52. Small Dark Corners

He’s in heat. 

And there’s an alpha in the room. 

Dean moves so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t crash straight into the wall. He can hardly see. Can hardly breathe, and his head is spinning so badly he thinks he might actually vomit if he doesn’t get himself under control. Somehow, he manages to make it to the upstairs bathroom; a blink and then he’s just there, and he’s shutting and locking the door behind him. 

He stumbles to the side when he tries to strip, has to catch himself on the counter so he doesn’t land on his ass. Panting, shirt already off and pants well on their way, he makes the mistake of looking up in the mirror. 

Golden eyes are staring back at him. 

The sight makes something in his stomach twist and tangle, and he’s frozen in place, staring at someone he barely even recognizes. He’s flushed, his hair dark where it’s plastered flat against his head with sweat – his skin is pale, and he feels goosebumps rise and spread across his entire body as he stares at that tell-tale color. Those eyes are not his own.

He’s in heat. He’s in fucking heat. 

He watches his own pupils contract into tiny pin-pricks, watches as the ring of gold in his eyes contracts too, till it’s just present enough to be a dead giveaway. Revulsion crawls up his throat and threatens to make its way out – he lurches to the shower before that can happen, knocking the spray all the way to cold. He’s so fucking hot, like he’s been left in a parked car in the southern summer sunshine, his brain cooking inside of his body. 

The water is a shock to his system – he lets out a strangled cry and lurches away from it on instinct, so cold it almost feels like even more heat on his skin. He forces himself back into it the moment he can, his chest heaving as he tries to breathe around his swelling panic. 

He’s in heat he’s in heat he’s in heat. It spins around in his head like a tornado, ripping up anything else that might be trying to take root, destroying every tentative thought that might help him calm down. Gulping in air, he sinks to the ground and holds his hands behind his neck. Shakes and shakes and shakes, until what little composure he’d had has corroded completely beneath his fear. 

His eyes squeeze shut for only a fraction of a second before he tears them open again, because when they’re closed all he can see is Alastair’s dead gray gaze. The ripped linoleum and rotting wood of Hell’s floor. The disgusting, sweat and fear-soaked blanket tangled under him in that sorry excuse for a bed; just a stained mattress on a squeaking frame, shoved against the back wall of the very last room in the hall. The rut room. The one that made him so sick with dread and terror that he’d actually vomited the second time Alastair had dragged him by the hair to the door, because he’d known what was coming.

The alpha had just laughed at him then, had kicked him in the side, and like always, he had watched Dean cower and cry and plead until he’d had his fill. And, just like always, when his master had been bored of his begging, he’d hooked his long fingers through Dean’s collar, had lifted and twisted until Dean was seeing spots, too busy trying to drag in a breath to fight. He’d found himself with his collar chained to the bars on the headboard before he’d even known he’d been dragged through the door. 

Then, and only then, Alastair would scruff him. No making it easy up until that point – he’d wanted Dean to know where he was going, had wanted him to be afraid, and then he’d take advantage of his nape. He’d wait till Dean was limp. Until the only way he could move was to shake. He’d slide what had quickly become a familiar needle into his arm and slowly push down the plunger, would pull it out with equally careful precision. Would press his thumb over the wound and smear the blood, his eyes dark and lust-filled and terrifying. Would lean forward and inhale the acrid scent of Dean’s terror; lick a long, self satisfied strip of Dean’s quickly warming skin. 

While Dean was rigid with fear, his master would lock his wrists together behind his back with a pleased hum, squeeze his claws around his nape one last time, and then leave, so that Dean could get good and worked up for the long list of clients that had paid to fuck an omega in heat. 

And within a couple of hours, alone and untouched and empty, he would lose his mind. 

Now, just like the times before, arousal is twisting in his gut, so intense it’s painful. He can feel that needle-prick in his skin. Can feel the pull of the collar at his neck. He can smell the blood, can smell the tears and the sweat and the sick alpha lust. Can feel his knees pressed into the mattress beneath him and his chest pressed down too. Can feel the hot and heavy hands on his nape. The demand to submit and present and beg, so ardent that he’s already forgotten it’s not born from his own mind.

He can hear someone whine, high and tight in the back of their throat – the kind of sound that is born from agony and terror and, worst of all, need. His palm is pressed over his mouth and his fingers are digging into his cheek before he even fully understands that the noise is coming from him. 

But for some reason, that makes his brain screech to a halt.

He’s touching his face. He’s somehow able to touch his face, and that’s not right – he can’t do that, because his wrists are supposed to be locked behind him. They’re always locked somewhere when he’s getting fucked, because he’d tried to claw out the goddamned eyes of the first john who’d bought a night with him in this horrible fucking pit, and Alastair had never forgotten. 

It takes another few seconds for his brain to put everything back together. 

He’s touching his face. He’s soaked – not because he’s crouched down next to the stake in the ground outside the building, teeth rattling out of his head – but because he’s in a shower. There’s something cold on his neck, on his chest, and when he fumbles down to close his hand around it, it’s not a collar, but two metal tags that bear his name. And Cas’s. 

Cas. 

He’s not in Hell. 

He’s not in Hell. 

Tears spring to his eyes when he understands, when he remembers that he is free to move. He rocks back from his position on the floor and sits up straight. Digs his fingertips into his ribs and opens his eyes and sees nothing but wet tile all around him. 

No bed. No collar and no chain. No alphas in sight. 

The only alpha that’s anywhere near here is one that won’t hurt him. He won’t. 

He won’t. 

The words in his brain are fierce, but they’re not enough to stop him from curling tighter into himself, eyes clenched shut. His terror has dwindled, but it’s been replaced by something almost worse – dread. The realization that he has no idea what’s going to happen to him. 

