57. Chapter 57

The next couple of days begin to blend together, in some ways. 

From the evening where Castiel found himself with a lap full of a very tired, very disoriented, very shirtless omega, to now, Dean has not really regained much lucidity. He mostly sleeps, which Castiel is thankful for, mostly for Dean’s sake; the moments where he isn’t sleeping tend to be, as a general rule, uncomfortable for him. 

When he’s not out cold, he seems to be happy sticking to Castiel’s side like a barnacle on a ship – and decidedly unhappy when he isn’t. Castiel is not exactly upset by this, considering how comfortable he feels at Dean’s side. The warm, content satisfaction he gets every time the omega nuzzles into him or holds him has not faded in the slightest – if anything, he’s worried that he’s going to have a difficult time adjusting back to how they were before Dean’s pre-heat began when this is all over. He’s not unaware of what that probably says about him. 

But, as much as Castiel doesn’t particularly mind the predicament, it does make it a little harder, logistically, for him to keep them both full and hydrated. The omega is not a fan of the times that Castiel needs to leave him alone; the scent and sounds of his distress make that loud and clear. 

Around noon of the fourth day, just as a thunderstorm had started to roll in, Balthazar had texted him to warn him that Kevin was on his way to their home. Castiel had called him immediately.

“Why,” he’d gritted out, “would you send him here.” 

Balthazar had laughed. “Pamela and I are both busy, Cassie, and I know you’re probably running short on things to feed the kid at this point. Tran is just coming as an errand boy, no need to get huffy about it.” 

“I do not want anyone here right now,” Castiel had half growled, in spite of himself – he’d been inexplicably frustrated, a mixture of embarrassed and protective. The thought of anyone seeing him or Dean in this state had him agitated.

“Too bad,” Bal had said simply – Castiel had been able to hear his grin. “If it’s any consolation, Kevin just about pissed himself when I told him where I was sending him. He’s terrified of you in a way that I find refreshing, frankly, considering you keep endearing yourself to the staff like a stray kitten.” 

Castiel had pressed his lips together, trying to calm himself and not rise to Balthazar’s obvious bait. “It’s difficult for me to… extract myself from the nest, at this point,” he’d explained gruffly, his cheeks flushing red with embarrassment when his friend had chuckled. 

“I let him borrow my spare key – told him to just come upstairs and–”

“You did what? ” he’d asked sharply – it was only after Balthazar had burst out laughing that Castiel realized he’d been trying to get him riled up. 

“I’m only joking,” he’d reassured him, between snorts of laughter. “You’ll just have to pull yourself away for a moment to answer the door, mate. It won’t kill either one of you, I swear. Might be good for you, actually – the distance of a singular floor for two whole minutes makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. I think that’s how the saying goes.” 

Castiel had hung up with a huff, and half an hour later he’d received a second text from Bal, informing him that Kevin was too afraid to knock on the door. Nostrils flaring in irritation, Castiel had carefully unwound Dean’s arms from his torso and smoothed his hair down soothingly when he’d protested, whispering that he’d be right back. Dean had whined when he’d moved away, and it had taken everything inside of Castiel not to abandon Kevin to the elements, politeness be damned. 

When he’d opened the door to retrieve the groceries, Kevin had quite literally stumbled backward in alarm, nearly stepping back into the rain. His hair had been soaking wet. “Oh– Hi! I mean – Greetings! I mean, hello, Mr. Novak– I mean, uh, shit. I mean – how’s it going–”

Castiel, feeling the pull of his omega with ever increasing intensity, had not so much smiled as he had bared his teeth in an unpleasant approximation of a smile. “As much as I’d like to exchange pleasantries, Mr. Tran, I have other duties to attend to.” 

Kevin’s eyes had widened nearly comically. He’d flicked his gaze up and down Castiel, taking in his no doubt ridiculous bed head and wrinkled pajama bottoms. Normally, that might have embarrassed Castiel – he did not like appearing anything short of presentable at his job – but it had been the last thing on his mind. It had only occurred to him right then that he was not, in fact, wearing a shirt; Dean had impatiently stripped it off of him in order to cool down again a few hours ago, and Castiel hadn’t bothered to replace it.

“Oh,” the young man had said, blinking rapidly. “Right. Uh. Sorry, I didn’t really want – I mean, Mr. Balthazar told me I had to come here, to be honest with you, I really didn’t think it was a good idea, and I think I was right, because–”

“Kevin,” Castiel had growled – actually growled, and Kevin had blanched and hastened to drop the bag of groceries on the welcome mat, holding both his hands up as he’d backed away as though he was delivering the ransom for a hostage exchange. 

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m going now!” he’d said, his voice higher than it had been before, and had fled backward to his car so quickly he’d almost stumbled over his shoelaces. Later, Castiel would feel sorry about that, but at the time he had only been thinking of Dean, alone and wanting, upstairs in his nest without him. 

