63. Chapter 63

“You must be insane.” 

Castiel sighs and adjusts the phone between his ear and his shoulder a little better, carefully sweeping the remainder of the broken glass in his bathroom into a manageable pile. “Probably.” 

“You know this is a terrible idea.” 

“Most likely.” 

“And you’re going to do it anyway.”

“It seems that way,” Castiel confirms, dumping the glass shards from the dustpan into the bin. “Yes.” 

Balthazar’s sigh is sharp. In the background, Castiel can hear Dean cleaning up the kitchen, and, past that, the faint birdsong outside. The windows are all open, of course – they have to air out the house somehow. 

“Every hotel we checked was booked,” Castiel says after a while, spraying bleach on the tile. The dried blood from his spectacular fall a few days ago dissolves and drips down the edge of the tub in a rather macabre way. “Apparently there’s a convention in town this week.” 

“Yes, I know,” Balthazar replies, irritated. “Those bloody monster novels. Drivel.” 

“You’ve read them all,” Castiel reminds him, smiling a little when Bal huffs. 

“Entertaining drivel. Still,” he continues moodily, “it baffles me that they’re able to sell out every damn hotel in the area for a solid weekend.” 

“They’re very popular.”

Balthazar doesn’t reply for a moment. “I still think this is stupid. I don’t see why he can’t stay with me–”

“No,” Castiel says sharply. 

Balthazar has to let him chew on the silence for a good long while before Castiel relents. “... Sorry.” 

“Accepted. I don’t need a babysitter, you know,” Balthazar grumbles. “I’m even behaving myself with him right now. He’s picking out fancy fruit and everything.” 

Castiel had asked Sam to give them some time to decompress before he arrived for the night, and Balthazar – refusing to take no for an answer – had swooped in and demanded that Sam go to the store to help him purchase groceries to replenish the stock that he and Dean had mown through during the last week. It had been a rather transparent way to occupy the young alpha’s time for a while, but Sam hadn’t seemed to mind. He’d probably known that they needed to clean. 

Castiel is very glad they had – Dean’s lingering heat scent had been nearly overwhelming when they’d returned, and he can only imagine how that might have played out had Sam been walking in the door behind them. He doesn’t want to know.

“Does he seem… stable?” Castiel asks, throwing the last of the sullied paper towels into the garbage bag. The bathroom is once again clean, so he wanders back out through the freshly neutralized living room and into the kitchen. Dean is stacking plates into the drying pan, and glances up at him with a tired smile. He mouths, Bal? and Castiel nods, tying a firm knot in the bag and dropping it into the garbage hidden in the pantry. 

“Hard to say,” Balthazar muses. “He’s been examining that peach for quite a while. And he keeps jumping when I talk to him. All wide-eyed.” 

“I think you make him nervous,” Castiel rumbles, and Dean snorts behind him. “It wouldn’t surprise me if he finds you more intimidating than me.” 

“Fascinating theory,” Balthazar deadpans. “Oy! Just put it in the bag, mate!” 

“Balthazar,” Castiel chides gently, but his friend only scoffs at him. 

“He’s fine. Keeps checking his phone. Has he called their uncle yet?”

Castiel sighs. “No. I believe I managed to convince him to hold off on that. At least until after dinner, anyway.” 

“One thing after another,” Bal grumbles. 

Castiel hums in agreement. “Thank you for going with him,” he says, after a moment. 

Balthazar hums right back – half you’re welcome and half shut up. He hangs up without so much as goodbye, but Castiel knows him well enough not to be worried. 

He slips his phone into his back pocket and moves into the kitchen. The rest of the house is clean and smells fresh, and the last stack of dishes that Dean is now drying by hand seems to be the final thing on the list. He grabs his own clean dishrag and joins the efforts, putting things away silently. 

“It doesn’t feel real,” Dean says after a while. He’s not looking at Castiel, his attention focused on the plates. Slowly, he turns one in his hand, running the drying cloth along the outer rim. “Feel like I’m gonna wake up any second now.” 

Castiel nods. Carefully sets the last dish in the cabinet, hangs the rag back over the sink. “It’s going to take some getting used to.”

Dean nods back. He chews on his lip and wipes the counter for a while even though it already looks spotless. Castiel doesn’t stop him – at this point, he’s familiar with Dean’s propensity to clean when he’s got too much on his mind. 

Wincing as he does so, because he doesn’t want to add anything to Dean’s stress, he reluctantly sighs and brings up the topic that is on both of their minds. “Where would you prefer that we sleep?”

Dean, predictably, groans. “I know,” Castiel murmurs. “It just seems like a good idea to…”

“To get our shit together before Sam gets here, yeah,” Dean mutters. 

Sighing, he rubs at the bridge of his nose, glancing up at the ceiling toward their current sleeping arrangements as he leans back against the counter. “Can’t leave him down here in your room,” he says, glancing at Cas, “‘cause that’s a recipe for alpha bullshit if I’ve ever heard one.”

Castiel makes a face. “I wouldn’t mind.” 

“But he would,” Dean points out. He presses his palms to the counter behind him, gripping the edge. “He’s already gonna be all weird about being in someone else’s… uh. Territory,” he explains, wrinkling his nose. “Plopping him in a room that smells like you ain’t a real good idea.” 

“There are extra bedrooms upstairs,” Castiel offers, shrugging. “I don’t see why he couldn’t just–” 

Dean stares at him, raising his eyebrows, and Castiel trails off. “Ah. Yes, that might be a little…”

“Awkward as fuck,” Dean grunts, pushing himself off the counter. He pauses, staring out the window for a moment before turning and ambling away.  “I think it’s starting to rain.” 

He’s right – the sun has slowly been obscured as they’ve worked, and now Castiel can hear the scattered plip-plop of a light drizzle start to float in through the open windows. It’s comforting enough that he doesn’t even consider closing them – Dean doesn’t either.