He trusts Cas. Trusts him with his life, trusts that the man only wants to do what’s best for Dean. But he also knows all too well what an omega’s heat can do to an alpha’s state of mind; he’s lucky Cas isn’t already in a rut, after spending the entire fucking night breathing in his pheromones. After Dean wrapped himself around him like an oversized octopus and scented him and… 

Maybe Cas is going to wake up with blank red eyes like the alphas from before. Maybe he’s already on his way here. Maybe he’s going to burst in, is going to pin Dean down to the floor with one strong hand and – and he’s – 

Dean knows, distantly, that he’s on his way to another serious panic attack. But knowing that it’s coming doesn’t stop him from huddling further into the corner of the shower, empty, his head spinning as he tries and fails to get control of himself. He feels itchy, like tiny, invisible spiders are crawling over his body. Unsettled. Uneasy. His chest too small, his skin too tight. There’s an ache between his legs that he knows is only going to get worse, and even under the ice cold spray of the shower there’s heat creeping into every corner of his body. 

He feels like he’s being pulled in two separate directions. Part of him is terrified out of his mind at the prospect of Cas losing control of himself. The other part craves that touch so badly it’s physically painful. 

He wants him. His comforting scent and touch and words. His steadying gaze. More than that, he wants Cas in an entirely filthy way. He hates himself for that desire, even though Cas has said he wants him too. After years of being abused against his will, somehow he’s still enough of a glutton for punishment to want to get fucked by the one dude who’s promised never to hurt him like that.

Even the thought of Cas with crimson eyes and a snarl on his face isn’t enough to turn him off. In fact, it maybe even makes it worse – makes him twist and pant and search for the man, for something to take away the incomplete feeling that is dragging away his sanity like it’s lassoed behind a horse. God help him, his body likes the image of Dean being taken right here on the shower floor. 

He whines, unthinkingly presses a hand against his dick, already half hard at the thought of relief, of being filled. But sharp, unwelcome pleasure twists and tangles with his panic, and it’s too much. 

Nausea floods him and he vomits before he can stop himself, the sound garish and harsh in the quiet of his home. He pulls his hands away from his groin and braces himself on the ground, and when he’s done, he curls into himself and grabs his hair instead.  

So much for his newfound ability to get himself off. Fuck. His throat closes up and he feels his eyes burn, and it’s a stupid thing to be upset over, considering all the other dangers he’s facing. But he’s devastated anyway.

Dean really does try to get control of himself before the noise wakes Cas up. But he can’t – it’s like a release valve somewhere inside of him has been twisted, unable to be closed until the pressure drops down. He sobs until he’s exhausted, cries the panic right out of his system, until he’s dizzy and empty. 

After what feels like a long time, he becomes aware of the water pounding down on him again. The shower has stopped feeling cold. The fire coursing through his body flushes hot enough that he feels like he has the mother of all fevers. He shuts off the spray and stumbles out, wrapping himself up in a towel that smells a little like Cas, and leans against the wall. 

He closes his eyes and slides down to the floor and wishes he could just stop fucking shivering. 

It takes a long time for him to dry off. Takes a long time for his breathing to slow down, for him to feel like the room isn’t spinning around him like he’s on some kind of fucked up carousel. Eventually though, it does, and by then he’s calmed down enough to form a complete thought or two, and remember some pretty important shit.  

The first, and most important, is that Cas promised he wouldn’t hurt him. 

Now that he’s not spiraling, Dean has managed to remember that he believes him. No matter what his fucked up, PTSD-riddled hindbrain is telling him, Castiel Novak is not going to hurt him. Doesn’t matter that he’s in heat. He’d been stupid to think anything different might happen. Cas has spent months caring for him in every way imaginable – this is not what’s going to change him. 

Even if the worst were to happen, and Cas were to rut, Dean knows deep down inside of himself that he’d still be treated gently. Knows that Cas doesn’t have the cruelty inside of him that so many of Dean’s masters in the past did. It makes him shiver – not unpleasantly – when he thinks about the possibility of gentle hands and gentle pressure.

Reaching up to hold the tags around his neck, Dean takes a breath. The pull of the little chain against his skin is grounding. A reminder of where he is and who he’s with.

Cas would be horrified if he lost control of himself. The thought makes his stomach twist. He doesn't want to be the reason for Cas's guilt, but he's sick at the possibility that he will be.

On some level, he’s shocked that he’s even thinking this coherently. He isn’t panting and begging for a knot. Not yet, anyway. He thinks that will probably come, has heard the horror stories – omegas that will do anything to get rid of this empty feeling. But, unlike when Alastair had drugged him, he’s able to be at least a little logical. 

The heat is still in its early stages, he guesses – he hasn’t had a natural one in so long that he doesn’t remember what they’re supposed to be like. After all, he’d only gone through a few before putting himself on suppressants, and while they’d been plenty embarrassing, they’d also been the mild heats of a teenager fresh into puberty. Nothing like this; the crawling, skittering feeling of being hollow, of missing some vital piece of himself. Of feeling like there’s a hook in his sternum, pulling him toward the sleeping alpha downstairs. 

Then again, this is also nothing on the heats he’d faced in Hell. Those had been much worse, much faster, and he’s terrified that any second he’s gonna start down that path. 

Frustrated, he rubs at his face and focuses blearily on the wooden cabinet doors in front of him. He doesn’t know what’s next. Doesn’t know how long he’s gonna be able to hold out here, or even if he should be bothering in the first place. He should have thought to bring his damn cellphone, but it hadn’t exactly been his first priority when he’d realized what was happening. 

He leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes, and tries to breathe steadily. 

Castiel knows something is wrong the instant he wakes up. 

The bed is empty. That’s the first thing that registers – Dean is no longer curled against him, and the sheets next to him are cold. When he opens his eyes and rolls over, looking around for the omega in confusion, he slowly registers that the covers are strewn halfway across the floor. His eyes trail along the blanket until they reach the door, which is wide open. 

