46. The Autopsy Garland

Eleven Years Ago

Dad has been drinking. 

Dean knows it the instant the man walks in the door – he can smell it on him. One of the many shitty things he’s discovered about being an omega is the heightened sense of smell that comes with it. Dean can pick up on sickly sweet, bathroom air freshener from the other side of the house. The sour smell of alcohol on his dad’s breath from across the room. The smoke from a hundred different cigarettes sunk into the man’s leather jacket.

John had gone out last night to hunt someone down. He’d taken all the money he made off the last bounty he’d nabbed – a couple weeks ago now – to pay for gas, and food, and supplies. Not to mention the celebratory drink or twelve if he was successful, or the miserable bender if he was not. 

The money that was supposed to pay for food, supposed to pay the rent - supposed to pay Crowley - is gone again, and Dean knows it. His dad hadn’t caught whatever poor bastard he’d been chasing. He can sense it from the way he slams the door, with the type of rattle only failure produces. The landslide that’s about to go down is stupidly obvious. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to figure out if it’s too late to leave. He hadn’t expected Dad to be home; which, in hindsight, had been a rookie mistake. 

He’d skipped school again today, not interested in having to pretend to make nice with people he’d never see again after a month. Besides, Sammy is gone for the next week anyway, off on some science nerd camping trip just that morning. For once, Dean thought he’d have had the house to himself. Had thought there would be no reason, really, to bother walking to school. No pretense to keep up, to convince Sammy he might actually get his diploma. 

Dean closes his eyes in frustration. Dad is not supposed to be here. Dad was supposed to be gone for another week, and Dean was supposed to have gotten away with letting Sam have some friggin’ fun for once. 

But when is he ever that lucky? Of course his dad would show on the one week he’s not supposed to, of course his famous vanishing acts wouldn’t line up with Dean breaking the biggest rule that he’s ever been taught: Keep eyes on Sammy at all times. 

At all times. 

When John figures out that Sam isn’t even in the county, Dean will be as good as dead. Roadkill. He might as well start saying his prayers. 

He doesn’t regret it, though. He hadn’t been able to resist Sam’s puppy-dog eyes when he’d asked, and he wouldn’t be able to now. The kid just wanted to be normal, for once, and Dean didn’t have the heart to tell him no again. 

Honestly, he’d been looking forward to being alone, for the week. To not have to worry about taking care of Sammy every second of the day. He’d been ready to sign those papers as soon as Sam showed them to him, because Dean had figured he’d earned a break – as guilty as the thought made him feel, he’d been excited to be able to relax. To not have to provide, for just a few days. 

Dumb of him, to think he’d get to enjoy himself without being punished for it. Dean should know better than to pretend he deserves anything less. He knows he’d done the wrong thing, but before John had walked in the door he’d just about managed to convince himself otherwise. 

His dad will set him straight, he’s sure. Will remind him of his actual worth. 

The one lucky thing about this whole shit show is that John is probably still too drunk to know he’s here, even though Dean hadn’t tried to be subtle about it. He’d left his backpack downstairs by the door, blatant and sloppy evidence that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be. 

On a good day, Dad would have known if he’d even been thinking about doing something like this, and would have beat his ass for it. But John hasn’t had very many good days, lately. Today certainly isn’t one of them – Dean figures he would already be ducking for cover if it was.

He looks at the little window in his and Sammy’s bedroom calculatingly, trying to figure out if he can make it out of it, sprint covertly around the house, and snag his bag from the entry hall without his dad noticing. He knows chances are low, but that they’re better than whatever odds he’s facing if John manages to put two and two together and figure out that Dean’s still in the house. 

He has already shimmied out the window and is about to turn the corner to the front when he notices the car pulling up. 

It’s dark. A slick, mean looking BMW. And it parks across the street. 

Dean leans back out of sight quickly, his heart pounding. He recognizes that car. Recognizes the trouble it means for his dad. 

