62. Chapter 62

When Castiel steps out into the hall, Sam looks up at him with wide, pleading eyes. The man is torn to shreds. He’s sitting on the floor, hunched forward, his face pale. 

He looks exactly like Dean does when he’s scared, and the parallel hits Castiel so hard that any lingering anger he might have felt toward the man evaporates just like that. 

Dean’s brother is so painfully young. 

Castiel has no idea how he’s supposed to handle this. How he’s supposed to begin to explain to Sam how far Dean has come. How badly Dean had been broken when he’d picked him up all those months ago, and how stable he is now in comparison. How can he tell the man that his older brother had been afraid to speak? To look him in the eye? To even exist in the same room as Castiel? And how can he bring himself to then explain to Sam where they are now – that they sleep together and take comfort in each other and trust each other? 

He can hardly bear remembering Dean as he was – a broken shell of a person, too scared to lift a finger in his own defense. Even now, despite having watched Dean grow and become stronger, it still makes his stomach twist with nausea to think back to those days. If Castiel is being honest, he still has flashes of those same hopeless feelings; the uncertainty, the doubt, the inadequacy. Lost, drowning, with no clue how to claw his way out of his own desperation, let alone pull another person out with him. 

And Castiel has had time to absorb the reality of what had happened. Sam has not even had that luxury. He went from surviving off his childhood memories of Dean to reuniting with someone he probably doesn’t recognize at all. Someone who has been brutally smashed apart, and is only just beginning to fit the pieces back together.

Sam drops his eyes after a while, looking fragile in the silence. He scrubs at his face and fixes his eyes on the floor. 

Slowly, deliberately, Castiel steps forward. He sinks down across from Sam, his back against the wall, his elbows resting lightly on his knees. The younger alpha doesn’t move. Doesn’t even turn to look at him. His scent has none of the white hot, protective rage it’d held a few minutes ago – there’s nothing but grief now. Guilt. 

“We lost our mom when I was six months old,” Sam starts, after a long, uncomfortable stretch of silence. His voice is rough with emotion. “Dean was four. Just a baby himself. But, if what I remember from my childhood is anything to go by, our dad probably stopped being a parent the second she was buried.” 

He laughs. The sound is hollow. “We had nobody to protect us while we were growing up. Not even Bobby, back then – he didn’t know how bad it was. Not really.”

Castiel tries to keep his breaths even. Tries to refrain from interrupting. Tries to stop himself from exploding in the aching silence between Sam’s words. Dean has told him some of this, of course, but it’s different to get it from Sam’s perspective. 

“But Dean…” 

Sam trails off. He closes his eyes. “Dean took care of me,” he says. “He – fuck, he raised me, Novak. He protected me. He fed me. He taught me everything. All on his own. No one made him do it – he just did.” 

Of course, Castiel doesn’t say. It’s Dean. He loves you. Of course he did.  

“And he did it,” Sam continues, his voice shaking with the injustice of the facts, “as a fucking kid. Nobody raised him, not really. Nobody showed him how to be kind. But fuck if he wasn’t anyway,” he chokes out, scrubbing at his face. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand, sniffing. “Fuck if he wasn’t strong.” 

Castiel feels his heart squeeze tighter in his chest. “He still is strong.” 

The younger alpha finally turns to glare at him, his hazel eyes red rimmed and blazing. “He’s fucking broken,” he sobs, and the words should be cutting, but they aren’t. They aren’t, because they reveal exactly how much Sam is broken by this situation, too. He is clearly horrified by this, and if Castiel believes him to be anything like his brother, then he also probably feels guilty for it.

“That… that person in there,” Sam continues. “That’s not my brother. He can’t be. Because –”

He breaks off. Takes in a deep, shuddering breath, clearly a moment away from losing it completely. Castiel feels something inside of himself twist and ache at the sight – the obvious, devastating grief from the young man. 

“You gotta understand,” he finally says. “Dean never backed down from fights. He would step in front of me no matter what it cost him. Never once did I get hurt, because he was always there, because he always rolled with the punches and got up swinging. And now – now he’s–” 

Every word Sam says is a tightening noose around Castiel’s neck. But he swallows past the lump in his throat, forces himself to open his mouth – he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say. He just knows he has to say something.

“Dean is healing, Sam,” he tries quietly. “He is. I know that’s difficult to believe right now.” 

“How is that healing?” Sam demands, his voice shaking. “How? He’s – he was on the ground. On the ground,” he repeats, like a broken record. “Like he was… like–” 

“Like he was trained,” Castiel finishes softly. 

It hurts to say, and he knows by the way he flinches that it hurts Sam to hear. 

