66. Last of a Lost Civilization

Sam takes the first driving shift. 

When it had come time to decide who was sitting where, there had been an awkward sort of … well. Not posturing, exactly, between him and Castiel. More just discomfort in general. The alpha has been walking on eggshells around him since yesterday, and Sam’s been doing the same to him. They are tentatively feeling each other out, he thinks – trying to start fresh without actually calling it that. 

Sam, for his part, is starting to realize that Castiel is not the man he assumed him to be. 

Yesterday helped more than a little, he thinks. That moment where they’d both stood side by side, watching Dean – both silently observing his progress, neither of them wanting to interrupt - had told him something important about the alpha. If he's honest with himself, he would have expected Castiel to race outside at a moment like that. To insert himself between Dean and what could have been triggering memories; to demand to know what he thought he was doing, going outside on his own. To order him back inside. The image he'd had of Castiel in his mind's eye is at the very least overprotective, if not overbearing.

But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d hung back. Had treated Dean, and that moment, with quiet respect. 

The fact that he’d known about the Impala at all – had known, even partially, what it meant to Dean – hadn’t hurt either. Because that meant, of course, that Dean had been willing to share those memories with him. Had trusted the man enough to do so. 

The rest of the day had only served to further shake up his opinion, to further drive home the fact that Sam had misjudged him. Castiel is not the dark, rich and powerful alpha he'd assumed. He's quiet, and calm, and collected. He doesn't speak before he thinks, from what Sam can tell. He asks for Dean's opinion and seems to actually care what the answer is.

He's just... a man. And, despite the fact that he has every reason not to do so, he treats Dean like one, too.

In the end, it had been Castiel himself that made the final choice on the seating arrangements, opening the back door instead of the front. He hadn’t told Dean where to sit, and that had relaxed something in Sam that he hadn’t known was tense. Dean himself had looked torn for a moment, but he hadn’t taken long to decide to slide into the passenger seat. Sam had felt something in him relax at that, too. And then they'd been off.

Dean had fiddled with the radio for the first half hour; adjusting this and that, popping open the glove compartment and letting out an excited little noise when he’d found his old mixtapes still inside. They’ve been listening to them ever since, and even though classic rock has never been Sam’s favorite, he’ll happily listen to it for the rest of his life if it means he’ll get to see Dean’s easy smile again and again. 

Sam’s realizing that there isn’t much he wouldn’t give his brother, at this point. 

Castiel hasn’t contributed much to what little conversation there’s been. He’s had his nose buried in a book for most of the last half hour, and is so quiet that Sam could almost forget he’s there. The scent blockers all three of them had popped this morning help with the illusion. He can smell the other alpha, but only if he concentrates. Dean’s scent is subdued, too, though it bleeds through a little more easily – mostly because it’s spiked with excitement. 

Sam glances over again, feeling something tighten in his chest when he sees how his brother is glued to the window. He's watching the world outside with avid fascination, as if he’s afraid to miss a second of it – and with the sun and a smile on his face, his head gently nodding along to the music, his fingers tapping on his knee... he seems happy. Normal. 

“Where are we?”

He startles at Dean's question. His brother hasn’t turned to look at him – he’s still fixated on his view out of the window, hungrily taking in as many details of the countryside as he can. God, but he’d missed Dean’s excitement. His unfiltered joy, his unapologetic enthusiasm.

“We’re coming up on Wenatchee,” he answers, realizing he's probably been quiet for too long.

“Gesundheit,” Dean deadpans, glancing back at him with a badly suppressed smile. Sam finds himself rolling his eyes, and then finds himself getting emotional about rolling his eyes. Dean’s corny humor isn’t something he plans on taking for granted ever again. Not after going a decade without it. He turns back to the window, his mouth twisting. “Farthest I’ve been from…” 

Dean trails off, suddenly looking stiff and uncomfortable. He sends Sam a quick glance and, just like that, his tone drops from easy to careful. “Um. From…” 

Sam has to swallow and grip the steering wheel a little tighter when he realizes what’s going on. Dean is trying to avoid directly mentioning the place where he was last kept. His last… owner. The last person who hurt and abused him. He's filtering himself.

He doesn't really need to. Sam knows that Dean was in the sex trade. His own common sense – not to mention Novak – have told him that much, though the alpha had avoided mentioning any specifics. Rightly so, Sam knows. It’s Dean’s business to share, not his. 

Still. If Novak had been truthful when he'd told Sam he had permission to tell him those few things about Dean's past, and Dean's still afraid to mention it... it had to have been bad. Really bad, judging from how tightly Dean is gripping his knees. From how acidic and sour his scent has gone, even through the blockers. He clears his throat. Skips right over mentioning so much as the man’s name. “Farthest I’ve been from Seattle in a long time,” he finally finishes, flicking his eyes down to his lap in a way that Sam has to pretend not to notice. “It’s… weird.” 

Sam doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know whether to apologize or try and empathize or to stay silent altogether– to ask for more details, or to let Dean share at his own pace. His head hurts. His chest hurts.

Dean inhales. Frowns - probably at Sam's shifting scent. He smooths his hands down his pants as he lets loose a breath, visibly calming himself back down. “Missed you,” he murmurs, something that Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of hearing. “Missed… this.” 

“Driving?”

Dean nods. “Yeah. Being out on the open road, you know. Trees flying past, asphalt all open and empty. The music. The sights.” He huffs out a laugh, albeit a soft one, as he stares out ahead of them at the winding, empty road. “Shit. I missed windows.” 

A flurry of emotion cuts through Sam at that. At the bare acceptance in his brother’s words, at his small, sad smile - as though he isn’t saying something blatantly devastating. He swallows back the reassurances he wants to pour out; the sympathy and the horror and the hurt. Dean doesn’t need to hear it. Not right now, and maybe not ever. It isn’t fair, he thinks, to be more upset by what Dean has dealt with than Dean himself is. Isn’t fair to make him have to console Sam when he’s the one who went through it in the first place. 

