56. Chapter 56

Dean falls asleep before Castiel does, his exhausted body dropping off into dreamland like a sandbag. It’s his even, deep breathing that lulls Castiel to sleep, but in the morning, it’s the spike in his temperature that wakes him up. 

Dean is on fire. 

Castiel startles awake when the omega twists in the sheets and makes a high, pleading noise in the back of his throat, his eyes screwed shut as he searches for relief. Heat is pouring off of him, his hair plastered to his neck, twin spots of red high on his cheeks. The sheets are soaked with sweat – and, Castiel realizes abruptly, with slick. 

This is different than it’s been before. Dean is not here. 

Castiel is full of adrenaline, full of the demanding need to soothe. Without thinking, he touches Dean’s cheek to wake him fully; the omega whines and flinches away. Castiel’s heart stutters in his chest, but before he can apologize, Dean presses right back into his hand. 

“Cas,” he says breathlessly into his palm, slurring the word. “Hot.”

Castiel swallows. Tries to keep his brain sharp and on track when Dean’s eyes slit open and latch onto him, his irises gold-ringed and glazed. His pupils are so wide and dark he can hardly see the color. And it is increasingly clear that Dean has only the vaguest idea of what’s happening and where he is. 

Right now, he smells like everything Castiel has ever wanted. Sweet and inviting, apple pie and vanilla ice cream and fundamentally omega, the scent of his slick and heat so thick that he can taste it. He’s hard as a rock. 

Luckily, Dean is far too out of it to notice this time. Castiel shakes his head to clear it and does his damndest to ignore the live current of want in him, running a thumb over Dean’s cheek instead, soothing him as best he’s able. 

Dean makes a high, plaintive noise at the contact and crowds closer, his shoulder and side pressing against Castiel’s body. He smooths the omega’s hair back, heart pounding, not sure what to do; Dean’s face twists into something desperate, and he whines again. “Hot.” 

Alarmed, Castiel pulls back a little. “Dean? Are you al–” 

“Hot, hot, hot.” Dean’s nearly sobbing at this point, the words tumbling out of his mouth with increasing panic. Hands fumbling and frantic, he grips Castiel’s shirt and pulls it up, untucking it from his pants in one sharp movement. 

Castiel is too stunned to respond, to push him back like he undoubtedly should – twin waves of want and fear are crashing into him from opposite sides, freezing him in place. Dean doesn’t pull it all the way off, lucky for them both. He simply plasters his palms against Castiel’s stomach, his touch as white hot as a brand. 

The omega ducks his head, tucks his body under Castiel’s chin and rubs against him, nearly cat-like, searching for something that Castiel doesn’t understand. “Please,” Dean mumbles, the word catching in his throat. “Please, please, alpha – please.” 

Castiel is frozen in place, afraid to touch. Afraid not to touch. He doesn’t know what Dean’s asking for, and he’s afraid he won’t be able to give it to him anyway – Dean certainly smells aroused, and if he’s asking Castiel to… to touch him in that way, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He can’t, and Dean knows that, but right now he doesn’t look particularly rational. 

Panic ticking up another dozen notches, Castiel does the only thing he can think to do. He calls Pam. 

“Good morning, Castiel,” she greets warmly. “How’s Dean?”

“He’s –” 

The words choke and die in his throat when Dean curls against him even more, pushing his hands farther up his shirt until it’s hiked up over his chest. He plants his palms against Castiel’s skin again, pressing, searching. Castiel clears his throat, licking his lips nervously. 

“He’s, uh. Something's not right,” he manages, explaining literally nothing.

“Is he disoriented?” she asks. She still sounds calm, so Castiel tries to dial back his panic. 

“Yes, very much so. He’s – um!?” 

The word goes high and then gets pinched off as Dean slumps down in his lap and lays his cheek on Castiel’s bare chest, his skin flushed and soft and perfect. “He’s– he’s a little more – a lot more interested in, uh, contact than before.” Dean nuzzles against his skin, a breathy sigh escaping him as he does, “And he feels hotter–” 

“He’s doing that because you feel cool,” Pam explains patiently. “Your body temperature has dropped some in response to his cycle, and he’s basically running a fever. So on top of him gaining comfort from your scent, he’s also enjoying some physical relief from his heat side effects.” 

The science of it is all well and good, but Castiel is concerned that if they don’t get this under control soon Dean is going to end up stripping them both completely naked, and he’s not prepared to handle that. “How do I–”

“A lukewarm bath will do,” Pamela interrupts, correctly guessing his request. “Run it, plop him down in it, keep him calm until he starts to come back. Don’t run the water cold, though,” she cautions. “It’ll be way too much of a shock to his system.” 

“Lukewarm. Not cold. Right,” he says dutifully. 

Unapologetically amused, Pam’s smile is audible over the line. “Good luck, kid. Keep your pants on, alright?” She pauses. “I actually meant that in a don’t panic kind of way, but I guess it still applies."

Castiel thinks he’d be a little more concerned about what she thought his intentions were if he wasn’t completely distracted by the way Dean’s still nosing into his bare chest. “Right. Of course.”

She hangs up with a snort. 

Castiel drops the phone to the side without a second glance, looking down at the flushed omega plastered against him. Dean’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing rather heavily. 

“Let’s get you cooled down,” he says softly. Dean doesn’t so much as twitch. Castiel’s not sure he’s heard a word. 

He doesn’t protest like he normally might have when Castiel picks him up. In fact, he doesn’t do anything at all except wrap his arms around the back of Castiel’s neck and bury his nose into the crook of his shoulder. A shudder runs through Castiel’s skin, something primal inside of him excited by the closeness of his omega, and there’s an answering shudder through Dean. 

When he finally stumbles into the bathroom, he gently sets Dean down in the tub, clothes and all. The omega protests with a sharp, panicked noise when he tries to pull away, his hands catching in Castiel’s shirt and holding on tight, eyes screwed shut and chest heaving. 

“It’s alright, Dean,” Castiel murmurs, running his hand up and down the man’s back to soothe him. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes some convincing to get Dean to let go of him, but he eventually does, his hands dropping down to the side of the tub for balance instead. Castiel flicks on the water, testing it with his hand until it feels room temperature, and then twists the stopper so that the tub can begin to fill. 

