64. Chapter 64

Dean wakes up, bizarrely, to the strong scent of lemon tickling his nose.

He blinks blearily, the world slowly coming into focus. His head feels heavy, his thoughts sluggish, and he can’t quite remember why he’d be smelling citrus. He’s pretty sure the soap they’d used to mop the floor had been scent neutral. He shuffles his hand up to rub at his face, trying to wake up completely. 

Cas shifts underneath him, making a low, confused noise. “Dean?”

“Not quite,” Balthazar replies, his voice far too close. 

Castiel shoots up so fast that Dean yelps in surprise and nearly tumbles off the couch – it’s only the alpha’s arms around him that keep him from doing so. His heart is pounding, not because he’s afraid of Balthazar, but because Cas is stressed, looking frantically around the room with wide eyes. His grip is tight around Dean like he’s scared someone is gonna try to snatch him away. A half second later, the alpha seems to realize that he’s clinging on. He hastily lets go and clears his throat, his eyes flicking around. 

That’s when Dean connects the dots, and his heart stops in his chest. Because if Bal is here, that means – 

“Relax,” the older omega says, rolling his eyes. “He’s on the porch.” 

Dean and Cas both let out twin sighs of relief. Dean, for his part, feels like an idiot – he hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and thinking about what Sam would have done had he found them like that… 

He rubs a hand across his face. “Why’s he out there?”

“Fresh air,” Balthazar replies succinctly. He doesn’t offer any more explanation, and Dean is too busy yawning and trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes to ask for it. 

Cas, on the other hand, seems to be wide awake. He’s looking at Balthazar with an expression that looks almost… caught. 

“Um,” he says eloquently, his face bright red. “I – Dean and I were…” 

Balthazar, for his part, doesn’t say a word. He just remains sitting on the coffee table, one leg crossed over the other, his hands resting on one knee. His face is innocent and blank. “You were… what?” he prompts slowly. Dean doesn’t think he’s imagining the amusement in the words. 

Dean snorts, and both men glance over at him. “You’re in trouble, Cas,” he teases, elbowing the alpha gently. Cas laughs, but the sound is more than a little nervous – he keeps looking back at Bal like he’s expecting the other shoe to drop. 

“Not with me,” Bal says, waving his hand. “I don’t give a rat’s arse who’s sleeping where at this point. But I’m not the one you’re trying to convince here.” 

Dean feels his stomach sink at the same time that Cas closes his eyes, pressing his lips together in frustration. “He saw, didn’t he.” 

It isn’t a question and it doesn’t need an answer, but Bal claps his hands together anyway. “Bingo, Winchester.”

“I’m surprised I wasn’t awoken by a fist to the face,” Cas says, rubbing at his jaw. Dean can’t help but agree – he’s extremely thankful that didn’t happen, because he doesn’t want to know how he’d have reacted. Waking up to the scent of alpha anger and pain would have been…

Well. It would have saved him some time explaining exactly how fucked up he is to Sam, anyway. Because he would have been on his knees so fast he’d have made a dent in the floorboards. 

Cas looks equal parts guilty and stressed, as though the same thought is on his mind. “I swear to you, Bal, I wasn’t intending on falling asleep. I meant for that to go... more smoothly.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Or at least more slowly.” 

“I’m sure,” Balthazar says dryly. “Regardless, he did see, and was promptly escorted from the premises.” The words are casual, and not at all a reflection of what had probably happened. Dean is, once again, impressed by Balthazar and his ability to keep his cool.  

Dean swallows. “He was mad?” 

“Livid,” Bal confirms. “But I think he’s calm now.” 

“Is he still conscious?” Dean asks, only half joking. 

“Not for lack of trying, on his part,” Balthazar says, rolling his eyes. 

Dean rubs at his eyes one last time, wishing, for just a moment, that he was still asleep. He feels incredibly guilty a half second later. Sam is outside their front door. Sam is waiting for him to get his shit together. 

Sam’s been waiting for over a decade. 

“I’m gonna go tell him to come in.” 

Dean holds up a hand at the alpha’s instant protests, frowning. “Cas, it’s fine. He’s not gonna hurt me.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” Cas says. “I just…” he trails off, confusion written over his face as if he thought he knew what he was about to say and just realized he, in fact, does not have a clue.

Balthazar snorts, breaking the tension. “You don’t even know why you’re worried,” he says, then raises an eyebrow, nearly amused, as though he has already figured it out. And maybe he has. Dean is learning that the man is much sharper than even he gave him credit for. “You’re not going to like it much.” 

Baffled, Cas looks between the two of them. Dean sees the moment he puts it together – his mouth thins into a tense little line. “I’m not being territorial.” 

Dean takes Cas’s hand in his own, squeezing it tightly. “No one said you were,” he says gently, even though that’s exactly what Bal had been implying. 

The older omega rolls his eyes and waves a hand at them as he gets up and heads toward the kitchen. “Cassie, come help me put up groceries,” he demands, not at all subtle, and Cas takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling. He’s tense, the lines around his eyes deep and pronounced, and Dean feels a sudden, swooping sympathy for him. 

Cas has been so unbelievably kind to him. And Dean’s not sure if he even knows that. If he has any idea how good of a man he is.

“Hey,” Dean says softly. “You’re doing really good, you know.” 

