60. Chapter 60

For a while, as he sits against the wall in the security booth, hugging his knees and watching the flickering screens, Dean’s only coherent thought is that Sammy is too fucking tall. 

His brother towers over Cas by a good six inches, lean and mean and undoubtedly alpha. It’s so strange to see him this way, long haired and long-limbed. His last memory of Sam had been of a spindly twelve-year-old, midway through a growth spurt that would have put him near Dean’s shoulder. He’d been so breakable back then. So frail. Someone who still needed protection; something Dean was always there to provide. 

Until he wasn’t. 

As he flicks his eyes across the monitors to follow their progress through a hundred different angles, Dean studies the way Sam holds himself next to Cas. The stiff curve of his shoulders, the bend at his neck. Like he’s carrying something heavy. Dean’s starting to realize that, despite what he’s sacrificed to keep his brother safe and healthy, the weight on his back might be something that Dean himself has put there. 

Sam, though, is still full of energy under that heaviness. He’s obviously angry – the signs haven’t changed even a little in the years they’ve been apart. The kid’s fists ball up at his sides, his steps morph into something like punctuation. He cracks his knuckles every few minutes, a bad habit Dean had always tried to break him of. 

Dean’s glad that Balthazar finally relented and agreed to take a breather; standing next to an alpha that looks like Sam does right now would make anyone uneasy, let alone an omega with his past. The omega had excused himself for “a bloody long walk” around the grounds, but not before dropping by the security office with gifts for Dean. A soft, warm blanket and a cup of hot coffee had both been shoved into his hands with muttered insults that hadn’t fooled Dean for a second. 

Hitching that blanket a little tighter around himself, Dean watches his brother examine his surroundings in a way that is achingly familiar. He’d forgotten, somehow, just how wary Sam had been, even back then. Dean had done his best to protect him from the worst of it, but he hadn’t been able to hide everything. Even now, a solid decade later, Sam still walks into a room and checks all four corners first, still angles himself so that his back is never toward open air. 

It’s how Dean moves through the world, too – and only now is he realizing that he must have behaved that way before he was ever enslaved. Years of being unceremoniously dropped into brand new schools and neighborhoods every couple of weeks or months. Years of skittishly testing the waters to see if their father was too drunk to safely be around before they went inside the motel or apartment or shitty rental home. Years of Dean scrambling to feed them both, trying and sometimes failing to hide the bruises from those efforts from Sam; years of trying to give the kid the most normal life he could. And then, when he’d left, years of them being nothing but ghosts to one another. 

Those years have taken their toll. 

God, what had Sam done when he’d left? Had Dean protected him from one threat just to screw up his life in a different way? There had been two bad choices in front of him, and while he doesn’t regret stepping up to protect Sam, he can’t help but wonder what the rest of the kid’s childhood must have been like. Can’t help but wonder what happened to him, without Dean there to take the brunt of it. 

Had he been bullied? Ostracized? Treated as lesser, with ratty hand-me-downs on his back and no one at home to take care of his bullies for him? Had he even been able to eat? Dean hopes to God that Sam had found his way to Bobby, but if he hadn’t...

He grips his knees a little tighter to himself. 

What had John done, after Dean had left? He’d been a mean bastard of a drunk, ten times worse than he’d already been sober, and Dean still has a few marks to prove it. Had that become Sam’s life, once Dean hadn’t been there to protect him from it?

He doesn’t want to think so. He wants to believe that the hatred and vitriol that John had always spewed had been for Dean and Dean only – wants to believe that their dad had been too proud and fond of his alpha kid for him to take his anger out on Sam the way he’d done on Dean. But, in the darkest parts of his heart, Dean knows that isn’t true. Knows that Sam was never as immune to John’s rage as Dean liked to make himself believe. It had just been that Dean had been an easier target. 

That had been on purpose. 

From day one, John had made it clear that it was Dean’s responsibility to protect Sam from the dangers of the world. And at first, Dean had believed that meant that he and his dad would work together for that, that it would be a team effort to keep the kid’s innocence intact. But it hadn’t taken long for Dean to understand that protecting Sammy meant shielding him from John, too. 

Their father had hit Sam exactly once, when he was just a toddler – drunkenly and blindly shoved him away, hard enough that Sam had hit the ground with tears already in his eyes. That sight – Sammy curled on the tile, a tiny pile of collateral damage under his father’s towering rage – would haunt Dean’s nightmares for the rest of his life. 