He’s not sure if Dean’s ever even used the bathtub before. He doesn’t think so – sitting naked and vulnerable in an open space for any length of time doesn’t sound like something the omega would enjoy. He hopes that his presence and the fact that he’s left Dean’s clothes firmly on will help with that anxiety. Right now, things seem okay – the man is reaching out to touch the spout with a glazed, confused air about him, no more scared than before.

While Dean is distracted, Castiel reaches up to the towel rack and pulls down the closest one, bundling it up and kneeling on it. He’s got no idea how long he’ll be here while Dean comes back to lucidity, but he certainly doesn’t plan on leaving. He figures he should make himself as comfortable as he can. 

When he looks up, Dean has curled in on himself, his knees drawn up to his chest. He’s blinking groggily, staring at the floor of the tub as though he doesn’t understand what he’s looking at or even where he is. Tentatively, hand shaking, he reaches down and touches the tips of his fingers to the water creeping up around him. His eyes widen. 

“M’not cold,” he slurs, and there’s panic in his voice. 

Castiel frowns, leaning over so he can examine Dean’s face properly. The omega looks spooked. His chest is moving a little faster. “Not cold. Don’t – don’t need it,” he mumbles, shaking his head ardently, and fear – acid sick and sharp – pierces the air. Abruptly, he tries to stand back up, the little water that has collected in the tub splashing up around him. 

Alarmed, Castiel grabs hold of his arm, slowly guiding him back down. Dean’s skin is trembling under his hand. “I know you aren’t cold, Dean. You’re hot. The bath is just to get your temperature back to normal for a while.” 

That explanation doesn’t seem to calm him down much. He twists away from Castiel’s grip weakly, shaking his head with his eyes pressed closed. “Please,” he whines softly. “Please, master, I’m sorry, so sorry, I can’t...” 

Castiel’s heart drops at the word. He swallows. There’s no way of knowing what’s going on inside Dean’s head right now, but it can’t be anything pleasant. Not with the way fear has rapidly begun to poison his scent completely. Selfishly, he hopes that Dean is seeing someone else right now, that even in this state he wouldn’t revert to calling Castiel his master – something he hasn’t done since his very first night here. 

Unsure of what else to do, he reaches out to cup Dean’s cheek in his hand, hoping it’ll help ground him. 

For an instant, Dean jerks away from his touch – but after a breath, he presses back into it just as he had before, turning his nose toward Castiel’s wrist and breathing in. He relaxes after a moment, shoulders falling, and no small amount of fear in the air dissipates. 

“Cas.” He blinks open his eyes, focusing sluggishly on Castiel’s face. “I’m… I don’t…” 

He struggles, searching for the words with his fever-addled brain. “M’head s’not right,” he finally settles on. “Where…” 

“Your temperature is very high,” Castiel explains slowly, careful not to move his hand – Dean is leaning most of his weight on it. “I think you’re hallucinating, to a small degree.” 

The omega blinks slowly enough that Castiel isn’t sure he actually caught any of that. “M’in the bath?” he asks, looking around himself as though he only just noticed. His hand strays up to his throat, fingers clumsily running along the bare skin. Castiel tries very hard not to think about what he’d been expecting to feel there. 

“Yes, you’re in the bath. I’m trying to get your temperature back down, and Pamela suggested this as a possible remedy,” he explains, patiently repeating himself. 

Dean’s brow furrows. “But… m’not cold,” he insists, repeating his words from earlier. They’re less panicked, this time – more confused.

“I know, Dean. The water is supposed to cool you down.” When Dean just blinks owlishly, staring at nothing, Castiel swallows. “I’m not sure it’s working, honestly.” 

Ignoring his whispered words of doubt, Dean sluggishly peers down at himself. Slowly, he reaches up and touches his shirt. “Got clothes on,” he observes blankly, and in any other situation it might strike Castiel as funny. But it does nothing but make him more concerned – he needs to call Pam and ask her if this is normal. 

Dean begins to move, and Castiel doesn’t understand what he’s doing until it’s already done. With no blush on his face – no sideways, mischievous glance in Castiel’s direction – he strips his shirt and his underwear off before Castiel can so much as blink. They hit the ground next to him with a wet slap. 

Castiel feels himself flush immediately. Dean is turned away from him, so it’s not like he can see much, but it’s certainly enough to get his heart pumping. “Um…” 

He breaks off before he can ask Dean to explain himself – there’s no point. He’s clearly not all there right now, and drawing attention to his actions probably won’t help anything. Already, Dean is curled up in the middle of the tub, his arms bracketing his head. His hands are joined together over the nape of his neck, the scars on his back stark and white. 

The sight of that old comfort position makes something twist inside of Castiel, and the distant novelty of seeing Dean’s pale, freckled skin is instantly forgotten. “Dean?”

“Sorry,” he croaks, hands tightening. What he’s apologizing for, Castiel has no idea. But he hates the scent of fear that’s growing like thorns in the room, hand in hand with the scent of shame.

Castiel swallows. He’d known that Dean might not want him to see this – that he might need privacy. He just hadn’t anticipated how difficult it would be to offer it. “Do you want me to go?”

Dean makes a sort of rough, strangled noise, pulled from high in his chest. He doesn’t say anything, but Castiel suspects he’s torn between what he wants and what he thinks he should want. And, all at once, he decides he isn’t going to let Dean deny himself the help that he so tentatively requested only a few short hours ago. 

“I’m staying,” he assures Dean, and he thinks he’s done the right thing, because the omega’s shoulders drop ever so slightly. But he isn’t soothed – he rocks forward, something like a breathless sob tearing out of him. 

“‘M pathetic,” he mumbles, head tucked low.  “Didn’t want you t’see me like this.” 

Castiel swallows around the shame in the air, his heart pounding with the wrongness of that. Dean can’t help that he’s been hurt. Can’t help who he is. 

In normal relationships, heats are supposed to be… if not fun, then something close. Proof that a person is healthy. And more than that, a reminder that they are loved and cared for. But for Dean, a heat means only insecurity and cruelty and fear. Castiel wants nothing more than to change that. 

“Come here.”

Castiel tries very hard not to let it scare him when Dean does, no hesitation. He scoots to where Castiel is kneeling, moving fast enough that the water sloshes around him and splashes over the side a little. His back is still to Castiel, his hands still curled over the nape of his neck, misery pouring off of him in waves. 