Cas blinks, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he looks back down at Dean. “What?”

“I mean,” Dean says, blushing and suddenly self conscious. “Um. I mean you’re handling all of this really… really well. This is a lot.” 

The alpha stares at him for a moment. “It’s a lot for you,” he protests, and for an awful moment Dean thinks that he’s being belittling, that he’s comparing Dean’s ability to handle things to his own, and finding Dean lacking. But a moment later, Cas cocks his jaw to the side. Shakes his head. “It’s not about me. And I have no right to be this…” 

“Upset?” Dean finishes, and Cas’s expression tightens all the more. “Yeah you do, Cas.” 

“But it’s not…” 

“It is.” 

Cas falls quiet, staring down at their intertwined hands. Dean takes a deep breath. “You care about me. And when I’m stressed, you’re stressed too. You’ve… You’ve been taking care of me through all of this. Through the heat, and Sam and… and everything before,” he mumbles. “And you can’t tell me it’s been easy.” 

“It’s exactly what I want to be doing,” Cas replies carefully, his voice a low rumble. His eyes are searching. Confused, almost, as to why Dean would ever question his willingness to do those impossible things. 

“I know it is,” Dean says, because he does know. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy. Doesn’t mean you ain’t allowed to be tired.” 

And at that, Cas slumps a little. His shoulders fall as he looks down. “I’m sorry,” he says, like he has anything at all to apologize for. 

“Dunno what for,” Dean says gently. And, because Cas still isn’t looking up at him, Dean cups his jaw. Waits until he does. “Give yourself a break.” 

Something flickers in his expression. “I… am not so good at that. Or so I’ve been told.”

“I’ll bet,” Dean says, smiling. “But you’ll get there. I’m gonna help you practice.” 

That’s enough to pull a small smile from the man. He covers Dean’s hand with his own, pressing down like he wants to keep the touch there. “You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

Dean nods. “He’s my baby brother, Cas,” he says, feeling something in his chest glow with those simple words. “He’s big and tall and loud, but he’s still just Sam. You know?” 

Cas nods. He untangles himself from the blanket that’s wrapped around them both, giving Dean’s hand one last pulse before he trots into the kitchen. 

When Dean steps out the door, Sam doesn’t even look up. He’s staring down at Bal’s cat in his lap – Couch – and petting her with big, gentle hands. He looks so much like a kid in that moment that Dean wants to scoop him up and carry him around on his shoulders like he used to, as dumb as that would be now. 

“Hey, Sammy.” 

Sam looks up, surprised. He swipes a hand across his face, but not fast enough for Dean to miss the tears. 

“You gonna sit out here all night?”

Sam sniffs. Looks back down at his lap for a moment. The sun is setting behind the treeline, soft yellows and pinks and the last of the storm clouds making a beautiful picture. “Wasn’t sure if I was gonna be allowed back inside.” He doesn’t ask if Dean knows why he’s out here – apparently, he assumed Balthazar would rat him out. 

“Well, this ain’t Bal’s house,” Dean says mildly. “And he doesn’t call the shots.”

“And you do?”

The question is soft. Genuine, and not meant to be hurtful. Dean sighs, drumming his hands on the door frame. “Somehow, yeah,” he says. “Pretty sure Cas would invite the damn Queen over if I asked him to.” 

It gets the desired huff of laughter, and Sam shakes his head. He stands up carefully, holding Couch gently to his chest. She mrrows at him, and he obligingly sets her down on the porch instead. She trots past Dean and into the house like she owns the place. 

“Sorry,” Sam says softly, his eyes on the wood. “About earlier, I mean. I… I’m gonna pull my head out of my ass. I promise.”

Dean opens the door a little wider, moving to the side. But when Sam hesitantly steps inside, he puts a hand up, resting his palm on his brother’s chest. 

Sam stops. Stares down at him, his eyes tired. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a damn week. “Yeah?”

Dean steps forward, and draws him into a hug. 

Sam makes a surprised sort of noise, half muffled. A moment later, he hesitantly brings his arms up around Dean in turn, and when Dean tightens his hold Sam does too. He takes a deep, steadying breath of his brother’s scent. Feels Sam do the same to him. And for a moment, it’s a lull of calm. 

Then Sam stiffens a little. “You smell like him,” he grumbles, though he at least doesn’t sound mad about it. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“I like smelling like him,” Dean replies automatically, only bothering to think about the words once they’re already out of his mouth. He blushes, pulling back from Sam and clearing his throat. When Dean checks, his face is a little red too – he’s avoiding Dean’s eyes. 

“Come on,” he says, pushing past the discomfort as best he can. 

He’s got a feeling that it’s gonna be a long night. 

Five minutes later, Dean has had about all the discomfort he can handle. 

He’s sitting next to Cas on the couch, his eyes on his lap. The alphas in the room have been making extremely stilted and stiff conversation, and Bal had taken one look at the three of them and disappeared back into the kitchen with a snort and an announcement that he was going to cook dinner rather than deal with this testosterone fiasco. 

Cas had tentatively tried to ask about the drive here, and Sam had said something short and awkward back, and they’ve been doing literally nothing but staring at each other silently for the last couple of minutes. The elephant in the room doesn’t get brought up, not even when Sam’s eyes drift to their blanket on the back of the couch and harden slightly. Dean sees that he makes a conscious effort to calm himself, sees the way he smooths his hands down his slacks. 