After that, Castiel had given up leaving the bed for anything short of nature’s call, and he’d not been sorry about that at all. 

The few times a day that he’s alone happen right after Dean wakes up sweating and anxious and needy, the same hot desperation glinting in his eyes that he’d had that night. Those moments start to come like clockwork – every five or six hours, Dean will start to wake a little more, will whine a little more pointedly. Will press his burning hands and chest to Castiel’s skin, searching for relief from the fire torturing him like a desert animal far from water. 

Each time, Castiel is careful to gently trap Dean’s hands in his grip before they can dip too low. Is careful to pull himself away as much as either of them can stand, helping Dean up and leading him to the bathroom once he knows the omega is awake enough to know why he can’t stay. It doesn’t get any easier, but they both, without fail, manage to separate themselves before either of them do things they will regret. Dean is not happy to see him go, and Castiel is not happy to leave, but even with the maddening echo chamber of pheromones they both know better than to push harder than what the other can withstand.

Dean takes care of himself in the shower. It is extremely obvious that’s what he’s doing, because Castiel made the mistake of lingering outside the door for a moment too long the first time around. He’d all but fled to his own shower to handle his own straining erection, extremely glad that he’d bothered to at least partially clean up the shattered glass and blood that he’d left behind. 

He’d taken himself in hand and had had just about the quickest orgasm of his life, the sound of Dean’s breathless moans echoing like a siren’s song in his head. 

It had left him feeling queasy with lingering guilt, had left him a little shaken. He’d heard Balthazar’s words, and he believed them, but he hadn’t been able to shrug off the feeling that he’d done something violating. But he’d blocked those feelings out, had reminded himself that he’d not touched Dean at all and that the omega knew he felt this way, and hadn’t seemed at all concerned by what Castiel had been doing. 

Still, he’d made himself linger downstairs for a while, fixing himself a cup of tea so he could calm down and center himself. He needed to be Dean’s rock, his safe harbor, and he couldn’t do that if he was anxious himself. It had been a good plan, right up until Dean had shot downstairs and barreled toward him like a homing pigeon. 

Ending up with Dean basically on top of him right after they’d both… had a shower… had been difficult in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Dean had smelled of sugar and slick, and his release had been as bright and loud as a firework, painted across his skin in invisible patterns. Castiel had pressed his nose to the curve of Dean’s neck on autopilot, had shaken with the need to mark him. The intensity of it had scared him – he’d breathed harshly against Dean’s skin, gripping him tightly to his chest as he’d slowly forced himself to calm down. 

It had taken a lot of effort to convince himself he needed to move and get them something to eat. They’d both rather hastily abandoned their food before they’d finished, and Dean could not afford to miss another meal. Reluctantly, he’d torn himself away, resting his hand on Dean’s shoulder before telling him, gently but firmly, to stay put. He’d padded into the kitchen to fish something edible out of the grocery bags that Kevin had delivered... 

Only for Dean to follow behind him not ten seconds later, stumbling into the brightly lit room with a bleary and confused expression on his face as though he couldn’t understand why Castiel had gone. He’d tried to go down to his knees again, right there beside Castiel’s feet as he’d stood in front of the refrigerator, and he’d fumbled to keep the omega upright and off the ground for the second time in less than an hour.

It had spooked him. He hadn’t known what to do with Dean in that state – unable to properly communicate his desires and fears with words, unable to explain to Castiel why he’d suddenly regressed back to wanting to kneel. It had been uncharted territory. Something he didn’t even want to ask Balthazar or Pamela about, because it felt so intensely personal and private; something he’d been sure that Dean would not have wanted to share. Castiel had needed to figure it out on his own, for Dean’s sake. 

He thinks that he’s doing a better job of it than the first time around, at least. 

The solution had come to him by accident – or, at least, not because of any conscious decision. Right there in the kitchen, he’d carefully crouched down with Dean in his arms and had spoken to him softly, hoping against sense to pull some sort of explanation from him. 

“Dean,” he’d breathed, carefully pushing the man’s damp hair from his eyes so he could look into them. They’d been entirely gold, mostly unfocused. “What in the world are you doing? I asked you to stay on the couch.” 

Dean had sucked in a tight breath, almost like Castiel had hit him. Had ducked his head down, shame pulsing out of him – had leaned his chin to the side to show his neck, submitting to him in a primal, base way. And at first, Castiel hadn’t understood. But he’d realized his mistake a moment later – Dean had been ashamed to have disappointed him. 

Alarmed, Castiel had cupped his hand against Dean’s cheek and steadied him. “Dean, I–” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Dean had whispered, his eyes squeezed shut. “Sorry, Cas. Alpha. Sorry.”

“No, no, please don’t apologize,” Castiel had pleaded frantically, shocked. “It’s alright, I’m not angry. I’m proud of you.”

Dean had shaken his head, something like a sob clawing out of him. “‘M so weak.”