“Yeah. Yeah, and who trained him?” the younger alpha demands, glaring at Castiel with so much hatred that it burns like a physical thing.

“I was not the alpha that hurt him, Sam.”

Sam’s expression shifts from mild confusion to a broken sort of understanding as the meaning behind Castiel’s words sinks in. “But you thought it’d be a good idea to… to buy him yourself,” Sam says shakily. “You. An alpha. When you knew he was probably…”

“He was terrified of me,” Castiel says bluntly. “But we didn’t have a choice. There was no one else who could have given him the time he needed to simply heal. I do the finances here,” he says, the most distant edge of a laugh in his tone. “If anyone here can take time off to help someone with their recovery, it’s me.” 

Sam swallows. “Recovery,” he repeats, his voice toneless. 

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Yes. He was in… he was not in good shape.” 

“He doesn’t look like he’s in good shape now,” Sam bites out. 

As angry as he sounds, Castiel can’t help but notice that there’s no aggression in his scent. Nothing violent, not like before. It’s simply sick with grief. With hopelessness. “You can’t tell me that you’re innocent in all this,” the man continues, something desperate in his tone. “That you had nothing to with breaking him down and – and fucking rebuilding him like an animal. You expect me to believe he’s better?”  

“I–”

“The way he – God, the way he looks at you,” Sam chokes, like he’s ripping something out of his chest. “Like you’re his – his fucking sun, his Northern star. Like you’re his god.” 

“That’s not–” 

“You must like it,” Sam interrupts, the words spewing from his mouth with a desperate intensity. As though, if he says it forcefully enough, it will become true, and he’ll have a way to understand why Dean is the way he is. Like he’ll finally have a physical enemy to fight. “You have to.” 

Castiel stares at him evenly as the young man continues. “You get some sick joy out of it, right? You’d have freed him already if you didn’t want him as a slave, right? So don’t – you can’t lie to me and tell me that you’re not – that you don’t get off on the fact that he’s so messed up. You need him to be dependent on you, so you can use him however you want–”

And then, all at once, Sam cuts himself off with a harsh sob. He presses his hand over his mouth, the pretense of fury he’d been working up crumbling like dust. Like ash. 

Castiel, finally, thinks he understands. 

“I am not the enemy here, Sam,” he says softly, “though I know that it would be easier if I was.”

Sam doesn’t answer him. He just hunches in further, tries desperately to hide the fact that he’s crying. 

In that moment, it becomes painfully clear that Castiel isn’t going to get away with repeating his reassurances and hoping that Sam will finally hear him. Sam is no longer the child that Dean left behind. He’s broken down in a way that Castiel can only begin to understand. A decade of searching, of fighting, of anticipating the moment that he would find Dean and free him – only to find out that Dean is no longer in any danger at all. Sam has years of pent up, justifiable fury raging like a torrential storm inside of him with no target, no outlet. And it’s burning him up from the inside out. 

Sam needs something to blame. Needs it to survive, if nothing else. Castiel knows it will hurt him, knows without a doubt that there is a chance his words will worsen the situation. But he has Dean’s permission to say what he must, and as much as he doesn't want to ever relive this day, it is clear that Sam needs more than pretty words to make up his mind that Castiel is not the person to direct his rage toward. 

Dean needs his brother in his life. He needs him. And Castiel refuses to be the reason that he can’t have him. 

So he takes a deep breath. And he starts from the beginning. 

January

The file lying ominously in Castiel’s passenger seat is the single most terrifying collection of documents he’s ever seen. It’s sitting on the leather upholstery with all the menace of a copperhead in the grass.

He has no desire to open it again. He’d seen enough when Jody had presented it to him the first time around. Had understood more than enough when Balthazar had leafed through it with a tense, tactfully blank expression on his face, gathering information – only to tell him he could expect the worst. Anything that makes Bal green around the gills is something Castiel would like very much to avoid. 

Yet, as much as he does not want to be doing this, he’s here anyway. Because this is not about him. This is about the enslaved man that has had his life cut apart, excised, and documented coldly on the paper in the file next to him. 

This is about helping those that have no power to help themselves.

The looming concrete building of the auction house has all the sterile, brutal indifference of any government facility of its ilk, and Castiel finds the hair on the back of his neck standing at attention as he passes through the barbed wire fencing on the way in – a barrier that is not meant to keep people out, but keep people in. His is not the only car in the buyer’s lot, unsurprisingly, though he’d hoped it would be. He doubts anyone else here has the same good intentions that he does. 

He wishes desperately, pathetically, that he wasn’t here alone. 

