54. Chapter 54

Cas. I think I love you. 

The words ring in his ears, loud and breathtaking as church bells, slamming into his chest with the force of a tidal wave. They make him feel infinite, make him feel as though he could grow wings and fly up and up and up toward the sun and become one with the sky. 

I think I love you. I think I love you. 

A million thoughts flood him at once. A million doubts and insecurities, visions of the future, emotions he has no idea how to quantify or name. It’s all he can do to keep breathing. To stay still. To not spin Dean around in a circle and kiss him on his soft, sweet mouth, so beautiful when he smiles and laughs. 

He spares no time to think. No time to consider the ramifications of admitting the way he feels, no time to consider the consequences if Dean’s confession turns out to be something false or a mistaken expression of gratitude or loyalty or platonic affection. All his caution and all his logic fly right out the window. All he can do is squeeze Dean around his heart, open his mouth, and tell the truth. 

“And I love you, Dean.” 

Whatever reaction he’d expected, it had not been for Dean to hitch in a pained sounding breath. Had not been for him to try and pull away, curling into himself like Castiel has wounded him with those words. 

The omega shakes his head. “No, you don’t.” 

The words are terrible and final and sad. Defeated. They feel like a punch to the heart. Dean’s voice trembles. “I shouldn’t have said anything – I didn’t mean to. I told myself I wouldn’t, but – fuck, I didn’t mean to,” he repeats, and he sounds so sorry and so utterly heartbroken. 

“Dean?” he asks softly, shocked by this, by the insane thought that his love for the man could be anything but genuine and all-consuming. But it’s like Dean doesn’t hear him. He just keeps trying to pull away, going so far as to reach up and put his hands over his ears and shake his head. And Castiel, not knowing what else to do, lets go – lets Dean put physical distance between them. The omega doesn’t go far – Castiel isn’t sure he can – but he does curl up completely, protecting himself physically from pain that Castiel cannot even comprehend. 

Stunned, Castiel sits up. The covers pool around them both. He slowly scoots back against the wall, looking at Dean’s small body numbly. 

For another few seconds he can’t wrap his mind around it. He’s lost as to how Dean could possibly doubt the depth of his feelings. How he can’t see how hard and how fast Castiel has fallen for him. It confuses him, frustrates him, and he finds himself reaching out to tug Dean back toward himself, finds himself with demands that Dean listen on the precipice of his mouth; his love, for a heartbeat, morphing into something closer to anger. 

His palm lands on the man’s back, and he makes a high, pained noise. Something like begging. 

And it clicks. 

Frozen with his hand on the omega’s warm skin, what is happening in Dean’s mind right now becomes vividly, painfully clear, as obvious as the way the omega is somehow both arching into his touch and straining away; as obvious as the tormented, anguished look on his face and the tears he’s barely managing to hold back.

Dean is scared that Castiel’s feelings aren’t real. He’s scared that Castiel only wants him, only cares for him, because of his heat, because he is an omega, because he is Castiel’s responsibility. The fear goes far deeper than how Castiel might feel about him physically – much deeper than even whether he wants to stay with him, or go. 

Dean believes that Castiel’s love for him is, fundamentally, a mistake. 

The thought is so blatantly ridiculous and insane that he wants to pick Dean up and shake him. But he doesn’t, because all at once he’s also understanding how ridiculous his own fears had been. How silly and trivial those concerns really are, in the face of this love.  

Because if his feelings are real, then so are Dean’s.

“Dean Winchester.”

His name in Castiel’s mouth is full and aching with everything he feels inside of himself, as tender as it is strong – just like the man himself. “I’d love you,” he says softly, “under any circumstance.” 

Dean sucks in a sharp breath. And, now that the seal has finally broken, the words tumble out of Castiel like rushing water – he doesn’t do a thing to stop them. “I’d love you if you were beta or alpha or omega, man or woman or something else entirely. I’d love you in any universe, Dean. In any timeline. In any world. I love you now, and I loved you the moment I saw you. And I will keep loving you,” Castiel chokes, feeling as though the words are ripping their way out of his very soul as he realizes them, as he admits them, “even if you do not truly love me. Even if you one day wake up and find that you need to move on, to move away. If you find you have changed your mind; if you find that I am lacking in a way you cannot forgive. Even still, I will love you.” 

There is a heartbeat more where Dean stays frozen under his palm. A moment where Castiel doesn’t even dare to breathe, because he doesn’t know if his words will be enough.  

And then Castiel is being shoved back against the wall because Dean has tumbled into his lap and is clinging to him as though he has just returned from the grave. His nose is buried in his neck and his body is shaking, but this close, Castiel can smell the joy that is pouring off of him even through the mask. Can smell the love, too, now that he knows what it is – pure and bright and warm and familiar, and he wonders how he’s missed it all this time. 

Castiel can do nothing but wrap his arms around Dean and hold him tight to his chest. 

“God, this is real, isn’t it?” Dean breathes against him. “Jesus Christ. You mean it.”

“Of course I mean it,” he says, his relief so powerful he’s lightheaded. “Of course.”

Dean laughs against him, shoulders shaking – the sound is a little wild, a tad hysterical, but genuine nonetheless. “I – me too. You know that, right?”

Castiel has to clear his throat in order for the words to come out at all. “I think I do, yes.” 

Dean laughs again, and the sound is sweet and pure and about as relieved as Castiel himself feels, and there’s a pang of guilt inside of him for how long Dean must have been carrying this around. The man leans back, and touches his palm to Castiel’s face. His eyes are bright, the ring of gold strengthening the ring of green, the two colors reflecting off of each other beautifully. 

“I really wish,” Dean says, cheeks dimpling with his smile, “you weren’t wearing that stupid mask.”

Castiel’s heart is thudding in his chest. He is suddenly very aware of their positions – Dean is straddling his lap, his knees on either side of him. “... Why?”

Something that can only be described as mischief sparkles in Dean’s eyes, then. “I bet you can figure it out, Cas.” 

