how much of those details he should be sharing with Balthazar. “His family is on his mind,” he settles on, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “More and more, these days.”

“Only natural,” Bal says, mouth pressed a little thin. “The more he heals, the more pressure he’s going to feel to reach out.”

Castiel sighs. “I hardly know a thing about them.”

“Have you asked?”

The question, slightly sarcastic and a little too knowing, pulls him up short. “I…”

Balthazar raises an eyebrow. 

“I didn’t want to pry.” He thinks back to when Dean had first told him about Sam – the fear in his eyes, the sick dread in his scent. Though the omega has brought him up quite a few times on purpose since then, Castiel is still wary of digging too deep. The last thing he wants to do is make Dean uncomfortable, or pressure him into sharing things he doesn’t want to share. 

“He hasn’t seemed entirely comfortable sharing that information in the past. So, no,” he admits. “I haven’t. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.”

“Not if he thinks you don’t give a shit,” Bal points out cheerfully. When Castiel scowls, he laughs. “I’m only joking. But, seriously. You should ask.” 

Castiel bites his lip. “You don’t think that’s… invasive?”

The omega just snorts. “I think he’d be glad to know you care, Cassie. If he’s as worried sick as he seems to be, his family was important to him. Still is. Kid like that… half his personality was probably formed around taking care of someone. Makes sense that he’d want you to care about them, too.” Balthazar’s mouth twists a little. “Also makes sense that he wouldn’t want to reach out if he thought there was a chance you didn’t care.”

That makes Castiel’s heart ache. It’s already clear to him that Dean loves his brother more than just about anything, and that’s going off of the little information he does have. It hurts him to think that Dean might be keeping himself from reaching out to Sam because of some misguided idea that Castiel wouldn’t want that. 

He wants Dean to be happy more than he’s ever wanted anything before. It crushes him to realize that the omega may still be in doubt about that. 

Balthazar blows a long breath out of his mouth, shaking his head. “Don’t think that’s the only reason, though. In fact, it’s more likely that he’s carrying around a suitcase or two of guilt. That’d keep anyone from acting.” 

“Why would he be guilty?” Castiel asks, baffled. 

The omega’s mouth twists into a sardonic little smile. “Yes. Why would someone feel guilt over something they had no control over?”

He scowls again, but Balthazar just laughs. He gestures at the door, effectively ending their conversation before Castiel can turn it into an argument. “Come on. As bent out of shape as you are, you definitely didn’t eat breakfast, and it’s well past noon.” 

Castiel can’t help but smile a little at that – Balthazar knows him well. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, getting up to join his friend without a lick of protest. He’s well aware it won’t get him anywhere, so he simply starts to put on his coat and fishes his keys out of his pocket to lock his office door. 

Balthazar stretches and rises to join him. “I was thinking we could check out that new Vietnamese joint on 5th–”  

When Castiel looks up, Balthazar is staring at him. He furrows his brow, waits for his friend to speak – but he remains deathly silent. Unease creeps like a centipede up his spine. “Are you alright?” 

Without answering his question, Balthazar steps a little closer. Confused, Castiel watches as the omega leans forward and takes a cautious sniff. It’s not until he narrows his eyes, looking up into his with a hard, suspicious stare, that he understands exactly what has his friend concerned. 

Castiel still smells like Dean. A lot like Dean – and not in the way that housemates sometimes pick up each other’s scents from platonic cohabitation. Something more than that. A lot more, if the omega’s expression is anything to go by. 

And, immeasurably worse… 

“You smell like blood,” Balthazar says icily. 

Castiel’s eyes widen. He scrambles to explain. 

“He’s fine. He – he just cut his hand this morning in the kitchen. Not even deep enough for stitches,” he hastens to reassure him, heart pounding at just the memory. He’d almost tried to convince Dean to accompany him to the office to have Pamela check it out. But he’d taken one look at Dean’s drawn, pale face – had scented the chaotic, trembling air once more – and had decided it would do more harm than good. 

But Balthazar’s expression doesn’t waver at the news. In fact, he’s looking at him with an emotion that Castiel isn’t sure he wants to try to identify. There is something shuttered in his gaze. Something that’s as cold and sharp as a railroad spike.

Swallowing, Castiel steps back. “Balthazar...”