Bemused, Castiel follows Dean out of the kitchen, down the hall. The omega lingers outside of Castiel’s room door for a moment, and then pushes it open and strides purposefully inside. 

It’s only the second time that Dean’s been in his bedroom, and Castiel can’t help but remember the last time. Can’t help but think of how he’d woken up to Dean hunched over on the floor next to his bed, how broken he’d been. How Castiel had comforted him, half awake, and how Dean had woken up the next morning in the throes of his heat. 

That had been less than a week ago. It feels like so much longer. 

Dean stands in the middle of the room. He’s fiddling with the seam of his pants, a nervous, self soothing motion. It makes Castiel hesitant to enter behind him, makes it so that he lingers against the doorframe and watches Dean instead, carefully silent. 

Dean slowly moves forward. Trails his hand across Castiel’s sheets, biting his lip. 

“Do you want to–”

“Would it be okay if–”

They pause and look at each other, and laugh, and the tension dissipates like smoke. Dean recovers first, a slight blush dusting his cheeks. “Guess that answers my question.”

“What question was that?”

“If you’d be cool with me sleeping in your room, dummy,” Dean says, the fondness in his tone betraying his words. 

“Our room,” Castiel corrects, and it’s his turn to blush when Dean’s eyes widen. “It wouldn’t be… it wouldn’t be you in my space. It would be our space.” He clears his throat. “If you wanted that.” 

Dean swallows. Glances down at the bed again, chewing at his lip. “I want that,” he whispers. 

Castiel steps forward. Draws Dean’s hand into his own, and lets out a long breath when the omega presses into his side. They are quiet for a moment. Both of them are soaking in the enormity of this, he thinks – of Dean telling him what he wants. He squeezes the man’s hand. “Then you have it.” 

Dean gives him a shaky, small smile. He looks longingly at the bed, as though he’d be quite happy to lay down and go to sleep right now. Castiel can’t exactly blame him for it. “How are we arranging things?”

Dean blinks. Turns to stare at him after a half second, perplexed. “Arranging?”

“I mean… where do you want the bed? In the corner? To stay here? Are we keeping it on the frame?” he asks, nodding at it. “We should probably move it before we bring all your blankets and things down.” 

“You’re letting me pick?” Dean says blankly, still staring at Castiel like he’s the most bewildering thing he’s ever seen. 

Castiel furrows his brow. “Of course. Where we sleep matters very little to me, Dean. I’m comfortable regardless. But I know it matters to you.” 

Dean half laughs. Takes a deep, shaky breath. “One day shit like this is gonna stop surprising me,” he says, almost to himself. 

And, haltingly, he directs Castiel as to how he’d like their bedroom to be arranged. 

They end up with something more cozy than Castiel’s original configuration. The mattress gets plopped on the floor and pushed into the corner as they’d done with the twin beds upstairs. It takes a lot of encouragement for Dean to admit he wants that; takes a lot of Castiel standing still with a neutral expression and waiting on Dean to drum up the nerve to tell him he’s more comfortable with two walls on either side of him. To admit that he likes to nestle into the corner. To quietly tell Castiel, with his eyes on the floor and his face bright red, that he likes when the alpha is between him and the rest of the room. 

While he’s dragging the bedframe into the garage, Dean begins carting his blankets and pillows downstairs. He drops all of it into the middle of the mattress and waits, slightly nervous, for Castiel to smile at him reassuringly before he begins to tug and push them into their proper places. Castiel does his part by carrying in the blankets that had still been waiting in the dryer and handing them off to Dean to arrange. He goes back upstairs and gathers up the man’s clothes in a laundry basket, carting them downstairs on one hip. Dean just shrugs when Castiel asks if he has a preference for a dresser side – he takes the hint and chooses for him. 

When he’s finished, he turns around to find Dean frowning skeptically at the last blanket, his hands wrapped around it tightly. He’s lined the edges of the mattress along the wall with the rest. “You don’t mind that it’s all… nested up?” Dean asks, looking up at him. “I know it’s probably not what you want…” 

“What I want,” Castiel says patiently, “is for you to be as comfortable as you can be.” 

Blinking a little harshly, Dean nods. Chews on the inside of his cheek. The blanket stays in his hands – becomes twisted around them, in fact, while he struggles to calm himself down. 

“I’m really. I mean. I’m.” Dean stops and then starts, and finally sighs harshly. “I’m fucking nervous.” 

“Because?”

Dean shoots him a look, and Castiel takes the hint. “Ah.” 

“Sam... he didn’t really, um. React. To... us. Do you think he understood? I tried to be pretty damn obvious, but-” 

“I think he understood just fine,” Castiel soothes. He tries to make his scent calming. Tries to communicate to Dean that it’s okay to relax. “It will take a while for him to wrap his head around it.” A while for him to come to terms with it without boiling over in rage, really, though Castiel doesn’t say that. 

Dean’s face pinches into a frown. “I don’t want him to leave,” he finally admits, and the words break a little right at the end. “I…” 

Wordlessly, Castiel steps forward. He brings Dean to his chest, his arms loose around him, and gently nudges him to scent. Dean does so with lackluster enthusiasm, huffing out a breath that brushes over Castiel’s skin in a warm burst of air. “I don’t think there’s much of anything that could pull him away from you, at this point,” Castiel reminds the omega. “He’s not going to leave, Dean.” 

Dean touches his forehead to the hollow of Castiel’s throat. Exhales, long and slow. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Shit.” 

Castiel just runs his hand up and down Dean’s back for a while, keeping his breathing even and slow. Unfortunately, Dean does not relax as he’d hoped. He stays as tense as he’d been before, his grip tight around Castiel’s waist. Like he’s holding on for dear life. 

“Would you allow me to try something?” Castiel asks, more hesitant than confident. He winces, sure that Dean will turn him down if Castiel himself sounds unsure. 