Castiel reminds himself that Dean wants him here – that he was brave enough to tell Castiel what he wanted. And he’ll be damned if he lets his own insecurities get in the way of taking care of Dean the way he asked to be taken care of, especially now. 

Hyper-aware of Dean’s nakedness, he takes a moment to provide him with some modesty. The capfuls of bubble bath he adds under the tap smell of lavender – apparently, it’s supposed to be soothing. Not that he thinks it will do much for this situation. What does manage to relax Castiel, at least a little, is the thick, foamy barrier that develops on the surface of the water. It means he can’t see anything he shouldn’t. Dean’s not concerned by his nakedness now, but there’s no doubt that he will be when he’s lucid. 

As he is now, Dean doesn’t react to the bubbles in the slightest. Essentially no different from a fever, the high temperature of his body has very clearly lessened his grip on reality. Castiel doesn’t know what he’s seeing. Who he’s seeing. 

Whatever it is, it’s clearly terrifying him. Nothing is more indicative of that than his protective grip around his nape – something he hasn’t done around Castiel for months – and his sudden and complete nudity in Castiel’s presence. He isn’t sure if Dean even realizes that he has no clothes on. 

Slowly, Castiel sets his hands on Dean’s shoulders. He doesn’t put any pressure on them, doesn’t force the omega’s hands away from his neck – he just rests there. Letting Dean know he’s not alone. “You are safe, Dean,” he rumbles. “No one will hurt you here. You’re safe.”

He continues to murmur reassurances until they begin to sink in. Sighing, long and low, Dean loosens his grip until his hands fall from his nape and circle his shins instead. He draws his legs close and lets his head loll forward, dropping it onto his knees. Castiel, for his part, doesn’t move or speak for a long time. He lets the water run until it’s just under Dean’s chest, and then turns off the tap.

For a while, the only sound is the soft popping of the bubbles, and Dean’s slightly hitching breaths. He’s trembling a little under Castiel’s touch, head bowed low. 

“You’re safe,” Castiel murmurs again. This time, Dean hears him. 

“I know,” he whispers. But he sounds miserable. 

“Are you back with me?” Dean nods. “Where were you before?”

Dean’s throat clicks as he swallows. “Hell,” he answers shortly, another shiver wracking through him. 

Castiel manages not to flinch at the word. “Were you…” 

“Don’t wanna talk about it, Cas.”

Castiel can only nod. “Alright. That’s okay, we don’t have to.” He pauses for a moment, waiting until Dean’s breathing evens back out a little. “Is the water... helping?” he checks. If it’s a trigger, they’ll need to find some other solution. Something to cool him down without putting him in a bad place.

But Dean just nods again, the movement slower this time. He’s still not fully lucid, clearly, his movements a little too jagged. The muscles in his back are tightly wound and knotted, and this close, Castiel can smell the lingering nerves and shame on Dean’s skin. The fear that clings to his sweat. They’re just as strong as the sweet, heady scent of his heat. 

He’s reminded all over again how stressful this is for Dean. How tense he still is all the time, even when he seems relaxed. And he doesn’t deserve that – he deserves to be calm. To feel safe. Castiel goes with his gut and tries his best.  

Dean makes a startled, pleased noise from deep in his chest when Castiel starts to massage his shoulders, tension slowly seeping away from the omega as he works. He rubs and soothes for a long time, till Dean is syrupy and liquid under his touch, his head tipped back to rest against Castiel’s chest. His eyes are hooded, his breathing even. 

“Would you like to wash up?” he asks, snagging a bottle of body wash and a washcloth from the side of the tub and holding them in front of him. Dean just looks at them blankly, his eyes distant and golden rimmed when Castiel leans forward to peer into them. He’s not sure where the urge comes from, only that it is strong, that it feels like the right thing to do. “I can help, if you’d like.” 

Instantly, Dean nods, his eyes slipping closed as though in relief; even still, he grips his legs a little tighter, lifts his head from Castiel’s chest minutely and puts a small but purposeful few inches of distance between them. 

Slowly, carefully, Castiel pours some of the body wash onto his hand, lathering it into the cloth. It’s the same brand he uses – hopefully it will smell familiar to Dean. Comforting. But the omega tenses when he touches the cloth to his back, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes flicker to his, still clouded but undoubtedly more awake and aware now that the water has cooled him down some. He looks… scared. Vulnerable, like a child who is waiting to be hit. It makes his heart hurt. 

Dean’s shoulders fall. “Sorry,” he says miserably, looking away. His words come out slow and stumbling. “I know you… I know you won’t. Um.” 

He closes his eyes. Presses his lips together. 

“Would it help if I...” Castiel hesitates, a little worried that he’s overstepping. But Dean’s words from the night before dance around in his mind. “Would you allow me to help you go down? You might be more comfortable with… all of this, really.” He doesn’t know what in particular is scaring Dean, but he can make a few educated guesses. He doesn’t like any of them.

Dean looks at him for a long moment, searching for something that Castiel doesn’t understand. Whatever it is, he must find it, because eventually his gaze softens. “Okay,” he whispers.

Castiel breathes out. “Thank you.” And even though he’s more vulnerable than he’s ever been, Dean manages to grace him with a shaky, reassuring smile. Still trying to take care of Castiel, even now. 

Slowly, he moves his touch from Dean’s shoulders to his nape, doing his best to make his movements predictable. He brushes his fingers over the sensitive spot to test the waters, and Dean shivers, a breathless noise pulled from him. He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he arches back. Leans into it. 

Emboldened, he allows his hand to rest fully on Dean’s neck. Dean sighs, eyes closing, and tips his head forward. When Castiel rubs his thumb along his skin, he slumps, tension draining out of him. And when he squeezes ever so gently, adding just a touch of pressure, the last of Dean’s fear drains from the air too. 

His head is warm and heavy when he rests his head on Castiel’s chest, and before long, his arms drop from his knees. He’s boneless. Entirely dependent on Castiel for support. 

Careful to continue the even strokes of his thumb along the omega’s nape as he does so, Castiel hooks his chin over Dean’s shoulder and slowly dips the washcloth in and out of the water. He works methodically to smooth away fear, and hurt, and shame. Dean doesn’t so much as twitch when Castiel runs the cloth over his chest, along his collarbone, under his ears. He just sighs and tips his head back further, allowing Castiel unfettered access to his throat. It’s a gesture of absolute trust, and Castiel knows it. And when he brushes the cloth over that, too, there’s not even a hint of fear in Dean’s scent. 