He thinks that Cas sees it too. His alpha is nervous, his body wound tightly like a spring. Dean isn’t sure whether it’s because he actually expects Sam to go off again, or if it’s because he doesn’t like having a tense alpha in his house. Either way, Dean wants more than anything to put them both at ease. 

He just doesn’t know how. 

Balthazar’s voice breaks the tension like a baseball through a window. “Oy! Would someone help me with this blasted fucking oven, please?”

Both alphas make a motion to stand up, but Dean is already on his feet. He may be a coward for it, but he is more than happy to use this as a convenient excuse to call a retreat. “I’ll help,” he calls out, and he all but scurries out of the room, acutely aware of the two sets of eyes following him as he goes. 

Balthazar is not struggling with the oven when Dean steps into the kitchen. Instead, he’s leaned up against the counter, his arms crossed as he raises an eyebrow at him. Dean stares at him, confused for a half beat, before he connects the dots. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says, somewhat petulantly. But he also doesn’t turn around and go back out of the room. Balthazar doesn’t have to say I told you so for Dean to know he’s thinking it.

The older omega snorts, waving a hand at him as he turns around. “Nothing wrong with needing a break, kid,” he says, gesturing dismissively to a cutting board. “Chop that lettuce while you’re in here.” 

“Who says I’m staying?” Dean grumbles, but he steps toward the counter anyway. 

For a while, they work in silence, Balthazar squatting down to peek inside the oven at the garlic toast, Dean constructing the salad. It’s comfortable, oddly enough, though he and Bal have never cooked together before. 

“Look at us,” the older omega muses, pulling glasses out of the cabinet. “Regular housewives, aye?”

“Shut up,” Dean says, half laughing. “Is that your way of telling me you’re crushing on my brother?”

Balthazar barks out a laugh of his own at that, surprised. “No offense, kid, but if I wanted to date someone half my age with the emotional intelligence of a traffic cone, your man would have been my first choice.” 

“You ain’t that old,” Dean teases back, smiling down at the tomato he’s chopping. A moment later though, he frowns. “How come you didn’t, though?”

“Didn’t what?”

“Have a thing for Cas,” Dean clarifies. 

The thought doesn’t really make him jealous – Cas has made his feelings pretty goddamn clear, and he’s also told Dean he’s never been with an omega. Cas wouldn’t lie to him, so he has no reason to get territorial or defensive around Balthazar. It’s just strange to him that, after spending so much time with him, Bal had no romantic interest in Cas at all. “I mean… did you?”

“Nope,” Balthazar answers, his tone even and passive. 

“Not even a little?”

Balthazar turns to look at him, his eyebrow raised. “What’s not clicking here, mate?”

Dean blushes a little. “I mean… he’s just so…” 

“Dreamy?” Balthazar sighs wistfully, fluttering his eyelashes as he clutches at his heart. “Tall, dark, and handsome?” He rolls his eyes, dropping his hand. “Not my type.”

Dean can’t help but smile. Despite the drama and the tension that’s looming in on him from all sides, it’s nice to laugh with someone. Nice to just have casual conversation, especially with someone who isn’t wearing kiddy gloves. “Who even is your type?”

“No mere mortal can measure up,” he replies dryly. “Hand me that spoon.” 

Dinner is, all in all, not as awkward as it could be. It doesn’t stop it from being one of the hardest things that Dean has done in a long time. 

It’s the first time that he has actually sat at the kitchen table to eat. That particular fact is striking him over and over again, never ending waves. 

Balthazar is doing a great job of pretending he doesn’t know that, and Sam has no idea at all that this is abnormal for him. But Cas… Cas keeps looking at him out of the corner of his eye, blatantly worried. It’s making Dean antsy. The fact that the only noise in the room for the last few minutes has been the clink of forks against plates isn’t helping. 

The chair under him is rigid. Hard. He’s not used to sitting, especially on unforgiving surfaces, and that’s honestly sad. He knows it’s sad. Sam, for his part, keeps giving Dean a side eye – he’s obviously picking up on the stress that Dean is trying so hard to hide. He keeps looking at Cas with a suspicious expression, like he thinks the alpha is doing something to set him off. 

Dean doesn’t know how much longer he’s gonna be able to do this. Doesn’t know how he thought he’d be able to pretend.

“Have you decided–”

Dean jumps about a quarter of a mile into the air, and three pairs of eyes swing and focus on Cas. He glances guiltily at Dean, worrying his lip, and takes a deep breath. Doesn’t apologize for scaring him, which Dean is grateful for – he’s bright red and staring down into his pasta with no intention of ever looking up again. 

“What?” Sam asks, voice somewhat rough with tension he is mostly failing to hide. “Have I decided what?”

“Which room you want,” Cas says finally, guilt bleeding into his voice too. “There are a few different choices.” 

“Actually,” Balthazar pipes up, “There’s only one. You’re taking the one at the end of the hall. The middle belongs to your brother, and I’m reclaiming mine for the night.” 

Sam glances at him, his brow furrowed. “Yours?”

“My old room, yes.” 

Dean blinks. “You lived here?”

They’re the first words he’s said since he sat down, and everyone turns to look at him – he wishes they hadn’t. Their eyes burn. He feels small and wrong sitting up here at the table with people. 

