65. Chapter 65

When Castiel slowly blinks his eyes open, it’s well past noon. 

It’s rare for him to sleep this long. Rare for him to sleep solidly. But he has, for once; Dean curled against him, his breath soft and even and gentle. His scent finally settled from a day full of tense uncertainty and overwhelming relief. It had lulled Castiel, that scent. Had allowed him to finally shut off the part of his brain that had demanded he stay alert and prepared to deal with any threats that might have come their way – at least for a while. 

Sleep had not so much crept up on him as it had landed on him like a boulder from a cliffside, and even now, he is groggy. Almost dazed. It takes him a long time to shake the drowsiness from himself. 

Dean, for his part, is still asleep. He’s curled up against Castiel’s side, his knees tucked in and his arm slung across Castiel’s chest, his mouth wide open as he softly snores. He still looks exhausted, unsurprisingly, and Castiel would honestly be perfectly happy to stay here all day and be a body pillow for him, if only he could. 

Now that he’s awake, though, he’s not going to be able to go back to sleep. There is too much to do, and he can already feel his mind beginning to race with everything they will need to prepare today. His pleasant drowsiness is quickly evaporating. 

He takes a breath. Runs a gentle hand through Dean’s hair, slowly tucking it away from his face and marveling at the fact that it has grown long enough for him to do so. It is soft and feathery, light brown – nothing like the prickly, harshly shaven stubble he’d arrived with. Dean doesn’t stir, except to turn his nose inward a little, nudging at Castiel’s wrist with a soft sigh. Castiel wonders, idly, if Dean likes his hair like this. How he would have worn it when he was young. 

When Castiel does eventually pick his way out of bed, he’s careful not to rock the mattress. Dean frowns a little when they are no longer touching, but he simply gathers the blankets where Castiel had been, buries his face in those instead, and sleeps on. Castiel finds himself smiling at that. Finds himself, at least for a moment, awash in peace and something like satisfaction, things that are both still unfamiliar. 

He doesn’t want to lose this. And he’s trying, desperately, to push down the small part of himself that wonders if he will be risking doing so by taking Dean to see his uncle. It is a selfish thought, and one he dislikes himself for having. 

So he ignores it as best he can. 

Balthazar is cooking already when he wanders into the kitchen, bouncing a little to the soft, jazzy music playing from his phone. There’s a stack of quesadillas already on a plate and another on the skillet, and he rocks it back and forward to expertly flip it. 

“I never did get the hang of that.” 

Bal glances over his shoulder at him. His eyes crinkle in a small smile. “Well, if it isn’t sleeping beauty. I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you at all today.” 

Castiel shrugs. The coffee pot is on and mostly full – something he’s grateful for – and his mug is already sitting next to it, waiting for him. He hums as he fills it up. “My sleeping habits have improved, believe it or not.” 

“Low bar,” Bal muses. “Back in the day, I’d catch myself wondering if you slept at all. You always seemed to be awake when I’d get up to wander.” 

Snorting, Castiel pours creamer into his coffee and sets it back in the fridge, swirling the cup to give it a halfhearted stir. It’s perfectly warm and sweet when he takes a sip. “Dean… makes sleep easier. I’m sure that sounds sappy, but it’s true.” 

Bal rolls his eyes, turning back to his quesadilla. He slides it onto the plate and slaps another onto the still hot pan, the butter sizzling immediately. “You two are absolutely appalling.” 

Considering that the words are said with unquestionable fondness, Castiel doesn’t take them too seriously. As he sips at his cup, Couch weaves her way through his legs, chirruping for attention. He kneels down to give her a scratch, smiling slightly at the way she bops her head into his hand. 

“Thank you, by the way.” 

Balthazar hums. “What for?”

“Staying the night.” 

“Been too long since I crashed over here,” Bal replies, brushing him off with a shrug. “I was overdue anyway.” 

“You’re horrible at accepting gratitude.” 

Bal just scoffs at him. “You’re learning this now?”

“No. Just thought it was worth repeating.” 

The omega harrumphs, rolling his eyes. “Wasn’t risking leaving you and that Winchester kid alone, Cassie. Not on the first night. Didn’t want either of you to make the news.” 

“Good call,” Castiel replies honestly. He’s relieved that Balthazar had been here to act as a buffer – as an excuse for them to all be on their best behavior. Beyond glad to have had someone in his corner who has Dean’s best interests in mind as well. 

Still, even Balthazar hadn’t been able to prevent what had happened at the dinner table last night. Once again, Castiel hadn’t been firm enough – or hadn’t been hands-off enough. He still isn’t sure. Doesn’t know what he should have done to prevent Dean’s meltdown. He just knows he should have done something differently. 

He sighs. “I think Dean was… frustrated with me.” 

Balthazar glances down at him. “Because?”

In front of him, Couch intensifies her purring and rubs herself on his hand. “I was… perhaps a little... overbearing.” 

Balthazar hums, his tone neutral. “Because you took him to bed last night? He probably needed that yesterday. Needs it in general, with what he’s been through. I’ve told you that.” 

“Sure,” Castiel agrees, chewing on his lip. “I mean. I understand that better now. What you meant by... boundaries, back when he first came home. Putting things in a framework he could understand. But he’s not really in that same mental space anymore, and he…” 

“He doesn’t want you to feel responsible for him,” Balthazar finishes. “Right?”

Castiel deflates. “I… I suppose that’s it, yes.” Because, of course, it is. That’s what Dean had said to him last night, essentially. Slowly, he sits down completely on the floor, leaning back against the cabinets – Couch hops directly into his lap, turning around in a circle and kneading a comfortable space into his pants. “He was frustrated with me.”

“You tried to take the blame, didn’t you?”

Caught, Castiel reddens. Keeps his eyes on Couch, not daring to look up. Above him, Balthazar sighs. “You used to do that with me, too. Can’t expect to anticipate every problem he’ll ever face, mate,” he reminds him, as gentle as Balthazar is capable of being. “No matter how much you want to.” 