“Thank you,” he can’t help but whisper. Dean just makes a low, content noise in response, eyes closed. 

He runs the cloth over Dean’s short hair as well, washing away the sweat there as best he can, and abruptly he realizes that Dean is purring while he does it. He allows himself a grin at the strange, rumbling noise of contentment. He’s never heard it in person before, though he’d known it was possible. It makes something in him glow with pride – he’s the one who’s making Dean do that. He’s the one that’s put a small smile on the omega’s face. 

He catches a bead of water that’s dripping down Dean’s face and wipes it away, and Dean’s purring increases all the more. 

Eventually, Castiel has done all he can safely do. For a while, he just rests, slowly moving his thumb up and down Dean’s nape. They both need a moment, he thinks. Dean seems quite happy to stay right where he is – he turns his head slightly and presses his cheek to Castiel’s chest, nosing against the damp fabric. He might even fall asleep – Castiel can’t really tell. 

When his knees begin to ache enough that he can no longer ignore it, Castiel regretfully shifts in place, jostling Dean a little. He makes a small noise of protest, but Castiel checks just to be sure. “Are you awake?”

Dean hums, the noise distant and dreamy. Castiel smiles. He presses the cloth into Dean’s hand. 

“Wash the rest,” he rumbles softly, his hand still in place on Dean’s neck. Dean stares at the cloth blankly, but Castiel doesn’t really want to clarify. “Dean,” he prompts, letting the barest trickle of alpha into his tone. “Wash the rest.”

Dean’s eyes flick to his for the first time since going down, and Castiel’s heart jackrabbits at the sight. They are almost entirely gold, only the tiniest sliver of green still visible around his pupils. But his gaze is not blank as he looks up at Castiel – instead, there is a kind of vulnerable tenderness that makes his heart twist in his chest. 

Movements a little clumsy, Dean finds Castiel’s hand and pushes the cloth back into it insistently. “Trust you, Cas,” he mumbles, eyes locked onto his, and Castiel has to swallow at the sudden surge of emotion the gesture elicits. There is a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness inside of him, born from a savage sort of love that threatens to break him in half. It feels good. It feels right. 

“I know,” he manages, when the lump in his throat goes away. He folds Dean’s fingers around the cloth carefully, looking down at his hand for a moment while he finds the words. “So believe me when I say that it is better if you do that.” 

Dean snorts out a soft laugh, but he takes the cloth willingly enough. “‘Kay, alpha.” 

Castiel closes his eyes as the omega gets to work, burying his nose in Dean’s wet, clean hair to distract himself. The scent of his fear is long gone, and Castiel is grateful for that. But that also means that the only remaining scents are content, pleased omega, the scent of Dean, and the scent of heat. It quickly makes something hot and hungry coil inside of him. He ignores it as best he can. 

It gets a little harder to ignore when Dean shifts and cups his hand around the back of Castiel’s neck – the gesture is so intimate and trusting and soft that it almost hurts. 

When Dean finishes and falls still, Castiel takes the offered cloth from his hand and hangs it over the faucet. “Good job, Dean,” he murmurs. The omega basks under the praise, smiling up at him with dreamy joy, and Castiel’s not sure his heart has ever felt more full. 

He’s unwilling to leave just yet, even if his knees are killing him. Even if the desire pooling in his gut is becoming a little more insistent. Castiel can control himself. He knows he can. He’s proved he can. So he relaxes and enjoys himself, takes a moment to luxuriate in the calm he’s helped to create, listening to the gentle sounds of slowly popping bubbles and Dean’s soft, even breathing. 

It is a long time before he pulls Dean’s hand from his neck, squeezes it, and rises to his feet. “I’m going to get you some fresh clothes,” he says softly, his own hand still in place on the omega’s nape. “Will you be alright by yourself for a moment?”

Dean nods, so with one last soothing stroke he steps away. The omega blinks a few times as he starts to come back to himself, but Castiel doesn’t stick around for long. He hurries out the door, intent on not being gone for more than a few minutes while he finds something suitable for Dean to wear. 

Dean listens as Cas’s steps fade, awareness slowly creeping back into him. 

He doesn’t feel like he’s on fire anymore, so that’s an improvement. The water around him is cool in comparison to his skin, soothing and exactly right. He sinks down into it a little further, enjoying the sensation. 

There’s something foamy on top of the water. Bubbles. There are bubbles in the bath, and for some reason that makes him laugh. When he sits back up a little to look at them, they slide down his body, clinging to his chest and his ribs. He doesn’t remember there being bubbles. Slowly, his movements almost trance-like, he sweeps a handful of them up and studies the pile of foam in his palm. 

He feels high. He doesn’t mind. Cas was here a second ago, and he’s pretty damn sure the alpha is why he feels like this, though he’s fuzzy on the details. He yawns, stretching his arms above his head, and the movement makes the water in the tub slosh around. 

It’s abrupt, when he realizes it. 

He’s naked. 

Instinctively, he freezes, heart pounding for a moment as he tries to figure out why exactly he has no clothes on. After a terrifyingly blank few seconds, it comes rushing back; the cloudy memory of stripping without a care when Cas had dropped him in the tub. Shit. Why the fuck had he done that?

He can see his shirt and his boxers in a wet pile a few feet away from the bath when he cranes his neck around. His cheeks flush. God, he hadn’t even realized what he was doing at the time. He’d been so fucking hot that finding relief – any sort of relief – was all he could think about. And something inside of him had been screaming that he wasn’t supposed to be wearing anything, that it wasn’t allowed– 

He looks around at the tub, and connects the dots. Remembers why, exactly, he’d been so afraid. He’d been… he hadn’t been here. Not really. He’d been remembering the last time he’d been dunked in a bath. 

Alastair’s cruel hand on his collar, holding him down in liquid fire after he’d spent the night nearly freezing to death in the shed… that’s a sensation he’s never going to forget. Logically, he knows that the water can’t have been as hot as he remembers – it would have killed him, if it had been, because he’d probably been verging on hypothermia by the time his master had dragged him inside. But God, he remembers the pain. Remembers a thousand needles in his skin as feeling returned to his body, remembers thrashing in the water and crying and begging to be let up. 