Dean could get hit, could eat the pain, and could get back up. By that age, he’d already learned how. But Sammy couldn’t. Dean hadn’t ever wanted him to have to learn. So, after that – after picking Sammy up from the ground and bolting out of the house with his father slurring and screaming behind him, after walking with his kid brother in his arms to the park so that he could wipe his tears and press kisses to the bruise on his knee – Dean had made damn sure that the only person John even had a chance to hurt was him.

It had become second nature to paint a target on himself, to become the outlet for his father’s endless, bubbling rage and guilt; a conveniently quiet and apologetic punching bag that never once hit back, never once told a single soul, and never once tried to beg his way out – even if he had only sometimes understood how he’d earned it. It didn’t matter. At the end of the day, he was taking the hit so Sammy wouldn’t have to. 

And then he’d left. 

He presses his hand over his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

He’s so tired. And he’s so guilty for being tired, of all things, when his brother is in the same building as him. Sam deserves so much better than this, after a decade of waiting, of searching. Of grief. 

Dean understands that a good portion of that exhaustion is coming from his heat. He’s had one measly day – less, really – to recover from it. So he’s still drained, still feels shaky and a little empty, still feels like he could sleep for another solid 24. Most of that, he knows, can’t be avoided, no matter how much Cas had done to care for him. 

The problem is, he can’t blame all of his weakness on biology. Can’t say that the only reason it’s hard to get up and walk out that door is that he’s physically exhausted. Some of that reluctance, he knows, is pure cowardice – and that’s all Dean. 

Sam deserves so much better. Better than him. 

Stomach turning unpleasantly, he turns his attention back to the monitors. He’s lost track of them, as consumed by his thoughts as he’d been. 

Picking himself up from the ground is harder than it should be. He carefully takes off Balthazar’s blanket, folding it neatly, and leaves it sitting next to the still full cup of joe. Then, he pulls himself off of the ground and walks close enough to poke at the controls, cycling through feed after feed until he lands on the hallway outside of Cas’s office. Just in time, too – Cas is walking inside, Sam right on his heels, his face a mask of thinly contained frustration. It makes the hairs on the back of Dean’s neck prickle to attention, that expression. 

They’re only three doors away from him. 

Dean closes his eyes. Hikes Cas’s oversized jacket around himself a little closer, pressing his hands down into the pockets until he feels his knuckles begin to stretch the lining. 

The alpha’s scent wafts up every time he shifts, curling around him like an oversized, purring cat. Dean thinks maybe he could fall asleep right here, just like this; standing upright in a dark room with flickering screens and soft static. Trapped by his own pathetic fear. 

He can’t see either of the alphas now. He hopes to God it’s going well. Sam had sounded fucking furious on the phone, that trademark passion not having faded even a little over the years. Dean’s still a little surprised that anyone would care for him that much, even Sam. But he does, has given it his all, had been ready to fight whoever he thought he needed to in order to get to Dean. Judging by the expression that Dean just caught on his face, he’s still ready to do that. 

And Dean couldn’t even speak to him. Not one fucking word. 

He hates himself for that. Hates that he’d frozen out there on the dock, just like he had when he’d heard Bobby. It was like something had grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. He’d gone mute, silent, just like he’d been trained. How is he supposed to face Sam after that? How is he supposed to look him in the eye?

His thoughts bob and weave, crowd him back against the ropes, strike him with the same teeth-rattling impact every single time. Like uppercuts to the chin, one right after another. He’s so fucking afraid that Sam will be disgusted with what he sees. That he’ll take one look at Dean and prefer the memory of what he used to be – a protector, a big brother, a fighter – to the mockery of a man he is now. 

His brother deserves closure. Deserves to know that Dean made it through in one piece – or, if not that, then at least alive. If nothing else, Sam should be able to let him go in peace. But the thought of Sam seeing him like this, broken and small and so obviously cowed, makes Dean want to start running and never look back. 

What if Sam regrets ever looking for him in the first place? 

But it’s not really his choice, anymore. He can’t keep waiting. Can’t make any more excuses. He needs to get over himself, for everyone’s sake. If Sam is going to reject him, at least it’ll be over and done with, and he won’t have to wonder anymore. And if he isn’t, Dean will finally have his brother back in his life. Either way, Sam will finally be able to put down that weight he’s carrying on his shoulders.  

Hands shaking, Dean reaches out. He opens the door to his little hiding place. 

For a moment, it’s as far as he can go. He stands there with his feet rooted to the floor, staring at an empty hallway, and wonders what the fuck is going to have to happen for him to step out and face the music. 