A moment after he has the thought, he knows it’s not right. Knows that he’s a person, too. But it’s hard to remember when he feels like he’s going to puke any second just from sitting in a chair. 

The first time he’d been trained – that initial few months of being broken down into pieces to be reshaped – there’d been a chair in his cell. Dark and wooden and square. Such a normal looking thing. A table, too. 

He’d been stubborn, at first. Had tried to use them even after he was told they were off limits. 

He remembers what had happened to him every time he had. Corrective conditioning, one of the trainers had called it. Bitches don’t sit on furniture. 

Bad dogs sleep in their cage.  

He doesn’t catch anything that Balthazar says in response to his question – he’s too busy gripping the table with both hands, trying not to puke up the stupid spaghetti  he helped the man cook. 

Cas’s hand on his arm shocks him badly enough that he shoots out of the chair and is on his feet in the blink of an eye, the sound of the chair skittering backwards distant in his brain. It’s a near thing, but he doesn’t land on his knees. He doesn’t drop down to the floor like he shou– like he’s been trained. But he does stand there with three pairs of horrified eyes on him. He does stare down at the floor with his face bright red and his arms wrapped around his stomach. 

“I–” he starts, and then can’t finish. 

“Cassie,” Bal murmurs, and suddenly there’s movement around him. The scraping of Cas’s chair makes him flinch back again, and he’s so angry at himself right now he could cry. 

“Dean and I,” Cas says, “are going to turn in for the night, I believe.” 

For once, Sam has nothing to say. Dean doesn’t want to, but he makes himself look up anyway – makes himself meet the eyes of his brother, concerned and confused. He expects a protest, expects Sam to make some dark comment about how wrong it is for him to be sleeping in the same bed as the man who owns him. And, if not that, he expects Sam to jump up. To loudly demand to know what’s wrong. To try and fix something that he’s not even going to be able to understand. 

But he just stares instead. Frozen in place. 

Dean thinks that might actually be worse. 

It’s not until Cas’s hand wraps around his arm that he picks up a pulse of Sam’s anger – but he’s too far gone. He just turns into Cas’s side and gulps in his scent, trying not to let his legs collapse out from under him, trying not to completely fall to pieces right there in the kitchen. 

Sam’s scent wavers, dropping straight into guilt, and Dean knows it's because his has plummeted to fear. 

He hates it. He fucking hates it. 

He should shoulder Cas off of him, should shake off his stupid fear over nothing. But he can’t. He can’t, and so he lets Cas gently lead him down the hall. Lets him open the door to his bedroom – their bedroom – and close it behind him. 

He drops straight to his knees the instant it does. 

Cas crouches down with him, of course. Wraps his arms around him and brings him close. “It’s alright, Dean,” he murmurs, though Dean hardly hears him. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Dean chokes. “Fuck. I just wanted to be normal, I didn’t want him to see–” 

“Your body has had enough today,” Cas says, his voice soft as it is firm. “I should have insisted that we eat in the living room.” 

It's the guilt in his voice that pushes him over the edge, Dean thinks. “This isn’t your fault, Cas,” he says angrily, pushing him back – Cas leans away with wide eyes. “Fuck. It’s not always you.” 

“I never said–” 

“Yeah, but you were thinking it,” Dean says. He doesn’t even know why he’s mad at Cas. Doesn’t think he should be, not really. His emotions are shooting off into a thousand different directions, and none of them make sense, and he can't stop any of it. 

Cas doesn’t say anything, which makes Dean feel a whole hell of a lot worse. He just takes a deep breath and stands up. “I’m going to get ready for bed,” he says evenly, not an ounce of irritation in his tone, and Dean swallows down the feeling that he’s just fucked everything up worse than before. 

While the sink runs in the bathroom, Dean strips down out of his fear soaked clothes. Pulls on a pair of soft pajama pants and, after a beat of hesitation, a t-shirt of Cas’s. He’s not quite ready to give up that habit. He crawls into bed when the shower starts running, guilt pooling in his stomach. 

By the time Cas is done with his shower, Dean is calm enough to be mad at himself. The alpha opens the bathroom door with a towel around his waist, his hair dripping and his body flushed, and when his eyes fall on Dean they’re dark and serious. 

Dean looks away, blushing, when Cas rummages through his drawers for something to wear. Turns his head completely so Cas doesn’t think he’s peeking. It makes no sense for his heart to be racing, because ten minutes ago he was scared out of his mind – but it is. It’s like his emotions are dialed up to eleven, fighting and jostling over the spotlight in his brain. 

Cas doesn’t say anything. He just pulls back the covers and slides into bed, clicking the bedside lamp off as he does so. 

For a moment, the only sound is his soft breathing next to Dean, the warmth of him drawing him in like a moth to flame. He rolls over. Looks down at the alpha, barely visible in the dark, his head filled with static and longing. And he doesn’t even know he’s doing it till his nose is brushing Cas’s, till the alpha’s breath is mingling with his own. 

But their lips don’t touch, because Cas turns his head away. 

There’s immediately a sting of rejection, followed by a whiplash of something a little more vulnerable than anger. “Cas, come on,” he insists, not even sure what he’s asking for. “Just. Come on.” 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” the alpha says carefully. And Dean feels something snap inside of him under the force of pure, raw desperation. 