But Dean doesn’t even ask what he means. He just nods. Tired and slow. Swallowing an unexpected wave of gratitude, Castiel takes charge – if only for a little while. 

He gently pries the last blanket from Dean’s hand and plops it on the bed, and then leads Dean to the living room, depositing him on the couch. It’s not that he isn’t wary of doing so – knows how it affects Dean to be there alone for any length of time, and he has a sneaking suspicion that Dean would probably like to be on the floor right now. But Castiel has a plan. 

Though there is a tiny uptick in his nervous scent when he lands, Dean doesn’t complain. He just wraps his arms around himself and waits patiently, tucking his knees up to his chest in the corner of the couch. He fiddles with the string on his hood now, watching Castiel with tired eyes. 

He had changed into soft pants and a hoodie the instant they’d arrived home – complaining under his breath about how he smelled like territorial alphas. If he’d taken a slightly longer shower than necessary to rid himself of his own fear scent, Castiel hadn’t called him on it. 

Turning on the television, he switches the input to his Netflix account and hands the remote to Dean. The omega takes it with a familiar exasperated look, but he starts scrolling through the choices anyway. This, at the very least, is a routine they’ve become familiar with thanks to his heat – Dean knows good and well that Castiel rarely has a preference. Knows that if Castiel does have a preference, it’s only what Dean wants to watch. 

While the omega is otherwise occupied, Castiel pours him a glass of water. Cuts up an apple. Dollops a glob of peanut butter into the center of the bowl and arranges the fruit around it like a flower. He retrieves one of the freshly laundered comforters off of their bed and tosses it over his shoulder. 

When he returns to the living room, Dean already has a movie cued up. The sound is so low it’s nearly muted. He’s staring off into space, his green eyes troubled and distant. When Castiel sets the quilt on the back of the couch, he jumps a little, but he lets out a breath – and tries visibly to relax. Castiel suspects that he’s doing so more for Castiel’s sake than his own. 

“Scoot,” Castiel says, nudging him, and the omega huffs out a laugh as he does just that. He hands the omega the cup with a raised eyebrow, and Dean drinks down nearly half of it without protest as Castiel arranges himself. 

He lies horizontally on the couch, resting his head on the armrest and a small, square pillow. From the opposite end, Dean looks at him with an exhausted sort of bemusement. “Come on,” Castiel coaxes, and, still slightly hesitant, Dean does. 

He leans forward until Castiel can gently maneuver him, pulling him up so that Dean’s body rests on his own. He drags the heavy fabric of the blanket over them both, and Dean laughs and bats it away from his face, wriggling until he’s comfortable. They end up chest to chest, Dean’s ear resting on his heart. 

It’s silly, what they’re doing. Neither of them should be tired, really. It’s hardly past four. But they are. Of course they are. Dean, especially. 

He nuzzles into Castiel’s chest with a low hum, slowly but surely relaxing properly for the first time in hours. The tension leaves his body until he’s a puddle, and the movie is so low that the gentle drizzle of rain outside becomes their background noise. 

“Better?” Castiel asks. 

“Yeah. S’nice,” Dean murmurs, his eyes half lidded and heavy. “Missed you.” 

It makes no sense. They’ve been together most of the day. But Castiel knows what he means. Going abruptly from non-stop contact to a carefully maintained distance had been… difficult. Even more so than he’d anticipated. So, this – this gentle warmth and weight of Dean on his chest, his rhythmic breathing falling in line with Castiel’s own, his scent curling into something content and relaxed – it feels right. Feels like coming home, more than walking through his own front door ever has.

Castiel brushes Dean’s hair back from his face and looks at him closely. The omega is exhausted. Worn down from everything he’s been through for the past week or so. “I missed you too, Dean.” 

Dean just hums. He sighs happily when Castiel drapes an arm over his shoulders. Snagging the bowl of apples off the table, Castiel sets it on the cushions next to them, and Dean idly reaches down to snag a slice. He nibbles at the corner of it without much enthusiasm, but he is eating, and Castiel isn’t going to complain. 

“Heard what you said to Sam,” he eventually says, when the bowl is mostly empty. The movie plays on quietly in the background – neither of them are really watching it.

“Which part?”

“Everything after your scent got all nervous, there at the tail-end,” he admits, a little sheepish. “Sorry.” 

“You had a right to eavesdrop,” Castiel assures him, because he had. Still, he can’t help but be glad that Dean hadn’t heard the rest. He understands Sam’s need to grieve, understands his need to process, but he also knows how much his words would have hurt Dean. “I’m not upset.” 

“Didn’t figure you would be,” Dean says softly. “What’d you have to tell him? Before that, I mean.” 

Castiel swallows. “I, um. I told him about the… the auction house. Bringing you home.” 

Dean doesn’t really react – doesn’t flinch, or smell hurt or embarrassed, like Castiel had been afraid he might. He just breathes for a while, his scent soft and just as relaxed as before. “I barely remember that.”

“You weren’t exactly in your right mind.” 

“No,” Dean agrees. His eyes drift closed completely. “I wasn’t. Wish I’d known then what I know now.”

“And what’s that?”

A soft smile tugs at the corners of Dean’s mouth. “That it was a rescue mission. That it was, you know,” he mumbles, tapping Castiel’s chest with two fingers. “That it was you.”   

Castiel can’t help but blink harshly at that. Can’t help but feel a dizzying degree of relief that he’d been there, that he hadn’t been completely spineless and elected not to go to the auction house after all. Where would Dean be now, if he had? The possibility frightens him more than he can say. 

He just listens to Dean breathe for a while, listens to the rain, and smiles to himself when the omega officially drifts off to sleep. He’s not sure if it will ever stop being novel to him that Dean trusts him enough to do so – that Dean feels enough comfort and safety with him to let his guard down completely. 