Alastair had been keeping him alive – he’d known it, even back then. He just hadn’t cared. 

He feels disgust twist inside for a moment. Feels himself curl a little tighter, embarrassment and shame burning through him. Cas had to deal with that, he thinks. Cas had to watch him freak out over being in a bath. Dean is so tired of this. Tired of his body and his fucked up brain constantly comparing Cas to Alastair, when they are worlds and worlds apart. But he just can’t seem to fucking help himself.  

Thing is, he’s not scared now. With his head screwed on straight, there’s not an ounce of fear in him. And it’s because he trusts Cas, even when he’s vulnerable like this. Trusts him not to take advantage, trusts him to… to pour bubble bath into cold water to preserve Dean’s modesty. To not touch, even when Dean had told him he could... and God. He really had. He’d basically asked him to. 

A little laughter pops out of him at the same time that a few tears do, and he scrubs at his face with cool water before standing unsteadily. Bubbles slide down his sides and his ass and he laughs again as he pulls the drain on the tub and stumbles to the shower to rinse off the remaining suds, his legs unsteady and his head too light. He’s just wrapping a towel around himself when Cas opens the door. 

The alpha takes him in with something like relief on his face. He’s probably glad to see him lucid. “Hello, Dean,” he greets, a little sheepish. 

“Hey, Cas,” he says, kinda stupidly shy considering he’d been buck-ass naked in front of the dude just a few minutes ago. Cas seems to be thinking along the same lines, because his eyes flick to the wet pile of clothes on the floor and twin spots of red appear high on his cheeks. 

“I… just so you know, I didn’t– ” he starts, but Dean shakes his head. 

“Sorry for the birthday suit,” he says, a half-cocked smile on his face, and Cas huffs out a little laugh. 

“I’ll admit it… surprised me, but I assure you I didn’t see anything.”

“I know.” Cas’s surprised gratitude at that statement is bright and clear – he flicks his eyes up at Dean with his brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t,” Dean adds, and he believes it, and he can tell just how much that puts Cas’s mind at ease because he lets out a long, slow breath. 

Tentatively, the alpha holds out a familiar shirt and pair of boxers. “Are you, um. Still wanting to wear my clothes?”

Dean snorts. He’s got Cas sleeping in his bed, and the man still wonders if Dean wants to steal his shirts. Instead of answering, he holds his hand out and gestures for the bundle impatiently. A flicker of a smile appears on the corners of Cas’s mouth as Dean drops his towel to his waist and wriggles into the shirt, the fabric sticking to his skin a little. “I’ll take that as a yes.” 

“He’s a genius, y’all,” Dean teases when Cas turns around so he can slip on the underwear, too.

He’s already a little too warm in his clothes, but to his immense relief he doesn’t feel any more slick than usual. The bath really did help, it seems – and more than that, Cas helped. 

Once he’s fully clothed, he clears his throat, and Cas turns back around. Dean can see tense little lines around the alpha’s eyes, can sense his worry. 

“You did good, Cas,” he says, abruptly realizing that the alpha needs reassurance. He still isn’t used to that, but at this point, he should be. Cas wants to do a good job. Wants to keep him safe. The least Dean can do is show him that he is.  

Sure enough, Cas breathes out a sigh of relief, his eyes closing for a moment. “I’m... glad. I, um. I was worried that… well. I know we talked about you going down before, but...”

Dean steps forward, wraps his arms around the alpha and leans his head on Cas’s shoulder. He smells good. Like comfort. Dean doesn’t let himself get caught up in his usual overthinking bullshit, for once, and instead just tells himself it’s okay to enjoy this. Tells himself that Cas needs to hear what he’s about to say, his own embarrassment at wanting the alpha’s help in the first place be damned. 

“Seriously,” he adds, face burning. He hides it in Cas’s shirt so he can’t see. “You did really good, okay? You always do.” 

This close, he can hear the alpha swallow. “Do I?”

“Course,” he insists, pressing in a little tighter. “You make me feel safe.”

Cas hesitates. “Earlier, you…” 

“I wasn’t – my brain was all fucked up,” Dean says eloquently, shrugging. “Wasn’t you I was scared of.” 

“I suspected as much,” Cas admits. He sounds a little relieved, though the sympathy in his tone outweighs that. “Still. Thank you for telling me.” 

Dean shrugs again. He takes a deep breath, and gives himself a firm kick in the ass. “Y’took good care of me,” he mumbles, cheeks burning. 

The alpha’s arms tighten around him. “I – thank you,” Cas stumbles out, sounding about as overwhelmed as Dean feels. Those seem to have been the magic words, because his scent is going all soft around the edges, sweetening like honeysuckle in the spring. 

By the time Charlie texts him, Sam is already having a profoundly shitty day. 

Gritting his teeth, he shifts on the uncomfortable plastic chair and digs his phone out of his back pocket when it vibrates and chimes. It goes off about a dozen more times, rapid-fire, and an old woman two seats down from him glares at him. He returns her dirty look with interest, and unlocks his phone. 

FIRST of all 

You lying little sneak, Sam Winchester 

I’m so pissed at you

Guess who called me just now, wondering if I knew anything about why you might have DRIVEN AWAY IN A CAR I DIDN’T KNOW EXISTED?

Sam takes a moment. He stares up at the yellowing ceiling tiles and calls on a God he only sort of believes in for patience. He’d known this was going to come up sooner or later, so he really can’t be mad about it – and he did lie to her. She’s got a right to be pissed. 

He blows a long, slow breath of air out of his mouth and then looks back down at his phone. 

Second of all 

I folded like a rickety lawn chair 

I’m so sorry 

Your uncle scares the bejeezus out of me

Sam bolts upright, his heart pounding. A frantic glance at the clock above the counter tells him it’s already noon… He groans quietly to himself, slumping back in his seat. He really thought he’d have more time to come up with a good excuse for his impromptu cross-country journey. 

I didn’t tell him about the Morningstar shit 

He knows the rest...

Please don’t hate me

But if you do, see point one 

Sam clicks off his phone and presses the corner of it to his forehead, biting his cheek to keep from cursing out loud. He’s trying to decide whether it’ll be better to bite the bullet and call Bobby, or wait for the inevitable, when the phone starts to ring loudly in his hand. 