Dean seems okay, anyway. Despite it all, he seems happy. Comfortable. Like those things never happened to him. And, for a little while, Sam can safely pretend they haven’t. Can lean back in his seat and press his foot to the gas and worry only about keeping an eye on the speedometer in the little towns that break up the long stretches of highway through the woods. He doesn't plan on dealing with the shit show that would be a traffic stop.

Of course, the illusion of Dean's comfort is is shattered not long after that, when Dean gets hot and shucks his jacket.

Underneath, he’s wearing a dark green henley, a size too big for him. Like most of his clothes, Sam realizes with a pang. He's distracted from that depressing thought with one that's a lot more harsh. Dean's sleeves have been pushed up by his coat, exposing more of his forearms than Sam has seen so far. And he shouldn’t – he really shouldn’t – but he can’t help but stare at the damage that is exposed.

He catches just a glimpse of the gnarled, red scars around Dean's wrists before his brother is quickly, self-consciously tugging his sleeves back over his hands. He crosses his arms over his chest. Avoids Sam’s eyes. And, even with the scent blockers, Sam can pick up on his brother’s sickly shame. 

It makes him angry that Dean feels ashamed. As if he had done something to deserve any of that pain, as if he's the one to blame for it. Sam's first instinct is to lean into that anger, if only so he won't have to examine the way his stomach lurches when he makes the mistake of thinking about how hard and how long Dean would have had to struggle to get scars like that in the first place. When he thinks about what Dean might have been trying to escape from.

But anger, as he's learned, doesn't help. It only hurts. So he shakes off the sick sort of nausea he’s feeling as best he can, and pushes past it like he hasn’t noticed a thing. “Well, we can take all the road trips we want, now. I’ll even let you pick the music.”

His voice is maybe a little too cheerful, but it gets the job done, because Dean relaxes. “You’re going soft,” he accuses. “Just because I ain’t drivin’ doesn’t mean the same rules don’t apply.” 

“Driver picks the music?” Sam says, raising his eyebrow. “So, you wouldn’t mind if we listened to some Fall Out B–” 

“Never mind,” Dean says quickly, a comical sort of horror overtaking his face. “God, never mind. Your music taste ain’t changed since middle school, Sammy? Come on.” 

Sam grins. “What can I say? I like the angst.” 

“Grown man listening to whiny teenagers,” Dean grumbles, shaking his head. “Sad.” 

“I know you secretly liked it,” Sam replies smugly. “I caught you singing along more than once.” 

Dean sends him a stink eye, but he also doesn’t deny it. And, the next time Sam looks over, he's smiling again.

It’s a few hours of easy conversation about landmarks and billboards and other cars on the road before Sam realizes that they need to stop for gas. 

“Running on fumes, here,” he announces. “Do y’all see anything nearby?”

Novak pipes up from the back seat. “Google says that there is a station in... point-two miles,” he says, squinting down at his phone. “It’s the next exit, I believe.” 

“Awesome,” Dean says, sitting forward in his seat a little. He grimaces. “I gotta take a leak.” 

Sam snorts. “You used to be such a hardass about that when you would drive us to Bobby's,” he says, shaking his head. “I literally would have to beg you to pull over.” 

“You had a dime-sized bladder,” Dean announces, not sounding remorseful in the slightest. “Had to build up your stamina.” 

“You weren’t saying that after we had those enchiladas at that one hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint,” Sam corrects mischievously. Dean groans. 

“Ugh. Man, that was an exception. You were stinking up the whole damn car–” 

“It’s not my fault it didn’t agree with me!”

“Cas, the kid had the stomach of a sickly Victorian child, I’m telling you…” 

They continue to bicker pleasantly until they’ve pulled up to the pump of a dilapidated looking station. All three men get out of the car simultaneously, each of them stretching until their joints pop. Dean, for his part, seems to be the most relieved to get out of the car – he takes a deep breath, once the door is shut behind him, looking around at the towering pine trees and the big blue sky. He grimaces when he takes a step forward, a hand going to his back. 

“All good?” Sam checks, trying and probably failing to hide the worry in his voice. Dean glances over at him distractedly, his hand slipping away from his back and into his pockets instead. It might be Sam’s imagination, but he swears his brother stands a little taller – like he wipes away the pinched expression he’d been sporting intentionally. 

“‘Course,” he says, looking at Sam like he’s the strange one. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sam knows a lie when he hears one, but he isn’t interested in arguing. He just shrugs. If there’s one thing he hasn’t forgotten, it’s Dean’s stubborn pride – and his constant insistence that he’s fine when he really isn’t. “Never mind.” 

There’s not much in terms of traffic – they’re on a back road at the moment, and in the middle of the day, it’s mostly deserted. Other than a single, solitary pickup in the parking lot that probably belongs to the attendant, it looks like they’re the only ones here. Sam starts to step toward the pump, but Castiel has already beaten him to it. He’s somehow already managed to get his card in the machine and is typing in his pin.

“I was going to get that,” Sam says, trying not to sound too defensive. He may not have much money, but that doesn't mean he'd been counting on Castiel to foot the bill.

“I’m well aware,” the older alpha replies, his voice neutral as he returns his card to his wallet and slips it into his back pocket. He levels Sam with an even, somewhat expectant look over his shoulder. It’s clear he’s preparing himself for an argument about who’s paying for what. Dean interrupts before they can get that far. 

“Sam, he’s like a millionaire or something. Shut up,” he reminds him, half distracted and half exasperated; Sam huffs, a little sheepish at the reminder. “Exactly. I’ll be right back – gonna go inside to pee." He's already stepping that way before Castiel calls out. 

“Dean,” the alpha says, somewhat urgently; Dean stops in his tracks, looking back with a raised eyebrow. “I… perhaps you shouldn’t be doing that… alone?” 

Sam winces, because damn does Castiel sound awkward. Probably because Dean immediately bristles. “Seriously? I can pee without help, Cas,” he huffs out, irritated. “Come on.” 

Castiel hesitates, looking between Sam and Dean both. “I – that’s… true,” he admits, uncomfortable, “but… I would prefer that you didn’t go in there on your own.” 

Dean narrows his eyes, but, for once, Sam has to agree with the other alpha. “Come on,” he offers, glancing back at Castiel. The man looks worried. “I want a snack, anyway.” 