The omega’s gaze hardens even further, his eyes narrowing. He is not lunging out and attacking Castiel, which says quite a lot about the amount of trust his friend has given him – and Castiel is not about to abuse it. 

“He slept in my bed last night,” he blurts, cheeks flushing red immediately. “And the night before,” he adds in a tumble. If this is to be a confessional, he may as well bare all the tarnished parts of his soul. 

Balthazar goes very, very still, and Castiel instantly knows that he’s made this situation about a hundred times worse. He hurries to backtrack. “Slept. Just slept. Nothing untoward,” he says uncomfortably, skipping right over the dream he’d had where he’d been... extremely untoward. The very idea of telling Balthazar something like that mortifies him – and he doubts he’d escape the office alive. 

The omega’s jaw tightens as he waits for Castiel to explain further, arms slowly crossing over his chest in a manner that looks half intimidating, half self-protective. It stings. Castiel knows that it shouldn’t, but it still does. Balthazar hasn’t looked at him like that in many years. 

“He…” Castiel chews on his words. Searches for a way to make Balthazar understand. “I didn’t ask him to, Bal. He asked me.” 

Balthazar’s eyes glitter dangerously. “And… you thought it’d be a grand idea,” he finishes, voice still utterly flat. 

“No,” Castiel corrects, swallowing. “He– I didn’t even realize he’d done it, the first night. I woke up with him in my bed, and promptly panicked. I nearly fell down the stairs.”

The omega’s face doesn’t so much as twitch – Castiel had been hoping, he thinks, for some sliver of amusement to ease the choking tension in the room. He gets none. “And the second night?”

He clears his throat. Drops his eyes. “I. Afterward. We talked about it – and he was… mortified. Embarrassed by searching for comfort.” Castiel chews on his lip. “I told him that he was welcome. If he ever wanted to, that is,” he tacks on, grimacing. “And he… it was clear that he wanted to, last night.” 

Balthazar’s tone is frigid. “Do I really need to explain to you that you’re playing a rather dangerous game?” he reminds him. “You and I both know that you’ve got feelings for the man. You’re not an idiot. Don’t tell me you can’t see how that could come back to haunt you.” 

Castiel knows exactly how it could come back to haunt him. He grimaces. “We… discussed that possibility. And Dean did not show any sort of fear at the prospect.” He swallows, looking his friend in the eye. “If he had, please believe me. This would not be happening. I… I could never scare him like that. The very thought makes me ill.” 

Balthazar holds his gaze for a few more seconds before he finally breaks his scalding glare away, rubbing at his temples with a frustrated huff. “Dammit, Cassie.”

He lets out the breath he’d been holding as the sharp, grapefruit scent of his friend’s suspicion finally dissipates. “I know,” he agrees, throat a little tight. “I didn’t… I never intended to push boundaries like this. But he asked for it, and I cannot…” 

He looks down at his hands. “I cannot deny him. Not when I know how much it costs him to bare his soul in that way. Not when I know that I can bring him some degree of… comfort.” 

When he dares to peek up at his friend, the omega has a strained look on his face. He closes his eyes, shakes his head a little. “The smart thing to do,” Balthazar says eventually, “is to put distance back between yourselves.” 

Castiel entertains the thought for a brief moment. He considers what he would say – the way in which he might tell Dean that he was no longer welcome in his bed. Considers if he’d have to go so far as telling Dean he could no longer live in his house, that he’d have to stay in the center instead. Considers if he’d even have the strength.

No matter how kind he might be, or how gentle his words might sound, he knows that Dean will feel it like a backhand. Like a rejection. And Castiel cannot abide that.

“It helps him, Bal,” he argues softly. “God knows why, but it does. He has placed more trust in me than I deserve. And I cannot throw that trust back in his face. I… I can set aside my own… desires,” he says with difficulty, guilt squirming inside of him. “For him. I can.” 

His friend takes in a slow, deliberate breath. Lets it out just as slowly. “You understand,” he says cautiously, his tone not quite so sharp, “that he cannot consent. No matter what he says, or how he feels. He cannot truly consent. Not with those tags around his neck.” 

The words don’t really sound like a question, but Castiel treats them like one anyway. “I do. And I would never ask that of him. Not…” He clears his throat. “Not like this. Not now.” 

Heart tightening at the thought, he tacks on, “Maybe not ever. I don’t even know if he feels the same.”