He lets it ring once. Twice. Three times. The look the old lady is giving him, at this point, is bordering on homicidal. 

Gritting his teeth, he yanks himself out of the stupid squeaky chair and pushes open the grimy glass door, breathing in and relishing the fact that he’s at least getting a little fresh air, even if it is mixed in with motor oil. His phone continues to ring steadily in his hand, and after a brief moment in which he contemplates throwing it down a storm drain, he decides he does, in fact, have to pick up. 

He can’t not. Dodging calls is something he hasn’t done since his junior year of high school, when he’d turned off his phone to go to some stupid party. When he’d dragged himself in the door the next morning, Bobby had been so angry with him that he’d refused to speak to him at all. It had been infinitely worse than taking inventory on car parts, which was his usual punishment for actin’ a fool. 

It’d taken all of half a day for Sam to figure out that his uncle’s anger had evolved straight from fear. 

So, no. Sam doesn’t like to disappear on him. Bobby’s already lost one kid – he doesn’t need to be scared he’ll lose Sam, too. 

Guilt nipping at him already, he answers the phone. “... Hey, Bobby…”

“Give me one good reason not to call in some favors and put a state trooper on your ass,” his uncle growls. “One.”  

Sam winces, kicking at a pebble on the cracked sidewalk. “Listen… I know.” 

“No, you don’t know,” Bobby snaps. “Runnin’ off in the middle of the night like some kind of two-bit super spy, not even botherin’ to tell me where you’re going? Drivin’ that monstrosity, which, by the way, hasn’t gone farther than a few miles in about half a decade?” 

Sam closes his eyes. “Bobby…”

“Don’t you Bobby me, boy,” he growls. “You’re a damn fool for this. Why didn’t you just say something? Flyin’ outta here like a bat outta hell–”

“Bobby,” Sam repeats. Clearly still fuming, his uncle nevertheless cuts himself off. The silence is tense. “Charlie told you. I have to try.” 

“You didn’t have to do it alone, Sam,” Bobby hisses, and Sam can’t help the way his throat tightens. “I get it. You can’t let it go till you see for yourself, no matter how far fetched the shit is. You’ve always been like that, and I can’t rightly blame you. But god dammit, boy,” he curses, and Sam hears what he’s pretty sure is a fist thumping heavily on a table. 

There’s silence, for a while – he just listens to Bobby breathe for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is much quieter. “You’re settin’ yourself up for hurt, kid.”

Sam bites his lip. “You don’t know,” he protests, feeling small, tall as he is. “It’s… it really could be him.” 

“Son…” 

Bobby sighs. There’s no small degree of regret in his voice. “It’s been over a decade.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but the implications are clear. Sam knows what the statistics are. Knows how unlikely it is that Dean is even…

“I can’t think like that,” he grits out. “I can’t give up on him!” 

“You think I don’t want to find him?” Bobby demands, his own voice wavering. “You think I don’t wake up every day and wish he’d never gone? I want him back too!” he shouts. “But at some point, you’ve gotta live your life. You can’t keep chasing ghosts!” 

Blinking back tears, Sam stands in the derelict parking lot with his fist shaking at his side. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you.”

Bobby lets him stew for a minute or so, waiting till Sam can breathe again without feeling like there’s something stuck in his throat. “I’m just… I’m tired of watching you kill yourself over this, Sam.” 

“I don’t know how to do anything else.” 

For a while, he watches the cars pass by on the narrow little country highway. Probably folks on their way home from one of the three churches he passed when he limped into this town. So many people, just going on living. 

When Sam was a kid, he’d thought that the world would just stop without Dean in it. He’s sometimes still shocked that it hasn’t. 

Bobby sounds a lot calmer when he finally breaks the silence. “How far’d you make it before the old gal broke down?”

Sam laughs wetly, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. He glances up at the dilapidated yellow sign above the shop door. North Lawrence Repairs. Weird coincidence. “Ain’t even outta South Dakota. Broke down in some little podunk town near the border.” 

Bobby snorts, but the sound isn’t unkind. “She’ll need one hell of an oil change. And who knows what else.”

“Mechanic said there was something wrong with the transmission, too.” 

“‘Course,” Bobby agrees. “Coulda told you that.”

“He said it’d be at least a day,” Sam adds. “Maybe longer.”

“What’s the over-under on there bein’ a motel within ten square miles?”

“Not… spectacular odds,” he admits, though he’s holding out hope. Bobby sighs. He doesn’t chastise Sam any more, which he’s grateful for. “I know you think I’m being stupid.”

“Stupid ain’t it,” Bobby disagrees, and while his tone is a little gruff, Sam can see right through it. “More… tragically optimistic.” 

He swallows. “I’m gonna go, Bobby.” 

“I know you are.” 

“You pissed at me?”

Bobby makes a half exasperated, half irritated noise. Sam can just see him throwing his hands up. “I wanna be.” He’s silent for a half second. “The other half’a me wants to be there with you.” 

Sam swallows the pang of guilt he feels at that. He’s gotten Bobby’s hopes up so many times. “You gotta hold down the fort, old man,” he jokes, his voice a little tight. “What if we need a safe-house?”

“You better just drive in the opposite direction,” he snipes back, though they both know he doesn’t mean it. “You got enough money to pay for that old hunk of junk? Not to mention the rest of your impromptu vacation.”

Sam laughs. “I sure hope so. Think I do.” He taps his wallet in his back pocket with one hand, thinking about the pitiful numbers in his bank account. “Guess we’ll see.” 

Bobby snorts. “You got enough,” he decides, and Sam’s smart enough to know not to argue with that. He wonders how much of Bobby’s crummy retirement fund is about to be transferred into Sam’s checking. 

“Thanks,” he manages. His voice cracks. 

“You keep me updated, boy,” Bobby says, vaguely threatening. “And don’t go and do something stupid. I mean it. If he…” He sighs. “If he is there, we’ll find some way to work it out legally. You don’t need the cops on your tail.” 

“Of course,” he agrees. They both know he’s full of shit, but there’s no point in harping on it. 

“Be careful, Sam,” Bobby warns. He sounds old, all of a sudden. Older than his years. “Please. I can’t…” 

“I know. I will be.” 