Scoffing at them both, Dean turns on his heel and stalks toward the door. Sam, somewhat alarmingly, finds himself sharing a look with Novak before he hurries after his brother. 

“You gonna hold the door open for me, too?” Dean asks waspishly, but his voice is quiet. He’s talking a big talk, but Sam can already see why, exactly, Castiel wanted Dean to have company. 

The inside is derelict, with flickering lights and yellowing linoleum. Dean steps in first, but he doesn’t stay in front of Sam for long. He steps to the side almost immediately, putting Sam between himself and the beady-eyed attendant that’s giving them both a blatantly suspicious look. It's startling, the sudden shift in his posture - the way he ducks down. Makes himself smaller. Less noticeable.

Sam nods at him. The man does not nod back. Instead, he sits up from his kicked back position and drops his feet onto the floor, leaning forward with both hands on the counter, and gives Sam a transparent glare. Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes, turning toward the dingy looking restroom sign instead. Dean’s already headed that way, his head down and his shoulders hunched.

“Customer only bathroom,” the attendant grunts, once Dean has already reached out to touch the handle. His brother freezes.

Sam spins around, ready to protest, but there is a tiny sign hung up behind the register that proclaims the same thing. There’s a key dangling off of a crooked nail that makes up the dot in the exclamation point at the end of the sentence. 

Dean doesn’t protest, either. He shares a quick look with Sam – doesn’t quite roll his eyes, but does whatever is closest – and shrugs. “You wanted something anyway, right?” 

The man watches them, hands folded over his chest, as they browse. Dean holds up a bag of horrifyingly orange chips and shakes them with a pleased look on his face. “You loved these things when you were a toddler. Used to drive me crazy, trying to make sure you didn’t touch anything in the motels with cheesy fingers.” 

Sam frowns dolefully at the package. “I did not eat those.”

“Like hell you didn’t,” Dean argues cheerfully. His tone is light, but Sam can see the tight edge to his stance – the way he’s refusing to look up at the ogling cashier, the way his other hand is crammed into his pocket. “Used to get ‘em whenever I could just to keep you happy.” 

Frowning, Sam takes the chips out of Dean’s hand. Now that he’s looking, the package does look vaguely familiar. “You’re telling me Dad let you buy this crap?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Dad didn’t know, genius. And it wasn’t like he was leavin’ me much of a food budget anyway.” 

“So how did he expect you to–” 

“You think he gave a shit about how?” Dean asks, tone surprisingly light for the topic. “So long as you weren’t crying when he got home, it was all good.” 

Sam feels something uncomfortable tighten in his stomach. “But how’d you get it, if you didn’t have any money?”

Dean looks at him for a moment, silent. After a few seconds, he plucks another bag of chips off of the shelf and deposits those into Sam’s hands, too. “You’d be surprised what a cute little shit like kid-me could get away with in places like this.”

He clearly means for that to be reassuring, but it isn’t. Instead, it makes something like nausea begin to slither around in Sam – something like dread, when he watches the way Dean drops his eyes to avoid his gaze. The way his shoulders round forward even more as he fidgets with the zipper on his jacket.

“Dean–” 

“Are you two gonna buy something, or what?”

Sam turns around with a scowl. “Listen, buddy, if you’ve got a goddamn problem–” 

“We’re ‘bout done,” Dean says quietly, interrupting him. His voice is so small. “Right, Sam?”

Sam turns back with a blink. He knows it shouldn’t surprise him, exactly, that Dean’s not cruising for a fight – he’s not sixteen with a chip on his shoulder anymore. But Sam still isn’t used to this version of his brother. The one that looks a little pale at just the prospect of an altercation with a stringy little beta, one that he would have easily trounced as a kid. The one that hasn't looked at the cashier at all. He's looking at Sam instead, his eyes just short of pleading. 

Sam takes a deep breath. “Right,” he says, after a beat too long. He turns around with a fake smile that the cashier doesn’t bother to mirror. “You mind grabbing us a couple of waters, Dean?”

“You mind paying for Cas’s?” Dean asks cheekily, clearly relieved, laughing a little when Sam huffs. “What?”

As Dean meanders back to the refrigerators, Sam drops the chips onto the counter and digs out his wallet, ignoring the assessing eyes of the unpleasant looking beta. His beard is yellow, and Sam’s not going to get himself worked up over the opinion of a man like that. Dean comes up behind him a moment later, setting the water down without a word. The man rings them up excruciatingly slowly, spinning the bottles on the counter idly. 

“Cash or card?” he asks, after Sam has already jammed his card into the machine. 

Sam takes a breath. “Card,” he answers, falsely pleasant. “If you don’t mind.” 

The man makes a noise that tells Sam he does mind, for whatever reason, but he hits a button on the register anyway. As soon as his receipt prints, Sam motions for the bathroom key. “Sometime today,” he can’t help but add, when the man turns around with a heavy sigh and lethargically trudges over toward it. 

He slaps it down on the counter and flicks it toward Sam, kicking his feet back up and folding his hands behind his head. Sam nobly resists the urge to topple him over and turns toward the bathroom instead. Dean waves him off when he tries to hand him the key, shaking his head. "You first, dude. Don't need a repetition of the enchilada incident."

Sam can't help but smile at that.

He's fast, but by the time he steps out Dean looks profoundly uncomfortable. More so than before. He's standing against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes on the floor. And Sam can't prove a thing, but he's dead certain it's because of the cretin behind the counter that's leering at them both. His suspicions are confirmed as soon as Dean steps toward the bathroom.

“One customer, one use,” the attendant says loudly, smug. “Your omega there didn’t pay for shit, so he ain’t entitled.” 

Sam is well aware that a muscle is ticking in his jaw. “First of all,” he snarls, starting forward, “He’s not my omega, and second –” 

“Relax, Sam,” Dean interrupts for the second time. The words are meant to be soothing, but they’re more nervous than anything; Sam has no doubt that if it weren’t for the scent blockers, he’d be smelling an awful lot more of Dean’s fear. “Cas gave me some cash for emergencies. It’s all good.”

