69. Lord Send Me a Mechanic

Dean is exhausted. 

It’s been a day full of warmth and laughter and memories. All good things, and still he’s exhausted. Dazed by it all; the simple happiness he’s feeling here. The ease in which he’s slipped right back into being part of a family. The ease with which they’ve taken him back. 

When he dreamed of being reunited – and it had been a dream, a complete fantasy – he’d never thought it would go like this. 

He’d imagined accusations. Anger. Lingering resentment. He’d left Sam alone, after all – had been the one to put him in danger to begin with. He’d failed the most important job he’s ever been given. 

So, really, he’d expected them to treat him like a failure. But no one – not Jo, nor Ellen, nor Bobby – seem inclined to do so. Hell, they don’t seem to blame him at all. Not even Sam blames him, from what he can tell. 

They’re just happy he’s back. And Dean’s not sure if that hurts less, or if it hurts more. Because he doesn’t feel like he deserves this easy grace. 

It’s not to say that they don’t treat him differently. He doesn’t clock it, at first – the kiddy gloves. The gentleness in Ellen’s tone that had never been there before, the half beat of silence that sometimes appears before Jo talks to him, as if she’s weighing her words. They’re more careful with him than they used to be, but the change is so subtle that it takes the better part of an afternoon before Dean catches on. 

Jo is the first to give herself away. They’re prepping lunch together, casually shooting the shit in the kitchen as they chop up vegetables to roast in the oven. Sam and Bobby are on the back porch, and Ellen’s still talking Cas’s ear off about the center and tax breaks, of all things, and despite everyone’s reassurance that he didn’t have to help cook, he wants to feel useful. 

He’s pretty sure he’s about as transparent as a glass of water, since Ellen had just looked at him for a moment and then nodded when he’d announced that he’d be helping Jo with lunch. So, here he is. Self-soothing in the form of meal prepping. 

Jo hadn’t called him on it, either – had just amicably moved aside, giving him the counter space to work. He could have teased her about how she’d finally come around to cooking. About how domestic she’s being. Except, of course, that he’s doing the same damn thing. 

Still, even without the low hanging fruit, Dean sets her up easily enough. Only halfway through his pile of vegetables, his hands have grown tired and his back is aching more than it has any right to, considering he’s just been standing here. He manages to fumble and drop a carrot off the old wooden cutting board, and it promptly rolls under the fridge, lost from sight. 

He doesn’t realize that his shoulders have gotten tight, that he’s holding his breath. Doesn’t realize that he’s ducked his head and braced himself for impact. Not until the impact… doesn’t come.

Jo doesn’t even laugh. Doesn’t comment on it at all. Nothing. Not so much as a gentle ribbing, despite the fact that he knows this is something she would have happily mocked him for in the past. All she does is glance at him and stick her head out of the kitchen entryway to holler for Sam. 

Meanwhile, Dean’s trying to figure out why his hands are suddenly shaking. 

Jo doesn’t say shit to him, even though he knows his anxiety must be crystal clear. Sam isn’t given the same grace – she teases him mercilessly when he shows off his alpha-strength by tipping the fridge backwards with ease. She mockingly flexes her biceps and kisses the muscle, grunting like a caveman, and Sam just rolls his eyes at her pretend posturing. He doesn’t say anything to Dean, either. Just waits patiently, till he thinks to sweep the offending vegetable back out into the open with the broom. 

When he goes to rinse it off, Jo unapologetically swipes it from his hand and drops it, dust and all, into a little coffee can of compost. Then she goes right back to her pile of potatoes. She seems not to notice at all that Dean is still holding his breath. 

It makes no sense. He’s not afraid of her. Not of anyone here. Not really. It’s not fear that makes him tense. It’s just that he’s… waiting. To be bitched at for wasting food. To be belittled and sneered at for being clumsy, to be ripped into for not being careful enough or grateful enough or good enough.  

The worst part, he thinks, is that he doesn’t know who beat that expectation into him – his masters, or his father. 

At any rate, Jo seems to know exactly what he’s thinking. She doesn’t even turn around before she says, “Ain’t nothin’ but a carrot, Dean,” in the same kind, matter of fact way that her mother tends to talk. She doesn’t say another word after that, because she doesn’t have to – she must hear the way he shakily exhales. The way he starts chopping again. 

Slower, this time. 

He doesn’t know when his cousin got so smart. He hates himself, a little, for being someone that she now has to wear kiddy gloves around. But she makes it damn hard to wallow, because not five minutes later she’s back to ribbing him about his chopping techniques, and he’s relaxing back into the familiar comfort of Harvelle-brand affection. 

He reminds himself that Jo knows how to handle people like him, now. Reminds himself that she’s being careful because she cares, and she knows – not because she pities him. He wishes he were better at convincing himself. 

Ellen, too, treats him slightly differently. She’s always tended toward casual, almost rough affection; hugs whenever the mood struck her, a hand ruffling through his hair or straightening his shirt or tapping him on the back to remind him not to duck his head or hunch his shoulders. He doesn’t realize he’s waiting for those touches until they don’t come – and when he does realize, he’s torn between gratitude that she knows, and grief that she has to treat him differently at all.  

He sits next to her during lunch, eaten outside on the patio with sweating glasses of sweet tea and paper towels as napkins. Not once does she reach out to tap his elbow or bump his shoulder with her own. Not once does she raise her voice or tell him sharply to quit hunchin’ over your plate like someone’s gonna steal it from you. She just maintains a good foot of distance from him on the couch; speaks slower and softer than he remembers, smiles at him more often than she did even when he was a kid. Asks him if he wants seconds, and then thirds, and beams when he clears his plate. 

Dean doesn’t know what hurts his heart more – the pure, painful love for his family, or the shame that this is what he’s become. 

It’s that particular pain, Dean thinks, that eventually drives him outside.

An hour or so after lunch, he’s starting to feel like he can’t get in a full breath. It started with the noise – innocuous, mostly. The lived-in sounds of a house full of people. Jo’s never been the quietest, and Sam is a bull in a china shop, and Ellen’s laughter is full and loud. The noise is nothing bad. It’s just… a lot. 

Dean finds himself digging his nails into his palms more than once when someone sets their drink down, or when the screen door slams, or when someone so much as coughs. And here he thought there was a limit to his crazy. 

Cas, of course, notices. 

They’re all gathered up in the living room, pecking at snacks and talking shop – though, if pressed, Dean knows he wouldn’t be able to recount a shred of the last twenty minutes of conversations. Everyone is talking across each other – Sam and Jo whipping insults back and forth and comparing college classes, Cas and Ellen discussing the difficulties of finding safe work for emancipated slaves, Bobby chiming in occasionally to give his ten cents for both. 

Dean himself is curled up next to Cas on the couch, his leg pressed against the alpha’s. The contact hadn’t gone unnoticed by anyone, but other than a raised eyebrow from Jo, no one has said a damn thing. Dean is grateful. He needs that calm stability right now. The familiar warmth and scent of Cas to keep him grounded. And he needs to not have to justify getting it from Cas. 