Then the scent hits him. 

It’s familiar. It’s familiar and it’s sickening; it’s home and it’s terror. It’s everything he misses and everything he never wants to feel again. He’s pounding down the hallway before he makes a conscious decision to do so – passing in front of the first door, then the next, then skidding to a halt outside of Cas’s office. He blinks and he’s through the outside door, standing in the waiting area. 

Then, the only thing left between him and Sam is a thin panel of wood and his own fear, its jaws locked around his neck like the hot wet maw of a wolf. He fights it off, reaches for the door –  

“If you fucking touched him, I’ll kill you, you understand me?”

The pure rage in his brother’s voice freezes Dean dead in his tracks. He doesn't even know if Cas responds, because Sam’s roaring tone and his dizzying, sharp as glass scent make Dean want to curl into a ball and cover his neck. Make him want to kneel, because that’s what he’s supposed to do, especially when an alpha is angry. His whole body feels cold. His heart feels trembling and small. A tiny mouse in his chest. 

Then, like sounds after an explosion, muffled and hardly discernible over the ringing in his ears, Sam’s next words filter through. Dean feels each one like bullets to the chest, searing and loud and violent in their intensity.

“Where. Is. My. Brother?”

Dean’s hand is twisting around the knob, he’s pushing forward, and then he’s marooned in the open doorway.  

The scene before him is like something out of a bad movie. A pair of alpha men two inches from each other’s faces, one growling, murderous rage pouring off of him in waves. Sam has Cas pinned to the wall. He’s got Cas pinned to the wall, one huge hand clutching his coat and his forearm across Cas’s throat, and he’s snarling, sharp teeth bared; terrifying and furious and red-eyed, and Dean has never seen him like this. Has never seen his baby brother as a threat to anyone. 

But he is now. When Cas’s eyes connect with his, Dean sees real fear there. And that’s all it takes. 

His legs feel like they’re about to go out from underneath him. His heart is about to rip out of his body. But he can’t keep fucking hiding. Not when the two people he loves most in the world are about to tear each other apart over him.

He opens his mouth, and he knows that words come out. He doesn’t know what they are. Can’t even hear them. But they work.

Sam drops Cas immediately, all his attention  focused instantly on Dean instead. The rage vanishes from his expression like someone flipped a switch, and in its place is something so raw and hopeful that it’s painful to look at. Like the sun. 

“Dean? Dean!”

He rushes forward, huge and intense and alpha and Dean can’t stop his flinch – there’s too much fear and rage in the air, too much violence, too much of everything. He can’t fucking help it, but he hates himself when he sees Sam’s stupendous, overwhelming joy flicker and falter, sees him skid to a stop a foot away from him, his arms limp at his sides. 

“Dean?”

The transparent dread in his brother’s voice hurts him. Hits him like a ton of bricks. Dean trembles as he stands there, his eyes wide and fixed on a boy who has grown into a man without him, and fights with all he has to say something. Anything. 

“Hey, Sammy,” he finally chokes out, and Sam’s face crumples. 

And then Dean’s holding him, his arms wrapped around his impossibly large baby brother as he shakes apart. They’re both on the floor, somehow, both clutched around each other like two sailors in a shipwreck. 

And suddenly, Dean is right back in the role he thought he abandoned for good all those years ago, doing the job he was always meant to do – be the one that holds Sam close as he cries and rages at the world. Be the one to wipe his tears, and tell him that everything is gonna be okay. For just a split second, it’s like he never left. 

He rocks Sam forward and backward and holds him close, lets him bury his nose into Dean’s neck and inhale against him, lets him reassure himself that Dean is real. Sam himself smells so familiar, smells like home and love, and Dean inhales and feels his heart grow so fast it fractures in his chest. 

“It’s okay, Sammy,” he murmurs, along with a hundred other soft and gentle words. “It’s okay. I’m here now. I’m here.”

When Sam had first presented, he’d woken up and stumbled into the living room of their rented apartment with fear in his eleven-year-old eyes and a wobble in his lip, and had told Dean that he felt different. Dean had known, immediately, what had happened. He’d been able to smell the change in Sam, of course; an instantaneous shift of his scent toward something more masculine and deep, something a little more wild than it had been before. 