Balthazar huffs. He still looks slightly strained, but the anger and suspicion has faded into something more like exasperation, and as Castiel looks at him questioningly he rolls his eyes. “I don’t think that’ll be an issue.” 

Castiel blinks. “What?”

Balthazar cocks his head to the side, examining him. “Oh, Cassie,” he says slowly. “You really don’t see it, do you?”  

When Castiel looks at him blankly, Balthazar just snorts. “Come on, lover boy,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m still hungry.” 

Cas isn’t even gone for an hour before Dean basically loses his mind. 

It had taken about twenty minutes for him to just… give in. For him to just let all the bullshit he’s been feeling these last few days wash over him, till the waters had risen over his head. Till he’d started choking on feelings. The instant he hadn’t needed to hide them from Cas anymore, they’d come pouring out of him, blood from a gash.

He can see the phone on the carpet out of the corner of his eye. It’s several feet away. Face down. He’d sent it skittering across the carpet in a random direction, like he’d accidentally picked up a tarantula. 

He can’t look at it. Doesn’t want to look at it. 

Turns out, Singer Salvage still exists. Turns out, in fact, that the fucking phone number hasn’t even changed. 

He swallows back a wave of nausea, of self hatred. It’d taken him months to type those words into the search bar, and all of half a second for the results to pop up. And this whole time, he could have just dialed the number he still knows by heart. 

God, he’s guilty. He feels so slimy and so small that he can’t even bear to look at himself. Can barely even open his eyes. And right now, curled up on the floor in the living room and hiding from a fucking cellphone, he feels like he could crawl under the couch and never come out. 

He’s had a million chances to try to find a way to tell Sam he’s alive. That he’s safe. A million chances to find him. And now he’s pretty damn sure he’s got a surefire way to contact him – there’s no way Bobby hasn’t kept tabs on the kid. 

Except he can’t even make himself try. 

He should be checking on his brother – should be making sure that he’s okay. After what he’d left him to deal with… It wouldn’t surprise Dean if he wasn’t. Wouldn’t surprise him if Sam’s life hadn’t improved much at all. 

He’s not sure it would have even if he hadn’t left. But he damn sure would have tried. And if he thought he could give Sam anything now, he’d lay it down in a heartbeat. The thought does nothing but make him feel even more desperately helpless; what does Dean think he could do to help him? He can’t even help himself. 

So, at the same time that he’s guilty for hiding, he feels pathetic for even considering that Sam would give a shit in the first place. That he’d want anything to do with Dean at all, at this point. 

The kid has had over a decade to get over it. Over a decade to forget about him. If Dean crash landed back into his life, it wouldn’t help him. It’d just… complicate things. After all, he’s not bringing anything except problems with him – all his baggage, and his fucked up brain, and his fucked up self, hardly able to look another man in the eye after what’s been done to him. 

Sam doesn’t need to deal with any of that.

For all he knows, Sam could hate his fucking guts. Because Dean left him behind. And it was his fault that they were put in a position where he had to. 

But, God. Dean misses him. It feels like something has been torn out of him, and it’s felt that way since he walked out of his old life and into this one. The longer he says here, the longer he gets to heal and play house with Cas, and the longer he goes without being afraid, the bigger that hole inside of him seems to get. 

He curls tighter around himself. He knows, distantly, that he’s crying. He’s been crying like a fucking baby since the front door closed behind Cas. Hell, he’d been crying before that, and he hadn’t even known until he’d touched his face and felt how wet it was. 

He’d managed to make it as far as the living room before he just… couldn’t anymore. Now, the lights are too bright, and the television is too loud even though it’s so low it’s nearly muted, and his fucking phone feels like an unpinned grenade laying on the carpet next to him. 

He doesn’t know what drives him to get up. Doesn’t know what possesses him. But one moment, he’s pretty sure he’s never going to uncurl from the fetal position ever again, and the next, he’s on his feet and snatching up the phone. 

His boots are still by the garage door from their last trip outside, and he jams his feet into them, hardly recognizing that he’s lacing them up just like he always used to when his dad called in the middle of the night, needing him. He barely feels himself pull on Cas’s coat, barely feels himself yank on the gloves that Cas had insisted on giving him. He doesn’t hear the screen door when it slams shut behind him. 

Five steps out from under the shade of the porch, though, and he freezes in his tracks. 