Castiel’s throat had grown tight and hot. He’d kneeled down, had put his hands on Dean’s shoulders. “That is not true. You’re so much stronger than you give yourself credit for, sweetheart.” 

The endearment had slipped out of him without permission and without intention, but the moment it had, Dean had let out a desperate noise. Had leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Castiel, his whole body shaking. 

“Shh,” Castiel had soothed. “I mean it, Dean. Having you by my side calms me as well – there’s no shame in that. You needed something from me, and you came to get it. That’s bravery. Nothing less.” 

He hadn’t known how much of what he’d said had sunk in, but the reassurances, the praise, had poured out of him automatically – had felt right, like something he should have been doing all along. Dean’s breath had hitched and eventually slowed until evened out, and the omega had gone limp against him. 

Sexual satisfaction, it seems, is only part of what Dean’s body needs to feel fully sated. Castiel understands, now. He needs approval. Needs reassurance that Castiel – his alpha, for all intents and purposes – is pleased. He needs words of praise, something Castiel is fairly certain he’s been starving for his entire life. 

And so, Castiel finds himself handling the omega like glass. Like something breakable and precious. Because, in that state, he is. He’s searching for stability. For approval. Searching for safety. So Castiel holds him carefully, rhythmically ghosts his hand over his nape with a soothing touch. Whispers how proud he is of Dean, how happy the omega makes him. How much he loves him. 

The first time he’d unthinkingly pressed a kiss to the crown of Dean’s head, he’d frozen. It had not been something he’d planned on doing. It had just sort of happened. Whatever he’d expected, Dean had certainly seemed to enjoy it – he’d literally melted into purrs, much like he had in the bath, his happiness bright and warm and tangible in the air. He’d languidly stretched out against Castiel, laying his palm flat against his bare chest.

At first, Castiel had felt as though he was only just keeping his head above water when it came to handling Dean’s needs – had felt that he was one mistaken paddle away from drowning them both. But, as the hours had passed, he had become more sure of himself. More comfortable. Now, when he encounters a wave, he knows how to ride it.

Every time he says another kind word or presses another soft kiss to his skin, Dean relaxes a little more, lets go a little more. And when his contentment reaches its apex, the omega simply falls right back asleep, his body and his urges finally satisfied enough to let him drift without the pressing urge of heat. 

Sometimes, though, he has to get Dean to actually do things in that short window of time where he is awake and calm. Castiel has found, through trial and error, that the best time to get Dean to eat and drink are during those periods. The reason for this, unfortunately, is that Dean seems quite keen to do most anything… as long as Castiel asks it of him. 

Uncomfortable with that knowledge, Castiel had made an attempt to rouse Dean from his sleep instead of relying on that strange period of suggestibility and vulnerability. But waking him before he was ready had done nothing but make Dean agitated, and Castiel hadn’t been able to convince him to eat anything at all. It had taken nearly an hour of soothing and soft words to get Dean to fall back asleep afterward, and Castiel hadn’t wanted to put him through that again.  

It feels like manipulation, but Castiel had been forced to shove aside his guilt. It seems that, during heat, Dean needs quite a lot of coaxing to do just about anything on his own. However, he is more than willing to follow Castiel’s lead. And he’s not doing anything to hurt Dean. Not abusing his trust. He’s simply making sure the omega eats and drinks, something he’s supposed to do as the man’s alpha during times like this.

At first, he’d just tried with words. He’d asked, and then reluctantly ordered Dean to eat, just as he’d done before. Despite his complete disinterest, Dean had tried to obey, picking up his fork with a trembling hand. He had lethargically managed only a couple of bites before giving up. So Castiel had taken it a step further. Heart pounding, his palms slick with sweat, he’d gently guided Dean until he was laying his head on his lap. Then, his own hands shaking with nerves, he’d fed him piece by piece until the food was gone. 

Dean hadn’t seemed to mind – in fact, his scent had gotten all soft around the edges when Castiel had first hesitantly held a half of a strawberry in front of his lips. He’d seemed relieved to just… follow his lead. To do what Castiel asked of him. 

Castiel is still not comfortable with ordering him at all. Is still not used to the weight of that responsibility on his shoulders. But Dean trusts him. Dean had asked him for help. Castiel can’t find it within himself to refuse, no matter how many misgivings he may have about his own ability to handle it, to do right by him.  

And, on a deeper level that he isn’t quite ready to acknowledge, Castiel takes comfort and pleasure in it, too. Not so much in Dean following his orders, but in Dean trusting him enough to put the power in his hands in the first place. It’s a heady rush of pride – of happiness – every time he manages to do something that soothes him, or makes him feel good; every time he manages to get Dean to make that soft little sigh of contentment, Castiel’s heart feels a little lighter in his chest. 

He just… 

He just wants Dean to be happy. Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever wanted anything more than he wants that. So he does his best. And by some miracle, they make it to the end of Dean’s heat without any more bumps in the road. 