“Why can’t you just give me this? I just want – I want something good,” he says, frustrated and hurt, and he can smell the way Cas’s scent dips into guilt. But the alpha doesn’t relent – he shakes his head, lips pressed together. 

“You’re not in the state of mind to make this sort of choice right now,” he murmurs. “And, frankly, neither am I.” 

Throat tight with guilt and rejection, Dean swallows. Turns away with a hitching movement, tugging the covers over himself with too much force. The two or three inches between him and Cas feel as wide as an ocean. 

When Cas tries to reach over and touch him, Dean shies away. He doesn’t try again. 

Dean doesn’t know if the alpha has fallen asleep by the time he finally gives up on it himself. He tries to be careful when he wriggles out of bed, tries to gently scoot off of the foot of the mattress so he doesn’t disturb him. He doesn’t say anything, and Dean can’t see him well enough in the dark to check if his eyes are closed, but he makes it out of the room without Cas so much as giving him a confused grumble. 

He doesn’t know where he’s going, exactly. He just knows that he needs to breathe some fresh air. Needs to get away from the tension of today, from all the mistakes he’s made with the people he loves. But when he opens the door to the back porch, Sam is already there. 

He’s hunched over on the steps. Looking down at something in his lap – his phone, Dean thinks. The screen is lighting up his face in the darkness. 

Dean takes a deep breath, and he steps outside to face his brother alone for the second time this evening. This time, Sam looks up right away, his brow furrowed. When he realizes it’s Dean, he presses his mouth together. Scoots to the side, wordlessly, and allows Dean to plop down next to him. 

Sam smells like home. Like everything Dean’s been missing for years. But he also smells guilty. Sad. Dean hates it. He knows Sam isn’t a kid anymore. Knows that Dean hasn’t been the one to take care of him in a very long time. But he still feels like he’s done something wrong. 

Feels like he’s failed. 

“Sorry you had to see that earlier,” he says, his voice a little hoarse. He clears his throat. “I… uh. Sometimes things just…” 

He trails off. “Damn, this is hard.” 

“You don’t have to explain if you don’t want to,” Sam says. He sounds calm, but his scent and the way he’s gripping his phone tell another story. 

“I do want to, though,” Dean says, frustrated. “You think you did something to make me flip out like that, but Sam… you didn’t.”

“No?” Sam perks up, half hopeful. “Only, I thought…” 

“If you were posturing, I didn’t even notice,” Dean says bluntly. Sam flinches a little, but he doesn’t say anything. “I was too far into my own head.” 

“What were you thinking about?”

Dean huffs. Stares out into the moonlit yard. “I was thinking about how that was the first time I’ve sat at a dinner table to eat a meal in… about eleven years.” 

Sam goes very, very still. “You… what?”

“Come on,” Dean says, shaking his head. “You can’t tell me you don’t know the basics of how… um. How slaves are trained.” 

The words aren’t easy to say, but he forces them out anyway. Sam’s scent goes all flat and trembling, and Dean’s grateful, in a way, that it isn’t anger. He’s not sure that horror is any better, though. “And, before you jump to conclusions,” Dean adds, picking up a stray leaf from the porch and snapping it slowly into pieces, “Cas has wanted me up off the floor since day one.” 

“He better have,” Sam says, but again – there’s no anger in it. Just a defeated sort of sadness that morphs into an apology. “I didn’t know, Dean.”

“You have no reason to think about that kind of shit,” Dean says, shrugging. “S’not like I told you I have a hard time with it.” 

“You shouldn’t have to tell me,” Sam says, blatantly frustrated. “I’m not an idiot – I’ve taken classes on that stuff, I know the sort of traum–”

He cuts himself off, but not soon enough. Dean swallows down that same bitter feeling of failure. “Taking a class and seeing it in person ain’t the same. Plus, when your brother is the fuck-up–”

“You’re not a fuck-up,” Sam says instantly, cutting him off. “Don’t say that.” 

“Sam,” Dean says, trying his hardest to be patient. “You’ve seen me flip out twice. In one goddamn day.” 

“But that doesn’t mean–”

“I am fucked up,” Dean says vehemently, turning to glare. “I am. It’s not your fault, and it’s not something you’re gonna be able to fix, and I am.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Dean with searching eyes, pain and sadness etched into every inch of him. Dean lets out a harsh sigh. 

“All I’m saying is that you couldn’t have prevented it. I mean, I knew it would be hell on me, and I didn’t say anything. Cas was making some not so subtle motions to the living room – ‘cause he knew that would’ve been easier – but I ignored him because I didn’t want you to…” 

He sighs again. “To know. But I’m beginning to realize I ain’t really gonna be able to hide it from you.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything for a long time. “Castiel. Cas,” he corrects, looking down at his lap. “He… he helps you a lot, huh?”

“Was it the whole ‘using him as a body pillow’ thing that gave it away?” Dean asks wryly, watching out of the corner of his eye as Sam ducks his head. “Didn’t really mean for you to see that.” 

Sam shrugs, and Dean nudges him. “Thanks for not, you know,” he says, a half smile on his face. “For not giving Cas a knuckle sandwich.” 

It startles a huff of laughter out of Sam. “A knuckle sandwich, Dean? How old are you?”