“It’s such a different system,” Castiel is saying when Dean finally manages to zone back in, his gaze intent and focused like it always is when he’s talking about work. “Washington has pressed forward the idea that only those who are over qualified should be freed. But here, it seems as though the opposite is true.” 

“They are underqualified,” Ellen replies, shaking her head. She shifts in her seat, idly passing the bowl of pretzels to Jo, who’s lounging with her legs thrown up over the arm of the couch. “And that’s by design.” 

“It makes the chance of ‘recidivism’ much bigger,” Jo says, the sour expression on her face making it clear exactly how she feels about that particular term being applied to slaves. “Who’da thunk that giving someone literally no resources and dumping them out into the cold would be a recipe for disaster?” 

Bobby scoffs his agreement, shaking his head as he takes a sip of his iced tea. 

“That’s why places like the Roadhouse are important,” Sam adds, finally distracted from his verbal tennis match with Jo. “They help people get their legs back under them.” 

“It’s quite the service you provide,” Cas agrees, nodding at Ellen. “I’m sure it isn’t without its difficulties.” 

Ellen shrugs. “They’re good folks. And since they’re already freed, it ain’t too hard to get the paperwork in order.”

“Still,” Cas says. “Paperwork isn’t the only challenge. I’d imagine that figuring out how to share your home involved quite the… learning curve,” he hedges, shifting uncomfortably.  

Dean doesn’t need Cas’s terrible attempts at a sneaky glance at him to know exactly what the alpha is talking about – namely, how hard it is to live with someone who’s as touchy as Dean is. Dean only knows the basics of how Cas had figured out what would set him off, and what would comfort him. The million and one bear traps Dean had set in his home; some that even Dean didn’t know existed until they’ve snapped closed on one or both of them. The clippers being a prime example. 

Dean swallows his guilt, crossing his arms over his chest. That doesn’t escape Cas’s notice, of course. The alpha leans into him a little more intentionally, dropping his hand on his own thigh with his palm up. 

The invitation – a simple kindness, something extended without expectation – means that Dean doesn’t feel too embarrassed to reach down and interlock their fingers. It only occurs to him after the fact that he’s doing this in front of his entire family. 

The thought just makes him tighten his hand. Steel his jaw. He looks up at them, half prepared to justify this – to remind them of all the good Cas has done, to tell them it’s none of their damn business if Dean wants to hold an alpha’s hand. To plead his case. 

But no one is staring at him with accusation in their eyes. No one has even paused their conversation. Jo’s mouth quirks up at the corners when she spots it, but even she doesn’t tease him. 

He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. 

“Sure,” Ellen is saying, nodding. “I’m not ashamed to admit I didn’t know the first thing about it when we started. I’ve made more than a few blunders – some stupid, some I couldn’t have helped if I tried. Jo, too. But we’re learning. Getting better all the time.” 

Cas nods, something loosening in his expression. Dean thinks of the way guilt had dampened his scent after each of Dean’s meltdowns; to the way he hides himself away in his office when they’re at the center. 

“S’not your fault,” Dean says, surprising even himself. “When we freak out, I mean.” 

The conversation pauses, five pairs of eyes swinging toward him and waiting expectantly. Dean finds himself shrinking back. Finds his throat closing automatically. 

Ellen, thank God, picks up on what he’s saying without Dean having to fumble out an explanation. “No,” she agrees, her eyes lingering on him for a moment with a gentle sort of understanding. “I know that. Sometimes triggers aren’t obvious. But sometimes they’re things we probably could have anticipated, if we took a second to think about it. It’s helped a lot to talk to the folks we put up, when they’re ready for that.” 

Jo nods her agreement, nibbling on the corner of a pretzel. “Thank god some of them have felt comfortable enough to share, or we probably never would have gotten a clue.” 

Dean lets out a breath, forcing himself to try to relax. Cas’s thumb traces over his knuckles. A silent reassurance. “Yeah,” he finds himself saying, not sure where this burst of bravery is coming from. “Some stuff, you know. It’s obvious. Unexpected touches. Loud noises. Yelling, crashes, things like that. But other stuff…” he looks down at their intertwined hands, searching for the words. “Some stuff, you don’t even know it’s gonna hit you ‘till it does.” 

There is a lingering silence after that that tightens around Dean’s chest until he feels it like a physical thing. Constricting him. He can feel their eyes on him like boulders. He knows they aren’t accusing. Knows they’re not mad at him. But it doesn’t lighten the weight. 

He swallows. Gives Castiel’s hand a quick squeeze. “I’m gonna take a walk,” he mumbles, and then he’s detaching himself from the alpha’s side and scurrying away like a beat dog, head down and tail between his legs. He can hear Cas call out to him, worried – can hear Ellen say something to cut him off – and then he’s out the door. 

As soon as he feels the sun on his face and the crisp spring air in his lungs, as soon as the screen door swings shut behind him – he feels better. Safer. Less like someone is going to lunge out and grab him and– 

He cuts the thought off viciously, angry at himself for thinking it at all. 

That’s his family in there. People he loves, and who he knows love him too. There’s no reason he should be coiled like a spring, waiting for the inevitable moment where someone decides he’s not up to their standards, and lets him know.  

But he is. He’s not used to being the center of attention for a group of people in any way that’s even approaching positive. 

Rumsfeld, previously out cold on the rug outside the door, pushes himself to his feet and pads over toward him when he sits down on the bottom porch step. He’s panting happily, apparently oblivious to Dean’s twisting nerves as he snuffles at his side, nosing under his hand and demanding Dean pet him. 

Or maybe he’s well aware of Dean’s mood, and is reacting accordingly. It would make sense that he’s learned how to do this, Dean thinks – he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that there are dogs that are actually trained for that. Protection and comfort for particularly skittish omegas. 

That’s exactly what Dean is, after all. Skittish. Scared. Probably far more messed up than anyone else Ellen’s had to deal with. 

A couple more breaths in and out, and he starts to feel stupid. He’s overreacting, and he knows it. But he’s out here now, and going back inside at this point would probably be even more embarrassing than running out here in the first place. Rumsfeld sneezes, shaking out his fur.

Dean forces himself to take in a deep breath. Rubs feeling back into his arms, shaking off the lingering tendrils of that creeping, sick expectation of pain. Rumsfeld presses up against his legs, leaning his weight to rest on him. 

Dean pets his ears automatically, the fur velvet soft. It helps. 

He doesn’t notice that there’s another truck lined up next to the others for a good minute or so. When he does, he finds himself tensing all over again, his stomach swooping when he thinks about who it might be – right up until he remembers the obvious. 

The other omegas. That must be one, or both, of them – it’s already approaching five, the time that Ellen warned them they’d probably show back up on the property. They’re nowhere in sight. Probably out at the barn, just like Jo said they would be. 

Dean finds himself getting up to walk that way without making the conscious decision to do so. Rumsfeld falls into step behind him, happy to tag along. 

The pathway to the old barn is well worn, dug into in certain places with wheelbarrow and tractor tracks. Dean remembers the summer night he’d followed this path in the dark, lantern bugs stirred up by Rumsfeld when he’d barreled through the long grass off to either side of him and Sam and Jo, his paws leaving tracks in mud soft as peat moss. All of them had been off to sleep in the old hayloft with blankets squirreled carefully out of Ellen’s linen cabinet after she’d gone to bed. 