Dean had grinned, had clapped him on the back, had piled him into the Impala for a drive. Ice cream, he’d figured, would help to soothe the kid’s nerves. He’d sat across the booth and walked Sam through what being an alpha would mean for him; how it would help him get exactly where he wanted to go, how he’d never really struggle to find a job or for his education. He’d regaled, for the wide-eyed kid, how alpha status would help him with his dream of being a lawyer or a politician, had laughed with him when he’d told him how jealous Dad was gonna be. And, of course, Dean had jokingly threatened to give him the talk – halted, obviously, by Sammy’s highly embarrassed protests. 

Instead, he’d told Sam about his new scent. It had been something just a little like their dad, with those soft undertones of worn leather (though Dean hadn’t told Sam that, knowing how he’d feel about it), mixed with the warm, happy scent of baking bread and fresh herbs. He’d teased Sam about how he’d be drowning in girlfriends soon, how all the kids at school were gonna think he was so cool for presenting early. Had told him how proud Dean was to have an alpha brother now. Sam had laughed, the tension in his shoulders gradually decreasing till it was gone. 

They’d stayed out all day, having as much fun as Dean could afford – more, really, than he could afford – and by the time they’d driven back home with the sun setting behind them, radio turned up loud and windows down, Sam had looked ready to take on the world. Dean had chased him off to bed with a fierce hug and sneaky kiss on the top of his head that the kid hadn’t quite managed to duck away from in time. 

And then, once his brother had fallen asleep with a smile on his face, Dean had crawled into his own bed, clutched a pillow to his chest, and cried his goddamn eyes out in sheer relief. 

He still remembers that night, crystal clear. Remembers that, though he’d dug his teeth into his own fist to try and stay quiet, Sam had still woken up. Even at eleven, the kid hadn’t needed to ask why Dean was crying. He’d just crawled out of his own bed and burrowed straight into Dean’s, wrapping his tiny, fragile arms around his big brother’s middle. 

His new scent, already familiar, had been a balm for Dean’s ragged soul. He’d clung to Sam till he’d been able to calm down and breathe again, his face buried in his baby brother’s hair as he’d thanked God – or luck, or whatever – that Sam wasn’t gonna end up like him. 

Dean had thought those moments with Sam would be the last times he’d ever feel better because of an alpha’s scent. Once he’d signed himself away, he’d thought that he’d never again feel that deep, profound comfort, had thought that he’d be forever choking on the scent of alphas who wanted to do nothing but hurt him. He never expected to feel anything but fear. 

He’d assumed that Cas’s scent was a fluke, a one-off, a miracle. Dean had been so sure that even Sam’s scent, after all these years, would frighten him before it would comfort him, would make him remember nothing but pain. 

But now, with his brother wrapped around him once again, Dean realizes how wrong he was. Underneath the rage and the fear, it’s just Sam – his family. The first and greatest comfort Dean has ever known. 

Sam is his heart. And if that beating spot in his chest feels like a wound, it’s just the fierce ache of resurrection after the flatline.  

Cas makes a pretty noble effort to give them space, considering that Sam was trying to choke him to death a few minutes ago. 

He doesn’t leave the room, but he does sit on the other side of it, perched against his desk. His jacket is rumpled, his hair askew, and Dean just wants to reach over and hold his hand. Wants to smooth the look of intense worry and stress off his face, wants to gently ghost his fingers across Cas’s neck and make sure he’s okay. It kills him to wait. To keep all this distance. He feels every inch like a spark of electricity across his skin, each urging him to bridge the gap between them. 

But, even as scattered as Dean is, he understands he can’t – not without scaring his brother. Sam doesn’t understand yet, and he’d see something completely different if Dean were to do something like that now. 

Cas seems to understand that, too, because he doesn’t try to get between them or draw closer to Dean. He doesn’t even speak, for a while – just texts something quickly on his phone and then drops it on the desk next to him, running a nervous hand through his hair. A few minutes later, Alfie is nervously poking his head into the room with a drink carrier in his hand. 

It turns out that it’s tea, which Dean would normally try and complain about. But the warmth of the cup in his hands and the soft, aromatic steam rising from the little hole in the lid helps to calm him down more than he thought it would. He holds onto it like a lifeline. A tether to the earth. 

Sam, for his part, drops his cup on the little table in front of the sofa without a second glance or even the pretense of a thank you. Cas lets that go without so much as blinking, and Dean is once again struck by just how much self control and genuine patience the alpha has. 

Dean and Sam are both sitting on the couch. At some point during their reunion, Sam had steered them that way, plopping down with his hands still wrapped around Dean’s arms, clearly not interested in letting go anytime soon. Dean hadn’t really known what was happening until he’d already found himself on the cushions, and by then, it’d been too late – there was no way in hell he was going to slide back down to the floor with Sam right there next to him. No way in hell he was going to drop to his knees, when Sam so clearly expects him to be normal. He’d sucked it up, and here he sits. 