Risking a beating or not, he has to warn John before it’s too late. If they catch his dad off guard, Dean’s honestly not sure who will win – his dad is a mean bastard of a drunk, but he’s not exactly observant when he’s plastered. Dean turns to go back through his window, sticking his head and shoulders in so he can wriggle back through.

It seems, though, that Dad already knows. The sounds of John fumbling with his shotgun are all too clear. Shells clink as they scatter on the kitchen tile, and even with the door to his and Sammy’s room closed, he can hear a muffled curse. 

He cocks his jaw, trying to figure out the math on what’s the more dangerous path for him – letting John know he’s here for backup, and risking his wrath after the fact, or leaving his dad alone to fend off whatever beaters Crowley’s got coming up the drive, and getting blamed for it anyway on top of the crap he’s already gonna face about letting Sammy out of his sight. 

It’s sort of telling, he thinks – as he leans back out of the window – that he’s more afraid of what his dad will do to him than the loansharks pounding on the front door. 

John had gotten himself into this, hadn’t he? Common sense tells Dean that he probably deserves the beating he’s about to get, or at least deserves to have to figure his way out of it himself. He wishes he believed it. 

He already knows that he’ll be back inside in a heartbeat if it sounds like his dad needs him, but he can at least pretend to have some self respect for a minute. Still, unwilling to abandon him – no matter how vicious his thoughts try to be – Dean creeps around the house to listen. 

He peeks his head around the corner, crouched low enough to the ground that he doubts he’ll be spotted. A tall, broad alpha is beating on the door with a closed fist, and there’s another man on his left that Dean can’t see from this angle. 

“Open up, Winchester! We know you’re home, and you ain’t going nowhere. The barkeep told me he kept your keys!” That would explain why Dean hadn’t heard the rumble of the pickup to warn him of his dad’s impending arrival. “Come on, Johnny. You gonna hide in there forever? We–”

The front door snaps open. Dean can hear his dad’s shotgun cock loud and clear, even from here. “Get off my goddamn property.”

Dean suppresses a groan. John is slurring. He has no doubt that his dad will go down swinging, but he also knows that none of his punches are likely to land. 

Not everyone is as easy of a target as Dean is.

The alpha puts both hands up, stepping back a little. When he does so, the smaller man beside him comes into view – and he doesn’t sound intimidated in the least. He sounds downright oily, in fact – too smooth. 

Crowley never seems to be scared of anything. Not that he needs to be. Not with that alpha posse of his, and not when he’s got John hook, line, and sinker, on promises of easy catches and deals, even if they never seem to turn out in his father’s favor. 

“Now, John,” he says pleasantly, his smile audible. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”

“You ain’t my friend, Crowley.”

Dean’s stomach sinks. Crowley is here to collect his debts in person – didn’t send an alpha in his place, like he usually does. Dean knows all about those nights – he’d seen John come home with a limp or a broken nose and rage about getting cash together one too many times not to have figured it out. His father has made a routine out of being late on his payments. 

Dean also knows that if Crowley himself is here, his dad hadn’t paid up at all. 

“I told your boys I’d have the money by next week, didn’t I? Now get yourself and your bruiser off my fucking porch.”

Crowley tisks. “Your time is up, John. Which is a shame, because I quite loved doing business with you. You were fun. But I do need my money, and you’re getting into an unfortunate habit of not paying up.”

Dean can hear the sneer on his dad’s face – the sort of expression that could make a lesser man question everything he knew about the world. He’d been on the receiving end of it enough to know. “Well why don’t you come and get it?” he suggests; false, sarcastic hospitality layered thick over the words. 

“Nothing so crude," Crowley says. He steps inside the house, heedless of the shotgun that is undoubtedly in his face. The alpha follows him in with a smirk.

Heart in his throat, Dean dashes around the back of the house to the other side, moving as quietly as he can. He can hide in the bushes under the window in the dining room and watch what’s going on, hopefully without being seen. 