Perhaps it is that contentment which makes him foolishly fall asleep, as well. 

Sam is trying very hard not to be nervous that he is, essentially, at Balthazar’s mercy. 

He supposes he should find it lucky that the man decided to drive his car. He had thought that Balthazar would insist on him leaving the Impala at the center – had assumed he would, honestly, because of the way Sam had treated him. But, to his surprise, Balthazar had trailed him out to the parking lot and taken one look at the Impala before narrowing his eyes at Sam consideringly. 

“Didn’t peg you as a man who had this kind of money, Winchester,” he’d said, his tone neutral. “You must have quite the fancy gig back home to be able to afford a petrol fiend like this.” 

Sam had blushed. “Uh – no, actually,” he’d admitted, fiddling with the keys. “This isn’t even… really my car.” 

The omega had raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation. “It was my dad’s,” he’d said haltingly, feeling the familiar sting that thoughts of John always brought. “Was, um. Was supposed to be Dean’s, really.” 

Balthazar had tilted his head back. Had examined Sam with a cool, calculating sort of intelligence. “This is the car you two grew up in?”

Sam had only blinked at him, stunned. “Yeah – how did you…” Balthazar hadn’t seemed inclined to help him choose his words, so he’d swallowed down his confusion. “Did Dean tell you that?”

The omega had only shrugged. “He told Castiel,” he’d replied, and had held out his hand for the keys with no further explanation. 

Sam hadn’t hesitated for long before handing them over. He’d figured, honestly, that it was a good way to start earning some forgiveness. A good way to start earning the man’s trust. 

He hadn’t bothered to tell Sam where they were going. Hadn’t spoken much to him at all, really. Strangely comfortable in the car, he’d jabbed at the station buttons with an irritated expression on his face when a Celine Dion song had warbled out. It had been about fifteen minutes before Sam hadn’t been able to take it anymore. 

“I’m sorry about… earlier,” he’d said, fixing his eyes on his hands.

Balthazar had just snorted. His scent had stayed smooth and unbothered. If Balthazar really had been enslaved, Sam had realized distantly, the fact that he was in a car with him at all was an achievement. 

He’d nearly said as much, and then had just as quickly thought better of it. 

Now, Sam is wandering around a supermarket, following Balthazar as he shops for groceries. Sam himself hasn’t been much help – earlier, he’d apparently been looking a little too much like a “lost puppy,” and Balthazar had shooed him off to the produce section to pick out some fruit his brother would like while he answered a call from Castiel. Sam hadn’t had the heart to tell him that he didn’t know what fruit Dean liked. It hadn’t been something they could really afford as kids. The closest they’d ever come were canned peaches and pears that Sam is pretty sure, in hindsight, that Dean had to have stolen.  

Plus, Dean had been worried about remembering what Sam’s favorites were. Not the other way around. 

He’s been staring down at the fruit for a while, distractedly checking his phone and forgetting what he was doing, when the omega loses his patience with him. At Balthazar’s slightly unfriendly, amused insistence, he plops some peaches into a plastic bag and twirls it until it’s secure. They join the apples and pears he’d picked out earlier. The collection looks pitiful. 

As the omega pushes off in a seemingly random direction to go pick out yet more food, Sam follows behind him silently. He’s been afraid to say much. Balthazar isn’t acting afraid of him, isn’t even acting upset with him – but Sam still feels like he’s one step away from disaster. 

His phone vibrates for the fiftieth time in his pocket, so he pulls it out. Charlie, again. Wondering why he hasn’t updated her. Her messages have gone from gentle curiosity to something approaching alarm, and, though Sam suspects he probably shouldn’t, based on the cloak and dagger behavior from Balthazar earlier, he can’t let her think he’s been kidnapped or something. 

Sighing, he types out a brief message. 

I’m okay, Char. Can’t talk right now though.

I promise I’ll call when I can.

He instantly gets about a dozen texts in reply, but he can’t focus enough to read them. He stares down blankly at the screen instead, feeling too large for the store. The lights are too bright, and there are too many people in here, and everything is loud, and Sam just wants to go home. 

He wants to go home. The thought shames him, because he shouldn’t even be considering it. And he won’t go home – he couldn’t be made to leave Dean’s side at gunpoint – but he still misses the safety and security of Bobby’s scrap yard and the South Dakota sunshine more and more with each passing second. 

“Who are you texting?”

Sam stiffens. He clicks the phone off, sliding it into his front pocket. 

Balthazar is guarding the aisle in front of him with the cart turned horizontally, blocking Sam’s way. He seems to care very little that he’s in the way of other customers, as well – Sam shifts uncomfortably as a beta woman huffs at them and shuffles through the tiny space left open next to the peanut butter.

He clears his throat, dragging his attention away from the woman and back to Balthazar. “A friend.” 

Eyeing him skeptically, Balthazar squints. “A good friend?” His gaze is blatantly suspicious. 

“Yeah. She’s my best friend, actually.” 

“Someone Dean knows?”

The question is blunt. Harsh. And for a moment, Sam is confused as to why it would matter. But then he realizes that Balthazar is worried that Sam is, once again, jumping the gun and taking the choice away from Dean. Forcing him to move faster than he already is. 

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I met her in college.” 

Balthazar relaxes a little, but the frown doesn’t leave his face. “She knows what’s going on?” he asks, no pretence of polite disinterest in his voice. It’s very clear that he’s concerned about the answer. “Who we are? What we do?”

Nodding slowly, he winces when Balthazar’s jaw cocks. “She’s an omega,” he offers quickly, feeling like he’s once again messed up. “Not interested in like… in causing a problem for you guys. If that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Balthazar snorts. His hackles do go down a little, but now he looks skeptical for another reason entirely. He turns and finally pushes the cart on, ignoring the daggers that the buildup of people behind him are glaring his way as they mutter and walk past him. “An omega, hm?” 