Castiel can’t quite help the way his eyes widen, or the way they flick down just in time to see Dean’s lips part slightly. Can’t quite help the way his hands automatically drop down to Dean’s hips, or the way something in his gut stirs when he sees that Dean’s pupils are as round and large as dinner plates. 

“Dean,” he breathes, and then he realizes what’s about to happen. 

And then, just as suddenly, realizes that they can’t. 

With difficulty, he closes his eyes. Takes a breath through his mouth, the chemical scent of menthol tangling with Dean’s spiced, apple pie sweetness. A small groan tries to escape him, but he clamps down on it, pulling his hands away from Dean’s warm skin and clamping them into fists at his sides instead. 

“Dean,” he repeats, but this time his voice is full of regretful warning. “Dean, I–”

“Sorry, sorry,” the omega says hastily, scrambling backwards. “I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s alright,” Castiel says, even as he’s fumbling for a pillow to drop over his lap. “It’s… this just isn’t the right time. We can’t do this now. It’s not that… that I don’t want to, but…”

Dean saves him from his own fumbling, awkward explanation. “I get it, Cas.” 

When Castiel opens his eyes, he’s afraid that Dean will look crestfallen. Forlorn, or rejected. But the man is sitting back on his knees with a rueful, slightly embarrassed smile on his face, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, clutching a pillow to his middle with the other. He’s flushed all the way down to his neck, and Castiel doesn’t need his nose to know that he’s not the only one who’s aroused.

“Didn’t mean to rile you up,” Dean apologizes, and though the words are light there’s legitimate regret in his voice. “I know you don’t want to, uh. Do anything.” 

With a supreme amount of difficulty, Castiel drags his eyes back up from Dean’s mouth. “Oh, I want to. Don’t doubt that.”

Dean turns a little pinker at those words, and Castiel has to swallow down the urge to do something insanely inappropriate. He shakes himself, resolutely ignoring the coiling in his gut. “It’s not about what I want, though.” 

Dean’s mouth twists to the side, his expression turning into something approaching a grimace. “Yeah. I know.” 

He sighs. “Dean…”

“I really do get it,” the omega interrupts him. “You don’t want to… I mean. You still own me. And I get why that’s a, uh. A turn-off for you,” he says, the edge of a joke in his voice. It’s so inappropriately funny that Castiel snorts, and Dean’s eyes crinkle at the edges. “And, y’know. I don’t know if I’d, um. Feel the way I do about you, if you didn’t have a problem with that.”

He’s looking off to the side, his face on fire, and as ill advised as it may be Castiel can’t quite help but scoot forward, and reach out and grab the man’s hand. Dean’s fingers fumble in his grip till they’re interlaced with his. 

“You’re okay with it?” he checks, eyes searching Dean’s. “You understand why I… why we can’t?”

Dean nods. He clears his throat, looking away again, but his words come soft and earnest. “As much as this stupid heat is trying to convince me otherwise, I know it’d be a bad idea while you’ve still got my papers. I… it’d be…” 

He searches for the words, and Castiel is too awed by his bravery to interrupt him. “I’d like to think I’d tell you no, right now,” Dean whispers. “But I. I don’t know if I would. Even if…”

“Even if you wanted to?” Castiel finishes gently, stroking his thumb along the man’s knuckles. 

Dean’s chin ducks down to his chest in confirmation. “That’d be pretty fucked up for both of us, I think,” he admits, voice rough. “Wouldn’t it.” 

“It would,” Castiel confirms.

Leaning forward until his head is resting on Castiel’s shoulder, Dean lets out a long sigh. “This is gonna be a long week, ain’t it?”

Castiel can’t quite help the giggle that escapes him – the sound is some combination of nervous anticipation and relief. Dean snorts against him, punching his arm lightly, but there’s no malice in the gesture. “Just my friggin’ luck.”

“We’ll get through it, Dean,” Castiel reassures him, seeing the soft complaint for what it is – trepidation. “And you are already on your way to freedom. It may take a while, but you will get there.” 

Dean just sighs. His body is starting to sag against Castiel’s again – all his energy used up, for now. Castiel feels him nuzzle into his neck, and when he speaks, the words ghost across his skin. “Wish we’d met in a bar. A record shop,” Dean says wistfully, fatigue creeping back into his tone. “Hell, a damn Walmart.” 

Castiel strokes his hand up and down Dean’s warm, soft body, fingertips running over the ridges of the scars on his back even through his shirt. He thinks he knows what the man’s getting at – that he wishes they’d met under less complicated circumstances. That there was nothing in the way. 

“Perhaps you’d have been my mechanic,” Castiel offers, a slight smile on his face. “You may not know this, but I am abysmal with cars.” 

Dean huffs out a laugh. The sound is tired, but content and genuine, and it makes Castiel’s heart flutter. “Yeah, could’a guessed that one, actually.” 

“You could, hm?” he asks, false confusion in his voice – Dean shakes with silent laughter against him. “Now, why’s that, Dean? What could have led you to that conclusion?”

“Could be that you basically park on top of the curb,” Dean muses, and Castiel laughs with him. When their chuckles die down, Dean is loose and limp against him, clearly exhausted. He can’t quite help but lift his hand to the back of Dean’s head for just a moment, running his fingers through his soft hair. 

“Are you tired?”

“Dead on my feet,” Dean admits wearily, though Castiel can hear his slight smile. “Real fuckin’ annoying. Didn’t I just nap?” 

“Your body is working very hard right now.” 

“Gee, thanks, body,” Dean says sarcastically. “Doin’ great there, champ. Really necessary, thanks a million.” 

Castiel smiles. “Perhaps some sleep is in order before dinner?”

Dean sighs, but he doesn’t protest. He quietly lets Castiel maneuver them both until Dean is curled against him under the covers, both of Castiel’s arms wrapped around him. 

He’s quiet for so long that Castiel thinks he’s fallen asleep – he himself is well on his way – but Dean’s soft words startle him back awake. 

“This doesn’t feel real, Cas.” Heart aching fiercely, Castiel tightens his hold a little. Dean’s voice is rough when he continues. “I’m not this lucky.” 