“No,” Castiel agrees, rubbing a hand across his face. “I can’t.”

Silently, Balthazar flips the quesadilla. He is quiet for a long moment. “He’s not going to hold that against you, either. I hope you know that.” 

Castiel bites his lip. “But… It’s my job to protect him. To make him feel safe.” 

“And you do,” Balthazar says simply, eyeing him. It’s not what Castiel expected him to say – given a half second to consider it, he would have imagined that Bal would have chastised him for trying to act out outdated gender roles. But the omega just shrugs. “Thing is – you aren’t a god, Cassie. Dean knows that. He doesn’t expect you to have all the answers. Don’t confuse his impatience with himself with impatience for you.”

Castiel is quiet for a moment. “I… I do tend to take things personally.” 

“Hadn’t noticed,” Bal says flatly. Castiel chuckles, letting loose a breath. “Seriously, though. You’re making all sorts of self discoveries this afternoon, aren’t you? Benjamin would be proud.”

“Having actual sleep helps,” Castiel admits, rubbing the back of his neck self consciously. “I hadn’t realized how tired I was. We were dozing so often during his heat – I thought I was all caught up.” 

“You might have been before yesterday,” Bal offers, nudging at the tortillas. “It was a doozy.” 

“To say the least,” Castiel murmurs. “Is Sam up?”

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair,” Bal replies, shaking his head. “Sleeping beauties, the lot of you.” 

“When did you get up?”

Balthazar grimaces for only a fraction of a second before the expression smooths itself over, but Castiel catches it anyway. “Bal…” 

“Drop it,” Balthazar warns, his tone flat. It’s familiar, that verbal stop sign. Something Balthazar used to do all the time when they were only tentatively beginning to trust one another. Castiel has learned to respect that boundary – so, he sighs, but he gives in. 

For a while, they float around each other in a gentle, almost familial sort of routine. Castiel gets himself up at some point, and starts working – no point in moping. He begins to tackle the dishes, to brush the scattered shredded cheese into the trash. It’s been a while since he played janitor to Balthazar’s cook, but the role is as familiar as it is comforting. As is sitting across from his friend and sharing a meal in companionable silence. 

“He wants to go see his uncle,” Castiel says, halfway through his quesadilla. 

Balthazar finishes chewing. Looks up, his eyebrow raised. “South Dakota,” Castiel says, answering his unspoken question. 

The omega nods slowly. “Quite the drive.” 

“Two days,” Castiel confirms, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “I considered a flight, but…” 

Balthazar’s jaw flexes. “Not a good idea,” he says lowly, and Castiel can’t help but agree. There is simply no way he’s subjecting Dean to transport as most airlines handle it. Even the luxury flights – the ones where slaves are actually permitted inside the cabin – would be a humiliating and frightening experience. One that he does not intend to let play out. 

“Right,” he agrees. “So, driving it is.” 

“Is he ready for that?”

The question isn’t pointed. It’s genuine, and somehow that makes it harder to answer. “I… I don’t know. He doesn’t either, I don’t think. But it’s what he wants.” 

“That’ll be… what. His second time out in the real world?”

Castiel grimaces. “... Yes.” 

“And how could that possibly go wrong,” Balthazar mutters – though he doesn’t sound accusatory. More… long suffering.

“I’m going to call Pam, after this,” Castiel says, rubbing a hand across his face. “Just to… I don’t know. See what she thinks.” 

“She’s going to want him to wait, and she’s going to call us all idiots,” Bal responds bluntly. Castiel winces. “Don’t suppose you could convince him to hold off for another… I don’t know. Six months?”

“I think I’m going to have trouble convincing him to wait until tomorrow,” Castiel says honestly. 

Balthazar snorts. “Are you ready for that?”

Castiel opens his mouth to tell him that, of course he’s ready. Bristles, almost, at the implication that he couldn’t handle a trip like this. But a split second later, he realizes his stomach hurts, and his shoulders are tense, and he swallows down those knee-jerk protests. 

“I don’t know,” he repeats softly. 

Castiel is a creature of habit. He likes his routines, likes the events in his life to be in a particular order. Dean has disrupted that order in a multitude of ways, but even now they’ve fallen into familiar patterns. This is going to be a far cry from lazy mornings together. From dinners in the living room and naps in the office. 

He can already feel his skin itching, can feel his mind whirling with all the possible ways this trip is going to go wrong. He wishes he could just be normal about it, but apparently it’s obvious that he can’t. 

“You need an extra hand?”

The question from Bal is plain. Honest, selfless. The kind of thing that the omega just gives to him, free of charge. And, despite his irritation with himself, it makes his heart swell. Makes him think of early days with Balthazar here, of long nights working together at the center when it was just an empty shell. Of movies and long, drunken talks, of nighttime drives and soft spoken confessions. For a long time, he and Bal had only had each other. They’d been the other’s support system when they’d had literally no one else. Those days are behind them now, but it’s easy to fall back on old habits. 

Castiel is well aware of what an awkward, drawn out inconvenience it would be for Bal to travel with them – and well aware that he’d be doing it for Castiel’s sake alone. 

“No,” Castiel decides, shaking his head. “The center needs her director, Bal. You’ve already taken the day off today… I can’t justify taking you away for that long.”  

Balthazar hums. Another thing that Castiel appreciates about him – he, more often than not, takes Castiel’s words at face value. Doesn’t try to dig in deeper to find some hidden meaning or veiled insult. He just… listens. Castiel still isn’t sure what he did to deserve that kind of trust, but he certainly isn’t going to question it.  

“I could probably stand to not be crammed in that monstrosity of a vehicle the kid is driving, anyway,” Balthazar says, shrugging. “Not that I can’t appreciate a classic, but–” 

He breaks off, his eyes jumping up over Castiel’s shoulder. 