It had been a good night, Dean remembers. Stories told by flashlight, stolen snacks and cans of soda littering the ground when they’d woken up to Ellen’s irritated grumbling, her hands on her hips and the barn doors pushed open wide behind her. 

The grass is still long, and the gravel path is still patchy. But the barn itself, when he crests the hill, is far less dilapidated than he remembers.  

He can tell it’s in working order now. There’s a newish looking pen off to the side, a half dozen goats bunched up near the gate, bleating to no one in particular. There are a couple of coops, too, with chickens milling around and pecking at the dust, picking invisible morsels out of nothing and clucking softly. A singular rooster struts around importantly, his comb shaking as he bobs his head. 

They pay him no mind as he wanders past, other than to move unhurriedly out of his path. Rumsfeld doesn’t seem to bother them, either. It’s clear his days of chasing chickens are over, because he sneezes at one that meanders in front of him and pants happily when Dean looks back to keep an eye on him. 

It’s not until he rounds the front of the barn that he sees the two omegas. 

One – a young woman with tight curls and soft brown eyes – is unloading the bed of a work truck, slowly but surely dragging bags of livestock feed and spools of wire to the edge of the bed so she can grab them later. The other, a young man with swept back blond hair and a hunch to his shoulders, is propping up the hood. They’re parked too far from the barn to have stopped there on purpose, so Dean’s got a hunch that something’s busted. 

He hangs back for a moment, unsure if he should be intruding. Ellen had told them that the two omegas knew they would be here – that they wouldn’t be surprised by them. Cas had been real concerned about it, of course. Hadn’t wanted to intrude upon their safe space. 

Rumsfeld feels no such hesitation. He trots forward without a backward glance, plopping himself down in the grass in front of the open bed. The young woman glances down at him when he gives a soft wuff, smiling and cooing at him immediately. 

She looks so… 

Dean hates himself for thinking it. But she looks so normal. So average. Maybe it’s because there’s no one out here that she needs to be afraid of. But she looks whole and unbroken in a pair of scuffed up boots and a work worn t-shirt, a flannel tied around her waist and a bandana pinning back her dark curls of hair. 

Dean didn’t look like that two months into freedom. Hell, Dean doesn’t look like that now. 

Heart in his throat, Dean starts to turn around. To head back to the house – put on a brave face and get his shit together and pretend to be normal. But then there’s a sharp curse, and he watches as the woman struggles to tug an extra large bag of feed forward from the front of the bed, and his feet are moving before he figures out how to stop them. 

“Need a hand?”

It’s probably not the best way to announce his presence. The woman whirls around, eyes wide, her fists half raised from her sides like she’s planning on punching his lights out. But, when her nostrils widen and she takes in his scent, she relaxes just as fast. 

“Sorry,” Dean says, a little sheepish. “Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

From the front of the old pickup, he sees the blonde kid poke his head around to check him out. His inspection is a little more thorough – he looks Dean up and down slowly, assessing him. Scents the air carefully. And even when it clicks that he’s an omega – not a threat, not a threat – his shoulders don’t loosen.

Dean doesn’t know if it’s because he’s a stranger, or if it’s Cas and Sam’s scents that are lingering on his clothes. Doesn’t really matter – the kid drops his eyes and goes right back to what he was doing. 

“You’re Dean, right?”

Dean tears his eyes away from the kid and looks back up at the other omega, shielding his gaze in the sun. “Ellen told us you’d be here today.” 

Dean nods. Avoids the urge to fidget under her gaze. She’s been working hard, and it shows – she leans back against the cab of the truck and wipes the sweat from her brow with the back of her work glove. She gives him a quick once over, and apparently doesn’t find him too lacking, because she hops out of the bed and reaches out to shake his hand. “Cassie.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Dean says, and is surprised to learn that he means it. Her grip is firm – firmer than he’d usually expect from an omega. “Guess my reputation precedes me.” 

Cassie gives him a slight smile. “Something like that,” she agrees. She doesn’t give him time to consider what that means before she’s nodding at another pair of work gloves that are folded over the side of the truck. “You can use those – Max is too busy playing mechanic to help me unload, so he doesn’t need ‘em.”  

The kid in question doesn’t say a word, so Dean shrugs. Slips them on. “Where are these going?”

She nods to a pile that she’s already started under a covered area built against the side of the barn. There are several open barrels waiting to be filled. “Keeps the raccoons out,” she explains. 

Dean needs no more encouragement. They fall into a rhythm surprisingly easily, considering they just met. Not to mention that this is easily the most physical activity he’s done since his impromptu show-down-throw-down with Claire. Cassie pushes the bags to the edge of the truck, and he huffs and puffs to throw them one at a time over his shoulders to carry to the barrels. The bales of wire come next – those get stacked nearby, apparently for fence repair. 

By the time it’s done, Dean’s worked up a good sweat. The sun is beating down and he feels more than a little winded, his muscles aching in a pleasant sort of way. He plops himself down on one of the stacks of feed, stripping off the gloves and then his flannel for good measure. 

He figures these people, out of anyone, are gonna be the last to stare at the marks his former masters have left for Dean to remember them by. 

Cassie produces a warm but welcome bottle of water from the cab of the truck and tosses it Dean’s way. He catches it with only a slight fumble, cracking it open gratefully and taking a long drink. She does the same with her own, tipping her head back and draining it in one go. 

Rumsfeld abandons his inspection of the goats to plop himself down, belly up, at Cassie’s feet. She laughs, leaning down to give him his demanded belly rubs. 

“Sucker,” Dean accuses, grinning at the upside down smile that the dog gives him, as if to say, got her.

“Not afraid to admit it,” she agrees happily. “He’s too cute.” 

“Lucky for him,” Dean says, shaking his head. “This is why Ellen doesn’t let you inside, bud.” 

Cassie’s brow furrows, though her smile doesn’t fade. “Uh – hate to break it to you, Dean, but she definitely does.” 

Dean’s not sure why that makes his heart clench in his chest. He hides it with a disbelieving look. “She’s gone soft in her old age, clearly.” 

“Dare you to say that to her face,” Cassie replies lightly, patting the dog a few more times. “Thanks, by the way,” she adds, giving him a small smile. “You didn’t have to do that. I’m guessing you didn’t exactly come out here to work.” 

Dean shrugs. “Needed to clear my head.” 

“Too much alpha?” she asks, a little too casual. 

Dean grimaces. Ellen had told them what to expect, he knows – and rightfully so. Sam is alarming enough, and he’s family. Cas is an unknown entity. “Not… exactly. I actually kinda like them, believe it or not.” 

There’s a quiet huff behind her, and Dean realizes he’s managed to halfway forget about the other omega. When he glances over, the young man hasn’t looked at him at all – he’s still elbow deep under the hood of the old Chevy, a few more tools than before scattered around on the gravel. 