He blinks at the sight, feeling oddly distant and fuzzy. Something's not quite right, but he cannot put his finger on what. There’s something off about where he is – shouldn’t he be in a different bed? And shouldn’t Dean be here? The air seems charged with something, some unknown force, some bowstring anticipation. 

Slowly, the sound of the shower upstairs filters in. That must be where Dean is. Satisfied, he closes his eyes, and draws in a breath for a long, content sigh. 

Before he can comprehend what the sweet, heady scent in the air even is, he’s already sitting straight up, his pupils dilated and his hands in fists at his sides.

Heat. Dean is in heat. 

There’s no mistaking the smell that has engulfed him – more tempting than anything he’s ever experienced, somehow perfect and sweet and fundamentally Dean. He’s never been this close to an omega in heat before, but he just knows that this is it, something deep and primal growling at the scent alone – perfectly ripe apples, fresh baked pies. His mouth waters. 

He clamps a hand over his nose and bolts out of the room, not even sure where he’s going. It’s not like he’s escaping the scent – Dean’s left a trail from the bedroom all the way up the stairs and it wraps around him like a lasso. The determination he’d felt to get away from it fades within an instant, and he feels his body pulled in toward Dean immediately. 

He takes more than a few steps forward before some distant but frantic voice in the back of his head finally manages to remind him that he can’t. 

It makes a literal growl rip out of his body, but he stops in his tracks, grits his teeth. Freezes in place, heart racing. Everything in him wants to bolt up those stairs. Everything. It’s not just that Dean’s heat scent is drawing him in – though it undeniably is, a pressing need in his gut that tells him he’s too far away. It’s that, now that he’s paying attention, he can smell Dean’s fear scent, too. And it’s present to a degree that tells Castiel his omega is terrified out of his mind. 

That’s not right. It is anathema. Dean shouldn’t be scared – he should feel safe, feel cared for, and the only thing Castiel wants to do is go and soothe and calm his omega until that fear goes away for good. And it feels as though something vital has been torn from his chest when realizes that there’s not a damn thing he can safely do about it right now. 

Castiel cannot fully trust himself. 

He drags himself back into his bedroom, feeling like there are fish hooks in his skin pulling him in the opposite direction. He ignores them as best he’s able and rips his phone from his charger, forcing himself into the kitchen – away from Dean, rather than toward him. 

Even here is not far enough to escape the tell-tale scent of the omega’s slick and sweet arousal, and Cas only lingers for a moment before he realizes that he needs to do far more than this in order to shake the drug-like haze he’s in. He feels… high. Almost as though he’s taken pain medication. He’s too distant, slower to connect his brain with his actions. Slower to second guess his instincts. 

And that’s dangerous. It scares him. 

It scares him a lot. 

Every window downstairs is thrown open, every candle he owns is lit. It’s not enough to rid the house of Dean’s scent entirely, but it is enough that he’s finally able to gather his scattered brain cells and step outside in order to regain control of himself. 

He breathes in the spring air for a long time, deliberately slow and steady, until he feels the fuzzy edges around his mind snap back into focus. When they do, and he comprehends how hard he is in his soft, flannel sleep pants, he wants to shoot himself. 

Dean is afraid. And Cas is lusting after him.  

It makes him feel disgusting. Makes him feel small, like a speck of a man. A sorry excuse for a friend. Cas has never once gone into a rut, has never wanted to; and he certainly doesn’t want to have one now. Not when his very relationship with Dean is on the line. 

The shame, along with the slick-free fresh air, is more than enough to knock out his arousal. As soon as he can breathe correctly again, he fumbles for his phone. 

“Just because you’re the boss doesn’t mean you can no-call no-show, you know,” Balthazar grumbles when he picks up the phone, the sound of his keyboard clacking in the background. “Where the bloody hell are you? I thought you and lover-boy were coming back in today. Did you–” 

“Dean’s in heat,” Castiel blurts. 

There is dead silence on the other side of the line for a moment – quiet enough that Castiel doesn’t dare breathe to interrupt it.

“Where is he?” Balthazar asks, his voice cold and sharp as an icicle. “Where are you?”

Castiel swallows. “He’s showering. I think. He’s in the bathroom, or – I assume,” he stutters out, hands trembling a little as he wipes a palm down his pantleg a few times. “I didn’t – he’s upstairs, and I didn’t want to – so I’m outside,” he finishes shakily. 

“Good,” Balthazar says. The flat, hard edge of his suspicion has eased, but in its place, the omega is clearly tense. Castiel has known him long enough that he understands that tense, for Bal, is only about a half step away from fear. 

Castiel draws in a breath, nodding before he remembers that Balthazar can’t see him. The omega’s voice is taut when he speaks again – Castiel can hear rustling in the background, can hear Balthazar fiddling with his keys to lock his office door. “I’m getting Pam. We’ll be there shortly. Do not go inside, Castiel. You can’t. We’ll bring him to the heat wing.”

There’s a snarl bursting out of him before he can stop it, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, flushing scarlet with mortification. 

On the other end of the line, there’s a deafening silence. 

“Did you just growl at me?” Bal demands incredulously. 

“I–” 

He can’t even pretend otherwise. Squeezing his eyes closed, Castiel hunches down on himself on the porch stoop. “God dammit,” Balthazar curses, almost to himself. 

“He’s terrified,” Castiel chokes out, something deep inside of him twisting at the words, at the acknowledgment that he is currently failing as an alpha to keep his omega safe and content in a time like this. “Bal, he’s – I can’t just sit here when he’s scared like that, can’t leave him, it’s not right –”

“And what is it,” Balthazar interrupts, deadly calm, “that he’s so afraid of, do you think?”

Castiel feels like he just swallowed a mouthful of glass. 

“He’s afraid of me,” he realizes, his chest hollow when his heart plummets to the ground. 