At the end of the fifth night, Castiel goes to sleep with his arms wrapped around Dean’s fever-warm body, and feels at peace. Despite all his misgivings and his fears, despite the thousand times a day he questions himself and wonders if he’s doing the right thing; despite his own distrust in himself and his constant, lingering suspicion that he is irredeemable in every way that is important, Castiel feels that he has done right by Dean. 

And the next morning, when Dean’s fever has broken; when he watches the omega slumber soundly and quietly and easily for the first time in days, his scent clear of heat and his sleep clear of nightmares, Castiel knows he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be. 

Sleeping in a motel had been just as shitty as Sam remembered it to be. 

The bed had squawked like a parrot every time he’d so much as twitched. The AC had kept kicking on and off in intervals too far apart, so that the room was always too cold or too hot. The couple next door had been so loud it had felt like they were having an argument in Sam’s room instead of theirs. 

The noise, as irritating as it was, shouldn’t have bothered him. Sam’s always been able to fall asleep just about anywhere. One of the habits he’d picked up from a life spent on the road. It shouldn’t have been a problem for him to knock out cold in the shitty motel, a too-expensive uber ride away from the Impala. 

He’d figured out pretty fast that it hadn’t been the squeaky bed frame that kept him from being able to get some shut-eye. It’d been his own brain, too loud for its own good. Spinning up scenario after scenario of how this all could go wrong, a thousand different ways that he’s going to end up disappointed. All of them completely plausible and realistic. 

Sam is a smart man. He knows he is. There are times he wishes he wasn’t. 

By the time the shop had called about the Impala, nearing noon of the next day, Sam had gotten about three collective hours of sleep and had been ready to tear his hair out. He’d gladly called an uber to take him back the ten miles to the mechanic, just to see that stupid motel in his rearview. 

In the end, it isn’t too terribly expensive, all things considered – though he receives a lecture from the mechanic about not letting a classic like this sit and rust again. Sam just nods his way through it, only half listening, his brain a thousand miles away. 

Then, he starts driving, and goes far longer and farther than he probably should. In the back of his mind, he knows that literally anyone who gives a damn about him would be yelling at him, but he can’t bring himself to care.

He pulls over at rest stops a few times, catches cat naps that had only last around an hour before the urgent need to move pushes him forward. He stops for gas and for food when he has to, eating on the go. Something possesses him, at a certain point – gives him road fever, as Dean used to call it. He forgets his exhaustion, forgets his dread and his fear, and simply puts his foot to the gas and drives on with a singular destination in mind. He tries his damndest to keep the rest of his thoughts locked in a deep, dark box.

He finds himself in Washington, only a dozen or so miles from NRR, around midnight; two whole days after he’d been waylaid in North Lawrence. It’s too late to go to the facility under legal means, and realistically, he’s too wiped to consider illegal ones. Sam has to admit defeat, and crash for the night. 

By that point, Sam is so exhausted that he barely has the presence of mind to lock the car behind him before he stumbles into a cheap motel and rents a room. He probably falls asleep before his head hits the pillow. 

By the time he wakes up, it’s already nine o’clock. 

Sam jolts upright, something in his stomach curling and queasy when he remembers where he is and what he’s doing. He’s slept later than planned, and the daylight is wasting. Every hour he wastes here is another that he could be doing something that might bring him closer to his brother. 

He gets himself ready on autopilot. He opts to dress well, since he’s going for the lawyer route – trying to convince the people at NRR, if they are in fact legit, that he wants to work for them, or at the very least volunteer. Dean used to call him a boy scout, and he hadn’t been wrong; Sam can put on a very earnest face at the drop of a hat, and he plans to use that skill to his advantage today. 

The whole drive there, his stomach is in knots. He types the address into his GPS – as far as Google can tell, he’s apparently driving out to the middle of an empty field. Whoever has scrubbed this place from the internet has done a scary good job, and Sam wonders for the hundredth time if he’s making a mistake by showing up here unannounced.

That feeling triples when he gets to a guard booth. 

Hands gripping the steering wheel, he does his best to school his expression into something that doesn’t look horrifyingly suspicious. He slows and rolls down the window without hesitation, knocking up his sunglasses so he can properly meet the gaze of the short haired beta woman that leans out of the window. 

“Hey-yah, handsome,” she greets, leaning out of the window with her chin in her hand. “You’re a new face.” 

Sam smiles at her, trying not to let his nerves show when he sees the gun at her hip. Upon closer inspection, it’s a taser – not exactly comforting, but better – but she catches him looking, and her smile gets a little more pointed. “What can I do for you, Mister…?”

“Wesson,” Sam says smoothly, recovering as best he can. “Samuel Wesson. I’m on the correct road for NRR, yes? This place is kinda hard to find, as I’m sure you know.” 

She cocks an eyebrow at him, blatantly letting her eyes drag up and down his frame. He feels a little like a bug under a microscope. “Sure is, baby. And how come you’re trying to find it?” she asks sweetly, an expression of polite doubt very clear on her face. 