He slides into the brush and ignores the sting of the prickly leaves, peeking his head up over the windowsill as much as he dares. He can just see the two men from this angle – though his dad is blocking most of the view, disheveled and wild eyed, shotgun still brandished in his hands. 

Crowley is just as weaselly as Dean remembers from the other times he’s run into him. With greasy, combed over hair and a smidge of a paunch, he looks for all the world like a pencil pusher or some seedy accountant. So Dean hadn’t understood, at first, why John had adopted him as his latest drinking buddy about a year ago. Hadn’t understood why, every time he’d shown up to drag his dad home from the bar, Crowley had always seemed to be there, and why John had never chased him off. After all, Dean hadn’t even trusted him, and his dad usually had a bullshit detector ten times stronger than his own. 

He’d guessed it was all the smooth talking. The way Crowley had murmured compliments in his ear, the way he’d sympathized with John’s plights and woes about how hard he worked and about how little thanks he got. About how unfair his life was. Dean had figured that Crowley was just doing it for free drinks. 

Unfortunately, he now knows that Crowley’s a lot worse than a con-man. He’s got his fingers in all sorts of illegal pies, the runaway business being one of them – and he’d roped John right into it, too. 

A few years ago, Dean never would have thought his dad was capable of catching slaves. He’d always been against the trade, had always told Dean how disgusting he found it, how cowardly it was to sign yourself away instead of working hard and how equally cowardly it was to have to force someone into serving you. 

Here lately, though, John hasn’t seemed to have found that second part as awful as he once had. He wonders how much of his Dad’s dwindling moral code is a product of the man himself, and how much of it has been worn down from Crowley whispering in his ear. Not that it matters. The result is the same. 

His dad probably deserves what’s about to happen to him, and more. And if Dean were any kind of man, he’d report them all to the cops for using illegal tracking info like they do. 

But he isn’t, and he won’t. Not when it means Sammy would be taken away from him. Dean’s not stupid enough to think that they’ll be able stay together if they get tossed into the system, and he’s not brave enough to even wonder if Bobby would take them in for longer than a summer. His uncle loves them, but they ain’t his responsibility. Dean knows that. 

Crowley smiles, and it looks like a snake crawling across his face. “I know you don’t have it on you.”

“Then what are you doing here?” his dad spits, gesturing with the gun. “Like I said, I’ll have it by next week.”

“Yes, that’s what you said last week,” Crowley says delicately. He sighs, leaning until he’s resting his arm on the doorframe. “Seems luck isn’t on your side, mate. The house always wins, you know, even if you’re cheating with those little coordinates of mine.” 

Then Crowley’s expression sharpens, and though he’s still smiling, it’s lost all hint of levity. “Or is it your little conscience that’s getting the best of you? Is the fearsome John Winchester starting to feel sorry for those little whores?”

John snarls – clearly, Crowley struck a nerve. Dean doesn’t believe his ears when John snaps back at him. “She was a kid, Crowley. I told you I didn’t want no more damn kids. ”

The man makes a dismissive gesture. “So what? She did it to herself, you know. Signed her own contract. And I could deal,” he continues softly, “with you giving up the bounty – and what a generous bounty it was, no? But helping that little bitch slip her collar…”  

Dean feels a jolt in his stomach that feels a lot like guilt. It’s starting to sound like he’d almost left his dad behind to be punished for… being a decent person. It’s been so long since he’s seen John do anything for anyone other than himself that he hadn’t been sure he was capable of it anymore. 

Crowley waves his finger back and forth. “Naughty, naughty, Mr. Winchester. I have a reputation to maintain.”

He just laughs when John jabs the gun forward angrily – he pushes the barrel aside with two fingers. “What are you going to do, John? Shoot my partner and I right here, in broad daylight, with that lovely loud shotgun? Where anyone could hear? Foolproof plan,” he drawls. 