“I’m not sure I qualify as a lucky break,” he rumbles back. “But if I am, I believe you’re overdue.” 

Dean doesn’t really laugh at that, not like Castiel expected him to. He just breathes for a while, quiet and tired. 

“I don’t think I’ve earned this,” he whispers, and it’s raw, scared honesty that makes Castiel’s soul hurt. “Don’t think I’m worth it.” 

“You are to me.” 

Dean swallows audibly. “You sure about that?” he asks, all the bravado from a few minutes ago long gone. “Really sure?”

“Dean,” Castiel replies softly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything. Give me a chance to make you believe it.” 

And the omega sighs against him, his hands clutched around Castiel’s shirt. 

“Okay.” 

Castiel does not really move from the bed for the rest of the afternoon, other than to use the bathroom and bolt down some dinner himself when his stomach had rumbled loud enough to wake Dean up with a start. The omega had grumpily poked at his belly until Castiel had laughed, and had shooed him out of the room to go feed himself. And he’d looked blatantly, unabashedly relieved when Castiel had returned, dropping his head into his lap with a content sigh when Castiel had sat against the wall. 

He’d just barely convinced Dean to eat some protein bars and drink a few bottles of water himself. The omega had been tired, barely hanging on to consciousness. When he’d finally finished eating, Castiel had dropped everything to the side of the bed, slid his fingers through his hair, and essentially given him permission to go to sleep. 

If Castiel hadn’t still been reeling, the speed at which Dean started softly snoring might have been funny.  As it is, he can barely spare it a thought. 

His secret – the thing he’s held on to for so long – has been exposed just like that. And, God – Dean loves him back. Had said so. Said it first. Had taken the most difficult step unflinchingly, like he always seems to – had fought past his fear with his brave soul and faced it head-on. He’d whispered his confession without knowing if those feelings were returned – in fact, had done so all but knowing they weren’t. Castiel cannot imagine taking such a risk, put in Dean’s position, where an unfavorable reaction might have destroyed the first safety and peace he’s known since he was a child. 

His phone buzzes softly on the ground nearby, tearing him from his thoughts. Careful not to move Dean too much, he reaches over and clicks it on. There’s an unread text from Balthazar. 

how goes it, casanova?

Face twitching into a smile, Castiel types out his reply. 

All is peaceful, for the time being. 

u get the kid to eat anything?

He consumed two protein bars, but was unwilling to try actual food.

good enough 4 now, but try 2 get him to eat tmw 

Castiel smiles again, softer this time. He takes a while to type out and send his question, hoping he’s not stepping over his bounds. 

Are you doing alright?

The replies come whipcrack fast – a pretty good indication that he’s pushed some buttons. 

whos the 1 in heat here, me or the kid

not sure how u have the bandwidth left over 2 b worrying about me. 

isnt winchester taking up enough of ur time?

It doesn’t escape his notice that Balthazar has not answered the question. 

It’s alright if the answer is no, my friend.

The three dots appear and then disappear, appear and then disappear. It’s a while before the reply lights up his phone again. 

working on it. 

While Castiel is trying to think up a reply, another message follows the first. 

sorry. 

He furrows his brow at the little word. It’s… not like Balthazar to come right out and apologize. He’s more likely to say sorry with actions than with words – taking him to lunch, a hot coffee left on his desk, a spontaneous movie night at his home, always magically something Castiel actually enjoys. So this throws him for a loop. 

If you’re apologizing for having difficulty dealing with this situation, there is no need.

And there really isn’t. He knows better than most the kinds of demons that Balthazar battles on a daily basis. It’s not a surprise to him that Dean’s heat would hit close to home for the man, and he can’t blame him for his defensive behavior.

cassie. 

im apologizing for being an asshole to you. 

He blinks. Oh. 

Oh. 

I don’t believe I’d file your actions under that category.

of course u dont

bloody saint that u r

If Dean was not sleeping peacefully in his lap, Castiel would have called Bal to clarify. As it is, the omega is breathing easily, and he doesn’t want to disturb him and interrupt his much needed rest. 

If the man is concerned about his difficulty in trusting Castiel to do the right thing, he can’t really fault him for that. Castiel himself struggles to believe he’s capable, so how can he begrudge doubt to anyone else? If he’s concerned about how defensive he’d been over Dean, how can Castiel fault him for that either? 

He decides, in the end, that he doesn’t really need to know what Balthazar thinks he’s done wrong – he bears him no ill will. 

I forgive you.

The reply does not come for a long time. When it does, it is a complete non sequitur – fairly typical of emotional conversations with Balthazar. He simply texts Castiel a photo of his cat, now beginning to get on in years, curled up in his lap with a smug look on her face that reminds Castiel an awful lot of her owner. She’s nuzzling Balthazar’s hand in a demanding sort of way. This, he thinks, is Balthazar’s way of telling him that he is at home, that he is comfortable and not panicking or spiraling over his concerns. That he is at peace. He appreciates it. 

She is aging very gracefully.

u callin her old? i’ll tell. she’ll scratch up ur couches again.

A fair price for my atonement.

Balthazar texts him a rude emoji – Castiel had been unaware that particular hand gesture was an option Apple provided – and leaves it at that. He snorts. 

“What’re you laughin’ at?”

Dean’s sleep-rough voice is barely audible, and when Castiel peers down at him his eyes are still mostly closed. It’s quite clear he’s still half asleep.  

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologizes, but Dean just shakes his head. 

“‘S fine.” He yawns, sitting up, but he doesn’t go very far. He leans into Castiel’s space, unashamedly plastering himself against his side. Castiel adjusts so his arm is securely wrapped around him. “What’s so funny?” he asks again, a little more awake. 

Castiel tilts his phone screen toward him, showing off the picture of Balthazar’s cat on his lap. Dean studies it for a moment, and then, inexplicably, he laughs too. At Castiel’s confused glance, he gestures at himself, and at Castiel’s own lap. 