“Don’t mind Max,” Cassie says, her gaze lingering on him. Her expression has tightened a little. “We’ve known about Sam for a while – just haven’t met him yet – and everyone knows Mr. Singer wouldn’t bring around anyone he didn’t trust, especially an alpha. We figured things would be alright.” 

“Still. Sorry about the short notice invasion,” he says sheepishly, guilt nipping at him again. 

It’s a little strange to feel like an interloper in a place where he spent a good chunk of his childhood. But Dean doesn’t begrudge them it – he knows how hard it must be for them to deal with not one, but two alphas here. He’s glad they’ve found a safe place. Somewhere to lay their heads at night where they don’t have to watch their back. 

He, more than most, understands how valuable that is. How rare. And just because he knows that Sam and Cas wouldn’t hurt a fly…

Cassie’s smile goes a little sad. “Really, it’s okay. I was working up at the Roadhouse when Mr. Singer came by,” she explains. “Never seen Miss H like that before.” 

Dean shifts, drawing back his hand to stuff it into his pocket. “Like what?”

“Teary-eyed.” 

Dean’s throat tightens. He drops his eyes to his lap, wishing he had something to do with his hands. “Ah.” 

Considering she’s only just met him, Cassie’s raised eyebrow is a little too knowing. “She sorta explained the situation after that. What happened, way back when. And, man, she missed you a whole hell of a lot,” Cassie continues, studying him. “We all knew she’d lost someone, you know? Her and Joanna. It’s just that no one figured they’d get you back.” 

Dean struggles with that. Struggles not to shrink under her curious gaze. “Yeah, well,” he mumbles. “Never really expected to be back, either.” 

“Self-signed?”

Dean’s mouth twists. He can’t quite make himself look up at her, because he doesn’t want to see if there’s disgust in her eyes now. If her respect for him has gone up in smoke. He wonders if she was sentenced to her fate. If she was coerced, or drugged into it, or if someone simply forged the documents and snatched her off the street. Or, if she, like him, signed the contract of her own free will. They’re all equally likely, and none of them mean she deserved it. 

He knows that lots of slaves would disagree. Would sneer at him for what he did. Knowingly and consciously signing himself away. There’s enough of them that were so clearly forced into it that they tend to look down on people like him; someone who seems, on the surface, to have signed his life away on a whim. 

“Yeah,” he admits, unwilling to lie. “Didn’t have a choice, though.” He adds the words quietly, defending himself even though he knows that if she’s made up her mind, it won’t help. “Not one that was worth a damn.” 

“I hear that,” she says solemnly. The tension fades from his shoulders, and he lets loose a breath.  

He knows it shouldn't matter how she ended up in the trade. In one way or another, they all ended up as unlucky bastards – the how doesn’t really matter. But he finds himself asking anyway. “What about you?”

She shrugs. “Rent was due. Mom lost her job, step-dad ran out on her and the baby. No one would hire me. It was either a contract, or watch them get evicted.” Her smile is bitter. “It made sense at the time.” 

Dean swallows around the truth and the injustice of that. Cassie doesn’t look ashamed of herself – if anything, she looks almost fiercely proud, as if she’s daring him to call her a fool. He wouldn’t, of course. He knows exactly what it means to sacrifice your own chance at happiness to give one to your family instead. 

“What about him?” he asks instead, nodding over at the younger kid.

She just shakes her head. “Dunno. He’s quiet. Hasn’t really talked to anyone since Ellen took him in.” Her voice drops, and she leans forward. “I don’t think he’s of age, though. Or, at least he wasn’t when he got contracted.” 

Heart twisting in his chest, Dean looks at him. His too skinny frame, his wiry arms. He looks like he could be in friggin’ high school, and here he is, trying to work off the ghost of a collar that never should have been put on him in the first place. “Shit. Poor kid.” 

Nodding, matter-of-fact in the way that lots of slaves are when confronted with stomach twisting tragedy, Cassie gives Rumsfeld one last pat and stands up. She stretches out the kinks and smiles at him. “I’m headed back toward the house – pretty sure that truck’s kaput, and I’m not waiting around.” She glances over at Max. “Give it up, Mister mechanic – just let me give you a ride back in the Ranger!” 

The kid just shakes his head, not even bothering to look up. She shrugs. “Suit yourself, but don’t give me those puppy dog eyes when you’re late for your shift.” Turning back to Dean, she smiles one last time and nods. “Nice to meet you.” She sounds genuine. 

“Likewise,” Dean replies, a little surprised to find that he means it. He’s not sure why. “See you tomorrow?”

“You sticking around?”

Dean grins. “I was considering it, but if you’re gonna make me carry any more chicken feed I might change my mind.” 

She laughs, waving him off. “Hasta luego,” she says easily, rolling her eyes as she starts back toward the house. Rumsfeld follows her, the traitor, clearly well aware that she’ll be a better source of pets than Dean. 

He waits until she’s a good distance away to attempt to lurch to his feet. His muscles are shaking, and he knows it isn’t gonna be long till he’s sore. He can’t remember the last time he worked this hard, and he already knows Cas is going to do his gentle version of bitching him out for over exerting himself. He finds, though, that he doesn’t really care. 

He helped someone, just now. A simple thing. Literally just unloading a damn truck. But he helped. 

It’s been so long since he’s gotten to do that. To pitch in, to make something better with his hands and his sweat and his effort. He realizes now, hobbling to his feet like an old man, that he’s missed it. 

Though Max gives all appearances of ignoring Dean when he approaches, he grows more and more tense the closer he gets – Dean can easily pick up on the sour pricks of discomfort in his soft strawberry scent. He hangs back a good distance, dropping his hands into his pockets. 

“Won’t start?”

Max twitches at the sound of his voice. He still doesn’t look up, but after a moment, he nods. 

“You got any idea what you’re doing, kid?”

The young man frowns. Predictably, he doesn’t answer. But he does shake his head after a half beat, looking irritated that he’s had to admit it. 

“Mind if I take a look?”

Finally, the kid glances at him. His eyes – so light they’re almost gray, with dark circles underneath – are wary, but after a moment, he steps back. Nods. He looks exhausted. Dean finds himself wondering how much sleep the kid’s getting.

He manages to spot the problem in about ten seconds flat, which is honestly a relief – he hadn’t really been sure he’d be capable at all, after so many years away from this. “Battery terminals,” he says, tapping one. “They’re loose. Has this happened before?” Max nods. “And if you mess with some stuff, suddenly it magically starts up the next time you try?” Another nod. “Yeah, thought so. If you replace that one,” he says, pointing to the worst of the two, “you shouldn’t have an issue. In the meantime…” he glances around. “You got a coke can?” 

Max squints at him, clearly unsure if he’s joking or not. “Seriously. That, and some scissors. I can jerry-rig it, and that’ll hold you over till tomorrow – I’m sure Bobby has a clunker I can strip a terminal off of to replace it.” 

Some of the wariness has faded from the kid’s expression as he’s babbled, so Dean finds he isn’t too embarrassed about it. With one last assessing glance at Dean, he pops open the driver-side door and fishes around, emerging with a half crushed can of sprite and a pair of wire cutters. 