Sam smiles at her in a way that he hopes doesn’t look forced. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Novak, actually!” 

The woman’s expression does not change – Sam feels his stomach sink down to somewhere near the footwell. “Of course you do. What about?”

“I just passed the California bar, and I’ve heard good things about this place. Wanted to see if I could, you know, represent anyone pro bono. Help out where I can.” 

“My hero, ” she says, with a dramatic, dreamy sigh, fluttering her lashes at him. “Well, little old me wouldn’t want to stand in the way of a good deed. Let me just call up to let ‘em know you’re coming, yeah?”

Heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest, Sam nods. She winks and leans back into the booth, the tinted window sliding shut with an ominous click. 

The seconds tick by, and just as Sam is starting to think he should throw it in reverse and come back tonight, the window slides back open. The woman grins at him, and, as if by magic, the bar across the road rises out of his way. “Have fun, Sammy.” 

Sam waits until he’s through it to let the relieved breath go. His palms are slick with sweat, and he knows he’s gonna have to do some deep breathing before he goes inside – the first omega or alpha he meets is going to know something’s up in a second, otherwise. 

When he manages to pull himself out of the car, he spots the person they’ve sent to wait for him right away. He’s a taller omega in a dark turtleneck, sporting silver hair and piercing gray eyes, and immediately Sam feels like the man is seeing right through him. 

Nonetheless, he sticks his hand out to shake, and the omega grabs it without hesitation. “Mr. Wesson, is it?” he asks. He’s got an English accent. 

“That’s me,” Sam says, hoping he sounds cheerful. “And you are…” 

“Balthazar is fine,” he says evenly. “I’m afraid Mr. Novak is otherwise occupied today – but not to worry! Your appointment will be kept,” he says pleasantly, giving no hint that he thinks Sam might be lying. “Just, with me instead. Sound good?”

“Sure,” Sam agrees evenly. He watches as Balthazar swipes his badge across a black electronic reader, and pushes the front doors open. “What do you do around here?”

Balthazar glances at him. “Oh, you know. This and that,” he says vaguely. “I’m afraid you won’t be able to see most of the facility right now – alphas make the residents nervous. You understand.” 

Sam hardly hears him. He’s running his eyes over everything he can, trying to soak up as much as possible in the spare seconds he’s got. He takes in the welcome desk and the guarded looking woman behind it, who’s staring at him with open suspicion. The halls branch off and lead to places like Cafeteria and Recreation and Residences, but Balthazar blazes past them all, heading straight for an elevator instead. 

It doesn’t stop Sam from seeing the omegas. 

They’re everywhere. Just in the short amount of time he’s had to look around, he sees nine or ten blaze past him and into different halls; hears the voices of perhaps a dozen more, talking and laughing and joking with one another. The place feels… happy. There are no scents of distress, no hints that these people are being trained or abused. The only indication of what they are at all are the tags around each of their necks. 

Balthazar must catch him looking as he taps the up arrow outside the elevator – he hums. “Good compromise, we’ve found. As I’m sure you know, the law states–” 

“That a slave must have immediately visible identification when not on private property,” Sam recites back, his eyes trailing a pair of omega women who are arm in arm as they walk. They pay him no mind. “Technically, though,” he tacks on, “They don’t really need to wear them here, right?”

Balthazar raises his eyebrows. “Very good, Mr. Wesson. No, they don’t. They choose to,” he says cryptically, and before Sam can ask him what he means, he’s already stepping into the elevator. 

Sam follows him quickly. He can’t help but feel that Balthazar is intentionally moving him along like someone might brandish a broom at a stray cat, but he supposes that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re doing something bad here – it could be just as he says, that they don’t want strange alphas lingering with their residents. He hopes that’s why, anyway.

He follows the omega out of the elevator and down the hall to the first office. They pass through a smaller room, with a secretary desk of sorts. There’s a young Asian man – a beta – sorting papers into different piles; he gives them a friendly, if strained smile as they walk past. Balthazar waves at him, but doesn’t say anything, and when Sam glances over his shoulder the kid is staring at him with a blatantly wary expression that he quickly wipes away, dropping his eyes down to his desk instead. 

The inside of Balthazar’s office is spacious and warm, with a large window and a comfortable couch that looks like it folds out. There’s a soft, cable knit blanket draped over the back, and a scattering of pillows down the length of it. There are framed paintings on the walls, little eccentric odds and ends here and there, plenty of books and a few filing cabinets. A framed photograph points away from Sam on his broad, wooden desk, next to a sleek looking monitor and a corded office phone. 

“Have a seat, Mr. Wesson,” Balthazar says, gesturing to one of the padded wooden chairs in front of his desk. He sits in his own office chair, giving Sam an appraising look. “So, what brings you to our neck of the woods?”

“Well,” Sam says, glancing around one last time before settling. “I, uh, kinda spoke to Mr. Novak already,” he lies, “But I actually just got through law school and found out I passed the Bar earlier this month. I was hoping to do some volunteer work here, if possible? Maybe take on cases as a, uh, trial basis?”