His distant numbness gives way to a wave of something terrifying and exhilarating that washes over him all at once. Goosebumps rise on his arms as he feels the slight breeze on his face, smells the pine trees and the melting snow, feels the warmth of spring air on his skin. 

He’s paralyzed. He knows he should try and fight through that. Problem is, he’s too busy staring at the new spring grass and the tiny, violet flowers along the edge of the stepping stones leading away from the porch. Too busy staring at a line of ants crossing in front of him, at a little yellow butterfly, at the wet earth and piles of leaves that the wind has blown against the wooden steps of the porch. 

Closing his eyes, he breathes around the swelling thing in his chest that is threatening to pick him up and shake him apart. It doesn’t help much. 

It’s hitting him a hell of a lot harder than he thought it would to feel real sunlight on his face.

When he opens his eyes again, the world around him is blur. He has to angrily wipe at his face and grit his teeth before he can force himself to start moving again. Like a windup soldier. 

His path is aimless. He doesn’t try to figure out where he’s going, doesn’t try to orient himself with the sun like his dad taught him to, once upon a time. All he knows is that the world around him is far too big, yet far too small at the same time, and that the more steps he takes, the faster he goes, until he’s literally sprinting into the trees. 

Running away. He feels like he’s running away. 

There’s none of the exhilaration he’d felt before, though. None of the savage satisfaction he’d always had, knowing he’d been bringing his masters one step closer to never being able to own another slave again. One step closer to protecting someone else from going through what Dean had. 

This doesn’t feel like a victory. This feels like cowardice, plain and simple. He would never run so far that Cas couldn’t reach him. He doesn’t even want to. 

When he reaches the break in the trees, he’s gasping for breath, sweating even in the cool air, his legs and his arms shaking from the strain. He slows, nearly trips over himself, has to reach out for the trunk of an oak to steady himself while he gulps down oxygen. 

He closes his eyes. Feels the bark under his hand, rough even through the fabric of his glove. 

When he no longer feels like he’s going to pass out, he opens his eyes again. Graceless, exhausted, he stumbles out of the treeline and into the sun. 

The dirt under his boots is soft and sandy, and free of snow. He’s at the edge of a small lake, the water lapping against smooth pebbles on the shore; in either direction as far as he can see, the ground is covered in the first hints of spring wildflowers, bulbs and tiny leaves poking up from the dirt here and there, a few brave blossoms opening under the dappled sun. 

There’s a short dock that extends out into the water, far enough outside the tree cover that it’s completely in the sunshine. 

He finds himself drawn to it for reasons he doesn’t completely understand. Finds himself walking over the creaking boards, freezing water all around him. One slip and the icy plunge would rip his breath away. 

At the very end of the dock, he stops. 

The breeze sweeps through his hair. Slides around his alpha’s jacket politely. He isn’t cold. The lake in front of him is vast, the water a deep, greenish blue, and on the other side he can faintly see trees in bloom, can see the long lines of the shore on the opposite side. There are no boats, as far as he can see or hear – at least nothing with an engine. The only movement in the water is the occasional ripple of a fish and the gentle lap at the shore. 

He’s run as far as he can. 

Underneath him, the boards of the dock creak when he takes a seat, protesting until he settles. He wraps his arms around his legs. Stares out at the water with nothing but static in his mind. 

He and Sam used to dream about their futures. Used to lay in their beds, in their shared room, in whatever shit hole motel or apartment or house they were crashing in that month, and talk about where they’d like to live one day. 

Sam had always been dead-set on moving to California, or at least on someday living near a beach. They’d never gone, as kids. Not once. But Sammy had seen beaches on TV, had read about them in books, and the kid had become enamored with the idea of someday spending an afternoon wandering in warm sand, picking up seashells, swimming in clear blue water. He’d fallen in love with the type of sunshine and glittering blue beauty that he’d never had a chance to see. He’d been desperate for the sort of peace that Dean had never had a chance to give him. 

Dean, on the other hand, had always wanted something like this. 

He’d wanted somewhere tucked away. Somewhere he and Sammy could be safe, hidden from the shitty world and all its shitty people, where Dean could just be himself and Sam could just be himself and they’d never have to answer to anyone. 