Dean walks him through cutting a strip of the can and wrapping it around the terminal, using pliers to pinch it off and make sure it’s secure. Max watches, relaxing more and more as Dean keeps talking, his eyes glued to Dean’s hands. It only strikes him then that the dark scars around his wrists are on full display. 

Considering that Max’s sleeves are tugged down as far as they’ll go, he has a hunch that it’s not exactly a novel sight for the kid. 

Dean hears someone approaching at the same time Max does – the crunch of gravel underfoot. They both poke their heads out from around the hood, Max with a small spike of fear, Dean with the hope that it’s not Cas coming to get him. He’s pretty sure the kid would book it, if it was. 

Luckily, it’s Ellen. “Are you boys gonna be out here all day?” she calls out, no bite to her voice. “Max, Cassie was askin’ after you. You’re on the schedule for the dish pit tonight. You alright?”

Max glances at Dean. Nods. Ellen smiles at him. “Good. The Desperado giving you trouble again?”

Another nod. Dean speaks up. “It’s alright for now, but I can fix it for real tomorrow,” he offers, unthinking. A second later, he falters. “I mean – if. I’m sure you have your own mechanic – or, uh, Bobby could do it, but –” 

“I’m sure you’ll manage,” she cuts him off, not unkindly. “Thank you, Dean. You’ll save me a trip.” 

Dean smiles, the expression a little shaky. “‘Course.” 

Ignoring them both, Max drops the hood and hops in the cab. The truck rumbles to life with no trouble, and he looks faintly surprised. Dean doesn’t blame him – he doesn’t exactly look like a grease monkey. 

The kid looks at him for a split second. Shyly meets his gaze, and then drops his eyes. “Thanks,” he mumbles, ducking his head into his chest.  

Dean blinks. “Sure, kid. Any time.” 

Max seems to debate with himself for a moment, his eyes flickering to Ellen and then back to Dean. “Will you show me?” he asks, his voice so soft that Dean can hardly hear it over the truck. “Tomorrow?”

Something in Dean’s heart twists. “Of course.” 

Max nods, just once. Dean pats the hood of the truck and steps back, feeling lighter than he has in a while when the kid pulls onto the gravel road and disappears over the hill. Back to the Roadhouse, he assumes. 

Ellen is still waiting for him. Together, they begin the walk back to the house. The sun has been dropping lower for a while, and the crickets are coming out in droves. Dean slips his flannel back over his sweat-stained shirt, grateful that Ellen is keeping her eyes fixed on the horizon line. He’s not real keen on her seeing the marks on his wrists, or his arms. It’d been one thing for Cassie and Max – they’ve been there. They know. It’s another for his aunt to get crystal clear evidence of what’s been done to him. There’s no need to hurt her like that. 

“You know,” she starts, kicking a particularly large pebble off the path, “Max ain’t said a damn word to anyone since he got here.”

Dean frowns. “Cassie mentioned he was quiet. That he didn’t talk much.” 

“He doesn’t talk at all,” Ellen stresses. She does him the favor of not turning to look at him while he processes that. “Not a peep in weeks. Not ‘till five minutes ago.” 

Dean swallows. An emotion he can’t identify swoops through him. Something between heartache and a strange sort of pride. “Guess he’s… interested in cars?”

Ellen does turn to look at him then, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. “Boy, I know you ain’t that slow.” 

If Dean blushes, she has the decency not to mention it. 

Castiel isn’t quite sure what’s happened, but Ellen and Jo actually seem to… like him. 

Needless to say, it’s not what he’d been expecting. He’d anticipated more of the same from the Harvelles as he had from the rest of Dean’s family – cold suspicion, narrow eyed consideration. Scrutiny. And it’s not as though he would have blamed either of them; he knows how his relationship with Dean looks. Knows exactly why the women wouldn’t trust him. 

So their kindness… it’s strange. Almost more frightening than their hostility might have been, mostly because it’s unexpected. He can’t help but wonder if it’s a front. If they’re simply playing nice now, but have really dropped some arsenic into his coffee. 

Ellen has given him no indication that that might be the case. All day, she’s drawn him in with talk about the center; about finding jobs for the omegas she takes in, about tax breaks and tutors and the woes of applying for licenses for freedmen. It’s clear that she knows what she’s doing – what hoops and loopholes she needs to jump through and wriggle her way around. Clear that, even on a scale as small as this, she’s helping people. 

When Dean had made his escape earlier that evening, she’d put out a hand to keep him from following. She hadn’t called him possessive; hadn’t accused him of being overbearing or controlling. But she had gotten him to sit right back down on the couch with nothing but a look. 

“Let him walk it off,” she’d said, not unkindly. “If he wanted company, he’d have asked for it.” 

He’d nodded, feeling more than a little helpless. There’d been a subdued sort of silence between everyone, after that. The sort of quiet that comes after a gunshot. 

Eventually, they’d gone their separate ways. Bobby and Sam had gone off in one direction, Jo in another. And so it had been no one but him and Ellen left in the room. 

She’d looked at him for a moment – looked through him, really. “You’re doing a hell of a job,” she’d said casually. “Hope you know that.” 

Castiel had shrugged. Had averted his eyes, feeling as though the praise was undeserved. How could it be, if Dean felt the need to run away from them? From him? 

Ellen hadn’t wanted to hear it, though. Hadn’t even waited for him to speak his mind before launching into a speech turned lecture, her voice low and strong and full of the type of conviction that Castiel wishes he had. 

“I won’t pretend to know what he’s been through. His story to tell, if he ever chooses to tell it. But I do know, based off the general shit I see in the omegas we work with, that it wasn’t pretty.” 

She’d taken a breath. “He trusts you, Castiel. Ain’t no small thing.”

There hadn’t been anything Castiel could say to that, so he’d swallowed down his words and shuffled his hands, unable to shake the feeling that they were too empty without Dean’s fingers laced through his. 

They all end up traveling to Bobby’s for the last lingering hours of the evening. 

It’s Dean’s idea to build the fire, and he seems so enthusiastic about it that no one has the heart to tell him no. They gather around the old metal pit in the ground on rough approximations of chairs, watching as Bobby feeds the fire little scraps of wood and paper until it’s grown into something blazing and warm. Dean laughs, softly and then loudly, at stories of Roadhouse customers reenacted by Ellen and Jo. Spears some hot dogs on the end of an unwound clothes hanger, roasting one for Cas and then one for himself. 

They’re about as close as they can be, Castiel on an overturned plastic bucket and Dean on a low wooden footstool with a torn cushion that looks about one gust of wind away from collapsing. He’s leaning up against Castiel’s leg, elbow draped over his knee for stability, his head pillowed against the outside of Castiel’s thigh. It’s fairly subtle, the height difference, but Castiel knows it’s intentional. Mostly because Dean had eyed the second bucket that someone dragged out for him and then promptly ignored it, fishing the stool out from under one of the scrap cars nearby instead. 

He’s tired, Castiel knows. In search of someone to lean on, physically and mentally. It’s been a long day, and though it’s been mostly pleasant, he’s well aware that Dean’s stamina is still weak at best. 