“Because…” Balthazar says, raising his eyebrows. 

Sam laughs nervously. “Oh, well. I mean, I believe in your mission here.”

Balthazar blinks slowly at him. “Which is what, Mr. Wesson?”

Sam falters. “Oh. I mean… freeing slaves, right?” He laughs again, and the sound is even more blatantly nervous than before. He’d like to strangle himself. Why did he think he could do this?

“Right. Here’s the thing, kiddo,” the omega says with a flat, joyless smile. “We like to do our research here. I’m sure you can imagine why, especially when it comes to which alphas we let on the premises,” he says, his tone light – but Sam’s not fooled. There’s something dangerous glinting in the man’s eyes. 

He struggles to keep his scent under control, to contain the flare of distress that the man’s words cause. He can’t know anything – he wouldn’t have gotten this far in the building if he did, right? Face carefully blank, Sam cocks his head to the side and puts on a polite expression of interest. “Yeah, I can totally understand that,” he says sympathetically. “I’m sure you get all kinds of weirdos trying to walk through those doors.” 

A pointed sort of smile curls across Balthazar’s face. Idly, he twirls his pen between his fingertips – Sam follows the nearly hypnotic movement involuntarily for a moment before he tears his eyes away. 

“We sure do,” Balthazar says pleasantly. “Like, for instance, young alpha men who pretend to be lawyers, even though their names aren’t anywhere on the California Bar registry.” 

Sam freezes. “I’m not sure what you’re implying–”

The pen abruptly stops spinning. “I think you are. Thanks for telling us where to look, by the way – super helpful of you.” He smirks at Sam’s silence. “Let’s cut the shit, shall we?” 

Heart pounding in his chest, Sam keeps his head held high and meets the omega’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything, just waiting for Balthazar to make the next move. And apparently, the omega recognizes his strategy, because he laughs. 

“Maybe you are a lawyer,” he muses. “You sure know when to keep your mouth shut, as far as self-incrimination goes.” Sam’s jaw tenses. “How far does your silence stretch, Mr. Wesson?” he asks, making it clear he’s only using the name to humor him. 

Sam takes a breath. “Are you asking if I can keep a secret?”

“Very good,” Balthazar praises sarcastically. “Bravo.” He smiles again, and this time, it’s razor sharp. "Can you?”

He nods, jaw clenched, and Balthazar’s smile twists into something a little more unpleasant. “That’s good. We wouldn’t want word to get out on what services we actually provide here,” he says conspiratorially, leaning forward over his desk and dropping his chin in his hand. “But, hey, kudos from me – the whole lawyer shtick was a great excuse to get yourself in the door. Really would have kept you scot free, if we’d actually ended up being the saints we pretend to be.” 

Sam feels his world narrow down to a pin prick. 

“But I digress,” Balthazar continues. “I’m guessing, now that we’re past the whole song and dance, that you’d like to talk shop?”

Sam can taste something acidic and sick in the back of his throat. His heart starts pounding a little harder. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says woodenly. His hands clench involuntarily in his lap – he tries to force himself to relax. 

The omega rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on. Enough with this whole doe-eyed omega rights act.” 

“It’s not an act,” Sam stammers, his brain blank and unhelpful. 

“No?” The omega cocks his head to the side, slowly grazing his eyes up and down Sam. “You sure? You seem like our type of man to me.”

“... The type for what?” Sam says, much quieter than he should. He thinks he knows the answer. 

Balthazar smiles again. “Are you going to make me spell it out? You’re young, you’re an alpha male. If you really are a lawyer, I’m sure you’ve the funds.” He leans back, gesturing out broadly. “As you saw, we’ve got plenty of variety. All healthy and ready to be trained up to your liking.” 

Sam feels his throat tighten. The omega is unabashedly watching him, his eyes narrowed as he waits to see how Sam will react. This is a test. It has to be. But the problem is that he doesn’t know which part is the bluff.

If this really is a haven for omegas, Balthazar is seeing if he’ll get angry at the implication that he wants to buy a slave. If Sam doesn’t, he’ll be out on his ass, and he won’t get anything from the man. But if this really is an auction house in disguise, Balthazar is seeing if Sam is in on it. If Sam shows how horrified he is at the thought, he’ll be in the same boat – and might even end up dealing with something worse, if they think he’ll raise a stink or try to alert the omegas that it’s a scam. 

It makes his stomach twist, makes his head and his heart hurt – if he says the wrong thing, he’s screwed as far as figuring out if Dean is actually here. Trying to be subtle, he sniffs the air, hoping the man’s scent will give him away – but it’s neutral. Almost disturbingly so. It’s no help to him. Sam has to figure out himself, right now, which choice to make. How far he’s willing to go. How much of this game he’s willing to play. Because if there’s even a chance that he can help Dean…

Sam lets a veil of indifference fall over his face. Smiles, almost sheepishly. “Alright. You got me.” 