Dean swears to God he’s dreamed of this very lake, has faint impressions in his mind of peaceful water and fishing off a dock. Maybe it was because of the odd visits they’d had to land like Cas’s, as kids – little snippets of time where his dad had dumped them off with a distant relative or friend for a few weeks while he went on a hunt that even he wouldn’t bring his children along to witness. 

Dean had taught Sam to swim in water like this. Had held his little body in his arms while he’d kicked and huffed and puffed, his face bright red with the effort. Dean still remembers the pride he’d felt that day, like a hand clenched around his heart. 

The phone feels like a loaded weapon when he fishes it out of his pocket. He grips it like he’s seen people hold the heads of snakes. Stares at the number that he’s already dialed and deleted what feels like fifty times. 

The edges of it dig into his already injured palm. He wants to fling it into the lake. 

He presses the call button instead. 

His heart crawls further and further up into his throat with every ring and every second of silence between, until he feels like it’s going to burst out of his body completely. 

He waits. And he waits. 

When he hears a voice on the other end, he jumps, his breath catching in his throat. 

The voicemail hasn’t changed one lick from the one Dean helped to set up, all those years ago. He thinks he’s going to choke on his love when he realizes it.

“You’ve reached Singer Salvage. I’m probably under a broke-down truck somewhere in the back. State yer business and maybe I’ll call back when I’ve washed off the motor oil.”  

It had taken them about fifteen tries to get that one, Dean remembers. Bobby had kept cussing. Had kept stopping in the middle of the recording to grouse about how he wasn’t a damn secretary and wasn’t planning on checking the messages anyway. This had been their best take after a solid hour, and when Dean had finally pronounced it good enough, Bobby had thrown his hands up good naturedly and had taken him and Sam out for pie after dinner. A silent thank you of the best possible kind. Dean vividly remembers how the man had gripped his shoulder and told him he was grateful for his help after they’d finished eating, how Sammy had fallen asleep in the back seat of his rusty pick-up. 

Dean can still feel that warmth on his shoulder. 

He has no idea how many minutes have passed before he realizes that he’s leaving a message consisting of nothing but hitching, broken breathing. 

His hands are shaking so hard and his eyes are so blurry that when he tries to hang up he fucking misses. It takes a few tries before he hits the right button. As soon as he does, he wants to call again. He wants to hear Bobby’s voice again. He wants to – 

He’s hitting redial before he can think better of it, clenching the phone in his hand with his breath held. Waiting for the stupid little click and the stupid little recording, the closest he’s come to his family in over a decade. 

“Singer Salvage.” 

Dean freezes. 

“Hello?”

Bobby’s real voice is no different than he remembers. Gruff. Brisk. He sounds a little irritated, probably because Dean is calling on a Sunday and Bobby never works on Sundays. That had been a very serious rule, he remembers. He had always insisted that Dean not work, either – the first person in his life to ever demand he work less instead of more.  

He opens his mouth. Tries to say something, to say anything. A hello, or an I’m alive, or a please, God, please. Forgive me. But the words get caught in his throat like birds in wire snare. None of them make it out. 

“For God’s sake,” his uncle grumbles under his breath, sighing. “Hello? You hearin’ me alright?” 

Yeah, Dean can hear him. He can’t hear anything else. He can’t even hear himself breathing. 

After a few seconds, Bobby’s patience is gone. “Damn crank callers,” he mutters, and then the line goes dead. 

The phone feels like a ten ton weight in his hand. 

It takes a few calls for the ringing to actually reach Dean, and a few more for him to think to answer. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here. The sun isn’t at the same angle anymore – it’s nearly set, in fact – and his shadow has lengthened until it stretches almost all the way down the dock. He’s cold, even in the last of the sunshine. He doesn’t know if it has anything to do with the weather.

Eventually, he manages to look down at the screen. The name flashing there takes a while to make sense. 

It’s Cas, of course. It’s Cas’s calls that he’s been missing. 

He presses the accept button robotically, his eyes unfocused and his chest hollow. 

“Dean.” The word is relieved. 

A pang of guilt manages to reach him through the fog. Cas doesn’t know where he is, he realizes. He’d left the house without so much as a note, and he’s starting to realize that he’s been listening to the phone ring for a long time. He can’t imagine how bad that must have been screwing with the alpha – had he thought Dean had run away?

“Are you alright?”