He grabs something at random off of the shelf next to him, starting toward the counter himself, but the man scoffs and Dean freezes. “If you got money, it’s stolen,” he says shortly. “Go get your alpha if you want something.” 

For a moment, Sam is so angry he sees red. He doesn’t realize that he’s stepped in front of Dean until it’s already done. And maybe the cashier has a lick of sense after all, because he stands up in an awful hurry when all six foot four of a pissed off Sam Winchester is stalking toward him. 

Dean’s hand wrapping around his arm is enough to snap Sam back to reality. As much as he would like to yank the attendant over the counter and teach him a more physical sort of lesson, he knows that he can’t. Knows that Dean will likely be the one to deal with the consequences of that... or at least Castiel.

So he takes a breath instead.

“I’m sure your corporate office would love to know that you’re refusing to take money from a paying customer,” he says, his voice as calm as he can make it. “Not to mention the blatant discrimination and sexism on display here. What was your name, again?” He squints at the man’s tag. “Kyle?”

Kyle gives him a surly look, but he knows better than to continue to argue. “Whatever. Let him use the damn toilet, see if I give a rat’s ass.” 

Sam crosses his arms. “Go ahead, Dean,” he says, not taking his eyes off of the man. “I’ll be waiting right here.” 

Dean mutters something inaudible behind him, but he doesn’t protest. Sam has a staring contest – that he wins by a landslide – with the dick until Dean’s done. They walk out the door with Kyle’s eyes burning holes in their backs, and Sam only just resists the urge to turn around and growl like a total knothead.

He lets loose a harsh breath when they're far enough away that they won't be overheard. “What a fucking asshole,” he seethes. He expects Dean to agree, at the very least. To make some smart-ass comment about the man's stringy beard or his greasy shirt. But his brother just shrugs. His eyes don't leave the pavement, and he trails behind Sam by a step or two. Sam slows down. 

“I mean,” Sam continues, “Who does he think he is? Some low life nobody who thinks he can say whatever the hell he wants and get away with it–” 

“They usually can, Sam.” 

Dean’s voice isn’t angry. It’s not accusatory, or even irritated. It’s just tired. Sam glances at him. “But –” 

“You think it’s the first time I’ve gotten comments like that?” Dean asks, looking up to glare at him. “You think I didn’t know that was coming as soon as he looked me up and down?”

“Dean,” Sam says, staring at him with his brow furrowed. “He was in the wrong.” 

“To you, he was,” Dean growls. “To you. But to most people, he didn’t say anything that they aren’t thinking, too.” 

Sam takes a breath. He doesn’t want to fight with Dean – especially not when he can feel Castiel’s gaze from across the parking lot. So, rather than protest like he wants to, he takes a moment to steady himself. To look at things from Dean’s point of view, for once. 

“Was it just that you didn’t want me to cause a scene?” he asks quietly. Dean cocks his jaw, but he doesn’t deny it. “I’m… I’m sorry,” he offers. “Just… I’m just not used to that sort of shit. Cali isn’t like that.”

Dean huffs. “Everywhere is like that, Sam,” he mutters. "You've just never noticed it."

And Sam, as much as he'd like to, feels like he’s in waters that are much too dangerous for protest. 

The hours pass them by. 

Slowly, some of the discomfort from the gas station fades. It helps that the next couple of times they stop are uneventful, Sam thinks. He’s pretty sure that Castiel has been looking up omega-friendly joints far before they pull into their parking lots, and Sam can’t say he minds. Even the fast food they pick up for lunch has a sign in the window that says All are welcome here!, and Sam can admit to himself that he's grudgingly impressed.

Still. He can’t quite resist pointing it out to Dean when they get through yet another bathroom break unbothered. 

“See?” he says, nudging him when they get back in the car. “I told you that there were plenty of better places.” 

Dean, however, doesn’t humor him. He just rolls his eyes. “Couple’a people being decent don’t change the facts, Sam. I’ve been all over this stupid country – you think I don’t know how people are? All the places I went weren’t much different, at least. ‘Bout the same no matter where you go.” 

Sam pauses. “You weren't in Washington this whole time?”

He doesn’t know why he asks. It’s not like it matters – either way, Sam failed to find him. Doesn’t really make a difference where he was, not now. But he finds, for some morbid and maybe even masochistic reason, that he wants to know. Wants to see how close he might have been to him without even knowing it. 

Dean snorts. “Nah. Before…” 

And there’s that hesitation again. The same sour scent. 

Sam hates that he is already so familiar with Dean’s fear. 

From behind him, he can hear the rustle of pages, the worn leather creaking as Novak sets his book down and moves. He leans forward. Places his hand on Dean’s shoulder. 

For once, Sam is pretty much instantly able to douse the protective spark of anger inside of himself at the sight. Maybe it’s because he’s actually beginning to trust the dude, or maybe it has more to do with the fact that Dean’s scent settles back down in five seconds flat. That he leans into Castiel’s touch, not away, and lets out a long sigh. A release of tension. 

Sam must be looking a little too closely, though, because Dean catches him staring. Stiffens, just enough that he slips back into his too-straight posture from before. It’s as though, for a moment, he’d forgotten that Sam was even in the car. 

Sam hates that – hates that Dean has to feel nervous around him for any reason. Hates that his brother feels the need to amend his behavior for Sam’s benefit. It hurts.

It shouldn’t, though. Sam knows exactly why Dean feels that way. He hasn’t left him many other options. Hasn’t left Castiel many, either. 

When he looks up in the rear view, however, the alpha’s expression isn’t guilty, or nervous. He meets Sam’s eyes. Looks at him, evenly and expectantly, like he’s gearing himself up for an argument. And he doesn’t move his hand off of Dean’s shoulder. 

Sam could take that as posturing. As Castiel staking claim. Yesterday, he probably would have. But today, he meets Castiel’s gaze just as evenly, keeps his mouth shut, and deliberately looks back at the road. 

All three of them let out a breath. 

Dean’s the first to break the silence, surprisingly. He huffs out a rueful laugh, shaking his head. “This is gonna be a long fuckin’ trip, ain’t it?”

In spite of himself, Sam finds that he’s smiling. “Hey, I’m working on it,” he protests, glancing at him with mock reproach. “Did I say a word?”