His father’s shoulders, at this point, are ratcheted together so closely that Dean is afraid they might pop out. He doesn’t have to be able to smell it to know his dad is scared. The alpha bruiser behind Crowley can clearly tell, as well – he’s grinning, feral glee on his face. 

The two betas face off in silence for a moment. Then, John’s shoulders slowly slump. He lowers the gun. 

“What do you want,” he mutters, still slurring his words a little. Dean is starting to wonder how many of those drinks had been for the loss of the bounty he’d gone after, and how many had been guilty shots for the ones he’d actually caught.  

“I want my money,” Crowley says simply, stepping forward. Dean jerks back out of sight just in time – he hopes. “And I’m going to get it, one way or another.”

John grimaces, eyeing the bruiser behind him. Dean thinks his dad could probably take him, given a level playing field – but this isn’ t likely to be one. “If you’ll just give me a little more time–”

“I don’t think so, John,” Crowley interrupts. His voice is pleasant and hollow. “No, what’s going to happen is that my friend here is going to shut that door behind him, and he’s going to provide you with a little reminder of what happens when you double-cross me.”

Dean tenses. He isn’t just going to sit here and let his dad get his shit kicked in, no matter how much he might deserve it. Not when the reason he’s gonna get it, for once, is because his dad had done something right. 

It hadn’t been often that John let slaves get away. And even though Dean often took the brunt of John’s rage and frustration when he came home without a bounty, he could never find it in himself to be anything but desperately relieved. Both for the nameless slave that had gotten away, and at the thought that his dad had, maybe, done it on purpose. 

John was good at what he did. Up until recently, he hadn't lost a single bounty. Dean had thought it strange that slaves – actual slaves, weak and helpless and usually incapable of doing anything but cowering – had managed to best his father. He’d suspected that at least a few of those losses had been intentional, on John’s part. And if they had, that would have been proof that his dad still had something of a soul. So Dean had hoped, even if he’d never dared to ask.

Now he’s got proof. And he doesn’t know what to do with it, other than fight to defend that flicker of righteousness that his father has held onto. 

The bruiser swings the door closed and steps forward, a grin on his face, and John holds the gun a little tighter across his chest. Dean tenses, ready to sprint around to the front door and nail the dude from behind – maybe a surprise attack will level out the fight a little. 

But then, the alpha pauses. Turns to sniff the air, the smile on his face curling into something downright cruel. 

Dean’s heart claws into his throat. Because, if the alpha is smelling him...

He gestures to Crowley, leaning down to whisper something in his ear.

Crowley’s grin triples in size. “My associate here tells me that you’ve got those boys of yours with you, John. Is that right? I could have sworn you told me they’d gone to live with a friend.”

John stiffens. “They did.”

“Don’t lie,” the lackey says, his tone predatory. He inhales through his nose, long and deep, and Dean instinctually leans back – as if that will help. He’s on scent blockers and heat suppressants, but…  

“Smells to me like you’ve got yourself a little alpha."

The first trickle of real fear slides down Dean’s spine. 

Sammy had only presented a few months ago. He’s only twelve. He doesn’t like the predatory look on the alpha’s face, and likes the smarmy grin on Crowley’s even less. 

He can hear the fear in his dad’s voice, too. “You leave Sam out of this, Crowley,” he growls, but Dean can hear the way his voice is a little unsteady, can see the way he’s holding that gun a little tighter. John may be a shit dad, but Dean knows damn good and well he doesn’t want Sam mixed up in this. Hell, most of Dean’s job is to keep him away from it – maybe he had done a good thing by letting Sam go to that camp, ‘cause at least he’s not here. “He’s got nothing to do with it.”

Crowley’s voice is smooth as scales, and the longer he talks, the faster Dean’s heart pounds.  “Oh, John. Do you know what little alpha boys like him go for on the market? I could easily make up what you owe me, and then some.”