Dean opens his mouth to respond to that. He tries to say yes. He can’t. Nothing but a small, choked noise makes it out of him. 

Cas inhales and exhales a few times. It’s slow. Even. It makes Dean feel a little less like he’s going to suffocate. “Okay. That’s okay,” he says. “You don’t have to be alright.”

Dean wants to scream that, yes, he does. He has to be, because when he isn’t, he does nothing but screw up even more, does nothing but make everyone’s life harder. Wants to scream that he doesn’t get to not be alright, not with how good he has it, not with how good Cas takes care of him. Way better than Dean has ever in his life deserved. 

But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he sits there with his soul torn open and doesn’t say a damn thing at all. 

“Do you want me there, Dean? With you?”  

The noise that makes it out of him could, at best, be considered a whine. Because he does. He really does. But he doesn’t know how to say that, doesn’t know how to ask for something just for himself, something that won’t help Cas at all and will, in fact, probably hurt him.

“If… if you don’t, that’s okay,” Cas is saying. “You can have as much time as you need. I… you weren’t answering, and it worried me. So I came home to check on you. But I can go back. And sleep overnight at the center. Or for even longer than that if you –”

“Cas.”

Saying his name feels like ripping a shard of glass out of his chest. He closes his eyes. Curls up even tighter, the phone pressed to his skin like it’s the man himself. “Please.” 

The alpha doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need anything more than those two pitiful words. He understands.

“Tell me where you are,” he commands gently, and Dean’s so fucking grateful to not have to choose this. Pathetically relieved that he doesn’t have to do anything except follow the alpha’s order. 

“I’m – the lake,” he croaks. He’s got nothing else. No other words. But Cas understands, like he always does. 

“I won’t be long,” he promises, his voice low and strong, and Dean can’t help but tear up even more at that. He wants Cas here so bad that he physically hurts. “Stay on the line, please.” 

Dean closes his eyes. He’d been so incredibly grateful, just a few hours ago, to get some space. Some air to breathe. So relieved that he could finally let go of all the crap he’d had bottled up inside of him without worrying that he was putting Cas through the wringer. 

But now, he’s numb. He’s empty and he’s exhausted and he just wants to not have to think. Just wants someone else to take this out of his hands, to make the choice for him, because he’s tried his damndest and – surprise surprise – he’s found himself lacking. 

So he stays there for what feels like forever, curled around his phone and listening to the alpha breathe. He stays there until he hears footsteps on the dock behind him and smells Cas’s scent, his worry. Until he feels the alpha sit down by his side. 

Cas gently pries the phone out of his death grip, and hangs up. He sets it down on the dock behind them both.

The alpha should be pissed at him. He should smell angry, and Dean should be cowering, and Cas should be yelling at him. He didn’t answer the phone. He left without saying anything. He didn’t even leave a fucking note. He sent the alpha away, out of his own house, and then couldn’t even make it a full day without crying for him to come back. 

But, of course, Cas isn’t angry.

“I’m going to touch you, now,” he says, that same soft, soothing command in his voice. “And I’m going to hold you. And then I’m going to scent you, because I think it will help you. If you don’t want me to do any of that, I need you to shake your head.”

Dean doesn’t think he could shake his head if he was at fucking gunpoint. 

Cas gives him a few seconds, and then does exactly what he said he would. He pulls Dean to his chest, and wraps his arms around him. Warm and strong, exactly right in every way, pressing into him until he can feel again. His hand cups the back of Dean’s head, angles it correctly until his nose is pressed against Cas’s skin. And then the alpha just holds him there. 

Dean can feel the tension seeping out of him. Can feel his racing heart slow. Cas rubs his thumb through the hair behind Dean’s ear, and for a while, they listen to the soft lapping water. And Dean just breathes. 

He’s so tired. 

“I called my uncle,” he mumbles into Cas’s neck. “Bobby. Friend of my dad’s. Helped raise me and Sam. Did most of the raising, really.”

He doesn’t know why he’s telling Cas this. Doesn’t know why he feels like the alpha needs to know. It’s just more proof of his cowardice, that he can’t even speak to the man who taught him most of what he knows about being a parent. 

“I couldn’t say anything to him,” he says, throat tight. “He. He picked up. And I just… I just sat here. Couldn’t say a damn thing. He didn’t even know it was me.”