He says the words neutrally, but Sam can figure out what he means easily enough. He pushes back the urge to sigh. It’s not the first time he and Charlie have been mistaken for a couple, and it won’t be the last. “She’s just a friend.” 

“Right,” Balthazar drawls skeptically. “Because that’s common.” 

“Well, maybe not,” Sam says, trying his damnedest not to sound defensive, “but she’s not into alphas. Or men, for that matter.” 

Balthazar’s eyebrows climb up his face with every word out of Sam’s mouth. He glances at him out of the corner of his eye, blatantly assessing. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

He furrows his brow. “Why would it bother me?” he asks, bewildered. “I don’t care who she’s into.” 

Apparently it’s the right thing to say, because Balthazar… relaxes. It’s the only word for it. Sam hadn’t even known he wasn’t relaxed up until that point. He hums, returning his attention to the register he’s making his way toward. 

“She’s the one who helped me find you guys,” he adds, wondering if he’s helping or hurting himself in Balthazar’s eyes. “Never would have figured out where to start looking, if not for her.” 

Balthazar’s attention sharpens. He looks back at Sam, once again stopping his cart in the middle of a walkway. “And how did she stumble upon us?”

“I think it was a Reddit post, or something,” Sam says, frowning. “Yeah. She said some beta volunteer was asking for tips on working with omegas at NRR.” 

Balthazar draws in a breath and releases a long suffering sigh. He looks up for a brief moment. “Of course he was.” 

Without another word, he releases the cart and leaves it marooned, Sam standing next to it like an idiot. “I need to make a phone call,” he says curtly, and then he’s striding out of the store and into the rain that started up while they were shopping. 

Stunned, it takes a moment for Sam to get himself together. Sheepishly, he grabs the cart and pushes it out of the way, his head down as he avoids the glares and grumbling of other customers. “The bitch really oughta’ show some respect,” someone mutters, but Sam’s too slow and overwhelmed to catch who it was.  

No one else calls the person out, either, and so the comment slips past like so many of them do. Unaddressed and uncorrected. Yet another bigoted person who will remain unchallenged. 

Sighing, Sam runs a tired hand through his hair. Slips his hand through his shirt collar and fiddles with his necklace, an idle, self soothing motion that he’s done since he was twelve years old and came home from science camp to find it on his pillow, and his big brother gone. 

He pushes the cart toward the checkout. Picking up the bill is the least he can do. 

Balthazar clambers out of the car without a backward glance, leaving it running and ignoring Sam entirely. He ambles up the path in no particular hurry, despite the persistent rain, and disappears into his home without so much as a word. The door slams shut behind him. 

When Sam had exited the store to meet the man outside, Balthazar had been lingering under the awning by the front door to avoid the rain. He’d hung up the phone with an irritated expression on his face, one which morphed into transparent surprise when he took in the sight of Sam, pushing a cart laden down with grocery bags. Sam, too tired to try and figure it out, had simply walked past him into the rain and started loading the groceries into the Impala’s trunk. 

Doing so had made him think, predictably, of Dean – the creak of it opening, the rattling of the license plate when he had slammed it closed. Balthazar had silently joined him, after a moment, both of them indifferent to the drizzle, and had started the car when Sam had taken the cart back to the return without a word. 

They’d been quiet on the drive here, for the most part. Balthazar had not explained where they’d been going, and Sam had been, frankly, too scared to ask. When they’d pulled up to the modest little cabin tucked off the main road, nestled into the trees, he’d been visibly confused. 

“Novak lives here?” he’d asked, baffled. 

Balthazar had snorted at him, shaking his head. “Of course not. I do,” he’d corrected, once again failing to explain why they were here instead of with Dean. But, considering the trunk full of groceries is meant to be dinner for them all, Sam had decided not to protest. 

Instead, he sighs. Pulls out his phone once again. 

There are about fifty new texts from Charlie, most of them consisting of multiple question marks and little else. He scrolls through them, swallowing as he does so. Feels the sting of tears at the back of his eyes at her encouraging words, ranging from enthusiastic optimism to gentle consolation and everything in between. Now that she’s no longer fearing for his life, she’s back to her usual peppy self. 

If he leaves her hanging for much longer, he has a feeling that she might start the drive up to the center herself. Swallowing, he hovers with his thumb over the call button. Presses down with a strange sort of finality. 

It rings for about half a beat before Charlie’s excited voice floats over the line. “Sam! Tell me there’s good news, bud!” 

Sam opens his mouth to tell her just that. Really, he does. But all that comes out is a half aborted little sound, so small that it’s a wonder she even hears it. 

“Hey,” she says sharply, all traces of her excitement gone. “What is it? Is he–”

“He’s here,” Sam blurts, and it’s like pulling a railroad stake out of his chest. He’s already crying and he doesn’t even care – all the shit he’s been holding in since Dean left his sight with the alpha that owns him comes pouring out all at once. “Charlie, he’s here, and he’s – he’s okay, and–”

“Whoa!” she interrupts, shocked. “Wait. You mean–”

“I mean you were right,” Sam stresses, covering his eyes with his hand. He thought he’d cried himself out already. Thought he’d be able to get through this without crying at all. But it seems like he’s going to stay a half second away from an emotional overload for quite a while longer. 

“You mean the rehab is legit?” she all but shouts, the excitement in her voice returning full force. “He – he’s there? Sam! You found him?”

“Yeah,” Sam chokes. And for some reason, the relief hits him all over again – that same staggering, knee buckling release of tension. “Yeah. We found him,” he corrects belatedly, shakily. “You – I mean, you were the one who–”

“Stop that,” Charlie demands distractedly. “Who gives a damn who it was? That doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you found him,” she stresses, joy shooting through her words like a beam of light. “Oh my God.” 