Balthazar lets him sit with that for a good few seconds. “You must understand why,” he prompts eventually. His tone is not quite sympathetic, but it’s close enough that it makes tears sting the back of Castiel’s eyes. “You know it’s nothing to do with you, yes?”

“Right,” he whispers. Only, he doesn’t quite believe that. 

Balthazar makes a frustrated noise. In the background, Castiel can hear the ping of the elevator. “Dean knows he can trust you,” he says gruffly. “Don’t bother doubting that.” 

“How can you say that, knowing that he’s scared out of his mind right now? Why would he feel that way if he wasn’t convinced that I’m going to…”  

“He’s traumatized,” Bal says flatly. “It’s in his paperwork.” 

Castiel swallows. That’s the paperwork he hadn’t really… read. He’d skimmed it, of course. Had gotten what he’d needed to justify and see through Dean’s purchase. But he’d never delved deeper than superficial glances, mostly because of his own cowardice. He hadn’t wanted to be faced with the depth of the world’s cruelty. Obviously, he’s paying for it now. 

“His last master induced heats, Cassie,” Balthazar spits, correctly interpreting his silence. It isn’t clear who his anger is directed at. Maybe Alastair. Maybe all alphas. Maybe the world in general, for being a place where something like that can occur with so few consequences.

Castiel draws in a breath. Holds it. 

He’d forgotten. 

How had he forgotten? He’d known that, had found out on Dean’s second day here. Pamela had gently pried it from the then-terrified Dean – and the omega had been so ashamed. He remembers now how badly he’d reacted to his whispered confession, how he’d simmered with rage until Dean had stammered out an apology – as if he’d done anything worth apologizing for. 

“Do you know what that drug does to an omega?” Balthazar presses, his tone sharp. “Any idea?”

Castiel can hardly speak around the glass in his throat. “No.” 

“It rips you up from the inside,” he says dispassionately, with the kind of distance that tells Castiel exactly how much it’s affecting him. “It makes it so that, no matter how much you want to, you cannot stop yourself from begging. It’s a sick trick of hormones, artificial and concentrated beyond anything nature can do – and it convinces you that the only way the pain will stop is if there’s a knot inside of you.” 

Castiel cannot breathe. 

“And then,” Balthazar says with a bitter chuckle, “And then, the pain doesn’t stop. But by the time the alpha’s finished with you, you’ve forgotten that there will not be relief. And you beg the next one all the same.” 

Nausea rolls inside of him, anger and sorrow and sympathy mixing into something that makes him want to scream or break something, or both. For Dean, and for his friend. “Balthazar…” 

“Shut up,” his friend says flatly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “My point is that he’s not thinking logically. His only experiences with having a heat in the last decade of his life are probably some of the worst memories he has, and he has no way of knowing that a natural one will be different. It’s not about you.” 

The omega’s words are harsh, but they help get him back in line. Help him remember that Dean is not necessarily thinking of him when he’s scared, but of some unnamed alpha in the dark that Cas is reminding him of, however unintentionally. 

He presses a curled hand to his forehead, taking in a shaky breath. “What can I do?”

Balthazar makes an irritated noise. “Nothing, yet. You can’t do anything. Just wait.” There’s a pause. “Swear to me that you’ll wait.” 

Castiel swallows. “I’ll wait. I promise you, Bal.” 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Pamela calls him within the next five minutes, and he has to fumble his phone back out of his pocket with his heart in his throat. 

“Balthazar explained,” she says shortly. “Kid’s not answering his phone. Any idea why?” 

Castiel closes his eyes. “It’s probably in his bedroom. He was in the shower when I left,” he says quietly. It hurts him to know that Dean is clearly so terrified that he hasn’t even ventured out of the bathroom. He hopes the lock on the door is providing some degree of comfort. 

There’s a muffled curse in the background, and the sound of a car door slamming. As stressful as this situation is, he’s relieved beyond measure that she and Balthazar are already on the way. “Are you absolutely sure he’s in heat?”

Castiel can’t quite help the small snarl that he lets loose – it’s embarrassing, but he’s frustrated. He grits his teeth. “I know what heat smells like, Pam.” 

“Right,” she says distractedly, as though she’s forgotten he’s an alpha. It wouldn’t surprise him if she had – he’d done his best to forget about it before Dean had moved in. “It’s just that it seems too damn early for this. I was banking on another couple of months at the very least – his weight wasn’t quite where it should have been last time I saw him.” 

Her words make his heart clench. “Is he going to be alright? Is this going to… to hurt him?”

There’s a bark of harsh laughter in the background – Balthazar, of course – but Pamela does not seem all that amused. “That depends on a few factors, kid. But nutritionally, as long as he’s getting plenty of protein and electrolytes – and water – he’ll be fine. 

That doesn’t exactly make him feel better. He opens his mouth to tell her as much, but she cuts him off. 

“Do you have vapor rub?” she interrupts, her tone morphing into a familiar no-nonsense sharpness. “And a mask of some sort? A bandana will do until we arrive.”

“I – yes, I think so.”

“Okay. That’s what you’re going to use to block his scent out.”

Castiel’s mouth is dry at what she’s implying. “But – shouldn’t I stay outside?” His head is spinning, the growling animal inside of him angry that he’s even brought it up, that he’s even still sitting here. But he won’t endanger Dean, and he won’t betray Balthazar’s trust. “Bal said–” 

“If the kid would answer his phone,” Pamela growls, “We could have already figured out what he wants. But he’s not, so you’re going to have to go in and ask him.” 

Castiel blinks. “Ask him?” he repeats blankly. 

“Yes, ask him,” Pamela says, irritated – though Castiel is not sure that she’s solely irritated with him. Balthazar is suspiciously silent all of a sudden. “Don’t you think that should be the first step, you dolts? Checking to see what he wants?”