“Not technically,” Novak rumbles from the backseat. He looks blatantly relieved when Sam checks the rear view. “But I think we are all a little… tense.”

Dean snorts. His hand has crept up to land over Castiel’s, and he squeezes it before he speaks. “Well, if you two would quit all that bullshit posturing–” 

“I’m not posturing.” 

There’s a half beat of silence after he and Castiel speak at the same time, and then all three of them are laughing. Whatever leftover tension was in the car seems to melt away when Dean grins at the two of them, nudging Sam’s side with his elbow. Castiel leans back, crossing his arms over his chest with a small smile. “Yeah, sure,” Dean jokes. "Total model citizens, the both of you."

He shakes his head, his smile twisting into something a little less easy. “I just meant that, uh. Before the… before the guy that came before Cas,” he says awkwardly, skirting around the name like someone might avoid a rattlesnake on the trail. “I was all over the place. Like I said before.” 

“Yeah?” Sam asks carefully. Dean doesn’t look overly stressed anymore, but he still seems fidgety. Maybe because he’s trying to figure out how to talk about things that will be difficult for all of them to hear. Sam thinks about the bravery this must take. What it's costing him.

“Yeah. I mean… the first one didn’t really, uh. Keep me long,” Dean explains, his eyes firmly locked outside of the window. “And when he sold me back, they moved me pretty far. Ended up in Florida for a while, then Texas. Oklahoma. That shit was terrible – ain’t nothin’ around. I thought Kansas was big and empty, but you got no idea till you’ve lived there.”

“I don’t,” Sam says. His voice is a little thin. He doesn’t know why he hadn’t considered it before – just how many people have hurt Dean. But his brother is too caught up in his own memories to notice that Sam is reeling. 

“I think I was in Utah, at some point,” he continues, wrinkling his nose. “Maybe Arizona. It was kinda hard to tell, sometimes.” 

Sam wants to stop him there, wants to ask a million questions. Wants to know how there were periods of time that Dean didn’t even know what state he was in. But he knows he isn’t going to like the answer, and he’s pretty sure Dean won’t like explaining it to him. So he keeps his mouth shut. 

“It was a family, before… him,” he says, clearing his throat, “that I was with. And that was… it was better, for a while, till it wasn’t. And I, uh. I ran. Got caught after a week or so. And they… you know, they gotta be a little more harsh with flight-risks. So they – well. They want to trip you up, I guess. Make it harder to run again. So they moved me pretty far, after the… after they were done with me.”

Sam winces. He doesn’t have any desire to hear the specifics from Dean, but he can guess. He’s studied enough of how those brainwashing centers and their auction house counterparts work to have a pretty good idea of what his brother has been through, at least on the official level. He chooses, very carefully, to shove that knowledge as far down as it will go. Having a breakdown in the car isn’t going to help any of them. 

Dean shrugs, the movement a little jerky. “After that, I didn’t get thrown back in until… until Cas, so. Washington has been it for a while.” 

Sam can’t quite help himself. “A while?” he asks, and knows immediately that he shouldn’t have. Dean’s jaw locks as he stares out of the window. But it’s too late now – the question is already out in the open. “How long was… was a while?”

“Sam.” Castiel’s warning comes from the back. It’s not hostile, just cautionary, and for once Sam feels like he should probably listen. He clears his throat. Starts to change the subject.

But Dean shakes his head. “S’fine,” he mutters. “Is what it is, Cas.” When Sam chances a glance over, Dean’s fiddling with the jacket in his lap – slowly buttoning and unbuttoning a strip of fabric near the bottom. He’s looking down at that, now, rather than out the window or at Sam himself. “Been here about… a little over five years now, I think.” 

Sam’s mouth goes dry. 

Five years. Sam can do that math pretty easily – if Dean has only been with Castiel since January, that means he spent nearly five years as the property of a brothel before someone blew it up. Before he was sent back to auction and Novak bought him instead.

Dean shouldn’t even be alive. 

He’s startled out of that thought by the sound of the window being rolled down. Dean is frowning as he stares out at the highway, his shoulders tense. His mouth is a thin, harsh line. And it’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for Sam to say something. To judge him or demand to know more. 

“What are you–”

“You reek,” Dean snaps shortly. And, though he’s covering it with irritation, Sam can easily pick up on the distress in his voice. In his scent. “So do you, Cas. Jesus.” 

“Perhaps another dose of blockers is in order,” Castiel suggests solemnly from the backseat. “It’s about time, I believe.” 

Sam nods shortly. “Let’s… uh. Let’s pull over up at this rest stop?” he asks, nodding at a sign that’s advertising one a few exits away. “I need to stretch my legs anyway.” 

Dean doesn’t answer him, and if Castiel does, he can’t hear – the wind whipping past the Impala is too loud. He bites his tongue to keep from digging the hole any deeper. By the time they get to the rest stop and pull over, Dean looks like a tightly wound spring. Sam’s not even sure he waits till the wheels stop rolling to leap out.

He watches, biting his lip, as Dean stalks away from the car. He's limping a little, obviously stiff from the ride, and that’s unfamiliar too – such blatant evidence that his brother is in pain. Sam’s not stupid enough to think he never was, as a kid. Just that he hid it better. He’s pretty sure that he’s trying to hide it now, too – he’s just not succeeding as well as he’d like. 

“He doesn’t like talking about his time there.” 

Sam glances back. Novak has clambered out of the car as well, his eyes following Dean as he strides toward a copse of trees and kicks at a piece of bark on the ground. The alpha doesn’t look back at Sam when he speaks. “He’s told me very little about it. Usually when he felt he had no other option.” 

Taking a deep breath, Sam nods. “I didn’t really mean to push.” 

“Hard not to, isn’t it?”

Surprised, Sam raises his eyebrows. Castiel glances at him, and then right back to Dean. “You want to know it all, because it feels like knowing will help you fix it.” 

“I…” Sam trails off, wrestling with the sudden ache in his chest. “Yeah.” 

The older alpha makes a low noise. “I know the feeling.” 