He’d smacked down his panic with the mental equivalent of a baseball bat, and either he’d been successful or Sam hadn’t been able to differentiate between the new wave of anxiety and the original one. Regardless, Dean is trying his damndest to focus on what his brother is saying and get out of his own head – he’s missed too many of his low, scratchy words already. 

Sam’s leg is flush against his, warm and steady. He tries to focus on that rather than the lingering alpha rage in the air, rather than his own pathetic fear. 

It had been a long time before Sam had let him go, even longer before Dean had been able to go more than a second without drawing his brother right back to him. Even now, Sam keeps squeezing his arm, keeps brushing his hand on his shoulder, keeps pressing their sides together. It’s like Sam’s afraid Dean’s going to vanish if he doesn’t keep some sort of physical connection between them. He keeps looking at Dean like he’s going to vanish. 

Dean can’t really blame him. 

If Sam still feels like he’s seeing a ghost, Dean sees Sam as impossibly and painfully real. He keeps inhaling and smelling family, smelling the Impala, smelling a thousand shitty home cooked meals and a thousand nights of homework and a thousand walks to and from school. He’s high on it. If he closes his eyes, it’s like he’s sixteen and home.  

Sam seems to think Dean’s going to disappear if he lets go, but Dean’s too busy wondering how he’s ever supposed to live without this again. 

“How long have you been with him?” Sam is asking. The question slams a door in Dean’s brain. Makes the walls tremble. 

Dean tries hard to think about what this must look like from Sam’s perspective. He smells like Cas, he lives with Cas. He’s wearing Cas’s jacket, for chrissake. And it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s the lingering heat scent on his alpha that set Sam off in the first place – something that’s Dean’s fault. 

As far as Sam knows, everything that’s happening here is against his will. It’s Dean’s job to convince him otherwise.

“It’s been since… late January?” Dean says slowly, looking to Cas for a nod before he moves on. “So. Uh. A while.”

“And before that?” Sam demands, thankfully glossing past that unforgivable fact, at least for now. “I looked for you, Dean. I never stopped looking for you, I swear,” he chokes, painfully earnest, and God, Dean was an idiot to think Sam could ever forget about him. “Where the fuck were you?”

“I –” 

Dean falters. 

He can’t make himself even come close to the truth – probably wouldn’t tell the truth, even if he could. Because, shit, Sammy doesn’t need to know any of that. It’d only hurt him to hear it, and it’s not like he can do anything about it now. But his brother is looking at him for an answer, his eyes all intense and focused, and Dean already knows he’s not going to get away with giving him nothing. His heart starts to pound a little harder. “I… I was. Um. ”

Cas takes over, thank God. “Those records are sealed, Sam,” he says firmly. It’s the first thing he’s said since they all sat down, and his tone is as impenetrable as a brick wall. 

Sam bristles beside him, and Dean tries really hard not to flinch away on instinct when his tone abruptly takes on all the subtlety of a sledge hammer. “I wasn’t asking you,” he spits, suspicion clear on his face. “I was asking Dean.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dean blurts, looking down at the tea in his hands so he doesn’t have to look his brother in the eye. “Ain’t no point, kid. That part of my life is over.”

Sam looks back at him, and it’s like night and day. He deflates, softens. Reaches over and squeezes Dean’s arm again, his movements slow and obvious – like he’s trying to pet a skittish deer. Dean wishes that wasn’t so close to the truth. 

“Okay. Okay, we don’t have to right now,” Sam reassures him, voice soft. Dean swallows. Flicks his eyes up to Sam’s, and nods. The young alpha’s mouth twists, and he says, for what might be the fiftieth time, “Fuck, Dean. It’s so good to see you.”

“You too, Sam,” he chokes. It’s not enough, but it’s all he has. “God, you too.” 

Across from them, Cas relaxes very slightly, the soft notes of warning that had started to creep into his scent fading. Dean shoots him a grateful look, and Cas nods back at him, his expression strained but his eyes gentle as always. 

Slowly, Dean sets down his tea. He only has to lay his open palm down on his knee for a second before Sam reaches down and holds on, and Dean’s so grateful that he doesn’t have to ask for that. So grateful that Sam just remembers that they used to do this, remembers long nights huddled together on an tiny twin mattress or in the back seat of the Impala. 

