68. Alpha in Tauris

Dean backslides toward consciousness in the same unstoppable, stomach-flipping way a person slides down an icy hill. 

Awareness creeps back into his body sense by sense. Sluggishly, reluctantly. The first thing that becomes a solid, understandable fact is that there is a heavy blanket over top of him. That’s strange, in of itself – he doesn’t remember the last time he had that luxury. 

Somehow, the scent of alpha is the second thing that clicks into place. 

Dean keeps his eyes shut. His face tactically smooth. Breathes in slowly, carefully. He does his best to stifle the instinctual panic. Does his best to gather information. 

He is… in a bed. He isn’t sure why. The last time Alastair let him stay in a customer’s room for even an hour after the main event, let alone overnight, was years ago. He’d only been in Hell for a damn week before he lost that particular privilege. 

Getting out of the brothel, back then, had been stupidly easy – it was far before Alastair had figured out just how good Dean was at slipping his lead. The idiot alpha that had bought the rights to him that night had come in on the tail-end of his rut, and all Dean had needed to do was wait. 

Not that the waiting had been easy. Or pleasant. But really, he’d been through worse – the alpha hadn’t even been exceptionally sadistic, and had really just wanted a limp omega body while he was rut blind, and Dean hadn’t yet established himself as enough of a flight risk for his master to be wary of leaving him alone, unwatched, for so long. And Dean had been well aware of that. 

So he’d waited. He’d even mostly succeeded in going somewhere else, mentally, while the alpha wore himself out. And when the fucker had come to the end of his stamina – when he’d passed out cold, his body hot and heavy and his scent sick with musk and lust – Dean had held his breath and slid his way out from underneath him, moment by moment, inch by inch. 

He remembers that he’d nearly cried when he’d been able to draw in a full breath and not feel the weight of that alpha pressing him down. Remembers that he’d only managed to hold in those sobs because the sound of hitching breaths might have woken the man up. 

The chain between his wrist and the bracket above the bed had been just long enough for him to reach the alpha’s discarded pants, and after some snooping, he’d found something rigid enough to pick its sorry excuse for a lock. After that, it had only been a manner of stealing the alpha’s clothes and shoes and slipping them on, just enough camouflage to blend in for a quick glance. Never mind that Dean had been swamped in them, or that they didn’t do anything to hide the bruises or the way his hands had shaken. 

He’d kept those clothes on even once he’d slipped out the back door, the collar of the alpha’s stupid Adidas jacket turned up to hide Dean’s far less fashionable collar, the sleeves pulled low to hide the manacles around his wrists. Much as the alpha-rut scent had made him sick, it had also meant that quite a few people had crossed the street to get away from him while Dean had fought down the urge to break into an attention-catching sprint. 

It had been the first time he’d successfully run from Hell. 

He’d known he wasn’t escaping, not really – had known it was only a matter of time before someone caught up to him. And when he had gotten snatched up and dragged back, Dean had known that Alastair would punish him. It was just that Dean had thought it couldn’t get worse than it already was. He was a whore for sadists, after all – whatever his master would do to him couldn’t be any worse than what happened every night anyway. 

Dean had been wrong, of course. These days, he’s to the point where he wishes he hadn’t tried at all. His master has broken him. And he knows it. 

So maybe the alpha just doesn’t think he needs to be careful, anymore. 

Still. Dean thinks he shouldn’t be in a bed with an alpha right now. Not like this – not comfortably. Not free of fever and desperation. He doesn’t get it. Shit, he can’t even remember how he got here in the first place. 

That thought, more than any other, is enough to make him wake up completely. 

His brain stutters. Mouth goes dry. His skin crawls, old needle-jabs itching. His master had said Dean made him more money without those drugs, but maybe he’d changed his mind. It’s not like he gives Dean fair warning for anything. 

But… no. 

His heats – they’d been bad. But he’s always at least remembered something. This… this is just a big blank page. Suspiciously, terrifyingly empty. 

The gap in his memory makes something sick and scared curl up in his gut, in his throat, and he screws his eyes shut tighter, feels the pounding fear in his heart begin to catch up with the fear in his head. He’s furious that he’s scared, so fucking angry at himself, because he can’t – God, he can’t even enjoy this, this pathetic little moment of comfort that someone has slipped up enough to accidentally give him. Can’t revel in the soft blanket and the lack of pain for even a full thirty seconds before he’s too scared to function.  