“Can’t see the resemblance?” he asks, eyes crinkling at the edges, and oh. Dean’s making a joke. Castiel can feel his mouth twitch into an unsuccessfully suppressed smile. 

“You are nothing like Couch. You shed far less,” he deadpans, and Dean’s face blooms with precious, infectious joy. 

“He – oh my God,” he laughs, covering his mouth. “Cas, he named his cat Couch?”

“It’s a long story,” he replies, but Dean is too busy snickering to question him further. 

“Couch. Jesus, he’s never gonna hear the end of that,” Dean threatens, and it makes Castiel smile. He likes the reminder that Dean doesn’t plan to go any time soon. 

It’s quite late – approaching two in the morning – but Castiel figures he should offer while Dean is awake and cognizant. He’s already dutifully read through the description of the stages of heat as Pamela has advised, and he knows that Dean’s awareness will likely begin to waver soon. He doesn’t know how he’s going to handle that, but it’s a problem for his future self. 

“Are you hungry at all?”

Dean just shrugs against him. “‘Dunno. Can’t really tell. My stomach’s all…” He makes a vague gesture with his hand. “And m’head feels kinda fuzzy.” 

“Perhaps another protein bar?”

The way Dean scrunches his nose is extremely cute. Castiel wishes he could snap a photo. “Tastes like packing peanuts,” he grumbles, turning so his face is against Castiel’s neck. 

Snorting, he reaches over blindly and fishes one out of the box near the bed. He appraises the label. “This one claims to be exactly like cookie dough.”

“Lies and slander,” he says grumpily, but when Castiel unwraps it and breaks him off a small bite, he takes it without further complaint. 

They get through the entire bar like this, piece by piece, and it’s domestic in a way that Castiel has truly begun to crave. Simple, and easy, and quiet. He knows it’s the calm before the storm, but he can’t help but enjoy this moment while it lasts. 

When the wrapper is empty, he crumples it and slides it back into the box. “Thank you,” he murmurs, meaning it in more than one way.

Predictably, the omega rolls his eyes, muttering something about him being ridiculous. Castiel isn’t quite done, though – he lightly grips Dean’s chin and tilts his head until he can’t look away. 

“I’m proud of you. You’ve been incredibly brave today, Dean.” 

Dean freezes, eyes wide, and for a moment Castiel is afraid he’s said something wrong. He opens his mouth to apologize, or backtrack, but Dean is rapidly turning a bright shade of red – flushed from the tips of his ears all the way down to his neck. 

“I, uh,” he stutters. “Um. Bathroom. Gotta take a leak. I’ll be right back,” he mumbles, and scrambles out of the bed. 

Castiel is left blinking in the room, alone. He hears Dean shut the bathroom door behind him. The shower flips on, and he’s mystified as to why for a few naive seconds before he realizes what must have happened. It seems that he hasn’t learned from the first time he did something similar. 

Back then, it had filled him with nothing but panic, and self disgust, and guilt. He’d been furious at himself for forcing Dean to feel things he wasn’t ready for, for being stupid enough not to know what could happen. For starting him on a dangerous, terrified spiral of self doubt and hatred. Just a few short weeks ago, Dean had been all but convinced that Castiel intended to take advantage of him in every way possible, and in that moment in the bathroom he’d been as scared as he’d ever been. So, of course he’d felt guilty – guilty for scaring him, for riling him up in the first place, for taking away his peace. 

Now, he doesn’t know what to feel. 

On the one hand, he’s still worried. He doesn’t want to pressure Dean into facing his issues sooner than he needs to, and deliberately working him up is not what he’d intended. On the other, he’s… somehow feeling quite pleased with himself. And the image of Dean’s eyes, pupils blown wide and ringed with gold, is doing very interesting things to his hindbrain. 

He’s torn, and not sure how to feel. Not sure what to be guilty for. 

He decides to take the opportunity to shower himself while Dean is up and distracted. It takes some degree of effort to remove himself from their nest, but he does it anyway, because he gets the feeling that this is the last chance he’ll have to worry about something as mundane as hygiene for a while. 

Once he’s in his bedroom, door firmly shut, he takes a deep breath and unties his mask. It’s still like a kick to the gut to get Dean’s unfiltered scent, but it’s not anything he can’t handle. He’s grateful, for that – in some deep, dark part of his brain, he’s still afraid that he’s going to lose control of himself and do something he regrets. 

As it is, he does promptly lose control of some particular parts of his anatomy. Despite what his brain is demanding he do, he’s logical enough to know he needs to stay downstairs, at the very least. 

He strips off his clothes, and the strong scent of Dean that is lingering in the fabric is more than enough to make his stomach squirm with an all-too familiar feeling. The shower doesn’t particularly help things – though he jumps right in without waiting for it to warm all the way, the cold water does nothing to discourage him, as he’d half hoped. 

Trying to keep himself thoughtless, he begins his routine – scrubs himself down methodically, pumps some shampoo into his hands and runs it through his hair. He’s more than a little distracted, but he’s trying his best to ignore the insistent voice in the back of his head that is encouraging him to do something about the coiling arousal in his gut. 

He closes his eyes, and when he does all he can see is Dean. It’s impossible to direct his mind elsewhere, despite how he tries – the only thing in his mind is the omega. His wide, green and gold eyes, his flushed cheeks, the way his tongue had darted out and swiped along his bottom lip. 

He doesn’t even realize his hand is wrapped around himself until he’s stroked himself to full hardness, and at that point, it's the easiest thing in the world to tighten his hand just a little. To slow down enough to savor the thrill of it. The shivery feeling that races up his spine. And although Dean’s scent isn’t quite as strong under the spray of the shower as it was in his bedroom, the memory of it hasn’t faded, and that alone is enough to launch Castiel into the fantasy he’s been forbidding himself to play out for months. 

It’s right there at the front of his mind. Dean’s eyes, ringed in gold. Dean’s lips, wet from what could have been Cas’s kiss. Yes. That wetness would be his doing. He could pin Dean down, his body soft and wanting, could gently, but firmly, guide his wrists above his head and hold them there, blanket him with his body. Crash their mouths together, tease and lick and kiss every inch of him until Dean was writhing beneath him. Whining and begging for more. 