Jody had been the one to inform him that he’d be on a solo mission. She’d been sympathetic, of course, but there’d been nothing for it, what with her running in five different directions, Bal in five others, both trying to gather up as many of the displaced brothel slaves as possible. There hadn’t been a single person to spare – not even a beta volunteer. They’d all been busy settling in the men and women they’d already purchased. So Castiel had just nodded when she’d told him he’d be on his own, unable to do anything else. After all, if he’d chosen not to go… 

Well. No one would have come at all. And the man in the file would have been left to his fate. 

Castiel steps out of the car and takes a deep breath before heading towards the building. He passes by a single, bored looking guard who’s staring at his cellphone, noting the singular camera pointed at the entrance. The security in place is… laughable, really, considering how desperate its occupants must be to escape. It seems more like a show than any real attempt at safety. No one, apparently, is too terribly worried that the slaves inside here have enough gumption to run.

The implications of that make him feel ill.

He’s led into a space that looks as though a doctor’s office collided with a hotel; the room is sterile and clean and designed for comfort in a way that is glaringly artificial. Magazines are stacked in a pile on the table in front of a long, stern couch. He is clearly expected to sit and wait. 

As a saleswoman follows him in, he forces himself to ignore the bed in the far corner. Ignores the metal brackets on the walls. Ignores that the floor is made up of impersonal tile, rather than carpet. The sharp, acrid scent of bleach in the air makes Castiel’s stomach roll as he puts two and two together and realizes why. 

Tile is easier to clean, Bal has told him. Easier to wash away the evidence of abuse between showings.  

He declines her offer to survey what they have on block right now – states firmly that he’s already shopped online and only wants to look at the one. Brushes off her attempts to push younger or prettier omegas onto him, his stomach twisting as he grits his teeth and does his best to smile. He’s leaving the rest of these people their fate, and it sickens him. He’d buy every slave in the damn building if he had anywhere to legally put them. 

Eventually, the simpering beta woman gets the hint, and leaves him be. He barely holds in a sigh of relief when she abruptly walks out of the room without a word, flipping her hair in distaste. But he hardly has the time to recollect himself before two handlers show up with the slave that Castiel is supposed to be buying. 

The man in question is profoundly small, and profoundly terrified. 

That’s the only thing that Castiel can comprehend when the handlers lead him forward, a collar and leash around his neck like he’s actually going to try to run. As if the concrete walls and locked metal doors all over this God-forsaken place would afford him any opportunity to escape. The handlers are even carrying stun guns, as though one shot from them would not be just as capable of killing this man as a bullet would be. As if they are being kind by carrying something less lethal.

The omega is rail thin. Is probably about a half-step away from dropping dead on the spot, if Castiel is being honest. Despite clearly having been washed and shaved – an act Castiel knows, from Balthazar’s warnings, was conducted with less care than if the man were an animal – the omega looks worse in person than he had in his photo. In the small two by three snapshot, he’d already seemed hopeless; but here, swaying in front of him with undisguised dread, it seems like the fight has drained from him completely. Like his very will to survive has been beaten away. 

The poor man is hardly walking when they drag him into the room. Castiel would bet money that the only reason he’s not on his hands and knees is because the guard is pulling him along too quickly. As it is, he stumbles, struggling to keep himself upright with his hands locked behind him. Castiel has to dig his nails into his palms to keep from lunging forward and tearing the leash out of the keeper’s hands. 

When they come to a halt in front of Castiel, the omega needs absolutely no prompting to drop to his knees. He does so as naturally as breathing, as if this is the only way he could be – hunched over in front of him in a mockery of prayer. His eyes have not left the ground, and the only indication that he even knows that Castiel is there is the slight flinch backward when he slowly stands up from the couch. Somehow, he manages not to move when the handler unclips his leash and tucks the loop into his belt. He doesn’t even dare to breathe. 

Castiel tries very hard not to look at him. If he does, he’s pretty sure he’s going to do something that will get him banned from the premises – something that will keep him from being able to take the omega home at all. So he numbly exchanges pleasantries, wondering how long he’ll have to wash his hands to scrub off the disgust he feels after playing nice with the two beta handlers, as if they are not the jailers of the innocent. The tormentors of the guiltless. 

“Not sure what the appeal is,” the taller handler is saying when Castiel zones back in, chewing on his gum as he squints up at the ceiling. Castiel half opens his mouth, a well practiced excuse at the tip of his tongue – but it seems that the guard is not really all that interested in the why. “Y’know… I think this one was here before, actually, if I remember right. It’s been a real long time, but…” 

He doesn’t even bother to look at the kneeling man before he barks out, “Scan.” It’s clear he’s confident the order will be obeyed. 