It’s the fact that he doesn’t lecture Sam – the fact that he doesn’t admonish him, or even remind them of what they both already know – that makes him slump his shoulders. “I just… I want him to be okay so badly.” 

“Yes,” Castiel agrees gently. “I do, too.” He does look at Sam then, his eyes serious. “I think that’s one thing we can agree on.” 

Sam runs a hand through his hair. Lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he admits, not wholly reluctant. “Yeah, we can.” 

By the time they make it to a motel, night has long since fallen. 

Castiel, personally, would have liked to stay elsewhere. He’d tried looking up better hotels with a hopeful heart, but there are literally none nearby. They’re in the middle of nowhere, and it’s verging on the odd hours of the morning – it hadn’t surprised either of the brothers that their options had been limited, but Castiel had been caught unawares by the sheer lack of options. 

He’s the one that is elected to go in and secure two rooms, leaving both Winchesters to the same uneasy silence they’ve maintained since the rest stop all those hours ago. Sam had clearly tried very hard not to take it personally when Dean had crawled into the backseat rather than return to the passenger side, muttering about needing a nap. Castiel, for his part, had tried not to be too awkward when he’d offered to drive. Had attempted, and then failed, to make stilted small talk with Sam for the next six or seven hours as the alpha sat stiffly next to him on the passenger side.

Against all odds, they’ve managed to arrive - to the hotel, at least - in one piece. 

Considering how often Castiel was checking the rearview to watch Dean's nap, that’s pretty remarkable. For how loud and rumbling the car is, the omega had slept extremely peacefully. Had knocked out pretty much instantly after the rest stop, his soft snores filling the silence for a solid couple of hours. He's looked at home. Comfortable in a way that Castiel had waited months to see in his own home.

At one point, Castiel had caught Sam looking back at him too. He’d seen the exact same fond and protective feelings reflected in the young alpha’s eyes. They’d caught each other staring in the mirror, for a moment. Castiel felt a silent sort of understanding zip between them, maybe for the first time. 

When Dean had finally blinked back awake, had sat up in the backseat, groggy and bed-headed, frowning as he'd grumbled rubbed at his eyes… Castiel and Sam had even shared a smile. 

When Castiel finally makes it up the rickety staircase to their shared motel room and nudges open the door, Dean is not immediately visible, and for a split second, he panics. But, a moment later, he sees the man’s duffel tossed down at the foot of the bed, registers that it is unzipped and missing his carefully rolled blanket, and he connects the dots. 

Sure enough, Dean is plopped down on the floor on the other side of the mattress, the blanket half underneath him and half over his legs. He’s staring up at a rather ugly painting of a horse on the back wall, his arms crossed over his chest. His shoes are already kicked off, his jacket discarded, and he’s got his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. One thumb is hooked through the tags around his neck, resting against his heart.

“Are you alright?” Castiel murmurs, though he probably should keep the question to himself. He sets his own duffel down on the bed, shirking his own jacket and laying it over the back of the worn looking armchair across from the television. “Sam mentioned that you left rather… suddenly.” 

He hadn’t said as much in words, exactly. But Castiel thinks he’d correctly interpreted the tight lines around Sam’s eyes and mouth – the way he’d gestured with his chin up to the room with a huff, not mentioning their sleeping arrangements in the slightest. Much to Castiel's relief.

Dean blows a long breath out of his mouth, making his hair fly up above his eyes. He shrugs one shoulder up and down halfheartedly. “Just… too much?” Castiel guesses, slowly sitting down across from him in the small space, his back against the wall.

As soon as he does, the omega reaches up to the mattress behind him and blindly fishes for a pillow. He snags one, scoots forward, drops it into Castiel’s lap, and promptly flops down on top of it. His body is warm and heavy, and Castiel can’t help the little zing of happiness he feels when Dean makes himself comfortable with his head resting on his leg. 

“Yeah, too much. Of everything, apparently,” Dean agrees, his tone almost petulant. “I’m so… I’m just so tired. How can I be, if all I’ve been doing is staring out the damn window?”

Castiel’s mouth twitches to the side. “I think you’re well aware that you’ve been doing more than that.” 

Dean just grunts unhappily, tugging the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “Yeah. Staring at the back of my damn eyelids.” After a moment, he sighs. “You drive my car like a grandma.” 

Castiel laughs. “Because I obey the speed limit?” 

“Those are suggestions,” he grumbles, but when Castiel reaches down to run a hand through his hair, he arches up into the touch like a cat. They sit together for a while, quiet, and it isn’t until Dean starts to drift off again that Castiel insists they move. He doesn’t want Dean sleeping on the floor – not after the stiff way he’s been getting in and out of the car. 

“Come on, Dean,” Castiel says gently. “To bed with us both.” 

Dean grumbles into Castiel's stomach about that, too, but not too much. They change facing away from each other. Castiel doesn’t comment when Dean steals his nightshirt off of the bed– he just goes without after a short moment of hesitation. Dean doesn’t seem to mind. He does seem plenty willing to curl up and press himself back against Castiel’s side anyway, his hand resting on Castiel’s chest. And Castiel very carefully does not shiver when Dean’s breath ghosts against his bare skin, because now is certainly not the time for thoughts like that. 

Absently, Castiel finds himself rubbing circles into Dean’s shoulders and the muscles of his lower back. He makes an appreciative noise that is closer to a grunt than words, and Castiel increases the pressure to make his movements a little more intentional. The omega melts into him.

“Not far now,” Castiel reminds him gently. It isn’t – they only have about four hours to cover tomorrow, and then they will arrive. He and Sam had probably driven a little harder than they should have, but he can’t be sorry about it when he knows how eager both boys are to arrive. 

“Could’a been there a lot faster if we’d flown,” Dean mutters, sighing. He doesn’t sound overly upset about it, but Castiel knows he is. 

“Dean…” 

“I know,” the omega interrupts tiredly. “You don’t have to give me the spiel again.” 

Castiel sighs. He hadn’t exactly enjoyed explaining the mechanics of how Dean would have to fly – the indignities of slave transport, even on private airlines. Bizarrely, that hadn’t bothered him as much as having to turn down Castiel’s sheepish offer to rent them a small private jet.