“I know,” Sam laughs shakily. “I know. It doesn’t seem… it doesn’t seem real.” 

“What’s he like? He must have been so happy to see you, right?” she gushes. Sam can practically see her jumping up and down in excitement. “Oh my God, he must have been so relieved, I can’t even imagine–” 

“I–” 

Sam breaks off. Feels Charlie’s infectious joy inside of him dim as he watches fat drops of rain gather together and slide off of the windshield. “He, uh. He was at first. But I… I made a real ass of myself.” 

“What do you mean?” Charlie asks, puzzled. 

“I mean I, uh. I kinda. I lost my temper,” he admits, voice small. “His situation is… it’s complicated. And when I showed up there, they didn’t know who I was. Some stuff got…” 

He glances up at the house when the front door swings open again. Balthazar is backing slowly out of the doorway, carrying a load of stuff in one hand and an umbrella in the other. He pops it open before stepping off the porch. “Lost in translation,” he finishes, throat tight. “I was… I was pretty awful, Charlie.” 

“Dude,” Charlie says slowly. “I mean… I’m not gonna pretend to know everything about the situation. But you’re a gentle giant if I’ve ever seen one. What happened?”

Sam takes a breath, flexing his hand. “A lot. I ended up really… really scaring some people.” 

“You?” Charlie asks incredulously. “I’ve never even seen you yell.” 

Sam huffs. “Well, that’s because I don’t yell at you.” 

“Damn right,” she agrees, momentarily distracted, but she sobers up again quickly. “Well, I mean… things will work out. If you were wrong, just apologize. Don’t do it again.” 

“It isn’t that simple,” he murmurs, watching as Balthazar draws closer. He looks like he’s carrying an overnight bag along with something else Sam can’t quite see. “But I’ll try.” 

“That’s all you can do,” Charlie agrees. Sam doesn’t think it’s his imagination that she sounds a little choked up. “Shit, Sam. I can’t believe it.”

“Me either,” he says, swallowing. “But I’m getting there.” 

“Keep me updated?”

“‘Course,” he agrees, and clears his throat. “Love you, Charlie.” 

“Love you too, Samsquatch,” she says fondly, and he hangs up the phone just as Balthazar swings open the rear door on the driver’s side.  

Sam glances behind him, slipping his phone into his pocket, as a small, slightly rain spattered duffle bag gets thrown into the bench seat in the back. It thuds against the opposite door and lands with a muffled thump on the leather seat. After that…

“Is that a… is that a cat?”

Balthazar doesn’t even look up at him, setting the pet carrier down gently in the seat. Absurdly, he buckles the seatbelt around it, carefully tugging it this way and that until it’s secure. The cat inside of the plastic crate stares at Sam with unblinking, yellow eyes. 

“A true scholar,” Balthazar snipes, closing the door. He shakes the rain off of his umbrella and closes it, tossing it in the back as he slips into the driver’s seat. He adjusts the rear-view mirror so that he can see the cat a little more clearly. 

Feeling slightly insane, Sam glances between the surly looking feline and its apparent owner. “And… Why are you bringing your cat?”

“Don’t have a pet sitter,” Balthazar says blithely, turning around so he can properly back out of the driveway. 

Sam digests that for a few seconds. “You mean you’re…” 

“You didn’t think I was going to let you stay in that house alone, did you?” the man asks, glancing at Sam with a patronizing expression on his face. “After all that bollocks?” 

Sam flushes. Glances down at his hands. “I… I’m not going to…” 

“Right,” Balthazar says shortly. “You weren’t going to lose your temper the first time either, I’ll bet. Or the second time.” 

Sam feels guilt fester inside of himself. “I didn’t know,” he says weakly. “I… I thought he was being hurt. What was I supposed to do?” 

Balthazar is quiet for a long while at that. It seems like he’s digesting the words, like he’s turning them over in his mind. “Who were you on the phone with, just now?” he asks after a minute or so, a complete non sequitur. Sam wonders if that means he’s forgiven, or if it means he never will be. 

“Charlie.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Just-a-friend Charlie.” He eyes Sam, taking in his no doubt red eyes. “You spilled the beans, I take it?”

“I had to,” Sam mumbles, shrugging. “She’s been with me through a lot of… well. She’s been helping me look for a while.”

In the back seat, the cat mrrows. Sam can’t tell if it’s agreeing with him, or just as skeptical as Balthazar probably is. 

“She certainly gave our IT guy a run for his money,” Balthazar says. Surprisingly, he doesn’t sound all that upset about it. “He seems convinced that she’s good.” 

“She is,” Sam agrees, surprised. “She, uh. She really is. Better than anyone I know, that’s for damn sure.”

“Suppose it’s a good thing, in the long run,” Balthazar says, sounding almost distracted. “Not saying that I don’t wish you’d waited – I do. Dean was working up to it,” he adds, his voice almost… compassionate. Sam stares at him, confused by the abrupt change in attitude. “I know it probably seems to you like he was hiding from you. But he wasn’t ready.” 

Sam swallows. “I didn’t know how bad it would be,” he whispers, the admission painful. 

He doesn’t even realize what’s happening for a few minutes, but when he does, he glances up in surprise. A soothing, ginger and lemon tea scent is filling the car, faint enough and warm enough that Sam can feel his heart slow down. Can feel himself let out a long, slow breath. Balthazar is… he’s calming him. Intentionally. Even after all the shit Sam put him through. 

“He didn’t want you to know,” the omega replies gently. “Hence, the waiting.” 

Sam bites his lip. “I didn’t know he was safe,” he says, swallowing. “Didn’t know he’d have anyone protecting him.”  

The admission costs him. It hurts. Because, truly, Sam has spent a very long time imagining the rescue of his brother. Never, not in a million years, did he think it would look like this. 