And it is. The omega reacts like someone struck him with a cattle prod – he snaps out of his downward bow and sits up, tilting his chin back and pushing his chest out. Castiel doesn’t understand, at first – and then he gets it. He’s giving the handler access to the starred chip in the clasp of his collar so that the man can read off his personal information. It’s clearly something he’s been trained to do, clearly something he’s experienced many times. His eyes are carefully averted from the free people in the room, resting on a far wall. Blank with fear. 

At the sight of that tiny, etched star on his collar, Castiel feels a wave of nausea crest over him that threatens to drag him under. 

Clearly in no rush, uncaring of the way the omega is trembling in the new position, the handler pulls off the cell-phone like device on his belt and taps it to the man’s throat. When it beeps, he drags it up carelessly. It knocks against the omega’s chin and forces his head back even more. 

He closes his eyes. Swallows convulsively. His face is white as a sheet. Castiel can do nothing about it – can only grit his teeth as the guard reads the string of information that appears on his screen with a mildly interested look on his face. 

“Yep,” he murmurs in a self-satisfied way, scrolling through the data. He sounds like he’s won a private bet with himself. “Dean Winchester. Knew he looked familiar.” 

It is, in fact, the first time that Castiel has heard the man’s name. The online profile had nothing but a string of numbers under the photo. Clearly, it’s the first time Dean has heard it in a while, too – he flinches slightly at the sound of it, his jaw tightening. 

Castiel isn’t the only one to notice. With a ugly little grin, the same handler lightly nudges the omega with the toe of his boot. Dean sucks in a tiny, involuntary breath, his eyes squeezing tighter, and the man’s cruel grin widens. 

“Last time this bitch was here, he bit the dog shit outta me,” he says, holding up his hand and flexing his fist to show it off. There’s a white, crescent shaped scar between his thumb and his pointer finger, and Castiel feels a surge of vindictive pleasure at the sight. A surge of something like pride. But the man glances down at Dean with nothing but that same nasty smile on his face. Whatever pain the omega had inflicted had, Castiel realizes, probably cost him dearly.  “Not so tough now, are yah?” 

The man looks up at Castiel conspiratorially, as though he’s sharing some sort of hilarious secret. “Actually, I’m pretty sure this is the one that they fished outta Hell’s dumpster. You know, one of those brothels that burned down the other day? I hear it was the one where all the real sick puppies go – or, went, I guess,” he amends, chuckling. “Damn hippies gotta screw things up for the rest of us.”

Castiel is careful not to react to that information. He knows this already, of course – Jody’s contact in the building had already passed it along. It’s part of the reason they’d been so quick to try and buy Dean in the first place. 

The handler goes on, oblivious to the subterfuge taking place right under his nose. “Guy that owned the joint picked him up a few years back ‘cause he was a nice challenge – or somethin’ like that. I only remember ‘cause I thought he was crazy for it, since this one was a runner. I figured we’d see him back here within a month.” 

He shrugs, grinning down at the omega again. “Guess I was wrong. He must’a broken the bitch in real good.” 

As demeaning and awful as the words are, Dean doesn’t even flinch at them. Castiel would hazard a guess, in fact, that he is not even hearing them – the scent of his fear is awful in its intensity. He only reacts when the handler, replacing his scanner on his belt, distractedly says, “Down.” 

To the cruel man, it’s clearly an afterthought. To Dean, it’s life and death. The omega collapses back to his hunched over position like it’s a relief. Maybe it is. He smells so hungry. 

The shorter handler finally speaks up, his tone far more businesslike and bored than his partner’s. “That’s just a rumor. We can’t say for sure, since we’re not supposed to share that kind of info,” he says pointedly, rolling his eyes at the other man with a mildly irritated expression on his face. He looks back at Castiel. “Anyway. This one’s a good choice, even if he’s older than most people prefer.” 

The other handler jumps back in, keen to dig in the knife a little more. “You can say that twice. He’s pretty good at taking whatever you wanna dish out – and he’s even doing it quietly, these days. Whoever had him must have worked some magic, ‘cause he wouldn’t shut up before.” 

Castiel realises a second too late that he was supposed to respond. That he was probably supposed to laugh right along with the man. The taller handler squints at him, and his mind backfires, trying to come up with an appropriate response. One that will seem possessive enough – alpha enough – to excuse the fact that he isn’t amused without giving him away. 

“Your website,” Castiel starts stiffly, “assured me that the stock remains untouched by staff while on this property. Was that incorrect?”

The man shrugs, relaxing once again. “Nah, you have it right. We’re not allowed to mess with the merchandise.” He grins a little, the expression more predatory than anything. “‘Cept for corrections, of course.” 