He’s too busy being scared shitless of what it means.

Surprises are bad. Surprises always turn out bad. A break in his routine means some new method to hurt him, something he won’t know how to brace himself for; a fresh pattern of breakage for his soul. New pieces that he won’t know how to fit back together when they give him a moment to try. 

Dean’s been through that before, but it’s been too long. This time around, he’s not sure he’ll remember how to survive at all. 

The warmth under him shifts, and Dean sucks in a tight breath – preparing himself, as best he can, for pain. For vitriol, for hands to grab him or someone to shove him or for tight fingers around his neck – 

Then, brow furrowing, he inhales again. 

And again. 

“Dean?”

It rushes back in with the force of a freight train. 

Cas. That’s Cas. He’s not– 

“Jesus.” The word escapes Dean before he has the chance to snatch it back, transparently and incriminatingly relieved, too much so for him to play it off. His heart is racing. “F-fuck.” 

He drags in more of Cas’s scent, safe and warm and more concerned by the second, especially when Dean’s arm darts around Cas’s middle. He presses in as tight to the alpha’s side as he can. He’s shaking – can feel himself shaking – and Cas is brushing his hair back from his face, probably trying to figure out why the fuck Dean’s acting like an absolute basket case. 

“Dean?” Cas repeats, much more alarmed this time. “Are you – what’s wrong?”

Dean can’t do anything but shake his head, stupid and mute, his eyes screwed shut and his teeth grinding together as he tries his damndest not to cry. The words are caught in his chest, snarled in the thorns of his memories of Hell. Of Alastair. 

It’s been so long since Dean’s woken up like that; convinced, somehow, that he’s still there. That the awful fucking place never burned to the ground, that Cas never rescued him. And even when he does – even when the first thing he registers in the morning is panic and fear – one whiff of Cas is usually enough to snap him straight out of it. The alpha hardly ever knows Dean was panicking in the first place, and that’s by design. 

Dean can’t remember the last time it took him this long to come back to reality. It scares him. Scares Cas, too, judging by his scent.  

Still, the alpha doesn’t push. He’s clearly picked up on the fact that Dean isn’t planning on answering any time soon. Something bounces on the springy mattress to the side of Dean – Cas’s phone, he thinks – and Cas splays his newly freed hand against Dean’s arm. It’s warm, even through his shirt. 

“It’s alright. It’s okay,” Cas murmurs. He doesn’t even know what’s wrong, and he’s still trying to make Dean feel safe. “I’m right here. You’re okay.” 

Dean feels something hot and sharp press at the back of his eyes, but he refuses to cry. There’s no damn reason to cry, because he is okay. He’s so much better than okay. 

But he doesn’t want to open his eyes and he doesn’t want to get up. He just wants to stay here, pressed against Cas; the soft, familiar scents of Bobby’s laundry detergent and the alpha himself wrapped around him like a protective suit of armor. So he tightens his grip, biting his lip till it might be bleeding. 

And Cas just lets him hold on for as long as he needs.  

They stay like that for a little while – Dean’s not even sure how long, really. Cas pets his hair, his grip gentle but secure on Dean’s arm. Like he’s holding him in place. Keeping him grounded. Dean’s grateful for it. 

It strikes him, suddenly, where they are. What they’re doing, piled together on a twin sized mattress in Dean’s old room.

“Thought I was back there,” he mumbles eventually, the words small and ashamed and muffled against Cas’s side. He pulls them out like splinters. 

He doesn’t need to say where. Cas knows. 

The alpha hums. The sound isn’t happy, by any means, but it also isn’t scared. Something in Dean relaxes at that – the confirmation that Cas isn’t going to freak out about where his head is at. Dean’s not sure if he’d be able to reassure someone else right now, with how scattered he feels. He’s glad he doesn’t have to try. 

“I’d imagine it’s some holdover from yesterday evening,” the alpha replies slowly. His voice is a little rough, like it is when he hasn’t slept much. 

Dean blinks. “Yesterday? What…”

But even as he asks, he starts to remember. 

Yesterday. Last night, actually. He’d been on the back porch, finally about to get a haircut – something he’d been looking forward to, honestly. He’d wanted to look more like his old self, especially if he was gonna see Ellen and Jo. Hadn’t wanted to face them looking like the scared little kid he’d seen in the mirror that morning. 