“Hell,” he adds, a twist of nausea snaking through him as he thinks of the way Dean had run behind Novak. As he thinks of the sight of their hands intertwined, of gleaming silver tags around Dean’s neck, of him slipping into the passenger side of a vehicle that was not the Impala and going home with someone who was not Sam. “I still don’t know if he really has protection at all.” 

Balthazar doesn’t reply to that for a very long time. 

“Do you know,” he says slowly, his voice carefully distant, “that when Castiel met me, I was homeless?” 

Sam blinks. Turns to look at the omega in the seat next to him. He certainly doesn’t look homeless now – clean shaven, hair coiffed, his sweater and jacket and shoes expensive and neat. “He had every opportunity to take advantage of me. Every chance to possess me. After all, I was a damn runaway,” he says. With one hand, he reaches up to tug down the collar of his turtleneck, exposing the raised, gnarled white scar around his neck. “And he knew it, too.”

Balthazar shakes his head, flicking on the turn signal as he switches lanes. “But he didn’t do anything of the sort. He just… he stood up for me. Stood with me against the people I was running from.”  

Heart thudding in his chest, Sam swallows. Wonders, mouth dry, how someone would even begin to escape. To survive without documents, to live through being constantly hunted. Wonders how strong Balthazar must be to have lived through that. To continue to live the life he lives every day – to create something like the center. To face down strange alphas, like Sam. To befriend one like Castiel. 

As if he’s reading his mind, Balthazar snorts. “And, cherry on top – would you like to know who I was running from?” he asks, the edge of a laugh in his voice. “Go on. Guess. I bet you’ll never get it. The coincidence is some soap opera level nonsense.” 

Sam feels his stomach tie itself into a knot. He stares at Balthazar with wide, horrified eyes, and the omega laughs at him, shaking his head. 

“Really,” Balthazar continues finally, his eyes focused and distant on the horizon line, “the fact that I trust him is all the proof you need. I have every reason not to do so, yeah? And he’s my best friend. My brother. Has been, really, for nigh on a decade.” 

There’s a long, difficult stretch of silence, in which Sam can only try and force himself to say something, his throat tight. “I just… I just don’t want Dean to get hurt anymore.” 

Balthazar sighs. Long and slow. He glances at Sam out of the corner of his eye, his gaze softer than it’s been before. 

“Those two idiots,” Balthazar finally says slowly, taking a wide, gentle turn as he does so, “love each other. And Castiel would rather off himself before hurting anyone – let alone someone he loves. Take it from me,” he adds, his mouth twisting into a smile that looks like it has one hell of a story behind it. 

Sam nods, and Balthazar glances at him with something like desperation. “Can you just… can you try and remember that tonight?” he asks. He sounds tired. He probably is. “That’s all I ask.” 

“I’ll try,” Sam promises, nodding again. “Really. I will. And I’m… I’m sorry.” 

“Me too, kid,” Balthazar says, and for once, there’s no overlay of suspicion or sarcasm over his words. “Me too.” 

When they do finally pull up to Novak’s house, Sam takes it in with wide eyes. 

He knows that Castiel has more money than he has ever even dreamt of. Knows what kind of empire the man comes from. So he’d somewhat expected the man’s home to reflect that – to be modern and sleek, with tall glass walls and strange geometric shapes. The sort of thing that the ultra rich would be comfortable in. 

This is… not that. 

It’s quite a drive to even get to the house. A long, winding gravel road that leads them off the main stretch of asphalt and into the trees. Balthazar hugs the curves with a practiced sort of familiarity that tells Sam he’s made this drive many, many times. 

The forest looks untouched on either side of the car, verdant and green, and with the rain stopped and the sun slanting through the trees in the late afternoon, the road is dappled beautifully with the shadows of pine and oak trees that are standing high above them. 

The house itself is… well. Homey. 

It sounds stupid, but that’s Sam’s first impression. It’s surprisingly soft, surprisingly quaint. A large, two story home with white wooden siding and grayish blue details, obviously older and careworn. The eaves are still dripping and dark with water, though the drizzle had stopped about half an hour ago. A large porch is jutting out into the front yard, its painted columns covered in vines and flowers, and there is a long, wooden swing swaying gently from the ceiling. Judging by the leaves all over the place, it hasn’t been cleaned in a while. 

The thought, weirdly enough, brings Sam comfort. If it had been, he’d be wondering if Dean had been the one to clean it. 

There are bees bustling in an overgrown flower bed – buzzing around bushes full of blooms that have reached so high they nearly cover the lower windows, landing gently on flowering grasses and plants that have burst out of their places and come spilling over the sides of the garden. The railing on either side of the stairs leading up to the front door is nearly hidden by chaotic, unpruned life. 

“I keep telling him he needs to hire a gardener,” Balthazar muses, startling him. Sam glances at him briefly, but his eyes are drawn right back to the house a moment later. He can see a pair of muddy boots next to the door, tipped and leaning against a pair of shiny, carefully placed loafers. 

No. The house hadn’t been what he expected at all. Not from the threatening, imposing figure of an alpha like Castiel Novak that Sam had built up in his mind. 

He wonders if Dean is happy here. Wonders if this is the home he never got to have. 

Balthazar startles him out of his thoughts as he opens the trunk and begins wrestling with the brown paper bags full of food. Shaking himself, Sam trails around to the back and helps him. He doesn’t even realize how much he’s carrying until he looks up and sees that Balthazar is staring at him, eyebrow raised, with a singular bag resting on his hip. 

“And they say chivalry is dead,” he muses, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. 

Sam flushes. “I didn’t mean–”

“Oh, I know,” the omega says, waving his hand. “Shut up.” 

Embarrassed, Sam follows him up the creaking porch steps with his armload of groceries, trying not to trip and fall on his face. The omega slips a key into the lock with practiced ease, not even bothering to knock on the door, and strides inside and straight to the kitchen. It’s obvious he’s familiar with the place. Clearly, he’s been here many times – he moves out of the room as Sam sets down his own bags, confident and sure of himself. 