Probably sensing the confrontation that is brewing, the second handler steps in with a diplomatic tone. “I assure you, sir, that the marks documented in his file are the only ones present,” he soothes. Still, he sounds entirely too reluctant for Castiel’s comfort when he adds, “Though, you are more than welcome to do an inspection…?” 

He moves as though to take off the thin, torn shirt that barely covers the omega as is. And the way Dean tenses, the way his breath catches in his chest – it’s enough to grate at the last of Castiel’s composure. 

“No,” Castiel growls harshly. He clears his throat, struggling to keep some semblance of calm in his tone, though he’d like nothing more than to scream at the injustice of it all. He’s extremely lucky that these two men are betas – an alpha would have been able to pick up on his disgust and fury a mile off, and that would have meant questions. As it is, these two men clearly believe he is behaving possessively, and he needs to play into that. “No, I’ve… I believe I’ve seen all I need to. I’d really like to move this along, if you don’t mind.”  

The shorter guard nods, all too eager to make a sale. “Right. Well, we’ll go over particulars right quick, and then Rick here will take him back to be sanitized and all that. Did you want to add any advanced services, or will the basic wash do?” He looks over his clipboard at Castiel when he doesn’t answer right away, and explains, “Basic is just the outside of the slave.” 

Castiel has to take a second to even process the question, his stomach attempting to turn itself inside out when he does. “I. No. The basic wash,” he forces himself to say, “Is fine.” 

“Aww,” the taller handler – Rick – says, sucking his teeth. “Shame. They make such funny noises when they get the luxury package.” 

Castiel knows his lip rises above his teeth in response to what the man is implying, but the shorter handler is already rattling off terms and conditions and details, pointing to paragraphs on his iPad that Castiel is supposed to read. Brain buzzing and numb, he pretends to do so, trying not to watch when Rick picks up the leash again and shakes it tauntingly, ordering Dean back to his feet with a short, impatient, “Up,” so he can put it back on. 

And Dean… tries. Castiel, forgetting the iPad entirely, watches him struggle; stares, horrified, as he attempts to get his legs back under him and stand up properly. But he… he can’t. He’s too weak and unbalanced with his arms pinned behind him to do it. Every part of him shakes violently before he collapses right back down to the cold, unforgiving tile. 

Rick rolls his eyes. He nudges Dean’s thigh impatiently, repeating the order. And Dean becomes desperate to try to do as he’s told, his panic seeping through the room like a sickness. It’s clear that he’s well versed in the consequences that come with daring to disobey, but a combination of fear and pain and malnutrition is keeping him on the ground. No matter how hard he tries, he can do nothing more than scrabble weakly, becoming more panicked the longer he fails to do as he’s told. 

Rick gives up on waiting. He drops the leash to the small table with an eye roll and reaches down to wrench Dean up by his collar, hooking his fingers through the D-ring under his chin and yanking upward. 

The noise Dean makes turns Castiel’s brain off. 

He doesn’t know he’s snarling out loud till he’s already doing it, till Rick is already dropping Dean to the floor in shock. The beta backs up from the shaken, cowering omega with wide eyes, his hands up in the air when Castiel surges forward. He only stops because Dean flinches at the movement too; he curls up at Castiel’s feet with his head pressed to the floor, breathing harshly. 

“Do not,” Castiel snarls, rage making his body hot, making him see red – he can’t even finish his damn sentence. “You will not touch him.” 

Rick backs up another step, exchanging a bewildered look with the other handler. “Easy there, tiger. Damn but you got possessive fast. You ain’t even signed everything yet.” 

Castiel doesn’t have the patience or the mental capacity to say anything rational right now. He leans forward, towering over the tiny, crumpled form of Dean on the floor. “Then bring me his paperwork so that I can,” Castiel hisses, fists shaking at his sides. “And give me the key to those cuffs.” 

They exchange another glance, and this time, it’s the shorter one that tries to talk him down. “Sir, it’s the house’s policy to be sure the slaves are secured and sanitized before–” 

“I. Do not. Care,” Castiel spells out through gritted teeth. He’s so furious that he wouldn’t be surprised if his eyes flashed red – judging by the wary look on their faces, it’s entirely possible that they have. “His paperwork. The key. Now.” 

They don’t argue with him again after that. 

While Rick scampers off to get the forms that Castiel will need to walk out of here with Dean legally, the other handler fishes out the electronic key that will remove Dean’s cuffs. He slowly stoops down to do it himself, his eyes carefully trained on Castiel like he’s afraid he’ll lash out and bite him. 

The assumption isn’t all that far off – there’s something feral inside of Castiel that just won’t sit quietly and watch the omega be abused anymore. For once, he simply gives in to that hot, murderous rage he feels when he sees cruelty like this, and he allows himself to snarl, his teeth sharp. The man quickly moves back. 