Or perhaps not. Maybe the omega would be bold enough to waltz right in here himself. To tear open the shower curtain and step under the spray. Maybe he’d sink to his knees and bat away Cas’s hand, his eyes daring and mischievous. Maybe he’d place a soft kiss exactly where it’s wanted. Maybe he’d wrap his lips around him and suck. 

The warmth flooding downwards tells him he is close. So close. And perhaps it is that rush of sensation that manages to shove him back into reality. 

With a gasp, he rips his hand away, nausea flooding him. Guilt flooding him. He feels like he might throw up. Like he might faint from all the horror that is suddenly blazing through his veins. 

Dean, for all he knows, is upstairs panicking. Is scared. Terrified. Castiel had inadvertently, unthinkingly caused him to feel the exact sort of arousal he’d been determined to avoid. He had literally, just hours ago, told Dean that they needed to wait – had pushed the omega away when he’d been close to initiating something they’d both regret. 

And now, Castiel himself has gone too far. He’d crossed the line he’d told Dean to stay behind, and he’d been pleased with himself, had not even thought about going to check on him, or making sure he was in a safe headspace – instead, he’d fled, had come downstairs and had selfishly started to pleasure himself to the thought of the state he’d put Dean in– 

Another wave of nausea hits, tinted with something darker. Something closer to self hatred. 

He scrambles to try and get out of the shower with no idea of where he’s going and no idea of what he plans to do, and in his mindless hurry he manages to knock over half of the dark glass bottles he uses for shampoo and soap. They shatter spectacularly, the noise jarring, and he, of course, immediately slips as he tries to catch the last few before they tumble to the tiled floor. Of course he bashes into the raised lip of the shower and trips over the edge. Of course he tries to catch himself on the curtain and brings it crashing down with him, rod and rings and all. 

He hits the ground with a thump that knocks the breath clean out of him; somehow, miraculously, managing to get his hands under him before he cracks his damn head on the tile. He lands right on a particularly large shard of glass that happily bites through his skin, and the sudden pain only adds to his panic. 

Cursing, he manages to get his feet back under him and step out of his wrecked shower, any lingering arousal he might have felt long gone with the sharp stinging in his palm and his roiling stomach. He nearly slips again as he steps out onto the smooth tile, but just barely keeps himself upright. He’s bleeding all over the place, a long trail of red snaking down his arm and dripping to the floor until it looks like a veritable crime scene, and he looks around wildly for a towel. Of course, there are none aside from his own – bright white and soft and not at all clean enough for use as a bandage, and he curses again. He jams his hand under the sink and hisses as the cold water makes the cut sting fiercely. 

It does very little to slow the bleeding, and he’s trying very hard not to lose his mind completely when his phone starts ringing, vibrating so hard it nearly tumbles off the bathroom counter. He reaches across awkwardly with his left hand and hits accept without even checking the ID, knowing that anyone who’s calling at this hour is someone he shouldn’t ignore. The cold glass of the phone against his ear is jarring, as is the voice pouring out of the speaker.

“Why the devil are you still awake?” Balthazar asks in an accusatory sort of way, despite the fact that he’s the one who called in the first place; Castiel’s too busy searching for literally anything to stem the frankly alarming amount of blood pouring out of him to say as much. “Just because Winchester’s napping during the day doesn’t mean you have to, you know – your sleeping schedule is buggered as it is. What’s that noise? Are you talking to me in the shower? Is there a bloody flood? Is something leaking–?” 

“Bal,” he pleads, but he has nothing else – his brain is screaming at him to get a grip, to find a towel, to stop shivering and bleeding and feeling like he’s going to puke any second. 

“What’s wrong?” Picking up immediately on his panic, Bal’s voice is unbearably loud over the line. “Castiel, what is going on?”

“I–” he tries to explain, but the words are stuck in his throat, stopped by shame and guilt, and he tries his damndest to push past it and explain himself but the words simply won’t come. 

“Do I need to drive down there?” Bal is demanding, probably already getting up, getting ready to come to his rescue, and as much as his presence might be helpful Castiel can’t justify bringing him here when he already knows it bothers Dean and he’s done enough to stress the omega when he’s supposed to be comforting him–

“No,” he finally manages to choke out. “No, I. I just. I’m bleeding, and I can’t find a clean towel, and there’s – there’s water and blood all over the fucking floor and I – I can’t–” 

“Cassie,” Balthazar says sharply. “Breathe. Take a breath.” 

He tries, he really does, but it’s like trying to suck air through a coffee straw, and he can feel the world spinning around him and growing darker by the second. He makes a noise, something panicked and desperate, and distantly he can hear Balthazar curse in the background.

“Sit down, now,” Balthazar all but orders. The commanding words from the omega shouldn’t have much of an effect on him, but Castiel finds himself on the cold floor instantly.  It takes a moment before he realizes he is utterly naked on the cold tile, and another few for him to think to tug his towel off the rack and drape it over his middle. He’s somehow managed to keep the phone to his ear, something he doesn’t realize till Balthazar's voice makes him jerk in surprise. 

“Are you sitting?”

“I– yes,” he says, voice strained, heart still pounding too hard. He’s cold. Shivering.

“Good. Now, where are you bleeding?” Bal asks methodically.

“My–” Castiel cuts off, realizing he doesn’t even know where the worrying amount of blood is coming from – he should remember, he knows this, but there’s nothing but a frightening blank inside his head where the knowledge should be. Shakily, he experimentally swipes a hand through a smear on his leg, but the skin underneath is whole. His hand, however, is screaming in pain after the motion. He turns it over and sees the slice, jagged and ugly but not too deep. 

“My palm. It’s – not that bad, I don’t think.”

“Alright. What did you cut it on?”

He takes a breath. Tries to get his thoughts back in order – he’s largely unsuccessful, but he can see the shattered remains of the bottles all over the place, shampoo pooling underneath the shards. “Glass. The, um. The bottles in the shower.” 