“How's, uh.” Dean clears his throat, blinking back the tears that are threatening to spill forth. “How’s Bobby?”

“He’s good. Really good,” Sam says quickly, clearly eager to share happy news. His eyes are shining. “Still working with that same bounty hunter network, if you can believe it.” 

Dean huffs out a little laugh, and the shock of that – of sharing a joke with his brother – is almost painful in its simple goodness. “You mean he ain’t retired?”

“Come on, you know him,” Sam insists, and though he’s so much older, the mischief in his eyes looks exactly the same. “He thinks retirement’s a dirty word. Still works too hard, never takes enough breaks.”

Grinning a little, Dean shares a look with Cas. “Sounds like someone else I know,” he teases softly, and despite the circumstances a tiny smile flickers at the corner of the alpha’s mouth. “So, you, uh. You spend a lot of time with the old geezer?”

Sam squeezes his hand. He knows, of course, what Dean is really asking. “I live with him, Dean.” 

At that, Dean lets out a breath he’s been holding on to for far too long. “Thank God,” he blurts. “I – I mean, I’d hoped –”

Sam’s smile is a little grim when Dean looks up, a little too knowing, but he doesn’t say anything else. Dean has to ask, though, and they both know it. “But what about… um.” He clears his throat, pushes through the fear that’s trying to block the way. “What about Dad?”

Jaw cocking a little, Sam’s gaze hardens. For a moment, the softness is gone from his expression – there’s nothing but a cool hatred there. It makes Dean’s shoulders draw together reflexively, though it clearly isn’t directed at him. Sam’s tone is as frigid as his eyes. “Don’t know, don’t care. I haven’t talked to John in a long time.” 

Dean drops his gaze back to his lap. Nods. He doesn’t know how to feel about that – considering all the other things his heart is having to deal with, the news that John is MIA doesn’t even have the power to touch him right now. 

“But you’re with Bobby now,” he double checks. Even though Sam just told him, he needs to hear it again. Needs the reassurance that someone had been there to care for Sam. 

Sam knows what he’s asking – and that’s the thing with Sam. They’re on the same wavelength so often that Dean doesn’t always have to ask, doesn’t always have to verbalize. Dean thinks that’s good news, considering how few words he seems to be able to actually get out of his mouth these days. 

“I’ve been with Bobby for years,” Sam answers. “When you…” 

The kid takes a breath, something in his voice trembling. After a moment, he picks up again. “Once I got back and figured out what happened, I bought a bus ticket to Sioux Falls. And I never came back.”

Dean looks back at him blankly. He’d hoped that Sam would have eventually made his way there, or that Bobby would have figured out what happened and come to get him. But the idea that Sam had taken himself there, so soon after Dean had left – it had simply never occurred to him. “And Dad just let you?”

Sam laughs. The sound is bitter. “No, of course not. He was on a fuckin’ bender when I left, so I had a head start, but once he figured out I was gone and where I’d gone, he came storming up to Bobby’s door and tried to get me back.”

Dean feels cold. He knows that Sam isn’t in any danger, not anymore. But, having been on the receiving end of John’s righteous rage more than once, he can’t help the fear that grips him by the spine. But Sam shakes his head, huffs out a small, genuine laugh, like the memory is something he’s fond of. “Bobby stuck a shotgun in his face,” he says, mouth quirking at the corner despite what he’s saying. “Cocked it and everything. Told him he didn’t deserve to raise me, not after what happened to you. John took the hint.”

There are tears in Dean’s eyes that he does his best to blink back. He’s so fucking relieved, loves Bobby so much in this moment that he feels like he’s breaking to pieces all over again. “Thank God,” he repeats. “I was so afraid that…” 

Sam shakes his head. Gives him a lopsided, sad smile. “Bobby did things right. He pretty much forced me to go back to school. Pushed me to graduate early. Then he helped me get through law school, too.” 

His brother’s smile falters. He blinks hard, looking up at the ceiling like he’s trying not to cry. “He looked for you too, Dean. Right away. Pulled out all the stops. But it was like you’d vanished. We had no idea where to begin, and by the time we figured it out, you’d already been…”

Dean flinches. Looks down. By the time Bobby might have figured out which training facility he’d been sent to, he’d probably already been sold to his first buyer. Lost in the system. 

“But he never gave up, Dean,” Sam finishes, squeezing his hand and looking at him meaningfully, his hazel eyes earnest. “For so long, he helped me look, no matter how crazy or far-fetched the tip seemed. He never gave up on you. You should… we should call him. Soon.”