“Give it to me,” Castiel orders, and the man does without protest. 

When he kneels down to free Dean’s hands, he wants so very badly to murmur reassurances. To tell him that everything is going to be okay, that no one is going to hurt him ever again. But he can’t – not here, not now. He slips the cuffs from his wrists, thankful, at the very least, that they were put on over the long sleeves of his filthy, torn shirt. He hopes it provided some kind of cushion. 

He tosses the hateful things down on the couch well away from Dean. The omega doesn’t move a muscle. Not even to drop his arms – he just keeps his forehead pressed into the tile, his breaths short and sharp and shallow in his chest, his hands white and shaking where they’re gripping his wrists. Castiel realizes, with a guilty start, that his proximity is probably doing nothing but increasing his panic. So he gets up. Crosses his arms over his chest to avoid the temptation of reaching down to soothe. 

When Rick returns, he reads off the final parts of the contracts without wasting any time. Clearly, they’re trying to get Castiel out of here as soon as possible; and Castiel can’t say that he minds. He doesn’t hear much of what the man says, glazes over the listing of regulations and Dean’s final price and collar options. He waives his right to preview the entirety of the man’s file, which causes the handlers to share a look – he knows he’s supposed to look at it, supposed to inspect his purchase thoroughly, but he doesn’t care anymore. 

So, with no preamble, he gets a manila folder full of stapled papers that contain Dean’s entire horrifying life in the trade – not just what they put on the website, which had been bad enough, but the rest of it too. Numbly, he presses his thumb to the finger scanner built into the iPad that will update Dean’s collar with all of his information. Signs the last, blank line on the contract.  

And, just like that, he owns someone. 

One last seething glare from him sends the two handlers out of the room entirely, and he’s left alone with a churning stomach and a terrified omega, a leash hanging limply from his hand like a dead snake. 

Below him, Dean does not move. 

“We are going home now,” he says, when he can speak without wanting to vomit or choke someone. “Just as soon as you can stand up. Take your ti–”

He doesn’t even have the chance to tell Dean he can go slowly before the omega is lurching to his feet, using his hands – finally – to push himself off the ground. He stumbles forward, lands heavily on his knees, but before Castiel can help him he’s somehow managed to stagger upright. He sways where he stands, clearly only on his feet because he is too scared not to be. 

“Oh,” Castiel says dumbly. Dean doesn’t react to him. Doesn’t even look at him. “Um.” 

Dean swallows. Tips his chin to the side, exposing his throat. Castiel doesn’t get it, at first, but then he connects the dots. 

He’s giving Castiel access to the ring on his collar. For the leash. 

Castiel doesn’t want to use it. He wants to let Dean walk forward like a man, not a dog. But he knows what the expectations are here, knows how the employees at the auction house will expect him to act. Knows just how much attention he’d attract if he did anything outside of those expectations. He cannot afford to play his part poorly. 

Trying his hardest to move gently, trying not to touch him at all, Castiel clips the hateful thing onto Dean’s collar. The omega swallows thickly at the sound. He stares at the slack length of nylon like it’s going to be used to hurt him. 

It has in the past, Castiel knows. Many, many times. 

He wonders, distantly, how long it will take for Dean to stop expecting Castiel to hurt him, too. 

Present Day 

When Castiel finally stops – finally draws in a breath, blinks the horrific images of the auction house and Dean’s tiny, shaking body out of his mind – he is afraid that he has gone too far. 

Sam is whiter than a sheet. His fists are clenched so tightly it is a miracle he hasn’t broken his own bones. But Castiel, to his own heartbreak, is wrong – somehow, it seems, the horror of his new knowledge is not enough. 

“And then?” Sam demands immediately, voice raw. 

Castiel swallows. “And then I brought him home. And I tried my best.” Is still trying his best, really. 

Sam’s face is unreadable. Blank. It has, Castiel thinks, the same eerie emptiness that Dean’s does sometimes, the same hollowness that Bal’s does on occasion – a sudden and purposeful blankness as a form of self protection. “I don’t understand why you didn’t just look for us. His family. You had to have known there were people out there searching for him.” 

“That was… not my choice to make,” Castiel says carefully. 

“It was,” Sam insists, his fists still tight in his lap. “You were the one with the power. Even if you didn’t want to lord it over him, you had to know he’d be too scared to make that decision for himself. You should have called.”

“Sam,” Castiel insists. “The person I brought home in January wasn’t… he wasn’t Dean. Not the Dean that's here today.” 