“You can’t touch him,” John says shakily. “He’s not sixteen. It ain’t legal.” He cocks his jaw. “And I’ll put a couple’a bullets through your skull before you get the chance.” 

“Oh, surely it won’t come to that,” Crowley purrs. “And who says he has to be sixteen? Who says I need paperwork? I know lots of discerning buyers who have very particular tastes. Who are very motivated to pay for those… preferences."

He grins. “Some of the same ones that have been willing to pay you, incidentally, to fetch their bitches back.”

The sound of the shotgun cocking is clear. His father’s voice is like steel. “I’ll kill you before I let you touch him. I mean that. I don’t give a rat’s ass who hears.”

“Ah ah ah! Not so fast,” Crowley says gleefully. “You know, I had a feeling you’d say that. So I went ahead and sent a few of my boys over to the campground where the little tyke is staying.”

Dean feels his body go cold. No. No. 

“It’d be such a shame if they didn’t get the all clear from me, and had to interrupt the child’s education in such a… violent way. Such little security at these places… so easy to get lost on a hike or during a swim. So difficult for anyone to watch the child, really.” 

The truth is obvious, now. This had been Crowley’s plan all along. The song and dance had just been for show. And, though he’s struggling to hide it, it’s pretty fucking clear that John hadn’t known Sam wasn’t safe at school. Pretty fucking clear that Dean had been successful in pulling the wool over his eyes – so successful, in fact, that John might not even know where the camp is.  

And how could he? John doesn’t give a damn about what was going on with Sam’s schooling. Dean has always been the one to deal with that. And, for that reason, Dean had forged John’s signature for the permission slip. Dean had come up with the cash to pay for it. Dean had helped Sam pack his bag and had dropped him off at the early bus this morning that was supposed to take him out to the campground. 

Dean had been the one to put him directly in harm’s way, too far away from John for his dad to swoop in and rescue him. Far away from even the relative safety of a school building. 

Crowley knows more about Sam’s life than his dad does. And because of that, and because of Dean’s naive belief that their childhood could be in any way normal, the man has Dad over a barrel. 

And John knows it, too. He looks sick.

“What do you want, Crowley?” he asks again, his voice tight. Only this time, he sounds more scared than angry. 

Crowley smirks, well aware that he’s won. “Depends on what you’d like to offer me, big man.”

His dad’s jaw cocks in a way that Dean was pretty familiar with – it was usually an indication that he’d done or said something wrong and was about to get his shit rocked. But instead of lashing forward, John takes a breath. His hands are shaking. “Whatever you want.” 

Crowley just laughs. “Now, that is tempting. John Winchester, famous bounty hunter at my beck and call.” He pretends to consider it, tapping his chin like this hadn’t been his exact goal all along. “That does sound nice.”

He frowns, two fingers on his chin. “I’ll be honest, though,” he says in a stage whisper. “I rather like my organs buckshot free. I don’t trust that you’ll follow through with your word, but I am interested in your little skill set. So, you know what I’m going to do?”

“Crowley,” John tries. No – he pleads. The realization makes fear slither across Dean’s chest, and tighten.

The man doesn’t even pause. “I think I’ll hold onto Sammy myself. Just a quick pick-up from that quaint campsite, and an extended stay at one of my little hidey-holes. It won’t be so bad, when you think about it,” he says lightly, sliding his finger over the dusty side table next to him like he owns it, inspecting the dust with distant distaste. “It’ll be like a little vacation for him. I’d never hurt him, of course. Not as long as you cooperate.”

“Crowley, please –”

“Let’s say you don’t, though,” he continues conversationally, as if John had said nothing. “Let’s say you, I don’t know… bugger up another catch. Let’s say your shriveled little conscience makes an appearance again, and you decide you want to lose me a few grand. That’s fine – I understand. We all make mistakes,” he simpers, pouting with fake sympathy. 