“Older than you, squirt,” Dean replies automatically, and for the smallest of moments, they’re kids again. It doesn’t last – it can’t – but Dean revels in it anyway. 

“Not exactly a squirt anymore,” Sam says with a sigh. “Had one hell of a growth spurt when I hit freshman year.” 

“Always knew you would,” Dean says, bumping him on the shoulder. “No one could stay that short and wimpy forever.” 

Sam laughs, but it’s weak at best. He runs a hand through his hair, the other still holding his phone. He locks it, and then it's just them in the dark, crickets chirping in the background. 

“I’ve been a real asshole.” 

Dean shrugs. “Nah. You haven’t.” 

“I have, though,” Sam argues softly. “I’ve been acting like those stereotypical alpha douches that we always made fun of growing up. Worse.” 

“Sam,” Dean says, shaking his head. “You gotta give yourself some credit, kid.” 

His brother snorts. “Credit for what, exactly? Charging into your life and fucking everything up?” 

Dean turns to stare at him, but Sam refuses to look up. Refuses to meet his eyes. It’s the way that he bites his lip, the way his shoulders are hunched down – he’s serious. “Is that really what you think you’re doing?”

Sam swallows. “I mean…” 

“Hey,” Dean interrupts, his brow furrowed. “Do you have any idea how much I missed you?” 

Judging by the way Sam’s eyes immediately fill with tears, he hadn’t. Dean feels it like a kick to the ribs. 

“I thought about you every day,” he says. “Every day. You were what got me through it.”

They’re simple words, but they’re heavy. Sam clears his throat. Looks away from him. “Seems like you were doing okay without me.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“I–” 

“No,” Dean says firmly. “You’re stupid. You must be, if you think having you back in my life isn’t the only thing I’ve fucking wanted since I–” 

The rest of the words don’t quite make it through the lump in his throat. 

“But I scared you,” Sam whispers. “I almost did it again, even knowing how bad it would have been. Even at dinner, when Novak was helping you, I wanted to get up and sucker punch him in the jaw for even touching you.” 

The admission hurts to hear, but not for the reasons that Sam probably thinks. Dean wants so badly to be whole for his brother. Wants so badly to be unbroken, so Sam doesn’t have to think about shit like that. But he’s not, and he can’t pretend he is even if he wanted to. What happened at dinner proves that. 

“You know why I didn’t call you sooner?” Dean asks eventually. 

Sam sounds like he’s holding his breath. He shakes his head. 

“I didn’t call you because I was scared I’d fuck up your life.” 

There’s a beat of silence, and then Sam gets it. He was always quicker on the draw than Dean was – he laughs, genuine and a little sad and a little teary-eyed. “We’re both morons.” 

“Nothing new there,” Dean agrees. He sighs, gesturing at the phone in Sam’s lap. “You thinkin’ about calling Bobby?”

Sam makes a face. “I… I kinda have to. I have to at least let him know I’m okay, you know? But I can’t… I don’t know how I’m gonna call him and not tell him. So I’ve just been…” 

“Stuck?” Dean finishes. And Sam nods.  

Dean takes a long, deep breath. Shoves back the lingering fear inside of him that tells him Bobby doesn’t want anything to do with him, because he knows now that that’s not true. This isn’t just for him, anyway. This is for Sam, too. 

He holds out his hand for the phone.

Bobby won’t lie and say he hasn’t been waiting on Sam’s phone call for most of the day. He’s been trying to keep his mind off of things, trying to keep himself busy. Trying not to think about how he’s going to glue Sam’s broken pieces back together again when this turns out to be another wild goose chase. 

It won’t be the first time. But it never gets any easier. 

He has spent a great deal of the last decade or so trying to hold himself together. Trying not to lose himself in the bottle like John had – like Bobby’s own father had – because he wants to do right by Sam. The singular beer that’s dripping condensation onto the desk is about as far as he’s willing to let himself go, most nights, and even that sometimes feels like he’s teetering a little too close to the edge. 

Times like this are the hardest, he thinks. Crickets chirping, a warm wind stirring up the leaves, the moon already high in the sky. It was nights like this that Dean would have somehow known he was up. Nights where he would have wandered out to the shop and helped Bobby change out an old set of spark plugs, or hand him the right socket wrench with quiet understanding in eyes that were too old to belong to a teenager. 

To be fair, Bobby had a lot of sleepless nights before Dean went missing, too. Losing Karen to cancer had done that to him, in part – he’d taken care of her all the way till the end. She’d died younger than either of them had ever planned for. Before even that, though – before long nights of hand holding and pain meds and all the ugly things that come with taking care of someone who is doomed to die – Bobby had still not been very good at sleeping deeply. 

He’d been trained from an early age to keep himself awake. To play the breath-held waiting game, dreading the moment where his old man’s heavy boots would thud through the front door. 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, he still wakes up covered in sweat and tangled in his sheets, the ghost of a rifle and the faint scent of gunpowder in his nose.  

Others, he wakes with the ghost image of Dean just out of his grasp.

Hell, Bobby is the poster child for bad sleeping habits, at this point. 

He’s 54. Nearly a senior – something that Sam has been teasing him mercilessly about for a while now. He’s not sure how he made it this far, honestly. Sheer spite sounds about right. 