He can smell the sadness that seeps out of Cas’s scent at that, can sense the pure devastation in the air. And that doesn’t make sense, really, because Cas should probably be furious with him. But he isn’t. He’s just sad, because Dean is sad. And God, that makes him feel even more pathetic. Even more poisonous than he already does. 

He loves Cas so much. And, yet, that love isn’t enough. It’s not enough to keep Dean from hurting him. Isn’t enough to keep him from dragging Cas into feeling every awful thing that Dean feels. He can’t even try. 

How the fuck is he supposed to do the same thing to Bobby? To Sam?

He destroys everything he touches. Sucks the happiness out of the people around him like a black hole of misery, because he can’t just put his own crap aside. Can’t seem to remember that it doesn’t matter, and that he doesn’t matter.

Pulling away from Cas should be easy. Should be the only thing he wants to do, knowing that he’s hurting the alpha like he is. But he can’t. He’s just so tired. Bone tired. Unable to do anything except let Cas hold him. He feels like he’s giving up. 

Cas still smells sad. But he strokes Dean’s hair, presses his cheek down on his head, and says, “I’m so proud of you.”

Dean’s throat tightens. 

“That was an important first step,” the alpha continues, his touch never hesitating. Never slowing. “And a very brave thing to do. When you want to take the next step... when you’re ready to call Sam... we can do so together.”

The laugh that chokes its way out of him is ugly. 

“Next step,” he repeats. His voice sounds like metal scraping together. “There’s not gonna be a next step, Cas. I’m… I’m done.”

Cas’s scent sharpens, worry making it jagged and sharp. “You… need them, Dean,” he says, his voice so careful that it makes Dean want to scream. “I know you do. They are important to you, even I can see that. I know, somewhere deep down, that you know too, and I know you’re scared. It’s okay. It makes sense that you’re scared. But… I don’t think you can heal without them. I think that part of your heart needs a chance to recover, too.” 

Dean grits his teeth. Pushes Cas off of him, wiping angrily at the tears that have been streaming down his face despite his best efforts. “None of that matters. I don’t matter. They don’t–” 

Cas doesn’t pull him back. He just looks at Dean, his eyes soft and deep blue, his heart as open for Dean as it always is. And, God, Dean doesn’t want to tell him, because he doesn’t ever want Cas to stop looking at him like that. 

But he’s never gonna get it if he doesn’t. He’s never going to understand that Sam shouldn’t have to deal with him. He’s never going to understand that Dean doesn’t deserve to ever see his family again. Not after what he did. 

Sure, he did what he had to do in order to keep Sam safe. But he never would have been at risk in the first place, if it wasn’t for Dean. 

“They don’t… what, Dean?”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “They don’t want me back. All I did was cause problems for them, Cas. Nothing but a bitch male that attracted all kinds of trouble. I’m the one who fucked it all up, okay? I’m the one that ruined everything. And if I go back, I’ll just - I’ll do it again.” His voice breaks on a sob. He feels pathetic for crying.

Cas’s scent trembles in the air. He takes a breath. “Dean. What happened to you was not your fault. You were only a child.” 

“You weren’t there, Cas!” 

He’s shouting, and he doesn’t even know why he’s shouting or why he’s this angry. He knows that Cas is just trying to make him feel better, but he’s wrong, and he has to understand that. It doesn’t matter that Dean was a child – that had never been an excuse that was worth a damn, because Dean has had responsibilities on his shoulders since he was four fucking years old. And despite all the time he’d had to get his shit together, to learn how to be a good parent, he’d still managed to fuck it up. 

“You don’t know! You can’t know. You have no idea what I did. What almost happened because of me.”

Cas doesn’t balk from his yelling. Doesn’t look hurt, or angry. Instead, his eyes are full of compassion, as patient as always. “Will you tell me?”

Dean’s face crumples along with his anger. There’s nowhere for that sharp heat to go if Cas refuses to feed the fire. “If I do, you’ll hate me too,” he whispers. 

“There is not a thing you could do,” Cas says softly, taking his hand, “that could make me hate you, Dean Winchester.” 

Dean wants so desperately to believe that. He doesn’t, not really – but even still, he owes Cas the truth. He should know what he’s getting into. The exact type of poison that Dean is, the exact type of hell that he came from, before he was ever even auctioned off. 

He takes a breath. 

And he tells him.