But then… 

Dean’s stomach starts to hurt. He closes his eyes for a second – thinks of what had happened. 

“Oh,” he manages. The word breaks. “Right.” 

He’d flashed back. Flippin’ out over a damn haircut. That sound had been… Well. Safe to say it’d hit him hard. He doesn’t remember the specifics after Bobby had turned the clippers on. Just that he’d heard the buzzing and it had been a rug ripped out from under him. Like someone had lassoed a noose around his neck and pulled it tight. 

Dean doesn’t even know what scared him more; the reminder of all those intakes at the training center or the auction house, bright lights and cold, clinical commands and electrical currents jammed into his side if he didn’t behave. Or if he was being haunted by a different sort of buzzing, slick and hot and never-ending, desperation that had made him dry heave and beg with the need for it to stop. 

Didn’t really matter, either way. 

Bobby and Sam had seen that. 

All of a sudden, it feels like he’s suffocating. Like the world is crushing him. Why did he think it was right to come back here? Why did he think that he’d be able to hold it together, that he’d be able to act even a little normal? All he’s done now is worry his family, remind them how fucked in the head he really is.  

Cas doesn’t reply for a little while, and his silence feels loaded. Like he’s gearing up to say something deep or profound; some well intentioned bullshit about how strong Dean is that will make him feel even worse than before. So Dean takes a breath. Wrestles with his self-loathing until he’s got it in a chokehold. Teeth gritted till they’re bared, muscles shaking. 

“Guess you, uh. Guess you got your way after all,” Dean says, the words not nearly as flippant as he’d like them to be.

“My way?” Cas asks, confused. His hand pauses its ministrations. 

Dean huffs out a shaking breath. “With my hair. Keepin’ it long. ‘Cause apparently I can’t even get a fucking haircut without–”

His throat closes up before he can finish. 

He knows he’s being unfair. Knows that Cas would never have wanted yesterday to happen, that he means it when he says he doesn’t care what Dean’s stupid hair looks like. The alpha’s too good for that, despite Dean’s ungrateful, knee jerk assumption that he was actually telling Dean he wasn’t allowed. 

He hates that he still has moments like that. Times where he forgets that Cas is a good man. Especially because he knows that those moments weigh on Cas like shackles. 

Cas is quiet for a while, and Dean doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his hand resumes petting through his hair. He exhales, shaky and relieved. Despite the circumstances, he can’t help but enjoy that touch. He’s just so tired of everything being complicated. Exhausted by the constant tightrope walking. 

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles. His hand finds purchase in Cas’s shirt, and he tugs on it to punctuate his words.

Cas hums again. The sound isn’t angry, or even tense. Neither is his voice, when he finally responds. “I’ve been watching videos. Tutorials.” 

The words are strange enough that they finally get Dean to pull far away and look up. Above him, Cas looks… exhausted, frankly. Twice as tired as Dean feels. He has to wonder if the alpha got any sleep at all. Honestly, he doesn’t think so. He has a vague memory of drifting off with Cas’s arms locked around him, his face buried in the alpha’s chest, and then of the bed shifting a little some time later – Dean hadn’t been awake long enough to wonder where he’d gone. 

“Videos?” Dean repeats blankly. He glances at Cas’s phone, but it’s face-down on the bed. “Of what?” 

For some reason, that makes Cas’s cheeks turn a little pink. He doesn’t answer, fumbling to take out an earbud that Dean hadn’t noticed instead, his eyes darting to the side. 

Curious, Dean reaches out to pick the phone up and unlock it. On-screen, there’s a paused video of a woman talking to the camera as she combs through some dude’s hair. She’s got a pair of those weird little hair-cutting scissors with the eye-glass handles poised and at the ready. 

Dean stares blankly at the video for a second, and Cas clears his throat in the silence. “I… um. I couldn’t sleep, if I’m being honest. So I stepped out earlier this morning and made a grocery run. Walmart has a surprising variety of hairdressing supplies.” 

Dean tears his eyes away from the screen, looking up at the alpha instead. Cas’s face is bright red at this point, and he avoids Dean’s gaze and stares at a plastic bag on the dresser instead. “I didn’t know if – I mean. I understand if you’re not interested, since I’m hardly an expert. But I thought that if the clippers aren’t an option, we could always try the traditional approach. If you’d rather wait until–”

Whatever Cas had been planning on saying dies with a muffled noise of surprise when Dean surges up to kiss him.  