Bobby is well aware of Dean’s exhaustion as well. The second or third time the omega nods off against Castiel’s leg, his eyes slipping closed and his breathing evening out, his uncle stands up with a groan and pops his back before ambling over toward them both. Dean abruptly straightens, wiping the grogginess out of his eyes and blinking up at Bobby sleepily, but the older man isn’t having it. 

“Up you get, kid,” he says gruffly, offering a hand. “It’s time for us to call it a night. Leave these youngsters to their tomfoolery.”

“Cas’s older than me,” Dean protests halfheartedly, almost pouting, but he grabs Bobby’s outstretched hand willingly enough and allows the man to pull him to his feet. He sways a little, something stuttering in his stance, and Castiel can’t quite help but reach out to steady him, his hand landing in the small of his back. 

Bobby doesn’t even blink at that, and it makes something warm and accepted flicker to life in Castiel’s chest. He’s not sure when or how the man’s mind has changed, but it seems that Castiel is no longer on his hit list. He’s grateful. 

“I won’t be long,” he promises Dean, resisting the urge to get up and follow him right now. It won’t kill either of them to have some distance for a moment, and, no matter their acceptance, he feels strange following Dean straight to bed. 

Dean glances back at him, readjusting the blanket over his shoulders with a smile. The firelight, glowing orange and flickering, makes him look like a painting. “Have fun,” he tells Castiel, part joking and part sincere, and Castiel can only smile back. Dean follows Bobby into the house, halfheartedly batting away the older man’s attempts to harass him about his lack of a proper bedtime.  

“I oughta call it a night too,” Ellen sighs regretfully, tossing the last of the pile of bark she’s been working through into the fire. “Early morning for me. I’ll see y’all tomorrow,” she says decisively, informing rather than asking. “Won’t hear anything different.” 

Castiel nods. “Of course,” he reassures her. Earlier that evening, she’d managed to rope him and Sam both into volunteering – somehow, they’d both found themselves agreeing to help clear a field of scrap and trash so that it could be tilled for a new batch of spring crops. “Bright and early.” 

Sam nods, too, and Ellen turns her expectant gaze to Jo. The young woman waves her off, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll head home in a little.” 

Ellen drops her hands on her hips, raising an eyebrow, but Jo just laughs. “Don’t pull out the now you listen here young lady stance, Mom. I’m twenty-three.” 

Harrumphing, clearly unimpressed, Ellen shakes her head. “Don’t come crying to me when you’re nursing a headache.”

Jo just laughs, waving her off, and then it’s only the three of them around the fire. 

Sam nudges at the flames with a long piece of rebar he’s produced from somewhere, grinning slyly at Jo. “When do you think she’ll stop giving you a curfew?”

“Soon as Bobby stops paying you allowance,” Jo shoots back, and laughs when Sam scowls at her. “Big shot lawyer, and your uncle’s still footin’ the bill for gas money.” 

“I don’t have a job yet!” 

“Hop to it, then,” she says casually. “Waitin’ for you to get it together so I’ll have someone to call next time I end up in a holding cell.” 

Castiel leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He misses the warmth of Dean next to him, but he’ll admit that it’s interesting to get a first-hand look at the dynamics of his family – not to mention more details about Jo’s experience with attending abolition rallies. They’d spoken of it a little as the day went on, and he’s hungry for more information. “Do you get arrested often, at these protests you attend?”

Jo puffs up, kicking her legs back as she abandons her previous seat – perched precariously atop an old, crumbling tire – and settles into her mother’s recently vacated lawn chair like a throne. “It’s been known to happen.” 

“And what is their justification?” he asks, curious in spite of himself. He’s never attended a protest like the one Jo is describing – part of working to free slaves means that he needs to keep a low profile whenever possible, and marching in pro aboltion demonstrations is a quick way to get his picture in the news. “I assume you aren’t actually doing anything illegal, considering they’ve never been able to hold you for long.”

Jo shakes her head, scoffing. “No, but it don’t matter. They’ll find something, if they think you shouldn't be out there. One time,” she laughs, though the sound is a little harsh, “one time, the bastard that put me in cuffs actually told me he was doing me a favor. ‘Setting you people straight,’ he said. Like I was gonna sit in holding and suddenly remember that my greatest ambition is to be somebody’s little homemaker.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s amazing, how bigoted people still are. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever get better, or if there’s always gonna be people like that.” 

Castiel clears his throat. “I think it is getting better,” he says quietly. “Of course there will always be fools. People who refuse to grow. But that doesn’t mean that the work you’re doing doesn’t have an impact.” 

Jo cracks her knuckles. “Right. Anyway, if swaying the hearts and minds don’t work… there’s always plan B,” she half jokes, though her eyes glitter dangerously in a way that tells him she isn’t entirely kidding. 

It reminds him, suddenly, of the way Bal looks when he’s dealing with a bigot in public – someone who has assumed that they are mates, based simply on their designations; people who speak right over him and talk to Castiel instead, even when he hasn’t said a word. “I believe you and my head of rehab would get along,” he says, and Sam half chokes on a laugh. 

“Cas?”

Castiel straightens, angling automatically toward the house – Dean’s voice is muffled behind the screen door, but plenty clear enough to hear. “Be right there, Dean,” he calls back, not realizing that Sam and Jo are giving him a look until he turns back to bid them goodnight. 

He braces himself, half expecting accusations or threats. But Jo just snorts, turning to poke at the fire, and murmurs “whipped,” in a sing-song voice under her breath. Castiel blushes but doesn’t dignify that with a response. He’s not ashamed of being attentive, of all things – Dean deserves that. 

Sam doesn’t attack him, either, though Castiel is getting to the point where he’s no longer expecting him to at any given moment. He just gives Castiel an appraising look, glancing toward the house. “Take care of him,” he says, almost like a blessing. “He won’t tell you, but he’s hurting.” 

Castiel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t have time to ask for clarification before Dean calls him again. “Gettin’ old, here!” 

He hurries inside, stomach churning with worry at Sam’s words. He hadn’t noticed any pain in Dean’s scent, but he also hadn’t been looking for it – the campfire smoke had drowned out anything he might have picked up on normally. 

He finds Dean at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister. He’s grimacing slightly, looking up at the steps like they’ve personally insulted him. He doesn’t turn back to acknowledge Castiel, but he does let out a sharp sigh. 

Castiel doesn’t say anything – just waits for Dean to tell him what’s going on. It doesn’t take long. The omega glances at him after a moment, his mouth twisting. “I’m,” he starts, then stops. He takes a breath. Looks away. “I’m gonna need some help,” he mumbles.

Castiel frowns. “With?” 

Dean’s grimace deepens. He shifts his weight back and forth, clearly debating on whether he wants to speak at all. “The stairs. Getting – like. Getting up them.” The last part is said in such a rush that Castiel hardly understands it – he has to replay it back in his head to parse the words out. 

He doesn’t reply, because he doesn’t know what words will help erase the embarrassment from Dean’s scent. Instead, he steps forward, his hand slipping around Dean’s back. Slowly, he adjusts the omega until his weight is leaning against Castiel’s more sturdy frame. 