Somehow, he hadn’t really thought that far. He’d assumed that Dean wouldn’t be capable of deciding much of anything at a time like this. “But…” 

Pamela huffs. “Right now, above all else, he needs comfort and security. We don’t know what that looks like unless you ask him,” she stresses, speaking slowly. “Neither of you know what he wants, and it’s downright stupid to assume you do.” 

Balthazar says nothing – Castiel can easily imagine that he’s staring out at the road, his jaw ticking in irritation. He sighs, rubbing at his eyes. “Right. I suppose I just thought…” 

“You thought you’d make his choice for him,” she finishes shortly. When Bal makes a protesting noise, she cuts him off without mercy. “No – Don’t you dare argue with me, Balthazar. Just because you would want something during your heat doesn’t mean that’s what Dean wants.” 

Castiel holds his breath, waiting for Balthazar to snap back – but he doesn’t. Apparently satisfied, Pamela huffs. “His comfort is important, Castiel. Too much panicking, and he’s liable to short-stop his heat – and that can cause huge complications down the road. He needs to know that he’s not in danger, and whatever he chooses, you’re the best way for him to feel that.” 

“But...” Castiel says carefully, treading lightly. “I’m an alpha–” 

“Oh, are you?” she snipes, her rolling eyes audible. “I had no idea. Someone revoke my medical license – I’m clearly not fit to practice since you think I can’t see what’s right in front of my nose.” 

“I just meant that he’s going to be scared of me!” Castiel says desperately. “And I don’t want to scare him. He should feel…” He feels his throat close with emotion. “Pam, he’s supposed to feel safe,” he whispers. “If he goes up to the center…” 

“It might help him,” she finishes. “It might also make him feel more unsafe than ever – along with feeling abandoned.” 

Castiel growls. It’s not a quiet growl, this time – not something that could be brushed away. “I would never.” 

“Right now,” she says briskly, completely ignoring his posturing, “he’s not really going to be able to differentiate between you leaving him temporarily and you leaving him forever, at least not on a hormonal level. You two are about as scent-bonded as you can be, based on what Balthazar has told me – it’s likely not going to do anything but hurt the both of you to be apart.” 

Castiel’s heart is racing in his chest, his palms sweating. “I… I can’t hurt him,” he pleads, his fear bleeding through. “But I’m scared that if I expose myself to him – if I get that close – I’ll lose control, or I’ll rut, and that would be...” 

“You won’t,” Pam says. Her tone is so clear and so certain that it brings him up short. “I’ll explain more when we arrive, but – sweetheart, listen to me. You won’t. I am asking you, both as a medical professional and as your friend, to trust me on that. You are not as beholden to your instincts as you seem to think you are.”

He takes in a breath. Steadies his hands. “... Okay.” 

Pam makes a satisfied noise. “Above all, keep him calm.” 

“And how am I supposed to do that?” he asks, tone bordering on helplessness. 

“You know him, Novak. Deep breaths. You can do this – follow your gut.”

He does as she asks, drawing in a deep puff of air and holding it for a moment. “Please hurry.” 

“We will.”

The phone clicks into silence, and he stares down at his lap for half a moment before he swallows and makes himself stand up. 

The scent seems somehow stronger when he walks back inside, even though it should have dissipated. It makes Castiel’s head spin more than a little. Makes him itch to go up the stairs two at a time and hold Dean as close as he can. He can already feel arousal pooling in his gut, can feel a sheen of sweat start to spring to the back of his neck. 

But, with a herculean effort, he ignores those desires, and he goes to find what Pamela instructed him to instead. 

The bandana and vapor rub are easy to locate, thankfully. He spreads the Vics on the inside of the fabric and under his nose for good measure, and ties the paisley blue cloth over his face. It’s not exactly pleasant, but he has to admit that he already feels more in control of himself when the sweet, thick smell of Dean, chased by the sharp bite of his fear, fades into nothing more than the scent of menthol. 

He takes a few deep breaths of that before he makes himself climb the stairs. 

The shower has shut off, but the door is still firmly closed and the light is on inside. His heart is racing as he stands outside the door, palms prickling with sweat. 

He can’t fuck this up. He can’t. Abusing Dean’s trust here will reverse all the things they’ve achieved over the last few months, and the thought of hurting the omega like that scares him beyond comprehension. 

“Cas?”

Dean’s croaky voice though the door breaks his panic spiral. He sounds scared, and it’s everything Castiel can do to not wrench the door open and snarl at a threat he logically knows is not there. “I’m here, Dean.”

“I – Cas… My, uh – I’m –” 

“I know,” he says quickly. “I’ve already called Pam. She and Balthazar are on their way.” He hesitates. “Can I do anything for you?”

Dean’s words are thick enough that Castiel knows he’s been crying, and it makes something sharp and painful twist inside of him. “Are you, um – are you...?” Something hitches in his voice. “I – I trust you, but –”

“I’m wearing a covering over my nose and mouth – Pamela instructed me to. All I can smell is menthol,” Castiel reassures gently. “What do you need?”

The relief in the omega’s fragile voice is palpable. “I need you, please. Please.”

Matching relief crashes through Cas at those words, and not a moment later Dean opens the door. He is standing in the middle of the bathroom, seeming small with nothing on but his tags and an oversized towel around his shoulders, hair damp and his cheeks flushed. His eyes are wide as he looks at Castiel, a little glazed. The telltale ring of gold there is slim, barely enough for Castiel to see around his green irises, and that makes his chest ache. 

Dean is terrified. Struggling to hold on, refusing to let go and let his heat take over. 

Castiel opens his arms, and the omega’s face crumples like a sandcastle. He takes a step forward, then another, and then he’s curling against Castiel’s chest with a hitching, broken sob. Though the water in his hair is freezing, his skin is still feverish and hot. His legs are shaking. His whole body is shaking. 