Dean, in all his bed-headed glory, is standing in the doorway. He looks for all the world as if he’s just woken up – aside from his wide, round eyes. He’s staring at Balthazar with a mixture of shock and a dawning sort of comprehension that Castiel doesn’t understand.

And then Dean bolts. 

Castiel feels his heart leap up into his throat when the man turns and scrambles, when he hears the front door being flung open. But there’s no scent of fear or terror, no reason to think that Dean is running from anything. It takes him a moment to understand, because he’s never smelled this from Dean before. He isn’t afraid. 

He’s excited. 

Dean is already in the driveway by the time Castiel gets to the front door, his feet bare on the concrete and his hands limp at his sides. In front of him is a dark, mean looking car – what Sam must have driven here. Castiel hasn’t actually seen it up until now, and it’s clear that Dean hadn’t either. Clear that he hadn’t expected to see it at all. 

Entranced, the omega steps forward. Rests his hand on the handle of the driver-side door, a palm on a skittish horse. His fingers slowly tighten around it, but he doesn’t open it. Doesn’t do anything, standing twig-snap still. As if he’s afraid of spooking it, of sending it bounding away like a doe into the trees. 

It would be easy to dismiss this as frivolous. Would be simple to say that a car, of all things, is a silly thing for Dean to treat with such reverence. But Castiel recognizes Dean’s love when he sees it. 

Following some instinct he doesn’t truly understand, Castiel doesn’t join him. Instead, he quietly backs up. Returns inside, gently shutting the door behind him. Dean doesn’t call out to him, doesn’t follow him – and that only serves to tell Castiel he’s done the right thing. This is something Dean lost far before Castiel was in the picture. Something he needs to be reunited with on his own terms.

He can’t help but linger at the window, though. Can’t help but watch as Dean runs his hand along the roof of the car, as he circles it to inspect the license plate. The trunk. His eyes rake over the gleaming black paint and the mud splatters and the thick, tinted windows, taking everything in with equal, aching joy. As though he is seeing something miraculous. 

“Where’s Dean?”

Castiel stiffens at the sound of Sam’s voice, but he doesn’t turn around. He can hear the alpha walking toward the kitchen, his scent fuzzy with sleep and confusion – though at least there is no suspicion. Castiel hadn’t even spared him a thought for Sam’s belated reaction to their sleeping arrangements, as caught up as he’d been thinking of the trip and of Dean. 

Balthazar speaks up before Castiel manages it. “He’s out on the front drive with that ridiculous car of yours. Hence Cassie standing at the window like a man possessed.” 

Sam is silent at that, and after a moment, his footsteps draw closer. He appears in Castiel’s periphery and stands by him quietly. For once, his eyes are not accusing. They are only focused on his brother. 

Outside, Dean is finally opening the door. The driver door, to be exact. He stands there staring for a very long time, his face oddly blank. Castiel doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Dean ducks down and slides inside, obscuring himself from view when he shuts the door behind him.

Beside him, Sam lets out a breath of his own. “He’s gonna kill me.” 

Blinking, Castiel turns to glance at the younger alpha. He’s got a guilty look on his face, his mouth twisted to the side. “Why?”

“Because she’s a mess,” Sam says, shaking his head. “I didn’t… I didn’t take care of her like I was supposed to. Not like he would have.” 

Castiel studies him for a moment. “Dean has not told me much about his childhood. But I gather that this car is… rather important to you both.” 

Sam glances at him. Presses his lips together at Castiel’s unspoken question – why hadn’t he taken better care of it? He looks back out the window, his eyes distant, and when he speaks his voice is rough. “It... it just hurt too much.” 

Castiel swallows. Remembers Dean, staring out the window of his car all those months ago, dwarfed in Castiel’s jacket because he hadn’t been able to stomach seeing himself in the leather one Hannah had offered him. Dean had said the same thing to him then. Had felt just as burned by the reminders of his past as Sam is now. 

“I can understand that,” Castiel says softly. And, for the first time, he thinks he sees a flicker of gratitude on the young alpha’s face. 

Dean doesn’t know how long he sits alone in Baby before the passenger door is opening and Sam is scooting in beside him. 

Wordlessly, he shifts to the side. Makes room for his brother’s too-tall frame, folded almost awkwardly in the seat until he settles in. He remembers how small Sam used to look in the rear-view, and then in the passenger seat when he was old enough. How he’d felt cradled in Dean’s arms the night they’d driven away from their burning home. The weight of his head on Dean’s shoulder when he’d conk out on some long stretch of empty highway, wheat and corn flicking past the windows. 

He remembers, for the first time in years, the last ride they’d taken together. 

Dean had driven. His dad had been gone again – out in his perpetually rough-idling pickup that he’d acquired somewhere along the way, when Dean had finally been tall enough to drive. Dean is no fool, though – he’d known that didn’t mean the Impala was his. Dad had left it with him only because Sam had needed someone to drive him back and forth to school. They hadn’t needed the kid to be marked truant again. 

So, as reluctant as John might have been to give his bitch son the keys, he’d tossed them into Dean’s lap with minimal grumbling on his way out the door for another long road trip. Dean had known better than to draw attention to himself by saying thank you. 

He realizes now that it had been the last time Dean would ever see him off. The last time his father would speak to him at all. And the only thing he can recall is a muttered threat to not scratch the paint – and, as always, the ever-present reminder to keep his eyes on Sammy. 

Dean’s last words to him had been the same yes, sir that had always followed. Fitting, that the first time those words had been a lie was the last time he’d say them. 

Looking back on that day should probably be painful, considering what had happened – but it isn’t. The drive itself had been peaceful. Early morning sunlight had just been creeping over the horizon line, and Dean remembers how he’d fished out a scratched pair of his dad’s sunglasses to wear on the way to drop Sammy off at the school. How he’d woken up extra early to pack his camping gear in the trunk, long before his brother had even rolled out of bed.