Dean’s stomach twists painfully, but he nods. He can’t hide from Bobby. He owes him more than that. His uncle had been the only stable, safe part of his life for many years. The old beta had been their father’s polar opposite in many ways – all the ones that mattered. He’d been more of a dad to them both than John ever had. It’s a relief to know that Sam had, in fact, gone with him – a relief to know that they’d been around to care for each other. 

So he nods, if a little jerkily, and Sam smiles a watery smile. “He’s going to be so goddamn happy. I haven’t, uh. I haven't told him anything yet. Didn’t want to get his hopes up,” he says, and the careful fragility in his tone is enough to tell Dean that false hopes have hit them more than once. 

Cas speaks up from across the room, his voice low and soft. “Perhaps we should hold off on that, just for a while,” he says gently. To Dean, it’s a genuine suggestion – something the alpha is saying because he cares about Dean and can see that he’s already past his limit for just about everything today. But, to Sam, it obviously sounds like a thinly veiled order. 

He stiffens, turns toward Cas with dark suspicion on his face. “You don’t get to–”

“Cas,” Dean blurts. 

Surprised, both men swivel to look at him. He falters for a moment, feeling small under the scrutiny, his skin crawling with the sudden uptick of protectiveness in the air from both alphas. 

“Could you – I’m, um. Hungry,” he stumbles out, and he feels his cheeks flaming red. Jesus, he probably looks so pathetic. “Could you maybe...?”

Cas, probably picking up on Dean’s increased stress, speaks to him very softly “I could have someone bring us something.”

Shit. Dean swallows, his eyes flicking between the two alphas. “Or, um. You could go get it. You know what I like.”

Ignoring Sam’s incredulous stare, Dean focuses all his attention on his alpha. Cas opens his mouth to protest, but he takes one look at the pointed expression on Dean’s face and connects the dots. Understands what Dean is really asking of him. “... Right. You’ll… you’ll be alright?”

“Of course he will,” Sam snaps. Cas bristles.

“I’m fine, Cas,” Dean insists quietly. Cas’s eyes jump back to him. They soften. After a long look, the alpha lets go of the tension in his body with a calming breath that Dean has grown achingly familiar with. 

“I’ll be back in about an hour,” he says simply, giving up the weak pretense of grabbing them a meal. He understands that Dean wants privacy, just like Dean had known he would. 

Well – Dean doesn’t want privacy. But he knows Sam won’t believe a word he says until they’re able to speak alone. He sees Cas resist the urge to squeeze his shoulder as he leaves – out of respect for him or his brother, he doesn’t know, but he misses it as much as he’s relieved by it. 

Sure enough, Sam waits just until the sound of his footsteps fade before turning to Dean, urgency written all over his face. “Look, we can get out of here and be past the state line before he even knows where to start looking,” he says quickly, already halfway off the couch. “We can hide out till we can figure out how to free you, and then –”

“Sam.” 

“ – then you can move in with me and Bobby. The house is just like you remember, and –”

“ Sam."

His brother breaks off mid rant. “What?”

He averts his eyes, unable to face the way his brother is about to look at him for what he’s going to say. “I don’t want to run away.”

He can feel Sam staring at him. “ What?”

“I’m not running,” he says again, trying to sound firm and probably failing miserably. “I don’t want to. I don’t need to.”

Sam shakes his head. Spells out his next words like he thinks Dean is slow, or damaged in some way. Maybe he is. “He owns you, Dean. I don’t trust him. You know what kind of shit his family is wrapped up in? Do you realize who he came from?”

“Yeah,” he says simply, and Sam stops short, shock in his eyes. “He told me. If you ain’t noticed, Sammy, he’s taken that whole black sheep rebellion thing you loved so much to a whole new level.” He looks around the office meaningfully. “He really does just want to help. That’s all.”

Sam falters. “But – Dean,” he says pleadingly. “There’s no reason for you to stay here. You could come with me, with Bobby –”

“And there’s the end of both your careers,” he argues. “The end of your livelihoods, if they catch you. The end of all the good shit you’d do for people otherwise. I’m not gonna have that on my conscience.” Dean’s pushing it, just a little – he knows that Cas would never report him missing. He doesn’t even have to think about it to know that. But he’s not going to tell that to Sam. 

“I don’t care about that! I just want you to be safe –”

“I am,” he shouts, desperate to make Sam understand. “I am. For the first time in over a decade, I am safe. Cas, he – He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He swallows, drops his voice lower. “I… I trust him.”