His lips are warm and soft, his face a little stubbly with his unshaven scruff, and Dean feels something in his chest expand until he thinks he might burst with the force of it. For a moment, the alpha seems too shocked to move – but, a half second later, his hand flutters and lands lightly on Dean’s knee like he’s not sure what to do with it. Dean’s heart flips and his hands shake and he’s in love, he loves Cas so much it hurts, and he doesn’t know what to do with that love other than to kiss him.  

When Dean leans back and takes in the starstruck, dazed look in the alpha’s eyes, he can’t help but laugh. The sound is equal parts relief and joy – gratitude and helpless happiness and surprise rolled into one. Cas is staring at Dean like he’s a heaven-sent miracle, and Dean ain’t even gonna pretend to be upset about that. 

He smiles, because he can’t help it, and Cas’s smile in response is a little shy. He holds his fingertips against his lips for a moment, his eyes sparkling, and Dean just wants to kiss him again. 

“Well, I’ll take that as a yes,” Cas says, his voice a low rumble, and Dean smiles even harder, his own cheeks turning pink. 

Dean sits up, the quilt falling from his shoulders, and rubs a hand across his face. It looks like it’s not too late in the day – maybe around nine, he’d guess – and the sun is shining bright and strong through the window. “Sorry,” he says, yawning. His breath is probably awful. “Should’a asked.” 

“It was a nice surprise,” Cas says warmly. “Would you like to do it now, or eat breakfast first?”

Dean’s hit by that same wave of love again, and this time he’s not even sure why. It’s just – it would be so easy for Cas to use his fear against him, would be so easy for him to take control and tell Dean what to do. Dean’s not even sure he’d be upset about it if he did. But, instead, the alpha is giving him as many choices as he can, and he’s respecting those choices, never once assuming that he knows what Dean wants. 

It’s beyond gratitude at being treated like a person. Dean won’t lie and say he isn’t still hit by that some days – how could he not be? But this… this is past that. He’s pretty damn sure he’s just realizing what it’s like to be well and truly loved by someone. 

“Let’s do it now,” Dean answers, dropping his head onto the crook of Cas’s shoulder in an easy hug. “That way we’ll have time to go hat shopping if you mess it up too bad.” 

Cas huffs out a soft laugh, and a moment later they’re detangling themselves from the blankets and making their way to the bathroom, Cas carrying the plastic grocery bag. There’s already a stool sitting in front of the mirror, and Dean feels his heart swell at the sight. The alpha really had been up all night. Really had spent his time trying to come up with ways to make Dean feel better, to help him with something as trivial as this. 

The bathroom ain’t exactly large, and he and Cas shuffle inside as best they can. Dean sits down on the stool without having to be asked, adjusting to the still-strange feeling of sitting comfortably while Cas is standing faster than he ever has. The alpha is setting his bounty down on the counter in a neat little row – a pair of those same scissors he’d seen in the video, a small towel, a comb, a spray bottle. The last one, he unscrews and fills up with water while Dean watches, fighting back another yawn. 

“The videos I watched all started with this,” the alpha says, holding up the cheap little spray bottle like it’s a complicated tool. “Apparently it helps to get a more even cut.” 

“Go for it,” Dean says easily, bending his head forward. There’s a pause, and when his head doesn’t immediately get wet, he looks back up. Cas is looking at him with something dangerously soft in his eyes. “What?” Dean asks, half playful and half bashful. 

The alpha just shakes his head. “Nothing. I’m… I’m just grateful.” 

“I’m the one getting the free haircut here, buddy.” 

The corner of Cas’s mouth twitches. He carefully drapes the small towel over Dean’s shoulders, shaking his head. “Right.” 

Dean closes his eyes as Cas sprays him down, laughing a little when the water drips onto his nose. Cas is careful, as he always is, and methodical, too, and when he begins to comb through Dean’s too-long mop, the sensation is soothing. Dean catches his own eyes in the mirror only once, and then looks away – he’s too small. Pale, almost childish. With wet hair, the resemblance he bears to a drowned rat is a little too on the nose. 

When he turns his body to face the tub instead of the mirror, Cas doesn’t call him on it. He just amicably moves to match. 