Dean, by this point, is furiously blushing. Castiel has the decency not to mention it. “You overdid yourself.” 

The words are light – not meant to be accusatory, and Dean seems to know it. He sighs, tenderly taking the first step up. And, yes, there it is. The sharp twist of pain, a dash of burned sugar and cinnamon in his otherwise sweet scent. Castiel can’t quite help it – he tugs Dean more firmly against his side, all but carrying him up himself. Dean huffs, but he doesn’t protest, and that makes Castiel worry all the more.  

“I forget,” he admits, his words a little tight. “How bad I’m fucked up.” 

Castiel shakes his head. “You’re not.” 

“I am,” Dean argues, though his tone is more quiet than angry. “I – Cas. You don’t know.” 

Castiel swallows. Thinks back, for the millionth time, to what Dean looked like when he first arrived. “I don’t,” he agrees, after a few more steps. Dean’s breath catches in his chest at the last step before the landing, and when they get there, Castiel pauses. Gives them both a break. 

Dean doesn’t seem to hold it against him. He leans heavily against his side, clearly making an effort to control his breathing. To control his scent, too. Castiel can tell, somehow, that he’s managing to muffle it, to sweep away the evidence that he’s in pain. It isn’t easy, hiding like that – takes practice, and effort, and no small degree of talent. 

It doesn’t take much to figure out why Dean would have had to hone that particular skill. He doesn’t want his scent to sour, so he stops thinking about that as quickly as he can. 

“Ain’t gonna stand here all night,” Dean says after a moment, when he can speak without his voice shaking. Then, he pushes forward, powering his way up the steps with the sort of single mindedness that he seems to bring to everything he does. Castiel can either keep up or be left behind, so he matches Dean’s pace. 

The realization hits him as they reach the last step, perhaps a little late. 

Dean is trusting him right now. 

It sinks into Castiel, this proof of Dean’s love – comfort so raw that it’s a little painful. Dean probably would rather have crawled up these steps than call Castiel for help. Castiel has no doubt that the omega would have managed it, eventually – that he would have pushed himself till he was at the summit, shaking and sweating and nauseous. 

He’s also fairly certain that Dean thinks he should have done so, that he feels weak for calling him inside. That he must have stood here at the bottom of the steps for quite some time, going back and forth, arguing with himself. 

The only reason he broke down and did so was for Castiel’s benefit. He is probably well aware that finding Dean in agony from an unknown source would launch Castiel right into an anxious protective episode. And he’d chosen to swallow his pride rather than let that happen. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, as they make their way to Dean’s old bedroom. 

The omega scoffs. “For what, exactly? Making you practice your fireman’s carry?”

Castiel can only laugh. “I hardly had to carry you.” 

“I hardly had to carry you,” Dean mocks under his breath, his voice exaggeratedly low. “Really know how to stroke a guy’s ego, Cas.”

Holding back a smile, he gently guides Dean over to the bed. The omega sits on the springy mattress with a wince, and then scowls down at his boots, hands twitching at his sides. He doesn’t immediately move to untie them, which tells Castiel all he needs to know. 

“Can I help?”

Dean glances at him sharply, but his defensiveness fades after a moment. “I… fuck. Yeah,” he mumbles, looking away. “ Jesus this is pathetic.”  

“You worked hard,” Castiel murmurs, kneeling down in front of him. The thin rug over the wooden floor doesn’t provide much in the way of a cushion, but he ignores the slight twinge in his knees. “Give yourself some credit.” 

Dean doesn’t answer. Castiel focuses, gently prying apart the neat double knots. He’s careful to keep things orderly, to tuck away the trailing laces. Dean takes care with his things, and the least Castiel can do is the same. 

When he glances up, Dean is staring down at him, something unreadable in his eyes. Something fragile. And when he slowly reaches forward, Castiel is careful to stay stock still. 

His hand is warm, his thumb brushing against Castiel’s cheek; a delicate movement, something caught between bafflement and quiet wonder. Almost experimentally, his touch hesitant and unsure, Dean tucks Castiel’s hair behind his ear. He has to hold back a shiver at the sensation. It feels important, somehow. Significant. 

The two of them must make a strange scene, half suspended in time like they are. It’s the kind of moment that can fall apart with nothing more than a misplaced breath. 

“Thanks, Cas,” Dean says. The words are achingly gentle. 

Castiel blinks, and whatever had been holding them in place quietly fades. He smiles. “Always.” 

He leans back and hoists himself up, and Dean kicks off his shoes and stumbles to his feet as well. Castiel steadies him, and Dean leans into the touch unapologetically. “Gotta shower,” he sighs, his forehead pressed to Castiel’s shoulder. “I stink like a goat.” 

Castiel chuckles. “You don’t, actually. But yes. You should shower. The hot water will help with the soreness.” 

Dean hums. It takes a moment for him to pull himself away, but when he does, he’s very clearly put on his so-called game face. “You’re gonna wait up for me, right?”

Castiel laughs. “I smell like a campfire, myself. I think it will be my turn to shower after you.” He pauses. “Remind me to offer to pay Bobby’s water bill this month.” 

Dean snorts. “He’ll turn you down so quick your head will spin, but it’s your funeral,” he says, not appearing to be joking, and then he’s grabbing a pile of sleep clothes and carefully making his way out the door. 

Castiel, as oblivious as he often is, knows better than to mention that Dean has picked up his sleep shirt rather than his own. 

By the time they’ve switched places and Castiel has gotten himself ready for bed, he expects that Dean will be out cold. But when he carefully pushes open the door, towel drying his hair and hoping he’s not being loud, Dean is wide awake. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress again, stretching with a tight expression on his face. The faint scent of pain is present enough that Castiel suspects he’s been at it for a while. 

Castiel takes his time, drying his hair carefully and then draping the towel over the back of the little wooden desk chair. “Some ibuprofen might help,” he suggests, careful to keep his voice light. 

It’s the first time in a very long time that he’s offered Dean any sort of pain medication, and that’s intentional. Balthazar had been careful to warn him not to do that – that Dean would probably take offers like that as orders, that he would have bad associations with medication and that, outside of medical necessity, he should avoid suggesting it. But the tight pinch of pain on Dean’s face is tearing at him, and he wants to help. 

Predictably, though, Dean shakes his head. “Ain’t that bad.” 

“You can’t sleep, though,” Castiel points out, his tone even. “So… perhaps it is that bad.” 

Dean scowls, but he doesn’t argue, and that tells Castiel enough. Gives him the courage to cross the room and dig through his bag for the little first aid kit he packed, much to Dean’s amusement. He wordlessly presses the tiny travel sized bottle into Dean’s hand.

After only a beat of hesitation, Dean relents. He shakes out two of the pills and swallows them dry. Castiel doesn’t comment, much as Dean must be expecting him to. He just takes the little bottle back and sets it on the nightstand. 

Dean reaches up with both arms until his back pops, and he lets out a low groan, the noise more relief than pain. Tucking his feet under the covers, he scoots himself back toward the wall and lays on his stomach. It’s not a normal position for him – he tends to favor his side or his back. But Castiel doesn’t question it. 