He remembers Sam’s bed-head and grumpy, sleep rumpled expression. His mismatched, socked feet, his shoes tossed in the footwell in an effort not to be late. His little backpack – a dark green jansport that Dean had stolen from a Walmart a couple of years ago after filling it with school supplies and slinging it over his shoulder like it had been there all along. Dean can see it there in his mind’s eye; perched in Sammy’s lap, his little arms slung around it and his head resting on top as he’d dozed. 

He remembers tugging Sam toward him when he’d tried to bolt out the door without a goodbye. Remembers kissing him on top of his fool head, despite his loud insistence that Dean was embarrassing him, stop it, ugh! He remembers helping Sam unload his duffle and his sleeping bag, remembers bending down to help tie his shoes as he’d tried with typical pre-teen futility to fix his hair in the Impala’s side mirror. Remembers hugging him tight to his chest and telling him to have fun. To relax, for once, and not to worry about Dad or Dean. 

Remembers telling him he’d see him soon. 

“First time I’ve driven her.” 

Dean blinks. Returns back to the present. Sam is looking down at his lap, his large hands folded in front of him like he’s nervous. “Dad, uh. Sorta gave her to me, I guess. Or he tried to.” 

“Tried to?”

Sam glances at him. Worries at his lip. “I didn’t want it.” 

He must see the flicker of outrage on Dean’s face, because he holds up his hands. “It wasn’t ever supposed to be mine, Dean.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Come on, Sam. You don’t think Dad would have given her to me, do you? Not with…” 

Sam’s eyes harden, his jaw cocking in the same way it always did when someone would try to belittle or dismiss Dean over his designation. He had spent a hell of a lot of time protecting Sam, but as soon as he’d been old enough to know what was going on, his brother had tried his damndest to do the same for him. Even from John. 

“If you think I wouldn’t have passed the keys to you the second he put them in my hand, you’re wrong,” Sam says lowly. And while there is frustration in his scent, it’s the kind that Dean knows from childhood fights, not the kind that sends him to his knees. The fact that it’s mixed with guilt helps, too, even though he wishes it didn’t. 

“Ain’t your fault he was a dick, Sam,” Dean says, pushing at his shoulder. “S'alright.” 

“It was stupid,” Sam says bitterly. “And then he thought – Jesus, Dean. I turned seventeen, and he came by Bobby’s for the first time in years, drunk as a skunk, and tried to pass the damn keys off to me… I threw them down in the dirt and told him to get lost.” 

Dean knows it’s been years since that happened. Knows he wasn’t there. But even Sam’s recollection of that sort of fight makes his skin crawl unpleasantly, makes his stomach tighten with anxiety. With the urge to fix it. 

“Bet he didn’t find that real cute.” 

“He took a swing at me,” Sam says bluntly, and when Dean looks up in shock, his eyes are cold. Hard. And Dean wishes it didn’t, but it makes his shoulders tighten, makes him lean away minutely. Sam is too caught up in memories to notice. “He missed.” 

Dean’s mouth is dry. “He… Did he ever –” 

“No,” Sam replies, shaking his head. “No, he didn’t. I left for Bobby’s so fast, and he never really let John around me long enough for anything to… yeah.” 

“Good,” Dean says shakily, running a hand through his hair. He can feel his heart pounding in his palms. “I – yeah. Good.” 

Sam is quiet for a long moment. “I didn’t.” 

“Didn’t…?” 

“Miss.” 

Dean looks over at his brother, all lean lines and alpha-solid strength. At the hard set to his jaw, the way his hands are balled up into fists in his lap. He doesn’t have to wonder what a punch from a man like Sam feels like.

“Good.” 

Sam lets out a breath. “Thought you’d be pissed at me.” 

“For taking a shot at Dad?” Dean asks, surprised. “Nah. He had it coming.” 

“You hated it so much when we fought, back in the day,” Sam says quietly, looking down at his lap. “Figured it would… I don’t know. Freak you out.” 

Dean is quiet at that. He has no idea how much Sam knows. He’d tried to keep it under wraps, John’s discipline. Had tried to hide the worst of it from his brother. Sam had seen some of it, just by the nature of being there. Had known pretty well what a correction from their father looked like, in terms of pain. But he hadn’t seen all the bruises, because Dean hadn’t wanted him too. 

Dean had earned a lot of those bruises. Screwing up this or that, taking unnecessary risks. Doing some foolish thing that put Sam in danger. His dad had ruled with an iron fist, and he hadn’t always been wrong. But sometimes, Dean had taken the brunt of a fit of rage that was meant for Sam. Sometimes, Dean had made himself a convenient punching bag, just to ensure that John took his anger out on someone who could handle it. 

Those times, he’d hidden from Sam. Especially on the occasions that John’s rages had been sparked by Sam himself. Sam’s right about fights between John and him freaking Dean out, but maybe not for the reasons he assumes. Dean had been worried for Sam, of course. Worried that John would lose his temper and hit him before Dean could deescalate or distract. But he’d also been tense because he’d known what awaited him after Sam went to sleep or to school. 

“Doesn’t freak me out,” he says belatedly, when he realizes that Sam has been holding his breath. “Just… glad someone finally cold-cocked him.” 

Dean, of course, had never done so. Had only ever raised his fists to guard his own face. Something between self-preservation and cowardice. 

Sam blows a long breath out of his mouth, his shoulders settling. “Was that the last time you saw him?” Dean asks, not sure what he wants the answer to be.

His brother nods. “I think, uh. I think my message was pretty loud and clear. He looked so surprised,” he tacks on, shaking his head with a twisted expression. “Like he thought I’d… betrayed him. Like he hadn’t expected his kid to fight back.” 

Dean swallows. “He didn’t.” 