“Stupid for me to be afraid of flying, of all things,” Dean mumbles into his side. “I’ve dealt with so much worse shit than that… Jeez. Bobby would tan my hide, if he knew I turned you down."

“No he wouldn’t,” Castiel disagrees easily. “He’d be happy to see you if you walked there, Dean.” 

The omega says something unintelligible, but Castiel doesn’t ask him to clarify. His words aren’t needed, in this moment, so he doesn’t give any more of them. He just continues to try and soothe Dean with his touch, and he knows it works when Dean finally drifts off, the tension soaked out of his body for the night.

Even in the uncomfortable space of a bed and a room that isn’t theirs, Castiel realizes, they are still able to take comfort in each other. And, perhaps for the first time, he realizes just how right Dean had been when he’d said things would be okay no matter their obstacles.

He just hopes that holds true tomorrow, as well.

It’s verging on noon by the time the boys arrive. Bobby doesn't kick his brain into gear nearly as fast as he should.

The kid is just… so much smaller than he remembers. 

Bobby knows, in his heart, that can’t actually be true. Knows that the last time he saw Dean, the kid was barely past sixteen and was just beginning to fill out and become a man, knows that the person who just climbed his way out of the car is fully grown and has been for a while. But as he shifts his weight on his feet and leans back a little, twitching the curtain so he can continue to watch Dean come up the drive, he can’t help but think that he’s right. 

Dean is smaller. In spirit, at the very least. 

Novak is the opposite, in many ways, and it only serves to make Dean’s fragility that much more obvious. Tall and broad, he holds himself, like most alphas do, with a sort of bred in confidence. He’s leading Dean, at least a little; his hand is just brushing the kid’s back, helping to guide him to the door. It would make Bobby suspicious, ‘cept Dean seems to be leaning into it instead of away. The look he’d shot Novak when that hand had landed there – one of appreciation, of gratitude – had made Bobby reconsider the shotgun he’s got leaned up next to the door for the first time. 

Sam had told him that the alpha could be trusted. But Bobby likes to form his own opinions. 

The kid himself is following the pair, his hands shoved into his pockets. It’s been a long time since Sam has looked like a younger brother – a long time since Bobby has seen him following Dean around like a puppy. But he’s doing it now, his eyes locked on him like he’s sure that, if he blinks, Dean will disappear. Considering what it had done to him the first time around, Bobby can’t exactly blame him. 

Novak steps back when they get to the porch, giving a reassuring nod to Dean that Bobby hates to think might really be necessary. Dean hesitates for a second before he steps forward. Pauses, with his fist poised in front of the door. 

Bobby opens it before Dean can knock. 

The kid looks up at him. His hand falls to his side. Grabs onto the hem of his shirt, nervous, his shoulders hunched. His eyes flick up and meet Bobby’s for a split second before falling back to his worn down porch. And Bobby may be a beta, but he can still sense the shame rolling off of Dean in waves. 

Dean’s mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He takes in a shaky breath, and that’s about all he can do before Bobby pulls him into a hug. 

It breaks his heart that Dean stiffens. Breaks his heart that he can hear the kid’s breath catch in his throat, like he’s surprised. But after a moment, after Bobby doesn’t ease up or let go, Dean sinks into the embrace like he had when he was just a kid. Like he would when John had dumped them here for the hundredth time, for God knew how long, and he’d felt abandoned and not good enough until Bobby had pulled him out of his shell and convinced him otherwise. 

The kid’s arms wrap around him after a few seconds, and his grip is weaker than Bobby remembers. Shakier, less sure – he’s clinging more than he is embracing, and he’s so skinny. But it’s still a hug back, still a glimmer of the Dean he once knew. 

“Son,” he says, his voice gruff as he tries to push past the catch in his chest, “it sure is good to see you.”

Dean sniffs. Tightens his hands in Bobby’s shirt. “Missed you,” he whispers, and Bobby ain’t ashamed to admit that it makes his eyes fill with tears to hear Dean’s voice – his real voice, not the warped version over the phone, not the tinny recordings of it that he’s been blowin’ the dust off of for years, popping them into the VCR when he got good and drunk and wanted to wallow for a while. 

“Missed you too, kid,” he chokes out, voice breaking. “You got no idea.”

Dean laughs, shaky and wet. “Got a little bit of an idea, I think.”

After a while - a damn long time, because he's entitled to that - Bobby steps back, and Dean walks into the house with slow steps and his eyes peeled wide, turning full circle to take in everything. The stacks of dusty books, the amber bottles here and there, the cluttered living room and the little window and the old television in front of the equally old couch. Bobby doesn’t think the house has changed much since Dean went missing, and he can’t tell if that throws the kid for a loop or comforts him. Maybe both. 

He steps to the side so Dean can explore, squeezing his shoulder and nodding his permission when the kid hesitates. This, unfortunately, is not new – though he’d tried his best to make his house a home for these boys, Dean had only ever managed to shake the nervous politeness his daddy had beaten into him after a few days removed from the man in question. 

Dean steps away from him after a few searching moments, reaching out to touch the banister nearby with a tentative hand.  

“Bobby,” he says, voice rough. “Can I, uh. Go upstairs? I just want to look around, if that’s okay.”

“‘Course, kid,” Bobby answers, ignoring the tightness in his throat at just seeing Dean, here, back from the grave. “You know the way.” 

Dean nods, just once, keeping his head ducked down for a second. He glances back, makes eye contact with Novak back out on the porch – who, much to Bobby’s suspicion, ends up nodding his permission as well. Dean climbs the steps shakily, and Bobby has to marshal the urge to bark at him to be careful. He’s not a rough and tumble kid anymore. And he’s not rushing anywhere.

Sam is next, brushing past Novak and lumbering through the doorway with all the familiarity and comfort that Dean had lacked. He looks up at Bobby with an almost childlike expression of wonder, as if to say, I can’t believe it. Can you?

He almost can’t. But what he can do is pull the kid into a hug of his own, patting his back when Sam takes in a shuddering breath. “You did good, Sam,” he murmurs, tightening his arms. “You did real good.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he does squeeze back twice as hard. He pulls away and his eyes are wet – but so are Bobby’s. He’d like to see a man who wouldn’t cry at a time like this. 