He slides under the covers next to him, careful not to jostle the bed. He hesitates for a moment, not sure if his touch will be welcome like this, but he allows himself the small, selfish impulse after Dean tucks his pillow under his chest, restlessly settling into place. 

Carefully, Castiel lets the weight of hand settle over Dean’s tightly wound shoulder. When the omega doesn’t flinch, he presses down with the slightest amount of pressure, testing the waters. Dean does nothing – says nothing – so Castiel keeps going. Kneads, one handed and haphazard, doing his best to rub away the ache without crossing invisible boundary lines. 

When Dean lets out a breath, his heart freezes in his chest and his touch stills. But it’s not a sound of fear. It’s a sigh of relaxation. Of contentment. 

Castiel knows he probably isn’t helping much – not at all, really. He can’t wipe away years of abuse with a single touch, no matter how much he wants to. But it matters that his hands bring Dean comfort. It matters that he can be this close to Dean’s nape without the omega feeling the need to shield it away from him, that he can touch Dean at all without sparking even a hint of fear in his scent or the set of his shoulders.

It matters that Dean’s breathing grows even and soft as Castiel sits up and watches over him. That he trusts Castiel with this, and with a hundred other parts of himself. 

He lingers there for an hour or so, carefully smoothing away Dean’s pain. The omega has long since drifted off, but Castiel keeps going. At some point, he realizes that he’s soothing himself. 

He slides his shoes on as quietly as he can. The stairs creak when he descends them – he winces at each step, hoping nothing is loud enough to give him away. 

Not quite sure why he does it, Castiel steps back outside. 

Jo has clearly long since taken off, but Sam is still crouched next to what’s left of the fire, poking at the dying embers as the wind snuffs them out one by one. The moon above him is bright enough that Castiel has no trouble seeing the look on his face when Sam catches sight of him. 

It’s not irritation. Not hostility. It’s honestly something a little closer to cautious relief, and it makes him brave enough to sit down near him. 

“He was hurting,” Castiel says with no preamble. Sam nods mutely. “How did you know?”

The younger alpha shrugs. “Grew up with him. He gets this… this particular kind of stiffness. When he’s hiding that he’s in pain. Holds himself differently. It’s hard to explain.” Sam’s mouth twists. “Isn’t it fucked up that I know that?”

Castiel can’t help but agree. No child Sam’s age should have been able to identify the signs of abuse. “Yes,” he says softly. “But I’m grateful that he has you to look out for him.” 

Sam doesn’t reply to that. He just nudges at the fire again, stepping his boot forward to stamp out an ember that’s landed nearby. 

His guilty scent is very similar to Dean’s.

“Sam,” Castiel starts, but the alpha cuts him off at the same time. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Castiel blinks at him. “For…?”

“For assuming you were some kind of creep. You – you’re good to him,” he says, mouth twisting. “The exact kind of guy he deserves. And I’ve been doing my level best to make you feel like shit about it.” 

It’s not exactly the conversation Castiel had been anticipating. Slowly, he leans back. “You had your reasons.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees halfheartedly. “I… I guess I just. I never thought that finding him would be like this, you know? I always thought that, if I ever did track him down, it’d be more…” 

“Of a rescue?”

The younger alpha’s smile is a little wry. “Sounds childish, when you put it like that.”

“No,” Castiel disagrees gently. “It doesn’t.” 

Sam’s weak attempt at a smile fades. “I just… I wish he’d never gone through it. It’s stupid, because that’s not reality. There’s nothing I can do to change it now. But I wish he’d never signed those papers.” 

The guilt in his words is familiar – it sounds like Dean’s – and it’s no less painful. “Dean doesn’t regret doing so, you know,” he says slowly. He knows that. Knows it to his core. Dean, who will do and has done anything he can for the people he loves… Dean wouldn’t think twice about doing it all again. “It was outside of your control. You were only a child.” 

Sam huffs out a tense sort of laugh, rubbing a hand across his face. “Yeah. I guess. I just. I never understood what pushed him to that point, you know? Dad was always in debt with somebody. I never thought he’d go so far as to…” 

Castiel feels sympathy twist in his chest. He can’t imagine what it must have been like for Sam, at that age, to be confronted with the proof that evil existed. “Men like Crowley… they have no moral compass. No compassion. They will do what they need to do to make their money, no matter who it hurts. Your father chose to do business with a snake, and the consequences of that fall on him. Not on Dean, and not on you.” 

Sam looks at him a little strangely. “Jeeze,” he half laughs. “Dean really told you everything, didn’t he?”

Shrugging, Castiel takes a deep breath. “He’s guilty too, you know.”

Sam goes quiet, but Castiel knows this is important. He pushes forward. “He is. About leaving you alone. If he’d felt like he’d had another choice, he wouldn’t have.” 

Sam sniffs, looking away. Castiel doesn’t push him, but he keeps talking anyway. “He always found a way before. Always managed to make ends meet. Whatever Dad owed – it must have been massive.” 

He cocks his head to the side. “Likely, yes. I’m sure that he was not picking up cheap bounties. But I don’t think it was really about the money to him, Sam. I don’t know that your father would have seen the remainder of it anyway.” 

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, Sam stares across the fire at him. “What do you mean? I know Dad ended up with something, ” he insists, face twisting in disgust. “He was wasted on the good stuff when I got home. Bottles and bottles of it, all over the house. Surprised he didn’t drink himself to death on Jack Daniel's.” 

Castiel furrows his brow. “I… yes. I’m sure it’s possible that Crowley gave your father the difference from what was owed. But… Dean’s priority certainly wasn’t paying off that debt.” 

Sam stares at him, his expression strangely confused. Something uncomfortable skitters down Castiel’s spine, but he doesn’t have time to consider what the feeling might be trying to tell him. “What the hell else would it have been?”

Castiel blinks. Speaks carefully. Sam sounds more than a little lost – as though he’s found out that he and Castiel are on the same page of completely different books. “It… you, Sam,” he says slowly. “He was trying to protect you.” 

Bewildered, Sam leans back. Visibly tries to digest Castiel’s words. “Protect me?” he repeats. “Protect me from what?”

“From – from Crowley. John must have told you that–” 

He cuts himself off, but it’s too late. Sam’s expression has gone sharp. As attentive as a hawk. 

“He didn’t,” Castiel realizes, his words faint. 

Fuck. He didn’t. 

In an instant, Castiel feels anger flare to life inside of him. Feels rage. Dean sacrificed his life for his brother. Sacrificed his everything. And his father had been too cowardly to even tell the truth about that. To honor his sacrifice in even the smallest of ways. He wonders what kind of tale the man had spun for Sam – if he’d been coherent enough to lie at all, or if he’d just let Sam come to his own conclusions, and hadn’t bothered to correct him. 

But Castiel’s fury doesn’t hold a candle to Sam’s. 

He feels a spark of panic. Of something close to fear at what he's unwittingly started. But there’s no way he will dodge this conversation, no way to reel it back. No way to turn back time and keep his mouth shut. 

Sam’s voice is low. Dangerously intent.

“He didn’t tell me what.”