Whether or not Sam understands the meaning behind those words, Dean has no idea. But his brother does lean a little closer to him. Does press his shoulder to Dean’s, a solid and warm wall of comfort. Dean relaxes into the touch, because – at least for now – his body has managed to remember it as being something that’s safe. It’s automatic, when he slings an arm around Sam’s shoulders, when he pulls him in a little closer. And even though Sam is much, much bigger these days, the way he slumps into Dean’s side is familiar too. 

“You know this car is yours, right?”

Dean squeezes Sam’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to remind Sam of it, but he thinks he needs to. “Nothing is mine, Sam. Not really.” 

Sam huffs. “Not yet, maybe.”

Dean opens his mouth to correct him. To remind his brother that he is never going to be able to own anything ever again, because he himself is owned, and possessions don’t get to have possessions of their own. 

But Sam’s voice is firm. Uncompromising. “When you’re, you know. When you’re free. When all the paperwork goes through and stuff. It’s yours.” 

And Dean feels those words like a kick to the chest. 

It’s something between the calm surety in Sam’s tone and the abrupt reminder. Because, once again, Dean has found himself thinking of freedom as something that isn’t even an option. Isn’t even a possibility, even though it’s exactly what Cas has been pushing for all along. He doesn’t like how his brain always defaults back to this – this idea that he is, forever and always, a thing. Doesn’t like that Sam, who was so suspicious of Cas that he’s nearly attacked him more than once, has already come to terms with it, when Dean himself is hardly capable of remembering that the possibility is there. 

Saying those things to Sam would only hurt him, Dean knows. So he pushes past all that crap, and says, “I don’t even have a license, kid,” instead. 

“Not yet,” Sam says, his head resting on Dean’s shoulder. “You will, though. And when you do, I’m not taking no for an answer.” 

Dean resists the knee-jerk urge to scoff. To tell Sam that it’s never gonna happen. Because, even though it still seems like a very far off dream, and he doesn’t want to get his own hopes up… it’s not exactly impossible. Not anymore. 

Not with Cas. 

They sit leaning against each other for a while, the silence of the afternoon interrupted only by their breathing. He can smell Sam’s rosemary bread and leather scent, can pick up on the underlying smell of home that both he and the Impala will always carry. For just a little while, he can close his eyes and pretend he never left home at all. 

Eventually, of course, Sam does pull away from him. Dean lets him go with a smile, pretending not to notice that his brother’s eyes are a little red. Sam’s doing the same for him, anyway. 

“I, uh. I have one other thing for you,” Sam says, his scent tipping over a little into nervousness. “Something you can have now.” 

Dean cocks his head, but Sam doesn’t explain any further. Instead, he unzips his jacket a little. Reaches inside his shirt collar, and pulls something small and golden out, slipping the leather throng over his head. 

It’s being pressed into Dean’s palm, fingers folded over it, before his brain can even make sense of what he’s looking at. For a moment, he’s afraid to open his hand to look inside. 

“You kept it,” he says, and his voice sounds far away. “Sammy. You kept it?”

“‘Course I kept it,” Sam says, his voice rough. 

Dean squeezes his hand around the tiny charm, feeling the worn metal angles pushing into his palm. “I wasn’t even sure you’d… I thought, um. I didn’t know if Dad would have found it and tossed it, before…” 

“It was right there on my pillow,” Sam says, his voice quiet. Dean swallows at the pain in those words. At the trembling reminder of what it must have been like, for Sam to come home – for the first time in his entire life – to find Dean absent. “I knew… I mean. I knew something was wrong when I saw it. Dad was shit-faced, when I got there, but I didn’t know why until…” 

He clears his throat. Dean tries not to hold his breath, waiting for the questions. For Sam to demand to know how Dean could have been so stupid as to send him off like that, for him to be angry at Dean for leaving him. But Sam just shakes his head. “Knew you wouldn’t have left it behind if you weren’t tryin’ to tell me something. You know, that you being gone... that it wasn’t an accident.” 

Dean squeezes his hand around it even harder. Bites his lip. He looks up, catches Sam’s eye. Dean can see the questions, can see his hurt. Can see the wound he’s been carrying around for all these years, just as ragged now as it was then.

“You should keep it,” he says after a while, his voice low. “I… you’ve had it longer than I have, at this point…” 

“I don’t need it anymore,” Sam says softly. “I’ve got you back.” 

And Dean can’t exactly argue with that. 

He swallows. Slips the string over his head, pressing his palm over the little amulet that is now sitting right on his sternum. It clinks against the tags that are already there when Dean slips it under his shirt, still warm from Sam’s skin. 

It feels right. Feels like a part of him that was missing is back, a part that’s been gone for so long he forgot what it was like to have it at all. It’s just a dumb necklace – just like it’s just a dumb car – but it means so much more than that to both of them, for so many reasons. 

Dean can’t go back in time and stop those wounds from being inflicted, but he can do his best to suture them closed now. So he leans forward. Pulls Sam into a real hug, this time, one where his brother’s arms wrap around him and hug right back. 

And they hold on tight. 

In the end, Cas insists that Dean talk to both Pamela and Benny before they go. 

Dean knows that, if he wanted to, he could get out of both of those calls. Could convince Cas he doesn’t need them – or at least that he’s too uncomfortable to make them. But he sees the worry in the alpha’s eyes, and he doesn’t like it, and he figures that clearance from both a doctor and his damn therapist will go a long way toward easing it. So he agrees, and the strain around Cas’s eyes eases enough that it’s worth it before he even picks up the phone. 

He calls Pamela first, because he thinks it will be easier. He’s alone on the back porch, sitting on the steps, Cas’s jacket draped over his shoulders and his cheek warm from the alpha’s chaste, soft thank you kiss he’d planted on him before going inside. The phone only rings a few times before Pam’s picking up, her voice warm. 