His heart is pounding as he waits for the man’s reaction. He’s hoping, even though it may destroy his chances of getting them to trust him, that Balthazar will look disappointed, or disgusted. That he’ll have Sam removed from the premises. That way, if Dean is here, at least he really is in safe hands...

But instead, the omega lets a small smile flick onto his face, and he gives Sam a look that’s something like approval. “That’s what I thought.” 

Sam can start to feel his spine straighten. He made the right choice, but he doesn’t feel good about it. Sam should have known this was too good to be true. Should have figured that a place like this was too much of a pipe dream to be real. He wants nothing more than to leap up and scream in this man’s face, to shake him and demand to know how he can treat people like this, how he can be an omega himself and still be willing to do something this vile. 

But he doesn’t. He sits still, he meets the man’s eyes, and he plays the game. It’s all he can do. 

Forcing himself to look politely interested rather than viscerally disgusted, Sam shrugs. “What’s the point of all the subterfuge?” he asks, dropping his cautious tone from before. “Couldn’t you just run a regular auction house? Seems like it’d be cheaper. And you’d get more business,” he adds. “I wasn’t even sure if I was at the right place.” 

Balthazar shrugs, idly looking down at the nails of his right hand, picking out imaginary dirt with his thumb. “There’s a method to our madness, believe it or not. Many buyers find that our slaves are better... adjusted. We get them for bargain prices, anyway,” he says, smiling unpleasantly – all teeth. “Bottom of the barrel, you understand. Really, we’re doing them a favor… most of them are a master or two away from the grave when we pick them up.” 

Sam swallows. “Oh?”

“Of course,” the omega says conversationally. “Why do you think they all look so happy? Why do you think they so readily believe they’ll be freed? Compared to where they were before, they’d be grateful to lick your shoes. They’re very well behaved, and very easy to…” He trails off for a moment. “Shape.”

Disgust curls inside of Sam, so sick and hot that he wants to bolt, but he can’t. Not if Dean is here with these people, not if his brother is being fooled too. He raises a skeptical eyebrow, as if he’s just confused rather than horrified. “But… if they’re being rehabilitated under the pretense of earning their freedom, don’t they end up making pretty bad slaves?” 

Balthazar waves his hand dismissively. “Eh. Not really. They break back down pretty easily,” he says in an off hand sort of way, as though he’s discussing disassembling an engine rather than a human. “It’s worth it to speed up the rehab process. If they think there’s a light at the end of the tunnel,” he says, laughing cruelly, “they’re more motivated.” 

“But once you pull the rug out? They don’t… revolt?” he asks carefully, trying to keep his tone casually curious.

The omega shrugs. “They may think they want freedom, but we both know they can’t handle it. Do you think they could actually take care of themselves?” he asks snidely, rolling his eyes. “No. Of course not. And they see that they’re better off with a master, in the end. The majority of them are not at all difficult to put back in their place, and most are so grateful that they aren’t going back to a whorehouse that they don’t protest at all.” 

Sam must look skeptical – he sure feels that way – because Balthazar smirks. “Of course, we get the odd one out who gives us trouble. Who thinks they’d be better off free. Thing is,” he continues, looking back and forth conspiratorially as though they are sharing a joke, “they know where they’ll end up if they protest too much. It only takes threatening to drop them back off at a discount auction house for them to... reconsider their stance.” 

Sam isn’t sure if he wants to vomit, take off running, or strangle this man. It takes everything he has to keep his scent under control. “I see. And they all get sold? Or…” 

Balthazar raises both eyebrows, as if amused. “Of course. You didn’t think we actually freed them, did you?”

Sam forces himself to chuckle. It sounds like it’s coming from someone else, someone far away. “I guess not. That’d be, uh…”

“Counterintuitive. Certainly not cost effective,” Balthazar supplies. 

“Right.” Sam looks at Balthazar expectantly, taking a deep, internal breath. “Well, how do I browse your… selection?” 

The omega leans his head back. “You describe what you’re looking for, we see what we can do to accommodate you. I’ll warn you, though,” he says, eyes glinting, “nothing here is cheap. Might be above even your pay grade – we have to pour quite a lot of funds into the things to get them whipped back into working order, and we only sell for profit.” He shows his teeth. “Which, in turn, makes for a very exclusive clientele.” 

Sam shrugs. “I drove all the way here. Even if nothing works out, I might as well window shop, right?”

Balthazar hums. He folds his hands in his lap. “And what was it that you were hoping to find?”

He steadies himself. No going back after this. “Um, well. I’d like a, uh. A male.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitches. He doesn’t seem offended by Sam’s preference, considering that he himself is a male omega – on the contrary, he seems almost amused by the way Sam is blushing. “Mm-hm. We’ve got a couple ready to go now – but as you probably know, they’re unfortunately a rare commodity. Age preference?”