“You just said–”

“You’re misunderstanding me,” he interrupts. Castiel keeps his voice low. As gentle as he can. “Those first couple of months after I signed his contract, Dean was…”

He closes his eyes. “He was empty, Sam. For the longest time.” 

Sam just stares at him, his eyes shattered with pain. With fear, and doubt, and grief.   

“Physically,” Castiel starts and then breaks off, running a hand through his hair and trying desperately to collect his thoughts. To calm his racing heart. “Physically, he was… in rough shape. Injured. And he was severely underweight. He was so hungry that I could smell it. But you have to understand what he expected from me – the only thing he could expect from me – was cruelty. He wouldn’t eat without explicit permission, no matter how hungry he was. I gave him food, and he still wouldn’t touch it.”  

Sam visibly flinches. Turns away, his hand over his mouth. He looks sick, and Castiel hates that he has to do this. Hates that he has to hurt Sam like this to make him understand even a fraction of what his brother had gone through. But Dean had told him to be blunt, and he thinks that he was right. Because, looking at Dean now, Sam would never guess how much he’s recovered. How far he’s come. 

“When the doctor came to check him over,” Castiel continues, “he was terrified that I would be angry at him. He thought he would be punished because he was injured, or that he’d be sent back to the auction house because of the state he was in,” he says, shaking his head. 

He feels nauseous at the memory alone, but he repeats it. Sam needs to hear it. “He wouldn’t look me in the eye for days. Wouldn’t call me by my name for weeks. He thought that he’d been bought as a plaything, or worse. Freedom was not even a thought in his mind, Sam – contacting you wasn’t something he could even begin to consider.” Castiel shakes his head. “I didn’t know you existed until he started trusting me enough to tell me.” 

“But– But he wouldn’t just–”

“You have to understand,” Castiel presses; willing him to, begging him to. “You know how strong your brother is. How proud. But the hell he’d come from was so bad that he was begging me to keep him, even though he didn’t understand my intentions. Even though he thought I wanted to do the worst things imaginable to him.” Castiel swallows, thinking back to how Dean would flinch at his every move, no matter how slow. How, even once he’d reluctantly begun accepting food and warm showers, he’d thought Castiel was trying to trick him into a heat. “Sam, he-“

“Stop.” 

The word escapes Sam as a pleading whisper, and Castiel would like nothing more than to do so. But he can’t, because he cannot have Sam enter his office and hurt Dean again. Expect him to be sixteen-year-old Dean again.

“You have to see,” Castiel says softly, “how much he’s accomplished. How long it took for him to get here. How hard he’s worked. The fact that he was sitting on the couch with you instead of kneeling on the floor is… significant. And if you don’t see those things, if you can’t recognize how hard he’s trying, you’ll never see how easy it will be to set him back, even unintentionally.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Sam whispers. His voice is terrible and small. “I didn’t mean to scare him. I never wanted to scare him.” He sounds shocked to even admit it out loud. It’s clear he never thought he’d have to.

“I know,” Castiel says. He wants, absurdly, to reach across the carpeted space between them and hold the young alpha’s hand. He has a feeling that Sam would not appreciate it, so he folds his hands in his lap instead. “I know you didn’t. You love him.”

And with that, Sam finally looks him in the eye, and breaks completely. 

Castiel is struck by how utterly small the man looks. Just an hour ago, Sam was pinning him to the wall by his throat. Now, he’s hunched in on himself, not even trying to hold it together, his grief and his anxiety and relief at seeing his brother overwhelming him all at once in a tumble of scents. He buries his face in his arms. Castiel can smell, above all else, his distress. His raw, sprialing despair. 

“He was my best friend. And now he’s scared of me,” Sam says, the words muffled and so fragile they barely exist at all. 

“He still loves you,” Castiel says gently. “That will never change.” 

Sam takes a long time to collect himself. His breath turns from ragged sobs, to hitching inhales, to something quiet and even. He is silent for a long time. Castiel doesn’t interrupt him, doesn’t try and hurry his grief along. He just leans back against the opposite wall. In the back of his mind, he’s glad that the hallway is clear, which is something he has a feeling he can thank Bal for.

Eventually, Sam unfolds himself. He wipes at his face. Inhales deeply. His nose is red and his eyes are watery, but he looks calmer. Less like a hurricane and more like an adult. “He’s not scared of you,” he says, his voice rough. “Is he?”

Castiel looks up at the drop tile ceiling for a moment, considering his next words. “On occasion, he is,” he says slowly. “If I startle him, or if his mind is… somewhere else.” He winces, thinking back to the parking garage. “Or if I am particularly dense or careless.” 

“But he ran behind you,” Sam says. Castiel can see the gears turning in his head. “He was scared. And he went to you.” 