“It’s good to hear from you, kid,” she says, gentle enough that Dean knows it’s genuine. “How’re you feeling?”

“Alright,” he says, after clearing his throat. “You know, uh. A little weaker than normal, I guess. Kinda tired.” 

“That’s normal after any heat, let alone one that was extended like yours.” He can hear her shifting papers around – his chart, maybe? “You still need to be drinking plenty of water and eating plenty of protein.”

Dean wonders if Pam has already said as much to Cas – he’d been pretty insistent than Dean have two of the chicken quesadillas that Bal had cooked up instead of one, and, mostly to mollify him, Dean had complied. “I can do that. Did Cas already…”

“He did,” Pam confirms, and Dean is torn between rolling his eyes and the way his heart gets all warm and fluttery at the millionth piece of evidence that Cas cares about him. “I told him what I’ll tell you – you’re absolutely fine to travel. Under different circumstances I would recommend that you not drive, but that’s not a factor here, and so I see no problem with you going as far as your physical health goes.” 

Dean is smart enough to hear what she isn’t saying, too, and as much as he doesn’t want to, he makes himself ask. “And… the stuff that’s not physical?”

“I’d say you need more time to adjust before putting yourself through the stress of a road trip,” she says bluntly. Dean winces. “But I wasn’t born yesterday. So I’m just going to suggest all three of you take some mild scent blockers instead.” 

Dean blinks. “Why?”

Sighing, Pamela’s tone shifts into something long suffering. “Yes, why would I suggest that two alphas and an omega should make an effort to dampen their scents while being crammed together in a singular vehicle for multiple days?”

“I like the way Cas smells,” Dean says, baffled. “Sam, too. It’s not… they don’t scare me, or nothin’.” 

“No,” Pamela agrees, with the air of someone who is being very deliberately patient. “But you and Castiel are definitely scent bonded, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you and Sam still are as well. The echo chamber that’s going to happen in that car if any of you get stressed is not something I would recommend any patient of mine sit through unaided.” She pauses. “And there is going to be stress, Dean. I’d really like to insist that you only travel with one of them, if you are going to travel at all.” 

He scrubs a hand through his hair. She doesn’t exactly have to tell him that – he’d known it already. Cas has already offered to take his own car, to give him and Sam time together alone. But Dean doesn’t want that. He wants the comfort and the security of Cas, and he wants to be on the road with Sam again, and he’s spent way too long not getting what he wants to give it up without a fight now. 

He’d said as much to Cas, and the alpha had, predictably, melted like butter. His nervous protests had evaporated. But Pam is a harder sell. 

“They’re both important to me,” he says quietly, nudging at a stick with the toe of his boot. 

“I know they are,” she agrees. “But they’re also both alphas, and they’re both going to react to the scent of your distress.” 

Dean grimaces. He doesn’t like that she’s implying he’s going to be distressed no matter what, but he also ain’t fool enough to disagree with her. “How… how long do they last? The blockers.” 

“About five or six hours,” she says. Dean would feel worse about the whole thing if it wasn’t for the transparent relief in her voice, now that he’s actually considering it. “They’re mild. Certainly not a neutralizer – I know that would be disorienting.” 

Dean shudders. Disorienting is a nice way of putting it. 

About the only thing worse than smelling a worked up alpha is seeing one and not being able to smell them at all – it feels like being blindfolded. Dean hates it. It hadn’t happened often with Alastair, because most of those men had taken pride in the way they smelled, in the potency of their pheromones. But every once in a while, he’d get a steely eyed alpha in a suit, one of those corporate robot types – the kind that hid their scent in the courtroom or in board meetings. Those men had been unpredictable. Terrifying in their emptiness. Dean had never known what to anticipate, and that had somehow made things worse. 

“That’s… yeah,” he agrees, belatedly. “I wouldn’t like that, don’t think.” 

Pamela just hums. He’s got a feeling she knows more about it than she’s letting on, but she doesn’t say as much, and he’s grateful. “That’s just my two cents, kid.” 

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it. “If, uh. If they agree, then I’ll take them too. Just… did you already ask Cas?”

“He’s already offered to come get them, honey.” 

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Of course he did.” Stupid of him, to think that Cas would be the kind of alpha that would take that sort of thing as a personal insult. “Thanks, Pam.” 

“Thank me by making it there and back in one piece,” she says, though not without affection. 

Benny’s call is a little harder, mostly because Dean hasn’t seen him for a while. He, like Pam, already knows what’s been going on – he wonders if it was Cas or Bal that filled him in. Either way, he’s relieved not to have to explain everything. 

“Sounds like everything has been movin’ pretty fast there, brother,” is the first thing Benny says, after Dean explains where they’re going and why. 

His tone is neutral, but Dean still feels like he’s supposed to explain. To justify. “I… I don’t want to make him wait. He’s waited long enough.” 

“Maybe,” Benny agrees. “But he also cares about you. Got a feelin’ he wouldn’t hold it against you, if you needed to give it some time.” 

It’s not a condemnation, and it’s not a judgement. It’s just a statement, and Dean feels less like he’s being backed into a corner and more like he’s being presented with all of his options. “I don’t want to give it any more time, though,” Dean says, realizing that the words are true even as he says them. “I’ve already… I should have called them months ago.” 

“You weren’t ready for that,” Benny disagrees bluntly. And maybe it should make Dean mad, that the man thinks that – maybe it should make him feel small. But instead, all he feels is relief. It’s proof that his choice wasn’t totally wrong. Proof that someone competent sees him, and his choices, and doesn’t find them lacking. And maybe it’s stupid, but it makes the guilt sting a little less. 

“Maybe not,” he says finally, his voice a little rough. “But, still. I… I miss him. And–” 

He breaks off. 

This, he has not discussed with Benny. The last time he spoke to the man, Dean was just wrapping his mind around the fact that Cas wanted to free him, and now… 

“Cas and I are – um. Kinda. A thing,” he says haltingly. 