And then he grins, and Dean would swear the man’s teeth grow sharp, would swear that, just for a moment, his eyes go entirely black. Like a shark. “I’ll just make up the difference in profits with little Sammy. Just a few nights with a few randy customers, and we can call it square.”

Dean can’t breathe. He can’t– 

“Nothing too bad, you understand. He’ll live. And if you’ll avoid doing anything silly, nothing like that has to happen at all.”

“I won’t,” John says, and Dean had never heard him this scared in his life. John scares people, John intimidates people. Never the other way around. But his father’s voice is trembling, stumbling over itself in fear for his child because he’s realized that, for once, he's been beat. “I won’t. Crowley, I swear. I swear."

Crowley turns his head to the side, an indulgent smile on his face. “Now, John. There’s no need to beg. It’s unseemly. You know I always keep my word.” 

He leans toward his dad with false sympathy on his face. “You can work for me, how about that? I’ll cut you a nice little percentage of what I make off of the jobs, of course. You’ve got to pay the bills. And you can do that until you work off your debt, and then work off the price of little Sammy.” Somehow, he’s managing to look more predatory and threatening than the alpha behind him – it feels like he’s oozing black smoke, feels like the room is filling with something sick and evil. “Then I’ll leave you both be, no hard feelings. How’s that for a deal?”

Dean is frozen. No. No no no. There’s no way his dad is gonna go for that. He always has a backup plan, he–

“Swear to me he’ll be safe,” John chokes. 

Crowley flashes his teeth. “Scout’s honor, Johnny boy.” 

Dean is on his feet before he knows what’s grabbed hold of him. No. Fuck no. Sam is not going to be fucking collateral. Dean will choke before he lets his baby brother be a pawn in the game, before he lets him get sucked into the criminal, fucked up shit that his dad is into, before he trusts his father’s ability to do as he’s told.

Once upon a time, he might have believed that his dad had another plan. Trusted that he wouldn’t screw this up – not when his kid was at risk. But Dean is old enough now to know better than that. Hell, Dean still has bruises on his throat from their last fight over rent money – and those are more than enough proof that John will never see reason, will never prioritize his children over himself.

He stands there, just out of sight, with his hands curled into fists, teeth gritted, unable to hear the rest of the conversation over the blood rushing in his ears. He has to think up a plan and he has to do it now. Think. Think!

The front door shuts loudly. They’re going. They’re going, and pretty soon Crowley is gonna have Sammy if he doesn’t do something right now–

He hardly has time to shimmy back through his window and drop his necklace on Sam’s pillow. As he does, he can already hear his father cursing, can already hear him breaking shit and slamming open cabinets, probably looking for something to drink to dull the fear. And his heart is racing, he’s wasting precious time, but he has to. He has to. Sam has to know that Dean had made this choice. Has to know that no one had forced him, that he’d chosen it all on his own. 

Because Dean is pretty sure he’s never going to see his brother again. And he doesn’t want Sam to come looking.

He’s running out toward the car a moment later, heart pounding in his ears, tears hastily wiped out of his eyes. 

Crowley turns around with a surprise as he skids to a stop in front of them. The alpha behind him looks down his nose at Dean, a bored, uninterested expression on his face. “That’s the other kid,” he says absently, before sliding into the driver’s seat and rolling down the window to half listen. 

A patronizing little smile snakes across Crowley’s face. “Just like I told your father, Peeping Tom,” he says condescendingly, “You won’t need to worry about little Sammy so long as dear old dad does his job.”

“You can’t touch him,” Dean growls, baring his teeth. “I won’t let you touch him.”

The alpha laughs, slapping the steering wheel. “And what are you going to do about it, little beta?”

Dean takes a deep breath. Swallows around the fear in his chest. His first instinct is to fight – to claw and bite and punch and kick and try and get his way through sheer force, exactly like he’s been taught, exactly like he’s always done. But that won’t work here. He has no other choice, here, not really. 