The barest trickle of his scent filters in through his make-shift mask, and Castiel closes his eyes as he holds Dean close. It is somehow both the best thing he has ever smelled and the worst – honey-sweet apples that have gone rotten with his fear. 

“Dean,” Castiel says thickly. “Do you –”  

God, he can hardly talk. “Do you want to go to the center?” he rushes to say, ignoring the stab of those words, the double edged blade of protective rage and dread. “There’s a heat wing there, and Pam will watch out for you. You’ll be safe.” 

Dean shakes his head. He shakes his head, and Castiel could collapse right to the ground in relief. But he has to be sure. 

“I won’t be angry with you if you do,” he pushes, trying to keep his tone even and calm, trying not to give away how very badly he wants Dean to stay. “I’ll… I’ll understand.” 

“Please,” Dean whispers. The word is tiny, bordering on a whine, and it makes Castiel’s heart twist in his chest. “Please don’t make me go.” 

Castiel tightens his arms around him. “Of course not, Dean. Never, not unless you wanted to.” 

Dean just shakes his head again. 

“Okay. Then you’ll stay,” he reassures, and Dean lets out a breath. He seems to sag against Castiel, not really holding himself up anymore. Castiel spares a moment to be thankful for Pamela – what would have happened if he’d stayed outside? If he’d made Dean leave, or if he’d left himself?

Castiel strokes his hand down his back, the towel soft and damp under his touch. “Bed?”

“Yeah,” Dean chokes. But he makes no move to go there on his own, his body limp against Castiel’s.

He doesn’t even comment when Cas pulls him up into a bridal style hold and carries him to his room. He just curls a little closer and grabs Castiel’s shirt, hands trembling. 

He tries to put the omega down on his mattress, but Dean clings to him and shakes his head and makes a high, plaintive noise. Taking a deep breath, Castiel gently steps back with the man still in his arms. Dean is probably looking for security, for familiarity, and for the last several nights in a row he’s slept on the mattress across the room. 

With Castiel.

He closes his eyes for a moment, and then gets over himself. Dean needs to be comfortable. He knows, from his very limited knowledge of heats, that he will probably want the beds to be in the corner of the room, will want space to spread his bedding and pillows and make a secure den. “Would it – would it help if I pushed the two together? I can bring extra blankets…” 

Dean nods miserably, his eyes still screwed shut, and Castiel swallows. “Okay. I’m going to set you down on the chair, alright?” 

He knows Dean would probably rather be on the ground – he’s vulnerable right now, maybe more vulnerable than he’s ever been, and when he feels like that he tends to migrate southwards. But Castiel can’t allow that right now. Everything inside of him is demanding that he make Dean as comfortable and content as possible – he’s pretty sure watching him kneel on the hard floor would be too much for his hind brain to handle. 

When he bends down to set Dean into the armchair, the mask shifts unexpectedly, and a wave of heat slick Dean hits him like a truck. 

He freezes and looks up and Dean’s staring at him already, his gaze fever bright, pupils huge in the dim light of the room – so big that the ring of brilliant gold in his eyes is the only color Castiel can see. Dean doesn’t look scared, but he knows that the omega can smell Castiel’s uncontrolled response to his heat scent, knows that his pupils are dilated wide as well – telltale signs of how badly Dean is affecting him. 

He roughly breaks eye contact, and takes a step back, shaking his head to clear it. 

“I’ll go get those blankets,” he says, his voice a little too rough, and mercifully Dean doesn’t say anything as he retreats. 

He has to press his forehead to the cabinet doors of the linen closet for a while before his heart rate slows enough for him to wrestle his arousal under control. Shit. Shit. He hates himself right now, hates his body and his inability to control it. If he scares Dean, he’s never going to forgive himself. Abusing his trust is the last thing he wants to do. But even as he stands here and drowns in self-incrimination, he longs to go back to the omega. Longs to be at his side. 

After a while, the primal urge in the back of his brain fades, as does his half-mast erection. He swallows, fastens the bandana around his face more securely, and returns to the bedroom. 

Dean has already partially dragged his mattress across the room, but it’s clear he’s out of energy. He’s standing at the edge of the bed, legs shaking, the towel precariously loose around his shoulders. Opposite to what Castiel might have expected, considering the history of his heats, modesty does not appear to be Dean’s first concern right now. That alone should tell him how scattered he is, how adrift.

“Go sit down, Dean,” Castiel says, and he can see the way the omega’s shoulders draw together at the words – at the order.  

Castiel swallows guiltily. He hadn’t meant for it to come out that way, but it had, and there’s no taking it back now. “I mean – I’ll take care of it. You can sit down.”

Dean does so without looking at him, curling back into the chair, knees up. It says a lot about his state of mind that he’s willingly returned to the place where Castiel put him, even though he clearly doesn’t want to. Stomach churning, Castiel gives him one last glance before moving toward the bed. Dean’s eyes are downcast, his hands clenched around the towel and his tags. 

He dumps the blankets onto the mattress and slides it the rest of the way easily, shoving it against his own on the other side of the room. He pushes them both until they’re firmly in the corner, guessing that it will make it feel more… den-like. He resolutely ignores the fact that he’s just guessing.

It’s only when he turns around to check for lost pillows that he sees the book on the floor. 

Curious, he crouches down to pick it up unthinkingly. The cover is familiar – there’s copies of it all over the center, and for good reason. He’d wager that Benny had sent Dean home with this after their last session. 

He gives a surreptitious glance at Dean – the omega is still curled into himself, his eyes closed. 

The omega is probably not the only one that would benefit from a read-through of Your Body and You: Omega Edition. The last hour alone has been enough to convince Castiel that he’s not nearly as up-to-date with heat biology as he’d thought he was. 

Castiel palms the tome and picks up a stray pillowcase to cover it. He doesn’t want to embarrass Dean, and he has a feeling that seeing the book will do just that. 