Balthazar takes a breath of his own. “Is there glass in the cut?”

“I don’t think so.” 

“Check, please,” Balthazar tells him in that same even voice. “Take a breath and look carefully.”

Castiel does, abruptly realizing that he had forgotten to breathe at all. It makes him feel all the more pathetic, but the rush of air clears his mind enough that he can bring his hand closer. The cut looks clean. Whatever glass may have been caught in it must have been washed out when he held his hand under the tap. The tap which is still running, he realizes.  

Part of him wants to stand and turn it off. The other tells him that maybe standing isn’t a particularly good idea. His limbs still feel like jello. 

“There’s nothing,” Cas reports. His voice sounds far away.

“Good. Can you get some tissues or toilet paper and put pressure on it?” 

Castiel nods, then realizes Bal can’t see his nod through the phone. “Yeah. Yes.” 

“Okay. Go slowly,” Balthazar cautions. Which is fine, because Castiel has absolutely no intention of standing. He leaves the phone on the tile and twists, towel falling off his lap, sending an uncomfortable wave of cold air against his wet skin. He awkwardly shuffles his way around the glass on his knees and pulls a couple squares of toilet paper from the roll. When he bunches them up, he sees the fingerprints of blood he’s left behind. He knows he should deal with that, but he can’t keep the thought in his mind long enough to try. 

“Got it?” Balthazar asks, a weak voice from the speaker of his phone, no longer held to his ear. Cas shuffles his way back over and finally has the presence of mind to hit the speaker button.

“Yeah.”

“Is it helping?” 

Cas looks down and numbly realizes he crumpled the tissue and neglected to press it to the cut at all. Exasperation floods him, chased quickly by exhaustion. He shoves the soft, flimsy paper against his palm, marveling at how quickly it soaks to red. 

“Cassie? Is it helping?” Bal repeats.

“I don’t know,” Castiel responds numbly. He squeezes harder, hoping he’s doing it right, because there are more important things to worry about that a fucking cut on his hand. He should be fixing his mess – he’s got an omega upstairs that probably feels violated. Because of him. The thought finally manages to make his stomach flip. 

He turns to the side, heaving, his head still spinning as the impact of what he’d just done finally hits him full force, and he knows Balthazar is talking but he can’t understand a word because he’s too busy scrambling to the toilet so he doesn’t make an even bigger mess. He abandons the phone behind him, hunching over and sending up the scraps of dinner he’d eaten. 

He feels no better when his stomach is empty, but when he manages to drag in a breath or two he realizes that Balthazar has been trying to get his attention for a while. 

“Castiel, if you don’t answer me now I’m going to get in the car and show up at your front door, to hell with the kid’s territorial bullshit–” 

“No,” he manages to snap, the word raw and painful in his throat. “No. You can’t – he’s dealing with enough, and I’m not fucking helping – I – I’m making everything worse, I can’t –” 

“You’re panicking again,” Balthazar interrupts calmly, and Castiel can, at the very least, comprehend that he is. 

Still bent over on his knees, he shakily pulls his palm into his lap and rips more toilet paper off of the roll to press into his still bleeding mess. Balthazar, mercifully, is silent as he tries to rake his shattered composure back together. 

Eventually, the bleeding slows, and the ever-growing pile of tissue stops soaking through every few seconds. He tosses the wet wad into the toilet and flushes the whole thing, pressing a fresh crumple of it against the wound to keep it from opening again. 

“You wanna tell me what just happened?” Balthazar asks after a long silence. 

Castiel closes his eyes. Another wave of nausea ripples through him, but it just makes him shudder. “I messed up.” 

“I’m going to need you to be a little more specific,” Bal says, and for some reason there’s no accusation in his voice. In fact, he sounds far more patient than he should. 

“I…” Castiel swallows. He doesn’t want to say it, because if he tells Balthazar what happened, all his fears will be confirmed. It will be out there, for all to know, that he’s just another alpha. Just another untrustworthy, mindless, sex-driven idiot, obsessed with knotting the nearest omega who will take it. Or in this case, won’t take it. The trust he’d placed in Castiel will be betrayed in the worst possible way. 

But his own selfish desire to keep his friendship intact does not outweigh his desperate need to fix what he’s done, and no matter how angry Balthazar will be with him, he won’t leave Dean in need if he can do something about it. 

The truth tumbles out. How he’d held Dean by his chin. How Dean had pulled away after what he’d said, how he’d rushed to the bathroom. How the shower had turned on and how Cas hadn’t even considered that he might not be okay. How he’d selfishly just taken the opportunity to take care of his own arousal instead, without a second thought as to whether he should, not even considering how much of a violation of Dean’s trust it would be. 

“And Bal, I did that. I was–” His breath hitches, and it’s only now that he realizes how pathetically hard he’s crying. “I was getting off to thoughts of him,” he finishes in a rush, shame making his words strangled, barely audible. 

Balthazar is quiet for a long time. When he speaks, his words are more gentle than Castiel deserves for them to be. “Take a breath, friend.”

He does. He knows that it’s obvious he’s crying, but he can’t even dredge up the energy to be embarrassed about it. Balthazar gives him time, waits until his breaths aren’t hitching and uneven anymore, and he appreciates it more than he can say. 

“Cassie…” he starts, and it’s clear he’s searching for the right words. “You’re panicking over something that does not warrant panic.”

The words do nothing but startle him. They don’t make sense. “But…” 

“No, listen,” his friend presses. “Here’s what I’m hearing. You told Dean you’re proud of him. Something the kid desperately needs to hear, if the way he reacted is any indication. You were being kind.”

“But the way I told him was incredibly inappropriate –” 

“You’re sharing a nest with him,” Balthazar interrupts. “If circumstances were different, you’d be doing a hell of a lot more than talking. For God’s sake, you touching him is not taking it too far. I’m willing to bet he’s touched you far more than grabbing you by the chin. Am I right?” 

Castiel swallows. “I mean… yes.” 