“I’m not a beta.”

The alpha doesn’t immediately catch on. He turns his head blankly to the side, sniffing again as if confused. But Crowley understands right away. His eyes light up like Christmas. 

“Oh, now that changes things,” he purrs, and Dean feels like he just swallowed glass. 

His gaze flicks up to the house behind Dean, calculating, probably considering the fact that they should not be anywhere near an enraged John Winchester if they can avoid it. 

“Let’s go for a ride, shall we?” He opens the door, bowing a little in a mocking sort of way. 

Dean, fighting against every single instinct screaming at him not to do exactly that, climbs into the backseat of the mean looking BMW. Crowley slides in next to him, and they’re off, rolling down the street before his dad could spot his abandoned backpack and realize he’d been home. And for some reason, that makes Dean’s stomach sink. It’s not like he’d really thought John might rescue him, but the loss of the last possible chance for that still hurts. 

Crowley settles back into his seat comfortably, folding his hands in his lap. “Dean, isn’t it? I must admit, this is not what I was expecting. Your paperwork at the high school lists you as a beta, and my associate here is usually quite adept at sniffing out little fakers like you.” 

Dean grits his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest. He isn’t about to admit he’d falsified his paperwork, isn’t about to tell the man that he’d managed to find a reliable dealer for scent blockers. Isn’t about to go into how he scrubs himself raw in the shower, how he douses himself in scent neutralizer spray he steals habitually from the dollar store down the street, how he’s worked daily on keeping his mood from altering his scent. 

But Crowley simply raises his eyebrows at his silence. “Like father, like son, I suppose. You both seem to have a penchant for getting your grubby little hands on things you’re not supposed to have – and for lying.”

Sweat drips down his neck. “Ain’t your business,” he snaps, but there’s no force behind it. He’s scared, and Crowley knows it. 

“I get the feeling,” the man continues pleasantly, ignoring his outburst, “that you are interested in… striking up a deal?”

Dean swallows. He can feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention, can smell the sour stench of the alpha up front in the driver’s seat and can feel his eyes on him. The man is looking into the rearview mirror, an eyebrow raised. “Kid’s sixteen,” he says gruffly.

Crowley just waves his hand. “Not an issue, my friend. Not an issue.” After a moment, the man drops his gaze back to the road. Crowley folds his hands in his lap and waits expectantly.

Dean grips his hands into fists. “You can’t touch Sam. Call off your dogs,” he snarls, crossing his arms. “Now. Or we’re not talking about shit.”

Crowley smirks, though there’s something like respect in his gaze. “Very well.” 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, taps the speaker button obligingly when Dean glares at him. “Change of plans,” he says smoothly, when someone on the other end picks up. “We’ll no longer be needing the child. You can return – I think I’ll have other work for you to do.”

The man on the other end agrees without protest, quickly and efficiently, and Dean wonders again how a man like Crowley can have such tight control over alphas like he does. Maybe it’s because he does always keep his word, just like he said – always keeps his promises, and always follows through on his threats. 

“Satisfied?” he asks sweetly, returning his phone to his front pocket.

Dean just crosses his arms. “No. You have to leave my dad alone, too. Whatever he owes you, you let it go. Don’t give him anything else, either,” he adds, his throat suddenly tight. “He won’t do business with you, or anyone you know, ever again.”

Crowley nods amicably, seemingly satisfied with his demands. “No great loss. I’m more than willing to cut the line on that sorry excuse for a hunter. He’s lost me more money than he’s earned, lately – and I suspect a lot of what he does earn has been spent on cheap liquor.” 

Dean bristles, even though he knows it’s stupid. Knows that Crowley is right. He clearly knows that he’s getting under his skin, because he smiles at him. “I’m willing to meet your demands, little omega. So what, might I ask, will you offer in return?”