“Uh,” he says, clearing his throat. This is going so much faster than he’d expected, though he can’t help the feeling that he’s digging himself into a hole. “A little older than me, I think.” 

Balthazar cocks his head to the side, mockingly surprised. “Really? Most alphas seem to like them younger. I’ll confess we don’t see many males that are older than their early twenties, considering the, ah…” he pauses, something like distaste curling over his features for the first time. “Heavy use.” 

Sam does want to vomit now. He feels acid rising up in his throat – forcefully, he pushes it back down. Dean is twenty seven. 

Dean is twenty seven. 

“Right,” he says distantly. He feels far away from his body. “But do you have any that are?”

“Perhaps,” Balthazar says. “Depends on what you’re hoping for appearance wise.”

Clearing his throat, Sam shifts in his chair. He resists the urge to grip the armrests. “Um. Brown hair, I guess. On the taller side. Green eyes would be a bonus.”

The omega hums. He turns to his computer, tapping something in – presumably, he’s narrowing down their stock with the fucked up parameters that Sam is giving him. Jesus, do people actually do this? They must, because the man doesn’t look shocked by anything he’s saying – on the contrary, he’s acting like this is a run-of-the-mill conversation. 

“What sort of skill set were you hoping for?” he asks, looking up briefly. There’s a faint smirk on his face. 

Sam braces himself. Digs his fingertips into his palms under the desk. 

He knows, statistically, what it was that Dean was probably destined for when he’d entered the trade. He’d been a young omega male. One with no skills, and no schooling. Really, there was only one type of training slaves like that ended up getting – it’s a fact that Sam has actively been trying not to think about since he connected the dots in the first place. 

It’s a fact that often keeps him up at night, anyway. 

But he’s going to have to suck it up, if he’s going to play this part. So he pushes forward, trying to pass his hesitance off as simple embarrassment. “Uh, well. You know. I’m a bachelor, and I’m pretty busy at work.”

The man blinks innocently at him, then returns his attention to whatever he’s typing. “So, housekeeping?”

Internally, Sam takes a deep, steadying breath. Tries to push away the rush of nausea he’s feeling at having to pretend to be a man like this – one that sees no issue with purchasing someone for the express purpose of violating them in the worst ways imaginable. “I mean, sure. That’d be a nice plus. But I’m looking for experience in… other areas.” 

He would swear, at this point, that the man is fucking with him. “Gardening? Secretary work?” 

“Um. No. I’m looking for more of a, uh,” Sam says, struggling with himself. “An avenue for… stress relief.” 

Balthazar laughs. The sound is decidedly unpleasant – it makes Sam’s skin crawl. “You’ve thought this out, haven’t you? Nursing something of a fantasy?”

Sam laughs uncomfortably. “Sure, I guess. Been thinking about it for a while. He’d be my first, uh. Slave.” When Balthazar doesn’t say anything, he licks his lips. “So, do you have anyone like that here?”

The omega looks extremely amused, at this point, as if he’s laughing over a private joke. He keeps his eyes on the computer screen when he answers. “Funnily enough, we do.” 

Sam can feel his heart pound in his palms. “Oh?”

“Yep. Kind of a strange coincidence, actually,” he says lightly. “You’ve described him to a T. But I’m afraid he’s off limits.” 

Sam’s stomach plummets to the ground. “Why’s that?”

“I’m afraid my boss has taken a shine to him,” Balthazar says, his mouth twitching as if he’s suppressing a smile. He types yet another set of parameters into the computer, and then pushes the keyboard away from himself. “Not hard to see why. Dean is very pretty.” 

Dean. 

Dean. 

There’s a roaring in Sam’s ears. Something like molten metal in his veins. Rage, white hot, flashes through him before he can even think about marshaling it back down – some of it must flash into his scent, because Balthazar’s brows furrow. For the first time since this conversation began, Sam thinks he might be genuinely surprised. 

“Something wrong, Mr. Wesson?”

He has to get it together. He has to. If he doesn’t, things are going to get very bad, very quickly. But it’s like someone has taken control of his body, of his mouth. 

“Dean?” he repeats, and his voice is strangled, and so disgustingly transparent that Sam could shake himself, if only he could get himself to move. But he can’t. It’s like he’s frozen in place, unable to hear or see anything, unable to even breathe right. 

Balthazar, at this point, is looking at him with open confusion. Wariness bleeds into his expression. “I’m sorry… does that name mean something to you?”

Sam needs to shut up. He needs to shut up right now, and get out of here, before he gets made. He knows where Novak lives, he can get there in less than half an hour if he hurries, and at this point he’s ready to do just about anything he needs to in order to get Dean away from these people.  

“Wait. Samuel... Sam,” Balthazar says, his eyes widening – he’s not talking to Sam, but it’s very clear that he’s just connected some important dots, and Sam bolts up out of his chair because if he doesn’t get out of here now he’s pretty damn sure they’re not going to let him leave at all– 

“You’re Dean’s brother, aren’t you?”