Dean is still stable by the time dinner rolls around, and Castiel couldn’t be happier about it. 

Like yesterday, the majority of today has been spent curled up together in Dean’s nest. Castiel had brought up a stack of books, and then, upon reflection, had wrangled the television up the stairs as well. Dean had watched him arrange things on the dresser with an amused sparkle in his eyes. 

“Gettin’ bored of watching me sleep?” he’d asked, yawning. “Guess I’m not bein’ real entertaining.” 

Castiel had just rolled his eyes. “We’ve got about two more days of this, according to Pamela. I figured that it would make sense to make some arrangements.” 

“Well, arrange yourself over here,” Dean had grumbled good naturedly, jerking back the covers with one hand. “You’re like a walking icepack, and I’m hot.” 

“You’re in heat.” 

“Shuddup.” 

They’d watched the movies together, Dean excitedly picking out a few of his favorites. He’d begun all three with the same degree of enthusiasm, but had managed to drift off less than half an hour in each time. Castiel hadn’t particularly minded. He’d just let the movie play on, a nice lull of background noise to distract him from his thoughts as he smoothed Dean’s hair back from his face, the omega’s head pillowed comfortably in his lap. 

After the last film, he’d roused Dean and finally convinced him he needed to eat a real meal and not just protein bars and shakes. Dean had grumbled his assent, only half awake, and Castiel had squeezed his hand before darting downstairs for dinner. 

Castiel nudges open the door with his foot, two plates of warm food in his hands. The omega has his back to the door, arranging things on the mattress with little twitches and jerks. 

“What’s missing?”

Dean looks over his shoulder briefly, a frown of concentration on his face. “Dunno. Something feels off.”

“More blankets?” Castiel settles onto the ground next to the mattress, setting Dean’s plate down next to him on the bed gently. 

“Maybe.”

“Pillows?”

Dean finally seems to realize that his food has arrived. He snaps out of his concentrated focus on his nest, a small grin springing to his face. “I’m being crazy,” he announces as he picks up his plate. 

“Not at all. Your Body and You states that –” 

“Cas, please,” Dean chokes, waving him into silence. “Please don’t quote that book to me.”

Castiel frowns. “But–”

“No buts,” Dean says firmly, shoving a too-large bite of food into his mouth and mumbling around it. “Don’t wanna hear it.” 

Castiel hesitates for a moment, but he’s smart enough to know he should relent. “Alright.” 

Dean isn’t ready to talk about his instincts, and Castiel can’t exactly blame him. He’s spent more than enough time trying to ignore his own. At his acquiescence, Dean relaxes, shooting him a grateful look as he scarfs down his dinner. The scent of his contentment – his happiness – fills the air as they dine in companionable quiet.

Castiel shifts uncomfortably, all too aware of one particular instinct that curls at the base of his spine and barks for attention what feels like once every couple of minutes. One that is doing so right now, probably in response to the feeling that he has sufficiently provided for his omega – or at least, what his body considers to be his omega. 

Most of the time, he’s able to shove that desire to the side and ignore it. He’s done it a dozen times today alone. But this time, as though he can sense it, Dean locks his eyes onto Castiel’s own. He probably can sense it, come to think of it. He can’t be sure, of course, but he thinks they’ve only pushed off the inevitable with what they did this morning, temporarily satisfying some instinctual itch that will only continue to grow worse with the passage of time. 

Sure enough, he can smell something sweet and heady coming from Dean’s general direction, now – something like vanilla and cinnamon baked apples. And there’s something a little sharper, too, though no less enticing. 

Dean’s eyes are golden and focused solely on his, something undeniably hungry in his expression. And Castiel instantly feels himself responding in kind to that hunger, something gnawing at him to get up, to touch, to take. 

He does get up. But it’s so he can back away. 

“Dean,” he warns, somewhat strained. “I… I may need a moment.”

The spell breaks, at least for a moment. Dean draws in a deep lungful of air, and lets it out in one harsh breath through his nose, shaking his head as he does so. “Come on,” he complains, closing his eyes. Castiel thinks the words are directed at himself. “Not this shit again.” 

“Two more days,” Castiel reminds him, trying to sound encouraging. He’s not sure if that’s more for Dean’s benefit, or for his own. “Only two.” 

Dean dramatically flops himself onto his back, groaning. “I’m just tryin’ to get through this one,” he gripes. 

“It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who’s running hot enough to bake a goddamn cake.”

It isn’t easy for Castiel, of course, but he understands the point Dean’s trying to make. Castiel feels pressure, yes. Feels desire. But he doesn’t feel the same all-consuming need that Dean does. And, if he wanted to escape, he could do so with relative ease – he’d just have to separate himself from Dean’s scent again. 

Dean drops his arm over his eyes. His face has begun to flush bright red. “If I could just… just stop being all needy and–” 

“Stop that,” Castiel chastises, soft but firm. 

The omega blushes harder, his lips pressing together. “Sorry,” he mutters, hitching his blanket higher so that it’s covering more of him. “I just meant that I didn’t mean to… I mean, I know you don’t want…” 

Castiel growls. “I do,” he corrects, somewhat more bluntly than he was intending – it certainly gets Dean’s attention. The omega’s eyes snap back to him, round and wide. “That’s sort of the problem.” 

Dean flushes even redder than before, and Castiel can’t miss the tell-tale squirm of his hips, or the slight pant of Castiel’s scent he takes in. But he still looks miserable, ashamed, and whatever wild animal that’s producing the ever present want inside of Castiel is also snarling at him to fix. That thing becomes especially loud and demanding when Dean closes his eyes and groans softly.

He steps closer before he can think better of it, only a few short strides before he’s at Dean’s side. The omega arches into his touch instantly, his skin hot, and Castiel is smoothing his hand down his cheek and palming his collarbone before he knows what he’s doing. Dean leans into it, eyes still closed, and takes in several short breaths. 

This is not what Castiel intended. But it’s too late now. He’s still not used to how reactive Dean is to him – how much the omega’s desires influence, and reflect, his own. It’s a cycle, an echo chamber, and it only takes one of them to get it going. 

“Cas,” Dean breathes, his eyes hooded low, his lips wet, his skin damp and shining. He looks up and Castiel’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of golden and green eyes, so uniquely Dean that it makes his chest ache with want. They’re unfocused, hazy; Dean is starting to slip away again. 