“Good. I’m sure he didn’t particularly mind that contact. In fact, I’d wager that he was relieved you were finally initiating something. I’m willing to bet you’ve kept your hands to yourself so much you may as well have had them tied.”

Castiel can’t deny it, as miserable as he feels, so he doesn’t. But he doesn’t feel relieved by it – if anything, he feels a little worse. Perhaps Balthazar senses that, because he continues. “The kid is in heat, Cassie. He may not need sex. May not want it. But you holding him? You telling him you’re proud? That probably helps him more than you can begin to imagine."

“Helps him how?” Castiel asks after a beat.

Balthazar makes a slightly frustrated noise. “Mate, it’s a... a vulnerable time. Dean feels exposed, defenseless. Your job is to help him feel secure instead.” 

Castiel scoffs, feels self incrimination bubble up inside of him, and he finds himself growling. “Yes, and I’m doing such a good job of it. Running downstairs to… at the first moment I could–” He swallows, his hand balling into a fist. “While I should have been worried about him, I came down here to fantasize about him in situations he’s terrified of. To imagine him doing things that people have forced him to do countless times.” He feels nauseous again, feels that same spiraling panic begin to take over again. “Bal, for God’s sake, I feel like I should be in jail. Not taking care of him.”

“Oh, for sure. Want me to call in a SWAT team for you? Or would you rather turn yourself in? I could get Jody to come pick you up. Or perhaps dial 911, if you’re more comfortable with that?”  

Castiel feels shame flood through him. Feels his throat close up. 

Balthazar barks out a starling laugh. “For fuck’s sake, Cassie, breathe. I’m kidding. It's more than natural that you’d get aroused at some point. I don’t know why you’re surprised, mate. It's nothing criminal. It doesn't make you a bad person.”

“How can you say that?” he demands quietly. “How can you be okay with…” 

“Castiel.” Balthazar’s tone is no-nonsense, back in familiar territory. “Did you rape him?”

“No,” Castiel responds immediately, horrified. 

“Did you toss him over the bed and have your merry way with him? Strip him naked, grab him by the nape? Knot him?”

“Bal, stop. No. Of course not.” He’s sick at the very thought, sick that Balthazar can even say those things.

“So you didn’t do anything to him.” 

“But…” 

“No. Listen to me. You didn’t. Touching him and having him respond as any garden-variety omega would is not a crime. It’s fine, and something that, frankly, you both should have expected. It’s going to happen again, in fact – I don’t see how it couldn’t.” 

Bal takes a steadying breath. “Does that mean he wants sex? No. You won’t fucking touch him like that,” he growls, the familiar protectiveness slipping back into his voice for a moment. “But, mate, you’re fine. You’re okay. And whatever happened in the privacy of your brain is okay, too, because you’re not going to take it any farther than that.” 

The surety in his voice is enough to make Castiel's eyes well up again. There’s no doubt in his tone. No indication that Balthazar suspects he might actually act on those thoughts. Castiel wouldn’t, and even through the guilt, he knows that. But it means more than he can say that Bal, with all his wounds, believes it too. 

His friend continues, his voice a little softer. “He is not a tool to you. You don’t want him because he can satisfy you. What you two have goes far deeper than that. And even though, for simplicity’s sake, I wish you had found someone under different circumstances, I’m – I’m glad you have that, Cassie. I need you to know that.” 

Castiel swallows, the tears coming for real this time. His relief is so total and complete that it draws him back into his body, and he realizes for the first time that he’s sitting on his floor. That he’s shivering. Naked. That both the shower and the tap are still running. 

He lets out a strangled laugh. “Thank you, Balthazar. For everything.”

Balthazar huffs out a laugh too, and Castiel can’t miss the thickness of his voice. He has no doubt that the man will deny it to his dying day, but despite how he’s managing to carry on this conversation, he’s not as unaffected by it as he’d like to appear.

“Go find your omega. Make sure he’s okay.” Balthazar ends the call before Cas can say goodbye. 

He shakes his head at his friend’s gruff affection, then rises slowly, setting his phone on the counter. He looks up and catches sight of himself in the mirror, barely holding back a crazed laugh. His hair is full of soap suds, sticking up in all directions, matted on one side from where he was no doubt pulling at it. His eyes have a wild, crazed look, not helped at all by the redness surrounding them. 

He turns to look at the bathroom and sighs at the mess he’s made. The curtain rod lies askew, half the rings having slid off of it completely, dragging the shower curtain into a rumpled pile. There is glass and blood and soap everywhere. 

Castiel carefully steps around it and back into the shower. He turns on the spray. It’s still hot, and makes him all the more aware of how cold he’d been. He leans into it, shivering a little until it warms him back up, and then makes short work of rinsing himself off. 

It only takes a few minutes before he’s wrapped himself in a towel, gotten a fresh wad of toilet paper for his cut, and made his way back into his bedroom to change. He’ll deal with the state of his bathroom later. For now, he needs to get back upstairs and make sure Dean is okay. 

Castiel pulls on a pair of sweatpants and the first t-shirt he touches, tosses his wet towel over the door, and takes the stairs two at a time, tying his mask back over his face as he goes. He’s a little afraid to push the door all the way open, but he shoves down his fear and does it anyway. 

Dean has clearly been out of the shower for a while. He’s curled up in his nest, hair nearly dry, and is thumbing through the pages of Your Body and You. 

He looks completely, utterly fine. 

Relief hits him with the approximate force of a train, and his sharp exhale is enough to catch Dean’s attention. He looks up, fumbling with the book and flushing as if he’s embarrassed, and is already half hiding it behind the mattress when he catches Castiel’s no doubt tumultuous scent. 

He sits up, concern written all over his face, eyes flicking around Castiel’s body until he spots the paper crumpled in his hand. “What happened?” he demands, voice already a little too high, and Castiel realizes that he might go and stress Dean anyway if he isn’t careful. 

Raising his palms, he walks forward and scoots into the nest, wrapping his arms around Dean. The omega isn’t having it, trying to push him backwards to inspect his hand, but Castiel isn’t quite ready to let go. He’s simply too relieved, and having Dean back against him feels too good.