“I’m going to start cutting, if you’re ready for that,” Cas murmurs. Dean hums, careful not to nod in case Cas already has scissors close to his head, and then there’s the soft snick of shears cutting through hair. It has him tensing his shoulders. 

“So,” Cas says, skipping right over the part where Dean’s scent is probably twisting into fear. “Tell me about Ellen and Jo.”

Dean lets loose a breath. He knows that Cas is just trying to calm him down. To distract him. But, to be honest, he needs the distraction, so he rolls with it. As the alpha works, Dean tells him about his surrogate aunt and cousin; days spent helping Ellen out at the Roadhouse, cleaning after hours or cooking or running errands. How Ellen ran the place with an iron fist – the way she’d chased out a couple of alphas who had harassed Dean with a shotgun, once; the way she’d broken up bar fights, more often than not, her damn self, usually without bothering to call the cops. How protective she was over Jo, once Bill had died, and how Jo had tried every way she could think of to escape her mother’s hovering. 

He tells Cas about afternoons where Sam and Jo would work on their homework, Dean mostly there for moral support – Sam had tutored Jo, and Dean had tried his best to tutor Sam, limping along despite the fact that, with how much school Dean had missed at that point, Sam probably could have run laps around him. He talks about summers spent sleeping in tents in the Harvelle’s backyard, of long days where they’d run out the door in the morning and not turn around till the sun was going down. Of a Christmas he got to spend with the Harvelles and Bobby, how they’d been happy and gentle and kind. 

Of what it was like to have little slices of normality, where Dean didn’t have to be the one to find dinner and didn’t have to be the one to make all the decisions. 

“And Ellen and Bobby?” Cas asks after a while, his brows furrowed as he carefully parts Dean’s hair. “They aren’t…?” 

Dean smirks. “Well, they won’t admit it. To be fair, Ellen’d just lost Bill a couple’a years ago at that point, and Bobby wasn’t exactly the most eligible bachelor around. But Sam and I always figured they’d get together eventually.” 

“What happened to her husband?” Cas asks, his tone curious. He brushes a hand through Dean’s hair, pulling gently at a section behind his ear. 

Dean goes quiet at that, fiddling with the edge of the towel. As always, Cas is patient. “My dad and him – they were both bounty hunters. Bobby too, off and on, though he mostly did man-in-the-chair stuff. This was… um. This was before Dad started going after slave bounties. They were dealing with actual criminals back then – bad ones. The kind that hurt people.” 

“Brave of them.”

Dean snorts. “Yeah. Guess it was. But… there was this one case.” He falls silent for a moment, chewing on his words as Cas gently moves his head to the side to get a better angle. Dean leans without thinking about it too much, the panic he should probably be feeling about an alpha pushing his head anywhere conspicuously absent. 

“John and Bill were supposed to work together,” he says finally. “Partner up, split the work and the bounty. But, uh. My dad messed up. Tipped off the dude by accident, and when he realized it he booked it, took cover… but he didn’t actually tell Bill they’d been made.” 

Dean looks down at his lap. “Bill got shot. Dad…” 

He takes a breath. “He took off after the dude. And he caught him – got him arrested and everything. Dad says he thought Bill was fine, that he told him to go on ahead.” 

“I’m guessing he wasn’t,” Cas finishes, his voice low. His hand is warm and heavy on Dean’s shoulder, his thumb just brushing Dean’s neck. It’s grounding. 

“No,” Dean agrees, his throat tight. “He, uh. He wasn’t. He didn’t make it.” 

He’s not sure why he holds his breath after telling Cas that. The alpha already hates his father – Dean’s well aware – and it’s not as though Dean had anything to do with what went down, back in the day. 

He hadn’t even known about it until he’d overheard Bobby and Ellen talking about it one evening, sipping beers and trading miserable stories about his dad on the back porch when they’d thought that all three kids had fallen asleep. Dean remembers how he’d felt, leaning up against the door frame with a forgotten glass of water clutched against his chest; horrified that his dad could do something so blatantly, sickeningly selfish, and guilty that he hadn’t actually been all that surprised to hear it at all. 

Hell, Dean’s not even sure Ellen knows he knows. 

He’d waited, like the scared little kid he was, for Ellen to start treating him differently after that night. For her obvious and transparent hatred of their father to color the way she treated Dean, and Sam too. But it never had. Ellen had treated them like her sons just the same. 