He’s shaking. His heart is pounding. But all he can think is that he will give anything to keep Sam safe, just like he always has. That really, this is a no-brainer – he is one, worthless, sorry excuse for a person, and he’s unwanted anyway.

At least like this, he’ll be protecting his brother. He’ll be keeping his dad from an early grave, he’ll be keeping him and Sam both away from Crowley’s crowd. And he’ll be saving countless slaves that John would otherwise have tracked down and returned to their awful lives. 

Dean isn’t very smart, but he can do that math. 

“Me.”

When Dean finishes talking, silence hangs between them. 

He feels raw. Sliced open. 

He’s hardly let himself think of that day, since it happened. Has certainly never told a soul a single thing about his father, about his brother, about Dean’s own stupidity and selfishness. 

He’s terrified to find out what Cas thinks of him, now. Sick to his stomach at that realization that he is utterly bare, utterly exposed. Cas knows about his dad and the sick things Dean allowed him to do without even a fucking word of protest because of his own selfish desire for peace. Knows that even John’s attempt at being good hadn’t lasted, because Dean had managed to break the one rule he was always supposed to follow. 

Cas knows that it’s Dean’s fault that his baby brother was almost kidnapped and fucking prostituted. 

Dean has spent over a decade living with the weight of those choices. With the guilt of them. He’s held it in his chest; radioactive material that has slowly eaten through him. He’d accepted the consequences of his mistakes a long time ago – had been prepared to die for them, if he’s being honest with himself. 

He’s realizing, though, that he isn’t prepared for those mistakes to erase this. To destroy what he has with Cas. Dean knows he’s not worth shit, knows he’s not worthy of any of this, but damn him if he hadn’t started to hope for it anyway. 

But he’s given it all up to the one person that he can’t imagine living without – and he’s risking Cas being so disappointed in him or disgusted with him that he never wants to talk to Dean again. If Dean can’t follow one simple rule to keep even Sam safe, his own flesh and blood, his brother … what kind of person must Cas think him to be? What kind of person is he?

Certainly not one who can be loved. Maybe not even one who can be forgiven. 

He presses his forehead into his knees, squeezing his legs closer to himself as misery crushes him. And he’d probably have stayed like that for hours. 

Except. Except Cas sucks in a ragged breath, and Dean snaps to attention and looks up. 

He’s crumpled in on himself. One hand supporting his weight on the dock, the other covering his face as if to hide it. It’s not enough, because Dean can still see the tears. 

He has no idea how long his alpha has been crying – and, worse than that, he has no idea why. 

“C… Cas?” he asks tentatively, stunned. 

Cas doesn’t respond. He just hunches in on himself a little more, a sob wracking out of him – clearly against his will. His other hand wraps around his middle, like he’s been split in two and is trying to hold the pieces together. Hold himself together, Dean realizes, for him. 

Dean feels his heart twist. He reaches out instinctively, unable to do anything else. His alpha is hurt, and he doesn’t need to know why to try his best to fix it. 

For once, it’s Dean who does the gentle arranging, Dean who draws closer and wraps himself around the man he loves in a slow embrace. It’s Dean who guides Cas’s nose to his neck, Dean who runs his fingers through the alpha’s hair. It comes easier than he ever thought it would to tell Cas to breathe, to gently press him close. To tell him that everything is okay, that they’re both safe, that he’s here.

Cas’s breath shudders against him, and Dean hushes him gently. Pets the alpha’s nape with his thumb. It won’t produce anything like what Cas could do to him, but it’s still meaningful. Still calming. And, slowly, his alpha does calm down. His sobs turn into little hitching breaths, and then into slower ones. He calms until he goes limp, nose still buried in the crook of Dean’s collarbone, his hands fisted into Dean’s clothes.

Dean knows he should probably let go. Should try and figure out why a man he thought might hate him is clinging to his shirt instead, like he’s afraid Dean might try and pull away. 

But he doesn’t let go. He just sits there on the dock, with the stars rising above him, and holds him close.