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment that’s a touch too long for comfort, and Dean can feel his face start to go hot. He swallows. “Not, like – he hasn’t. Uh. We haven’t done anything. ‘Cause he – you know. He wants to wait till I’m free. To do… any of that. But. We’ve… talked about it.” 

“I’m… relieved to hear that you two haven’t initiated anything sexual,” Benny says slowly. Dean sort of feels bad – he knows he’s throwing a lot on Benny’s plate on very short notice. Knows that he’s probably having to work overtime to wrap his mind around it. And only now does it occur to him that he’s sort of throwing Cas under the bus, too. He hopes that Benny knows him well enough to understand that he doesn’t have to be suspicious. That Cas would never take advantage of him. 

“We won’t. He won’t,” Dean says quickly. “‘Cause, you know. He doesn’t… it’s not…” He struggles with himself for a moment, trying to find the right words. “He wants me to be able to choose. To really choose, you know?”

Benny makes a low, contemplative noise. “I do. I will admit, Dean,” he says, a touch of amusement in his voice that Dean’s relieved to hear, “I’m not exactly surprised by this.” 

“No one seems to be,” he grumbles. 

“Why are you sharing this with me now?” Benny asks, his tone purely curious. “Not that I don’t appreciate the trust you’re showing by doing so, but…” 

Dean takes a breath. “I just… um. Bobby is… he’s the closest thing I got to a dad,” he says, swallowing around the pain of that statement. “To a parent. He’s family. And… Cas is, um. He’s important to me, and he’s gonna be part of my life until I’m in the ground, if it’s up to me. And he ain’t really got a family of his own, it seems like, other than Balthazar and you guys, and… I don’t know,” he trails off, scuffing his feet on the ground. “It’s stupid.” 

“It’s not,” Benny says evenly. His voice is warm. “Go on.” 

“I just… I want him to know them, you know? Really know them. And I want them to get to know him, too. I want Bobby and them to know that I’m safe, yeah, but I also… I want them to love him like I do.” 

He only realizes how heavy the words are once they’ve burst out of him. Only realizes how much they mean to him when they’ve already been said. “You want him to become part of your family,” Benny sums up gently. 

“Yeah,” Dean chokes out. “I need him to be, I think. And, uh. I think he…” Dean swallows. “I think he needs it too, you know?”

“I can’t argue with that, brother,” Benny rumbles. “You know it’s gonna be a rocky road to get to that point though, right?”

“I know,” Dean says, wiping at his nose with the back of his hand. Damn, but he’s tired of crying. “They’re all gonna be suspicious of him, probably. I would be, if any of them were in my place. But… he’s too good, man. They’ll come around.” 

Benny’s hum is noncommittal, but Dean thinks he agrees.

That evening, after they eat together – in the living room this time, because contrary to what might be a popular belief Dean isn’t, in fact, a masochist – Balthazar bids them all good night with Couch under one arm and his duffle slung over the opposite shoulder. Sam nods in a relatively civil way to Cas before heading up to bed not long after, and it’s not perfect, but it’s better than anything Dean had dared hope for. 

In the end, it had been Sam that had made the trip back up to the center to get the scent blockers. He’d stopped by the store on the way home to pick up a bag and some other travel things for Dean, too, taking Cas’s card to pay for it only when Bal had fixed him with something on the harsher end of a glare when he’d protested. Sam knows what he’ll need on the road – you don’t spend a childhood half living in a car without knowing how to pack – and so Dean had been happy to put it out of his mind. 

Cas, on the other hand… had not. He’s tired. Exhausted, actually, even though they’d done nothing but putter and slowly pack all day long. 

Well. Dean had puttered. Cas has been taking the whole packing thing more seriously than Dean had thought possible. He can’t count how many times the alpha packed and unpacked and repacked his suitcase before Dean not-so-gently wrenched the stack of shirts and underwear out of his hands and sent him to go help Bal cook dinner instead. Cas had retreated, sheepish and embarrassed, and Dean had been left wondering exactly what the hell was going on in the man’s head. 

Dean has no idea how he’s supposed to sleep when Cas’s scent is still buzzing with something closer to anxiety than excitement. He brushes his teeth while basically bouncing on the balls of his feet, paces back and forth while he waits for Cas to do the same.

When Cas does emerge from the bathroom, he’s as fidgety as he’s been all day. Dean figures it’s because he’s thinking about tomorrow as much as Dean himself is, and rather than make him more nervous it strangely… settles something in him.

Cas cares about this, too. And right now, he needs reassurance just as much as Dean does – if not more. And Dean can do that. 

The whole time Sam had been gone, Cas had hovered around Dean like a particularly handsome helicopter – bringing him water, resting his hands on Dean’s shoulders, offering him fruit or a blanket or to adjust the thermostat for the tenth time in an hour. Dean had been puzzled by the sudden burst of attention, but he thinks he gets it now. 

Cas is nervous. And, as crazy as it should be to consider, Dean thinks he’s comforting himself by providing for Dean. By being an alpha – his alpha – in a way that Dean has never really experienced; by getting ready, by planning, by taking care of Dean, he’s… self soothing. 

And Dean thinks he has an idea of how to help him do that, and in a way that doesn’t involve repacking the entire Impala for the fifth time. 

He doesn’t let himself think too hard about it when he walks over and draws Cas into a hug. The alpha melts into his arms immediately, a breath whooshing out of him. He can feel just how tense his shoulders had been when they loosen. 

“Hello, Dean,” he says, muffled where his face is pressed into Dean’s neck. 

Dean just huffs out a laugh, squeezing a little harder. “Hey-yah, Cas.” 

“Are you alright?”

Dean hums. “I, uh.” He hesitates, his confidence wavering for a second. He swallows, shaking off his nerves. “Can I ask you for something?”