Despite the circumstances, Castiel can’t help but feel a flutter of pride at that. Can’t help but feel good, that he’s earned Dean’s trust in that way. “He did,” he agrees, keeping his tone even. 

“Even though you’re… even though he knows who you are.” 

“Who I was, Sam,” Castiel corrects. “I was a Morningstar in name only. And now, I am not even that. I haven’t been for a very long time.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t argue with him – but he doesn’t agree, either. “You really built this place?” he asks after a moment. “All of it?”

“Yes. With help,” Castiel confirms, nodding. “None of it would have existed without Balthazar. And, as I said,” he continues, shrugging, “I mainly handle the finances. The important work comes from others. I have provided the facility, but I do not handle the rehabilitation.” 

“Except with Dean,” Sam amends. He sounds more tired than angry. It seems that the fight has finally drained out of him, and now he’s looking for the facts. 

Castiel nods slowly. “I… suppose so. Though Dean has benefited from the center as well. I cannot take all – or even most – of the credit.” 

“But he spent his… he had a heat. With you,” Sam continues slowly. “While living with you.” 

Castiel takes a breath. “... Yes.” He gives Sam a wry smile. “First time for both of us, as a matter of fact. And I’m not sure who was more nervous.” 

Sam furrows his brow. “Why would you be…”

“Because I care about Dean very much,” Castiel says, rubbing a tired hand down his face. “It distresses you to think that you might have caused him to panic, yes? I feel the same. And heats are a… particularly stressful event for someone in Dean’s position.”

Sam tucks his hair behind his ear. Examines him for a long, silent moment. “You… care about him?” 

Castiel can very easily see where this question is going. But he won’t lie. Won’t back down from this. He won’t deny Dean in that way. 

“Yes,” he says, looking straight into Sam’s eyes. “I do. And he…” Castiel swallows. His voice gets quieter. “He also cares for me.” 

Sam presses his lips together. Takes a breath. Looks away. “Did you fuck him?”

The question is so blunt and so sudden that Castiel can’t help but flinch. “No,” he blurts, eyes wide. “He’s not in a position to consent to that, Sam.” 

“And if he had been?” Sam narrows his eyes. “When he is?”

The question hangs between them. Awkward. Dangerous. There is no scent of rage coming from the man yet, but Castiel can feel it looming in the distance. Can practically hear the rolling crescendo of the next thunderstorm. 

But, before he can answer it, the door next to Sam pops open. 

Dean peers down at them both. He looks better now, after nearly an hour to recollect himself. He glances at Cas first, his smile soft, and then focuses his attention on his brother. 

“When I am, that’ll be between me and Cas,” he says bluntly, but there’s no anger in his words. He’s so much calmer now that Cas feels his breaths come a little easier, feels the iron bands of stress around his heart loosen. “Okay, Sammy?” 

Sam stares up at his brother with wide, scared eyes, the beginnings of the hostility he’d begun to build fading in an instant. “Dean, I– Man, I’m so sorry –” 

“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Dean says. Castiel can see the strain in the corners of his eyes, can see the slight tremor in his hand. But he reaches down, an offer to help Sam up off of the floor anyway. “I’m sort of a basket case, these days.” 

Sam only hesitates for a second before letting Dean clasp his hand and haul him up; straight into a hug. Sam grunts in surprise. Slowly, his arms come up to circle Dean right back, and he relaxes. Drops his head onto his brother’s shoulder. Lets loose a long, shaky breath.

“I really am sorry,” Sam murmurs quietly. 

“I know,” Dean says. “Me too.”  

Castiel pushes himself off of the wall and stands, though he stays a respectful distance away. Dean looks at him over Sam’s shoulder. His eyes are soft. Full of love, and it settles something in Castiel’s chest.

After a long moment, Dean pats Sam on the back and pulls away, keeping him at arm’s length with his hands clasped tightly to his shoulders, as though unwilling to let him go very far. “I’m tired,” he declares, looking his brother in the eyes. “And I want to go home.” 

He turns to glance toward Castiel, and when he speaks again, his voice is a little softer. “Can we?”

Castiel nods. He wants so very badly to reach down and hold Dean’s hand, but he won’t. Not now. Not in front of Sam, who is wiping his eyes and clearly trying very hard to avoid another breakdown. Dean, of course, surprises him. He reaches down and intertwines their fingers, tugging Castiel into a hug of his own. 

For a split second, he doesn’t care that Sam’s watching, doesn’t care about the dozen ways this could go wrong. He just enjoys the embrace. The way Dean’s scent calms his racing heart and forces his mind into the here and now. 

And, even when they pull apart, Dean doesn’t let go of his hand.