He clears his throat. “What clothes would you like?” he asks, voice a little rough, and Dean jumps at the noise. 

He tightens the towel around himself self consciously, and, as though he’s just remembered that’s all he’s wearing, he blushes. “They’ll get all gross anyway,” he mumbles, shame in the words, and Castiel can’t have that.

“I will wash them,” Castiel says firmly, and Dean swallows thickly at the sound of his tone, still slipping into alpha despite his best efforts to avoid it. “Are you too hot for pyjamas?”

Dean just closes his eyes, breath too quick in his chest. He’s struggling, visibly, to come up with an answer, but he can’t – he just whines, quiet and desperate, and Castiel can take a hint. 

He’s going to have to figure it out. Dean needs him to figure it out. 

Biting his lip, Castiel tries and fails to think about what would make Dean most comfortable. Maybe the book will have some ideas. He’ll try just about anything right now to ease the tension from Dean’s shoulders, to soothe the fear out of his scent. 

Mind made up, he fishes through Dean’s top drawer and hands him a pair of boxers at random. “Put these on. I’ll be back.”

Dean takes them limply from his hand, holding them to his chest with red cheeks. He doesn’t look up to meet his eyes. 

Castiel pulls himself from the room and forces himself downstairs, head spinning a little even with the bandana. He goes to his bedroom and closes the door, thumbing through the glossy pages of the index at the back of the book. 

The chapter on heats is clearly quite long. There are lots of subsections beneath the word, and he runs a finger down the list until he finds one that looks promising. Alleviating symptoms of... 

He flips to the correct page eagerly, and is promptly blindsided with the approximate force of a brick to the temple. 

Castiel blushes like a virginal teenager. Right there, sitting far too innocently in the first page of the section, is a lovely little paragraph on knotting. Both with a partner, and through artificial means. Details about the endorphins and hormones it releases, explanations on the body’s inclination toward actions that result in offspring – and how to fool it into believing you are doing those actions without actually risking pregnancy.

There are diagrams. He flushes harder, eyes wide.

He fumbles to turn the page as though it contains something horribly indecent. It’s not that he’s a prude, or that he was somehow unaware of what the most direct form of relief for an omega in heat typically is. It’s just that he can’t think about that right now without an uncomfortable number of physical reactions to the idea of Dean being… 

Well. Relieved. 

Heart thudding in his palms, it takes him a moment to focus again on the pages. He shudders, trying his best to push away the wholly inappropriate want inside of him, and looks for something to help Dean that is a little less… sexual. 

There are quite a few more things, as he’d hoped, that are supposed to ease the anxiety that accompanies a heat. Things that are supposed to help foster feelings of safety and belonging. He flips past labeled diagrams of den-like nests, bullet pointed lists of soft materials that an omega might find comforting, foods and drinks that are recommended during the process. It’s all very professional and well put together, and he wishes he’d thought to read this before Dean woke up with golden eyes. 

There’s nothing about clothing, unfortunately, and he tries not to let that frustrate him. He flips back, skimming more carefully, and pauses on a section about scents. Extremely aware that Dean is all alone upstairs while he tries to figure this out, he tries his best to read quickly. 

Even outside of heats, omegas tend to take special comfort in scents that remind them they are safe and secure in their environment. While you are experiencing your heat, the natural urge to be surrounded by those scents may become more pressing. If possible, close physical contact (whether sexual or otherwise) and scenting with a trusted partner is recommended by most medical professionals. Additionally, you may consider gathering blankets or items of clothing that are used frequently by your partner or loved one to add to your safe space (i.e., your nest or den). 

He re-reads it a few times, cogs turning in his brain. Based on that, Castiel’s pretty sure he knows exactly what Dean might like to wear, but offering it could easily be misunderstood – or at least be considered an overstep. He swallows. 

By the time he returns to the room, shirt clutched in his hand like a live grenade, Dean has already made a startling amount of progress on his nest. He’s kneeling in the middle of the mattresses on top of the towel, tags swinging from his neck, blankets curled around him in careful, precise patterns that make no sense at all to Castiel. He’s got on the pair of boxers and nothing else, and his skin is dew soaked and fevered. 

For the first time, Castiel notices that there are freckles on his shoulders, on his back. Tiny brown flecks of paint on a canvas. He can’t help but notice the scars, too – criss-crossed lines of white and red, some long and thin and shiny, others small and gnarled and rough. 

Dean looks up at him with bright eyes, the green vivid against his flushed cheeks. The gold is more prominent now that Dean has calmed down a little, and looking at the little ring of metallic shine makes something inside of him ache with longing. 

He’s beautiful. 

Castiel swallows around that thought, so often repeated over the last few weeks, and fights to regain control of himself. This is not a normal heat, where he could take care of his omega in all the ways his hind-brain is urging him to do. They are in dangerous territory, and even the small island of stability he thought he’d found last night has been blown away like sawdust. 

Castiel has no idea how many of his feelings for Dean are reflected. Not now. Not for sure. He knows exactly how he feels about Dean, but how many of Dean’s whispered confessions yesterday were the truth, and how many were simply influenced by Dean’s pre-heat? How many were the product of hormonal fluctuations alone? 

Could be all of them, he knows. He allows the thought to hurt him for a split second, and then he shakes himself and steps forward. Dean needs him, and drowning in selfish, inappropriate disappointment is ridiculous in the face of something like this. 

“I got everything out of the cabinet, so the linens are clean,” he says, somewhat stupidly. Dean has already integrated all the extra blankets and sheets into his nest, so it’s not as though he cares. Besides, he seems to be doing his best to layer their shared blankets on top of those clean pieces of bedding anyway.