He sighs. Scoots himself out from underneath the old truck he’s working on, and wipes his brow with his kerchief. He doesn’t really need to have her fixed until next week, but at the rate he’s been going – fueled mostly by what he refuses to call anxiety – it’s nearly done. 

He’s giving it until ten. He’ll call Sam at ten, no earlier. 

It’s a quarter till when the shop phone rings, and Bobby feels relief crash through him already. He rests a hand on the old pickup when he passes, feeling his back protest when he straightens, and grumbles when it finally pops. 

The caller ID confirms that it is Sam, of course. There aren’t many people who would know to call the shop phone this late, but Bobby is willing to bet the kid didn’t even try his cellphone before this. He picks the phone up off its cradle and brings it to his ear. 

“Took your sweet time,” he says gruffly, tucking the phone between his head and his shoulder so he won’t get grease all over it. “I got half a mind to tan your hide when you get your sorry butt back here.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, and Bobby blows out a long breath. He picks up his beer and takes a long swig before asking, “You okay, kid?”

There’s an audible, shaky breath, and he freezes in place, not even aware he’s doing it. Not able to understand why. Not till his beer is crashing to the ground, glass and foamy liquid spreading all over the floor. 

Not till it registers that it’s Dean’s voice that’s quivering over the line. 

“Bobby?”

For a second, he can’t breathe. He thinks he must have passed out under the car, or something – maybe he’s so shit faced he doesn’t remember even opening the bottle, maybe this is another dream, another fantasy in which his little family is whole. But then Dean’s timid, hopeful voice is there again, and he can’t deny it. 

It’s real. 

“Are you – shit, Sam. I don’t think he’s –” There’s some shuffling, and then Dean asks, “Bobby? You there?”

“Dean?”

His voice comes out as a strained little whisper, but he can’t for the life of him make it louder. 

“I – yeah,” Dean says. Dean says. It’s his voice, unmistakably. He sounds older, and smaller, somehow, but it’s him. “It’s me.” 

“Kid,” Bobby says, his voice breaking. He takes a breath, steadies his hand on the desk in front of him so he doesn’t completely fall over. “Oh my God.” 

Dean half laughs, and it sounds wet. Bobby himself is already crying, though he won’t know it for another few minutes. “Yeah, um. Yeah,” Dean says, sounding pretty choked up himself. “I know.” 

“Sam found you,” Bobby says stupidly, and it hits him over the head like a bat. He sits down before he falls down, his head spinning. His thoughts are racing and going nowhere, spinning out of control. It’s all he can do to string two words together. “My God.” 

“He did,” Dean confirms, and shit, Bobby can hear his smile. He hitches in a breath. “Stubborn as ever, huh?”

Bobby laughs. He laughs, because Dean is making a joke, that same mischievous lilt to his words that Bobby has carried with him all these years like a chronic ache in his heart. “He’s a mule, alright. Jesus, kid,” he mumbles, rubbing at his eyes. He swallows. “You okay?”

“I am,” Dean says softly. “I really am.” 

“Since when?” Bobby asks, because he’s not fool enough to think that Dean has been safe enough to call him for long. And the silence over the line confirms it – the hesitation in his voice. It’s the same tone he’d take on when Bobby would pull him aside and ask why he was bruised, or the last time he’d eaten. Like he was trying to protect Bobby from the knowledge that he was suffering. 

“I. Um. Well,” he says, stumbling over his words. “Cas… found me in January.” 

“Cas?” Bobby asks, feeling like he’s missing something. 

“Um. Castiel,” Dean clarifies, sounding almost embarrassed. “Novak. He’s… um. Well. Sam can tell you,” he finishes faintly. “But I’ve been okay since then.” 

Bobby wants to ask why he didn’t call sooner. Wants to ask why he isn’t already here. But he also wasn’t born yesterday, and he knows that Dean would have a damn good reason for keeping himself from reaching out. “Is this Cas guy… does he own you, Dean?”

There’s a beat of silence over the line that tells Bobby exactly what he needs to know. “Yeah,” he answers. He sounds… ashamed. Small. 

Bobby swallows down the automatic threat to the man’s life that he wants to spit out. “But…?” he prompts, because if Dean is talking to him – if Sam is there – then there’s more to the story. 

“But not for long,” Dean breathes, transparently relieved. “He bought me to help me. I… I didn’t know it, at first,” he adds, and for a split second Bobby can see his face – can see the downcast eyes, the shame his daddy put on his shoulders weighing him down. “Didn’t believe him even when he told me. But I do now, and…” 

His voice breaks. “And I shoulda’ called you a long time ago. Sorry.” 

“You got nothin’ to apologize for,” Bobby says firmly. He doesn’t know the circumstances, doesn’t know why it took Dean four months to get in touch. It doesn’t matter. 

“But–”

“Dean,” Bobby interrupts, and the kid goes quiet. “The only thing I care about is that you’re safe. Are you safe?”

There’s a moment of silence at that. A moment where Dean is clearly struggling to keep his voice from shaking, the idjit – as if Bobby gives a damn that he’s crying. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m. I’m safe. I ain’t been safe like this in a long time,” he adds, no louder than a whisper. “Took a while to sink in.” 

“I’ll bet,” Bobby says, shaking his head. “Sam’s there with you?”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, sniffing. “We’re, uh. We’re sitting on the porch. I couldn’t sleep till I called you,” he explains, letting out a shaky breath. “Sam wanted to earlier, but…” 

“I get it,” he says kindly, because he does. “Bet it was a real shock when he came knocking, wasn’t it?”