“What do you need, Dean?” he asks, voice low. He would fight heaven and earth to find it, to ease the tension in the omega’s shoulders. “What can I do?”

“I– I, ” Dean whines, rolling his hips forward beneath him. A fresh wave of Dean heat slick fills the air until Castiel has to stifle a groan in return. “I need,” he pleads; an unspoken, hopeless blank at the end of that sentence. They both know what he needs, and they both know that Castiel cannot give it to him. Not now, not under these circumstances, where the line of his consent is blurred in more ways than one.

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I know.” 

Dean hitches in a breath, rocking forward and back, forward and back. Minute motions. He puts one hand on Castiel’s wrist and squeezes. 

“Gotta go, Cas,” he murmurs, eyes still hooded. “Gotta… the shower. Please. Can I.” 

His sentences are short, not really making much sense, but Castiel can put two and two together. Dean needs some sort of relief, and if he can’t get it from Castiel he’s going to have to do the best he can by himself. 

“Come on,” he says softly. “I’ll carry you.”

Dean whimpers quietly when Castiel picks him up, and from this angle nothing is left to the imagination. His boxers are soaked through in the back, tented at the front, and Castiel feels a pang of sympathy for the pure desperation Dean must be feeling right now. Castiel himself has certainly been left wanting, but it is not the primal, unstoppable urge that Dean is experiencing. Nothing so… violating. 

He carries Dean to the bathroom, the omega’s arms looped around his neck and his nose pressed to the juncture between his shoulder and his throat. Every step he takes sends a jolt through Dean, and he whimpers, pressing closer, squirming, searching for some kind of relief.

“Can you stand?” he murmurs, when they reach the bathroom. Dean nods, a jerky movement, and Castiel sets him down on the cool tile, a steadying hand on his back to keep him from crumpling. 

“Will you be okay by yourself?” he asks, worry tightening his chest. Dean still doesn’t look all there – his eyes are glassy, arms shaking, and he’s looking up at Castiel with unshielded, naked want. And Castiel wants to stay. He really does. But he’s got a feeling that going down again is not, in fact, what Dean needs. 

Sure enough, Dean nods. 

“Alright.” Castiel can’t help but place his hand back on Dean’s cheek for a moment, thumb stroking him gently. Dean sighs and presses into it with a telling tremble. “I’ll be… I’ll be downstairs.”

Probably in the shower as well, he doesn’t say. Getting his own form of relief. The insistent desire coiling inside of him is not interested in being denied again. “‘Kay,” Dean mumbles, swallowing thickly. 

And, despite the fact that he’d much rather stay, Castiel pulls away. 

Dean is burning. 

His body is hot. Aching. Empty. He wants, like a starving man lost at sea. 

As soon as Cas is gone, he strips. Fumbles his way out of his already dampened clothes, hands shaking, a whine building in the back of his throat the farther his alpha gets. He wants Cas to be here. Cas should be here. He knows, somewhere deep inside, that there’s a damn good reason he isn’t, but he can’t remember the specifics and isn’t real motivated to try. 

He knocks the shower on, not giving a damn what temperature it is. The water feels downright frigid against him, and he gasps, panting as it trickles down his body. His legs feel like jelly, so he slides down against the cool tile, his knees up in front of him. 

This time, there’s no debating. No going back and forth in his head as to whether or not this is right, whether or not he’s allowed. He’s got his cock in his hand in a heartbeat, desperate for relief from the heat and the want. With another whine, he pumps furiously, the pressure and friction almost unbearable until it isn’t. He comes in less than a friggin’ minute. 

There’s no relief. 

It sends a sharp spike of panic through him, because he’d expected relief. He’d thought that the buzzing in his mind would simmer down, like it had the first time he did this. But, if anything, he’s more frustrated afterwards. 

It wasn’t what his body wanted. 

What his body does want happens literal seconds later, because Dean is too desperate for anything else. 

The first finger that he slips inside feels like a rush of cool air across his whole body, the AC in the Impala after a hot summer day. He shivers, pants, presses his way further in. He’s slick, primed, ready to go. Ready to be knotted, really, but all Dean has right now are his fingers, and they’ll have to do. 

He’s added a second before the panic manages to catch up with him. His chest constricts. Vision swims. He immediately, desperately, wants nothing to be touching him – yet he also desperately needs to have something inside. He’ll burn unless he has something inside. So he freezes in place, stuck where he is, his brain torn between desire and fear. 

Desire wins. 

He finds himself rocking down, finds himself twisting his fingers until he can find that spot inside of himself. When he does, he presses against it, fucking in and out of himself as his body screams for relief. He nearly sobs with every touch, chest heaving, writhing, his feet kicking out and searching for purchase. He needs – he – 

The third finger feels right. It feels right, and he cries out as his gut tightens even more, unbearable pressure and pleasure that’s so good it’s painful. He rocks his hand in and out, in and out, and imagines that he’s not alone. Imagines that it’s Cas sitting here with him. Cas who’s fucking him with his fingers, careful and sure, finding the sweet spot inside of Dean with unerring accuracy until he’s slick and ready. Imagines him lining himself up, that slow press of his length into Dean, dragging back and forth – 

He comes, Cas’s name on his lips like a prayer. 

It’s a while before things start making sense again. Before he can feel the water still raining down on his skin, before he can shakily try and get his legs back under him. It takes a few different attempts. 

Vision swimming, he stumbles out of the shower, searching for… something. For alpha. He wants alpha. 

He just barely registers that he’s naked before he walks out the door – he manages to slip on a pair of clean underwear when he finds them miraculously folded on the counter in the bathroom. Cas must have put them there. He’s so glad, so glad, because he’d probably been about to streak to wherever the alpha is. 

His nose wants to lead him in the right direction, and he lets it. There’s a blank spot or two, here and there – he doesn’t remember how he manages the stairs. Doesn’t remember spotting Cas sitting on the couch, shakily drinking a cup of tea, his hair wet from his own shower. What he does remember is sinking to his knees in front of the alpha, his legs no longer able to hold him up. 

Cas leans forward and catches him before he even makes it to the ground, because of course he does, and Dean finds himself hauled up on the couch and into his arms. And he can’t complain about that.