“I’m–” Sam begins, and then clears his throat. Whatever he’d been about to say is lost when he remembers that Novak is behind him – he flicks his eyes over at the other alpha and swallows down his emotion. Idiot. “I’m gonna… I’ll be outside.” 

And outside he goes, the screen door to the back porch banging shut behind him. 

That, of course, leaves Bobby and Castiel alone. 

The alpha shifts back and forth on his feet. He still hasn’t entered the house – and at this point, it’s intentional, because there’s plenty of room for him to step forward. For whatever reason, he’s waiting. Watching Bobby carefully. 

He crosses his arms and stares at the dark haired man, cocking his head to the side. “You a vampire or something?” At the man’s blank look, he clarifies. “Waiting for a personalized invitation?”

Novak clears his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “I… didn’t want to assume.”

Bobby snorts. “What, you think I’d make you come all the way here and then not let you in the house?”

The man blinks. Clearly, that had been a possibility in his mind – Bobby wonders what kinds of stories Dean has spun for him if that’s the case. “And what’s your plan if I say you ain’t welcome here?”

Novak, to his credit, doesn’t flinch at that. “I’m sure there’s a motel nearby I can stay in for the duration,” he says, but the ease of the words is betrayed by the way his eyes have traveled up the stairs, following Dean’s invisible trail. 

“Right,” Bobby replies skeptically. Sighing, he gives the man one more glance before stepping to the side, scooping up his shotgun from its place on the floor. “Well, I’m gonna take a wild guess that Dean wouldn’t like that much.”

He turns around without another word, noting with no small amount of grim satisfaction that Novak starts at the sight of his sawed-off. Tentatively, he follows Bobby inside, the floorboards creaking under his expensive shoes. 

Bobby gestures to the couch with his gun, heading for the kitchen. “Sit.”

He sits. 

By the time he returns from the kitchen, a pair of beers in his hand, the man hasn’t relaxed much. He’s damn near wearing a hole in his slacks with the way he’s fiddling with them, his eyes flicking around the cluttered room. 

He jerks when Bobby sets a bottle in front of him – maybe because he sets it down a little harder than necessary, the glass clacking against the wood like a gavel. 

The man eyes the drink like he thinks Bobby poisoned it. “I don’t… regularly consume alcohol,” he says slowly. 

Bobby pops the cap off of his with his ring and takes a long, slow drink. The man fidgets under his gaze. “And why’s that?”

“I dislike the lack of control.”

Grunting, Bobby takes another sip. “You like control, huh?”

He’ll give the man some credit – he wasn’t born yesterday. He smooths his hands down his slacks a few more times, a nervous gesture if Bobby’s ever seen one, but he doesn’t look away. “I don’t like losing control of myself.” 

Squinting at him, Bobby takes a moment to really take stock. The dude is dressed like he’s an accountant, but he’s disheveled – the clothes don’t fit him real well, and his tie is crooked. He has wrinkles already, even though Bobby happens to know he’s only thirty; he may have done his own research. Sue him. 

He looks tired. Stressed. Like he hasn’t slept well in a while – or maybe like he’s been in the car for a couple days straight. 

“Why didn’t you fly out? You’ve got the dough.”

Castiel blinks at him, his brow furrowed. “Dean is afraid of traveling by plane,” he says slowly, as though he thinks Bobby should already know that. He does, but that’s not the point. 

“So what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You could have told him to suck it up.” 

For the first time, an emotion other than nervousness flicks across the man’s face. “I don’t speak to Dean that way,” he says stiffly. “And, furthermore, most airlines would not have allowed him to sit in the cabin with me, and the ones that would have would consider him no more than a pet. And they’d have treated him like one. I would not have subjected him to that.” 

“It’s only a few hours,” Bobby pushes, scoffing. “Would’a saved you a whole lot of travel time, and he’s just being a little pansy about it anyway–”

“Mr. Singer.” 

Bobby pauses. Slowly, he sets down his beer on the side table. 

“I have a hard time believing,” Castiel says quietly, steel in his voice, “that a man who Dean so admires truly believes it is acceptable to treat a human being as though they are no more than an inconvenience. And I have an even harder time believing that you would be unfazed if treatment like that was directed at a man who you have all but legally adopted as your son.”

Bobby leans back in his chair, folds his hands in his lap, and waits. 

Novak glares at him. “I understand that you are distrustful of me. You do not know me, and I assume that you’ve dug into my family’s dealings just as Sam has. You have every right to be suspicious of my intentions. Question me if you wish, test me if you must, but please do not make the mistake of thinking I will allow you to speak ill of Dean.” He narrows his eyes. “Even in jest.”

The silence is so complete that a pin could drop and they’d hear it loud and clear – it only breaks when Bobby lets a long, slow stream of air out of his mouth. “Quite the fancy talker, ain’tcha?”

Castiel narrows his eyes even further. He says nothing, still as a damn statue on that rickety old sofa. 

He sighs. “Can’t blame a man for testing the waters. Don’t get your feathers in a twist, Novak.” After a moment, the alpha’s shoulders relax minutely. “Good answers, anyway,” Bobby continues shamelessly, taking another long drink of his beer. “Passed with flying colors.” 

Clearly unsure if he’s joking or not, Novak doesn’t exactly relax at those words. He just presses his lips together, glancing at the stairs again. “I don’t expect to earn your trust that quickly, Mr. Singer.” 

“Bobby,” he corrects. “And that’s good, ‘cause you ain’t. For now, though,” he says, shrugging, “Sam’s vouchin’ for you. That’s enough for a probationary period, at least, ‘cause that kid is damn suspicious.”

The alpha finally does relax at that. “That he is. I… appreciate the courtesy,” he says carefully. All the steel he’d mustered for Dean has evaporated, and he’s back to his awkward self. He frowns. “For Dean’s sake,” he continues, looking at his hands, “I’d like to at least be civil. The last thing he needs right now is more stress.” 

“You won’t hear any arguments from me,” he says readily. This, at least, they can agree on. He raises an eyebrow. “Best to get this out of the way, then – Where are you plannin’ on sleepin’?"