Dean laughs. “Uh, yeah. It’s been a long day,” he says, voice softening. “For both of us.” 

“You’re at this Novak guy’s house?” Bobby asks, already knowing the answer from the way Dean doesn’t answer. “You got an address for me, kid?”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

There’s another beat of silence. “I– you don’t need to come here,” Dean chokes out, and he sounds genuinely shocked, as if he hadn’t at all expected Bobby to even want to. It makes his heart twist in his chest – reminds him of how Dean would look at him strangely when Bobby told him good job or you’re a smart kid, like he was sure he was being fucked with. Like he thought Bobby was going to follow it up with a but. 

He wants to hunt John down and stick a double barrel in his face again. 

“You’re a damn fool,” he says fondly. “Of course I do, Dean.” 

“I…” He trails off. “Um. What if… what if we came there?”

Bobby can hear Sam protesting in the background, and he frowns. “Have you asked Novak about that?”

“Relax, Sam,” Dean says distractedly, only half listening. “Have I – Oh. No. He’s asleep. But he wouldn’t say no.” 

Bobby takes a breath. “You sure about that? ‘Cause, I mean… Maybe he is a good dude,” he offers, mostly because he’s pretty damn sure Sam wouldn’t have let Dean stay there any longer if he wasn’t, but still. “But if he don’t want you to go…” 

“Cas wants me to do what I want to do,” he says, and though there is a sliver of nervousness in his words, there’s steel there, too. Surety. Bobby doesn’t know if it’s warranted, yet, but it’s still nice to hear. “Hell, he’d buy a plane ticket now if I asked.” 

Bobby huffs out a laugh. Takes off his hat and runs a hand through his hair. “Well it sure would be nice to see you, kid. Jo and Ellen and them would love it too. Why don’t you sleep on it, though.” 

Dean takes a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. Probably a good call. You wanna talk to Sam?”

“I do,” Bobby says, getting choked up again. “But, uh. You got a number for you I can call? And one for this Castiel guy?”

“Yeah,” he says, and rattles off a few phone numbers. Bobby jots them down on the little pad of paper beneath the phone – the same one Sam wrote on when he got suspicious about what Bobby had assumed to be a prank call. 

“I hung up on you,” he says softly. “Fuck, kid. I –” 

“You didn’t know,” Dean says, love and forgiveness as strong as they’ve always been in his voice. Eleven years enslaved, and he’s still able to forgive anything at all – Bobby doesn’t think he’ll ever be that kind. “I mean, hell. What were you supposed to think?”

“I figured it was some idjit,” he says, voice rough. “Just didn’t know it was my idjit.”

Dean huffs out a laugh at that. “Shit,” he swears, and Bobby can practically see him rubbing at his eyes. He’s familiar enough with it – Dean spent an awful lot of time in his house trying not to cry. “Been a long time since I heard that.” 

“Well, get ready to hear it more often,” Bobby says firmly, swiping a hand across his eyes. “No greater way to tell a person they’re loved, in my opinion.” 

Dean takes in a breath. “Love you too, Bobby,” he says softly, and then he hands the phone to Sam. 

Cas isn’t asleep when Dean finally crawls back into bed. In fact, he has the lamp on and is sitting up, his little reading glasses perched on his nose as he peers down a paperback. Dean has a vague memory of the cover – he thinks Cas was probably reading that to him during his heat. 

The alpha doesn’t ask him where he’s been or what he was doing, which Dean is bizarrely grateful for. He also doesn’t say anything about what happened earlier, which Dean is extremely grateful for. He simply sets down his book and opens up his arms, huffing out a breath when Dean crawls straight into bed and nestles under the covers. 

“Your feet are cold,” he murmurs. It’s obvious he doesn’t really care, based on the way he circles his arm around Dean and pulls him in closer. Dean turns his head in, presses his nose to Cas’s collarbone. He doesn’t say anything, because his words are all used up. 

“You called Bobby?”

Dean nods. He doesn’t ask how Cas knows that – he’s sure he’s got joy and grief all over him, scent wise. 

“It went well?”

He nods again. Cas reaches up to stroke a hand through his hair, and Dean feels his eyes droop, half lidded and heavy. “I’m glad.”

“Sorry for earlier,” Dean mumbles, his nose still pressed in close. “You were right.” 

Cas just hums. Doesn’t belabor the point, because he knows Dean gets it already. Dean understands what a bad idea it would have been to do anything, even just a kiss, at a time like that, when Dean’s head was in another place entirely. He doesn’t ever want to mix up what he and Cas have with those times. And later, he’ll apologize properly. But right now he can hardly string two thoughts together. 

“Is he coming here?” the alpha asks, his voice vibrating through his chest. “Or are we going there?”

Dean feels his throat go tight. He meant what he’d said to Bobby, about Cas not caring. But, somehow, it hadn’t occurred to him that the alpha would offer. That he would want to go too.

“There,” he chokes out, burying his face further into Cas’s chest. 

“Alright,” Cas murmurs. Then, his hand still cupped around the back of Dean’s head, he gives Dean the gentlest order he’s ever received. 

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he says. 

And Dean does.