“Cas,” Dean complains, his voice muffled, and with a sniff Castiel finally lets go. Dean leans away from him, a frown and the beginnings of a complaint on his face, but when he catches sight of Castiel’s expression he falters. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”

A little overwhelmed, Castiel can only nod, and Dean’s frown deepens. “No you ain’t. What’s wrong?”

Castiel opens his mouth to say he’s alright. There really isn’t anything to worry about, but the omega zeroes in on his hand like he’s been trained to pick out exactly what hurts in situations like these. Castiel lets him take his palm in his grip, turning it over and inspecting it with transparent worry. “What happened?”

“I… slipped in the shower,” he says, blushing when he remembers anew how ridiculous he’d been acting. “Broke a bottle and landed right on it.” 

Dean looks back up at him, narrowing his eyes. “Why’d you fall?”

If possible, Castiel blushes harder. “I. Um,” he says, looking away. “I was a little distracted.” 

Dean cocks his head to the side, brow furrowed, but as smart as he is it doesn’t take him long to put two and two together. And rather than the fear or the disgust or the betrayal he thought Dean might feel, he just cracks a smile.

“Distracted, huh?” he goads. “Why might that be?”

Castiel is too relieved to be properly embarrassed. He finds himself smiling back, and if the expression is a little shaky, Dean can’t see it through the bandana. “I think you’re well aware of what might have been distracting me, Dean.” 

Dean grins unashamedly, laughing a little, and the sound is so pure and unconcerned that it makes his heart ache. Dean has come so far. He drops his other hand on top of Dean’s, squeezing gently. 

“I am sorry about earlier,” he offers. “I didn’t specifically intend to…” 

Confusion plasters itself across Dean’s face, but it clears a moment later. He blushes, looking a little embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal, man. I – you didn’t know I’d be like that about it,” he says, blushing a little deeper – he pulls his hands away and brushes one through his hair. “It’s fine. I just took a cold shower, no harm no foul.” 

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but is stopped by Dean shaking his head.  

“Hey. I’m serious. It's all okay.” He shrugs, and mutters, “Not your fault, anyway. That’s all me and my messed up brain...”

“Dean,” he says softly. “You don’t need to be embarrassed by that. And you are not messed up.”

“Right,” Dean grumbles. “Totally normal to pop a boner over you being proud of me. Nothing weird there.” 

“Hey,” Cas interrupts. “I… 'popped a boner’ too, you know.” It takes a moment for him to hear his own words, and he feels himself blush. 

Dean looks up at him, startled for all of a second before a laugh bursts out of him. He grabs Castiel’s hands in his own, pulling them down. “Dude, no air quotes. You’re killing me.” 

Castiel can only smile. “Apologies. I’ll refrain in the future.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Dean says fondly, squeezing his uninjured palm. He gently flips the other one over to inspect it again, and grins. “You know, now we’ve got matching cuts from being completely insane,” he points out, flipping his own palm to show off the pink, healing line from where he'd cut himself by mistake a few days ago in the kitchen, worried sick about his brother. And though Castiel can't say the two situations are completely the same, they're similar enough for him to see what Dean's getting at.

As inappropriate as it may be, Castiel bursts out laughing.

It takes a while for them to catch their breath, but when they do, they lie back down into the mess of pillows. Dean tucks himself against Castiel, who gently drops an arm over him, drawing him closer. 

They fall asleep like that, pressed together, and for the first time in a while Castiel feels in control. Like things might turn out okay after all. 

The next day, Castiel wakes to bright afternoon sunlight and his phone blinking at him, an unread message lighting up the display. Dean is still tucked against his side – they haven’t moved much during the night – and Castiel is extra careful not to jostle him when he reaches over to grab it.

package at the door 4 u when u finally wake up 

Blinking at the screen a few times until his brain wakes up enough to make sense of the words, he realizes it’s from Balthazar. And that alone makes him roll gently out of bed. Maybe it was something important. Something for Dean? He shoots Bal a quick thank you text and stands slowly.

Padding down the stairs quietly, he quickly goes to the front door to ease it open, careful not to let it squeak. At his feet is a jar, which he picks up and immediately drops again. 

It’s lube. A jar of literal personal lubricant.

He flushes deeply and snatches the jar up again, mortified that the neighbors might see him until he remembers that he has no neighbors by design. That his house is literally buried in the middle of nowhere. Still, he closes and locks the door behind him. Walks to the middle of his kitchen, holding the jar like an unpinned grenade, realizing he has nowhere to put it. Nowhere to hide it. 

Flustered, he turns back and forth searching for a place to put the stupid thing so he can call and demand an explanation – he settles on dropping it on top of the fridge, feeling vaguely as though he’s hiding treats from a cat. When he fumbles his phone out of his pocket, Bal has beat him to it. 

do u like ur gift???  ;)

He blushes all the harder, indignant, and types out, 

I hardly see how this is APPROPRIATE

what? a little extra lube never hurts. 

plus, sounded like u needed the help

Fuming and more than a little mortified, Castiel fires off a reply that is straight from Balthazar’s playbook. 

Fuck you, Bal.

no thx. not 2nite, im busy

plus winchester might b a lil peeved abt it

Castiel is on the verge of typing out an irritated reply, but before he does, the meaning of Bal’s seemingly teasing gesture starts to seep in. 

The man had gotten up in the dead of night. Had been prepared to rush over here to ensure that both he and Dean were okay. He’d gone to the store, most likely, and had purchased his little gift and brought it directly here. He hadn’t entered the house, hadn’t tried to rile either of them up. All in all, he’d been above considerate – he’d been generous. 

And the gift he’d chosen, while initially shocking and probably entirely inappropriate, was meaningful too. It is forgiveness and acceptance and permission for Castiel’s actions. Tangible proof - even if it's crass - that Balthazar does not hold his behavior against him. 

When he does pick up the phone to reply, it’s not with words of condemnation or frustration. Instead, he simply types out, 

Thank you.

And he leaves it at that.