Dean stares at him blankly, eventually dropping his gaze down to the shirt clutched in his hand. He’s gone quiet again, something that Castiel is well aware that he does in times of emotional stress. Times of vulnerability. He misses Dean’s jokes, the easy demeanor that he’s finally allowed to shine through after all these months – misses even his anger, his fury. Anything would be better than this; this raw, unfiltered fear, borne from abuse and violence that Dean should never have had to think of again. 

“Do you want… I don’t want to presume,” he says awkwardly, carefully outside the perimeter of Dean’s newly constructed den. This is the first time he’s shown any inclination to create comfort for himself, at least in a way that is this visible. It’s sad that it took a heat for him to give in to the urge, but Castiel knows better than to mention it now. 

He’s also well aware that he shouldn’t intrude if he isn’t wanted. This is Dean’s safe space. It doesn’t matter that they’ve been sleeping while wrapped around each other for the last few nights, the same room for a while before that. Doesn’t matter that he’s sat, at minimum, a foot from Dean as he’s fallen asleep for almost a month. Doesn’t matter that he’s fallen asleep carding his fingers through Dean’s hair, or with the omega’s arms wrapped around him, or both. 

Doesn’t matter that Dean’s already been in his bed, and he’s already been in Dean’s. 

If Dean doesn’t want him here, Castiel won’t stay. 

The omega reaches out and tugs on the shirt, hard enough that Castiel stumbles forward and nearly tumbles onto the bed. His eyes drop down to Dean’s bare chest, then further – he has just a moment to register the small hints of scarring that are peeking up from the waistband of his boxers before he realizes what he’s doing. He tears his eyes away and meets Dean’s gaze instead, heart in his throat as he tries not to think about how he knows those scars extend well below his waist.

The man is staring at him with something glazed and fevered in his expression, but there’s an undercurrent of familiar stubbornness there. It doesn’t escape his notice that the ring of gold in his eyes has thickened considerably.

“Dean?”

He doesn’t speak, just tugs on the cloth again with a hard twist to his mouth, and Castiel can take the damn hint. He carefully kneels on the edge of the mattress and allows Dean to take his worn, soft nightshirt, still wrinkled from last night. He’d taken it off and switched it for a fresh one downstairs, leaving the book resting safely on his dresser. The shirt smells like him, and right now, he thinks – he hopes – that means it will smell like comfort to Dean.

And it seems that he was right. With absolutely no hesitation, Dean puts it on. 

The tension fades from his shoulders just a little. Castiel can’t help the little puff of pride he feels, seeing the omega in his clothes and seeing that it has in fact helped, but he does his best to shove it down when he sees that Dean is looking away, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He starts to pull back, to give the man some space.

That gets difficult when Dean turns back to him and tugs him down as well, and suddenly he finds himself inside the omega’s den. 

There are immediately tears in his eyes that he has to blink away before Dean notices. The fact that he trusts him enough to let him into his safe space… it makes something inside of him glow, makes his soul bright with pride and aching gratitude. His heart nearly flips upside down when Dean folds himself into Castiel’s arms and buries his nose into the crook of his neck, unprompted – his hands twist into the back of his shirt hard enough that Castiel can feel the pull. 

He takes a careful, measured breath, wrestling with the instinctual urge to drop his hand over the distressed omega’s nape, pushing away the need to soothe. Dean had asked him for that once before, but not since. The last thing he wants to do is presume and end up scaring him at a time when he is already so very vulnerable. 

Hesitantly, he lays a hand on the back of Dean’s head instead. 

Silent, shuddering sobs are wracking through him. Castiel’s throat closes when he realizes it, when he feels the omega’s shoulders shaking against him. His breath is hot on Castiel’s neck. 

Castiel strokes his hand up and down, does his best to allow Dean to let go. Does his best to be the reassuring presence that the omega desperately needs. He doesn’t know what he’s doing – hasn’t even begun to tackle the million and one thoughts inside of his mind, the what-ifs and the maybes. It doesn’t matter. Dean is his priority. 

Eventually, the sobs taper off. Dean sags against him, exhausted, his breath hitching and uneven. Castiel continues to card his fingers through Dean’s hair soothingly. 

“Dean?”

“Sorry,” he whispers. 

He tightens his hold around the feverish man. “There’s nothing you need to be sorry for.”

“You shouldn’t have’ta deal with this,” he mumbles into Castiel’s neck, voice thick with shame. “‘M fucking pathetic.”

“No you aren’t,” he says gently, running his hand up and down Dean’s back. It’s radiating heat, but somehow, it’s not making him too hot – instead, he feels like he’s cooled down enough to want to be near it, as though Dean is a furnace on a winter day.

“Scared, then. ‘M scared.”

“I understand. You’re safe here, though. I won’t let anything happen to you, and… and you can trust that I won’t… take advantage.”

“Not of you,” Dean says; and then, bewilderingly, “Of me. I dunno how this works. I’m scared I’ll –” He hitches in a breath. “Don’t wanna tease you,” he chokes. “I already…”

Castiel flushes. His arousal had been obvious, then. “That is not your fault,” he says gently, because, bizarrely, Dean apparently isn’t mad at Castiel for that, but is instead blaming himself. “It’s... natural.”

The omega takes a breath. “It ain’t fair to you, Cas.” 

Castiel sighs. “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t expect anything.”

Dean shudders. “I know. You’re too good. But I…” He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet of the room, and his next words are soft and thick with shame. “‘M a slut.”

“No,” Castiel says sharply. 

Dean cowers – but he presses closer, not farther away. Castiel takes a breath, wills his anger away so that he doesn’t scare Dean more than he already has. “No, you aren’t. This is biological and perfectly natural – and not something you have any control over. It will be over in a few days, and we will get through it just fine.” He smooths a hand through Dean’s hair and adds, “Nothing between us is going to change, Dean. Not because of this.”

Dean lets loose a breath and slowly nods against him, but it’s neither reassuring nor comforting. 

Castiel doesn’t need his sense of smell to tell him that the omega is still afraid.