“Of course,” Cas says patiently. As they’ve stood there, his hand has started to brush up and down the length of Dean’s spine, familiar and gentle. It makes Dean feel bold enough to speak. 

He takes a steadying breath. “I was thinking… uh. I was thinking that I could use a bath.” 

Cas goes still for a moment.

“I… You know, I’m kinda. Tense,” he says haltingly. It’s a thin excuse, because, honestly, they both know that Cas is the one who is so anxious he’s nearly vibrating through the floor. “And I was thinking…” 

Cas has to know where he’s going with this by now, but he doesn’t say anything. Dean takes a breath that’s only a little shaky. “Could you help me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, but when he does speak his voice is achingly gentle. “I’d be happy to.” 

In the end, it goes a lot more smoothly than Dean thought it might. 

While Cas runs the bath, Dean sits on the edge of the tub – slightly nervous – and watches him work. Now that he’s focused on something, the tense set to his shoulders has eased, and the lines around his eyes have too. He’s grabbed a stool and is perched on the edge of it, concentrating over the bathtub like he’s performing surgery rather than filling it with water. 

He adds in a couple of scoops of something from a blue plastic bag, dumps three or four cap-fulls of bubble bath under the running tap. Stirs the water with one hand, the other resting on Dean’s leg in a way that is both comforting and grounding. He hasn’t even gotten into the water yet, and already Dean can feel himself relaxing. Can feel the nerves that had been zinging through him at what he’s about to do ease, until he’s nearly dozing off. 

“Does it feel warm enough?” Cas murmurs. 

Dean shakes himself awake, dipping his hand in the water to check. “Perfect,” he says, and the corners of Cas’s eyes wrinkle when he smiles. 

Cas turns away before Dean has to ask him to, resting his chin on his hand while Dean strips down. He’s positive that Cas isn’t looking, but Dean can feel himself start to blush anyway. It’s nice, he thinks, that the way his heart starts to pound a little harder has nothing to do with fear. 

He steps carefully into the bath, lowering himself down slowly so he doesn’t send water sloshing over the sides. It’s deep enough – and wide enough – that he can comfortably rest in basically any angle he wants without risking showing off his goods. He gets comfortable, dropping his head back to rest on the wall. The warm water feels amazing, and he can already feel his eyes fluttering shut.

“You can turn around,” Dean says after a moment. He keeps his eyes closed, for reasons he only partially understands. 

He hears the alpha shuffle, but there’s a long moment of silence after that. Dean drops an open hand on the side of the tub, and Cas lets out a breath when he grabs it and weaves their fingers together. 

“S’alright,” Dean murmurs. “I’m good.” 

He opens his eyes when Cas doesn’t answer. The alpha is looking down at him with a soft gaze, his honey sweet scent soothing and gentle, and Dean could easily fall asleep right here and now if he didn’t want to wake up all pruney. 

“Feels good,” he slurs more than says, and Cas chuckles lowly. But it does – it’s soothing aches that Dean hardly remembers he has, most of the time, because he can’t remember a time when they weren’t there. He feels all syrupy and languid, soft, and he resolves to do this more often. 

Maybe next time, he can convince Cas to get in the bath with him. 

“May I?”

Dean opens his eyes again – he hadn’t realized they’d closed again – and looks over. Cas is holding up a bottle of shampoo, an expression on his face that would be almost comically hopeful if it weren’t so earnest. 

Dean dips his head in the water and then sits up, shuffling forward a little so that Cas can reach him more easily. The first tug of the alpha’s fingers through his hair nearly punches a groan right out of him – he holds it back, but only just. 

“Okay?” Cas murmurs, and Dean hums back an affirmative. 

He must fall into a doze after all, because the next thing he knows Cas is gently cupping water in his hand and pouring it over Dean’s head, carefully shielding his eyes from the soap. His scent has lost all of its anxious edges, now, and Dean’s feelin’ real pleased with himself about it. He thinks he’s entitled to, at this point. 

Cas keeps carding his fingers through Dean’s hair long after the shampoo has been washed away, but Dean’s not about to start complaining. He pauses, however, when Dean speaks up. 

“You know that we’re gonna be fine, right?”

When he looks over, Cas is staring at him, looking for all the world as if he’s been caught. Dean slowly reaches up, grabs Cas’s hand in his own. Drags it down from his head and presses it to his chest, the alpha’s palm warm and firm against his skin. His heart is beating slow and steady, and he hopes Cas can feel that. Hopes he takes comfort in it. 

“I know you’re nervous,” he says gently. “Probably about a lot of stuff. But it’s gonna be okay.” 

Cas’s eyes flicker down. Away. “You shouldn’t be having to reassure me.” 

Dean huffs. “Why not? Just cause you’re a big bad alpha, you’re not allowed to be scared of shit?”

“I’m not…” 

Cas trails off all on his own, his mouth twisting. “I shouldn’t be.” 

“You’re allowed to be,” Dean insists. “It’s not what you’re used to, and I know that can be… uh.” He clears his throat. “I know it can be fucking scary to have your routine jacked with, even if it ain’t exactly bad.” 

Cas’s eyes soften. He doesn’t need it spelled out for him – that Dean is talking about how long it took him to adjust to Cas’s gentle kindness, when he’d been expecting cruelty. “It can, yes,” he agrees softly. 

“So give yourself a break,” Dean says, squeezing his hand. “And remember that we’re gonna be just fine. It doesn’t matter if we forget every damn thing we packed today, or if we run outta gas, or if the car breaks down. Because I got you... and you have me.” 

Cas lets out a long, shaky breath. And he nods. 

For a while, they just rest together. Cas shuffles off of the stool and sits down on the floor next to the tub, leaning back with his arm resting in the water. Dean, for his part, traces his fingers over his skin, across his knuckles, up and down his wrist. It’s exploration, in a way – comfort in another. 

Reassurance, for the both of them, that things are going to be alright.