“We’re here, Cassie,” Balthazar calls out, and then abruptly goes silent. 

There is a muttered curse that has Sam curiously following him out into what he supposes is the living room. He doesn’t understand, at first, what’s wrong – but after a double take, he sees it. 

Dean’s asleep on the couch, a heavy blue comforter over his shoulders. He looks peaceful, relaxed, his face free from the tension that’s been etched into it since Sam first arrived. 

Problem is, Novak looks just as peaceful from where he’s settled in. 

Right underneath him. 

Before his hackles can even properly rise, before the words he wants to shout even make it to his mouth, Balthazar is in his face. He presses a finger to his own lips and shoves Sam backwards, insistent in a way that is jarring. It’s enough that Sam forgets to be angry for a moment, enough that, before he knows it, he’s back out on the front porch. 

The door clicks shut behind Balthazar, and Sam feels his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Feels his heart start to pound, feels his teeth start to show. He steps forward, intent on going back inside, not caring that the door is blocked by the man in front of him. 

“Stop that,” the omega snaps, and Sam flinches in surprise. 

He backs up a step when Balthazar leans into his space again, his gray blue eyes furious. “You just apologized for acting like a territorial knothead, and now you’re going to do it again? Four bloody seconds in?”

“He – they –” Sam sputters, indignant, but Balthazar is having none of it. 

“They’re having a kip,” he hisses, “on the sofa. Dean feels safe, if it wasn’t obvious. Do you have any idea how hard that is, for someone with his history? To try and sleep in the presence of an alpha? Any alpha?”

Taken aback, Sam swallows. Blinks at Balthazar’s furious, frustrated expression. “I… don’t,” he says slowly. “I…”

“No,” Balthazar growls, “you don’t. Dean trusts him.” 

Sam takes a breath. “But he doesn’t – he can’t know, not really–” 

“Do you think your brother is stupid?” Balthazar demands hotly. “Do you think he doesn’t know, by now, who it is safe to trust? How to survive?”

“I–” 

“You,” Balthazar interrupts, “are not thinking at all. You’re acting first and not bothering to ask questions until after the damage has already been done. What would have happened, just now, if you’d shouted at them? If you’d woken them both up in a panic? Use that alpha brain of yours, Winchester!”

Sam can feel the blood drain out of his own face. He can… pretty easily imagine it, actually, and he wishes that he hadn’t a split second later when he envisions the way Dean would have looked at him. How terrified he would have been. 

“Right,” the omega fumes, when Sam stares at him with wide eyes. “Right.” 

Sam takes another step back. Turns around. Rubs a hand over his face, exhaustion and frustration and anger – at himself – washing over him. He doesn’t know whether he wants to kick the porch railing or kick himself or get in the fucking Impala and drive away so that he stops hurting his brother. 

He never wanted to do that. All he’s ever wanted to do was help Dean. 

“Fuck,” he says, and his voice breaks. 

Balthazar is silent behind him – furious, from his scent, but also… concerned. Worried. And Sam is so angry at himself for making the man feel like that again already, for so quickly going back on his word. For so quickly forgetting himself. 

“I shouldn’t even be here,” Sam says, his chest aching. “I’m just making everything worse.”

“So you’re just going to give up?” Balthazar demands as he steps back in front of him, livid. “You’re just going to hide like a coward?”

“No, but I –”

“Get over yourself, Sam!” Balthazar snaps. He puts his hand on Sam’s chest and shoves him back toward the house, and Sam stumbles. Lands on his ass with a dull thud on the wood, looking up at Balthazar in shock. 

“Your brother,” the omega seethes, “loves you. He wants you in his life, and if you turn tail and run now he is never going to forgive himself for chasing you away.” 

Sam stares up at him, feeling his eyes fill with tears. He takes in Balthazar’s thunderous, almost desperate expression, the way his hands are balled up into bloodless fists at his sides.

Balthazar watches a tear track down Sam’s face. And he deflates. 

The fire in his eyes dies down to nothing, and his shoulders slump. His hands loosen, and when he closes his eyes, Sam can see something like regret flicker over his features. “Dammit, kid,” he mutters. 

“Sorry,” Sam chokes out, mortified. He wipes at his face, hating himself for crying. For being so weak. “I’m. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Balthazar is silent for a long, tense moment. Finally though, he sighs. Drops himself down on the porch step next to Sam, his elbows on his knees. 

For a while, they stare out into the yard. 

Without a word, Balthazar abruptly stands up and goes to the car. For a wild moment, Sam thinks he’s about to leave – instead, he slings open the passenger door and pulls out the cat carrier. Sam realizes, with a guilty start, that he’d forgotten the thing was even in there. 

Balthazar doesn’t wait till he’s inside to open the thing. He just unlatches the little door right there and then, and the fluffy Siamese looking cat jumps out lightly and shakes out its fur. It pads over to the door like it owns the place, paying Balthazar no mind as he reaches back inside the Impala for his bag. 

Sam watches, his eyes blurry with tears, as the cat approaches him. It sniffs at his shoe skeptically with a soft, questioning mow. 

“He’s very handsome,” Sam says, stupidly. 

“She prefers to be called stunning,” the omega corrects. He stoops down to scratch her head, his eyes soft. “Keep him company, love,” he murmurs, and then he’s walking inside with his bag slung over his shoulder. 

Fighting off a surge of hysterical laughter, Sam swallows. Reaches out to allow the cat to sniff him. She does so with a wary eye on his face, and he half expects her to dart off into the woods. 

She doesn’t, though. She mrrows again, and hops right into his lap, circling and kneading into his slacks until she’s comfortable. Plopping down, she begins to purr – loud, rumbling vibrations. 

With a gentle hand, he pets through her long, soft fur, and wishes the rest could be this easy.