Sam stares at him. Stares at his jacket, at the tags that are just visible around his neck. “Dean…” 

He recognizes that tone. It’s the one Sam always adopted when he thought Dean was being stupid, thought that he was refusing to see something right in front of his face because he was too firmly in denial. Or, more often, when he knew Dean was lying. It was the tone he’d use when Dean would say things like, “Take more, I already ate,” and, “No, he didn’t hit me. Don’t worry so much, Sammy.” 

Hearing it had always made Dean feel like a failure. It’s no different now. 

He grits his teeth against the hurt he’s feeling. “I know what this looks like – I’m not stupid. I know what you think he’s doing to me.”

Sam looks pained. “I’m just – if he’s taking advantage of you –”

“I just had my first heat since I was fifteen, Sam,” he says bluntly, deliberately skipping over what Alastair had done to him because he’d rather be stabbed than admit any of that to his brother. “I know you smelled that on him. On me. And you know what? He didn’t do anything. I wasn’t even scared that he would try."

His brother’s eyebrows draw together in a painful little line. “First in… you hadn’t had a heat since you…?” 

Sam had been too young to understand heats when Dean had left. He’d barely hit puberty himself, at the time. Dean had done his absolute best to hide them from him, both because he didn’t want to give Sam any reason to think less of him and because there was no reason for Sam to have to grow up any faster than he already had to. 

But Sam is an adult now. He’s even got a background in omega rights shit, apparently. It’s obvious that he knows exactly what the requirements for a heat entail, and knows exactly what it means that Dean has not had one in so long. He wishes that he didn’t.

“No, I hadn't,” Dean finally says, voice quiet. “And within a few months of being with him, I had one while living in his house. A – a natural one,” he makes himself add when Sam opens his mouth, something heated and sharp about to leap out of him. He’s sick to his stomach when he sees the light dim in his brother’s eyes, when Sam understands a little more of what Dean has been through. “And, man. That should tell you everything you need to know.”

Sam finally – finally – deflates. He looks, frankly, a little ashamed of himself, and that’s a goddamn relief.  “I… I thought he was hurting you,” he admits. “I smelled you on him. And I… I assumed...” 

“I know,” Dean says. What he means is, I forgive you. “And as much as I appreciate you throwing a potential creep up against the wall for me,” he adds, with an amused quirk to his mouth, “I’d appreciate it if you left both his feet on the floor in the future. I, uh. I kinda care about him.” 

Sam lets out a tiny half-laugh, more stress relief than anything else, and scrubs at his face. “Jesus. This doesn’t feel real. I was so afraid that I’d never…”

He breaks off. He leaves his hand over his face, swallowing thickly. 

Gently, Dean takes his brother's hand back into his own and grips it tightly. Sam’s eyes are red rimmed and wet when he opens them. “I missed you, Sam. Every fucking day, I missed you. I hope you know that.”

His voice cracks with shame. He hates that he left Sam behind, left him alone. Hates that he wasn’t strong enough to reach out on his own, that Sam had to be the strong one when that’s Dean’s job. 

Sam’s voice is scratchy. “I missed you too, Dean. God, sometimes I felt like I was about to rip in half with how bad I wanted you to come home.” He laughs shakily, running his hand through his shaggy hair in a movement that is achingly familiar. “I was so afraid we’d never find you.”

Dean can’t help the burning pressure in the back of his eyes, the tears that threaten to escape him at that. He stares up at the ceiling, tries furiously to keep it together. He’d never doubted that Sam had loved him, but he’d also, somewhere deep in the darkest corners of his brain, all but known Sam would have moved on. That he would have forgotten Dean more and more, the older he got. But he’d been wrong. 

He pulls Sam to his chest and hugs him again, burying his nose in his brother’s hair. “I thought I’d never see you again,” he whispers, the words slipping out without his permission. 

Sam snakes his arms around Dean and squeezes right back, not caring in the least about the awkward angle Dean has forced him into. “I’m here, though,” he croaks, his voice thick with the same tears Dean's trying unsuccessfully not to shed. “And I’m not going anywhere. I hope you’re ready to deal with me for the rest of your life, you friggin’ jerk.”

Dean’s throat closes at that. He can’t make himself complete their customary banter, can’t playfully call Sam a bitch like he used to when they were young. Not with how often that word has come at him like a whip. So instead, he kisses the top of Sam’s head like they’re kids again, and he holds him close to his chest. 

And, because he finally can, he just breathes.