When Dean gets brave enough to look up at Cas’s face, the alpha doesn’t look like he’s thinking of Dean any different, either. He just has a quietly contemplative expression – something distant and troubled, but not accusatory. Not angry. His touch on Dean’s head hasn’t changed pace, hasn’t gotten harsh or impatient. 

Dean lets out a breath. Seems like he’s finally beginning to figure out that his days of having to stand up for John Winchester are well and truly over. And he’s not sure why he isn’t more relieved. 

It’s not a feeling he has the time or energy to examine, though, so instead, he focuses on the way Cas’s fingers feel as they travel through his hair. On the way he leans over, close and intent, and carefully sections out where to cut. On the way the wet tufts of Dean’s hair fall like raindrops on his neck and how they look on the tiled floor, innocent and soft and small like moths.  

It’s a far cry from the buzzcuts he’s had in the past. A harsh grip on the scruff of his neck, rough passes of the clippers that would cut him if he squirmed or fought. His knees aching on cold concrete, his body wracked with shivers. They’d always hose him down after. Small mercy, with how cold the water usually was. 

This is nothing like that. Like the rest of his life with Cas, this is the complete opposite. 

“Bobby says this hair dryer works,” Cas says sometime later, and Dean blinks his eyes open. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them. “Should we dry it?”

Dean looks up at the alpha. There’s a curl of damp brown hair stuck to his shirt, right under the collar. “Nah. I need to shower anyway.” For the briefest of moments, Dean thinks about stepping in the hot water with Cas. The thought doesn’t scare him like it should. He wonders what would happen if he asked for that – if Cas would give him that, too. 

He shakes his head, dismissing the thought for now. “Are you already done?”

Cas bites his lip, looking up at Dean’s hair. “Um… yes? I believe so. It’s… it certainly isn’t perfect, I fear, and I wasn’t really sure how short you wanted to go – I tried my best to clean up the edges.” 

Dean looks at him for a moment longer before turning to check his reflection, moving fast enough that he can’t chicken out. 

His hand automatically moves up. Ruffles through the shorter sections on the side, combs through longer spikes of hair at the top, brushing them back, angling them to suit the way his hair parts. He feels, abruptly, like a teenager – the movements are old but familiar. Recollections of an era where worrying about how he looked was something even approaching his priority list. 

He remembers the first time he’d put gel in it. Some cheap crap he’d lifted from the Dollar General down the street from their motel. He’d been so absurdly careful, molding the spikes to look like men in magazines who had girlfriends and muscle cars and no one telling them what to do. Sam hadn’t even noticed, too young to care what Dean looked like. Dean hadn’t minded.

His dad, on the other hand, had told him he looked like a fucking queer. Had spat the words at him – not with violence, but with dismissive disgust. Dean thought that had been worse.  

Dean, for once, hadn’t given in to his dad’s implied order. He’d styled it anyway, every morning without fail. One of the few things he ever did just for himself. 

Cas is staring at him in the mirror, too. He looks concerned. 

“Is it too long, still? I could go shorter, if you wanted. Or, I could try. I know I’m not –”

“It looks awesome, Cas,” Dean says. He means for it to be encouraging – happy. The words come out a little broken instead, and Cas’s frown deepens. “Really. I’m…” 

He clears his throat. Stands up, little tufts of hair falling from his shoulders as he does. Cas’s eyes follow him in the mirror, and when he turns around to face him, the alpha doesn’t move away. 

“Doesn’t matter what I think, anyway,” Dean half jokes. Cas’s face falls, and Dean realizes how that sounds – like he’s still stuck on the idea that the way he looks isn’t a decision he has the luxury of making. That it’s something Cas is supposed to decide. He doesn’t think that, not really, and so he backtracks, and adds, “So long as Jo can’t harass me about it, I’m happy.” 

Cas’s smile is a little wobbly, but the worry bleeds from his scent. “You think it looks okay?”

“I think it looks better than it has any right to,” Dean corrects. “Maybe you missed your hidden cosmetology calling.” 

Cas shudders. “I don’t think so. I’m…” He grimaces. “I don’t think I’d enjoy touching strangers.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “But… you enjoy touching me?”

Cas opens his mouth to respond automatically, but he chokes on the words, his cheeks reddening. “That’s not – I just meant that–”

“I know,” Dean relents, laughing. He glances at the shower curtain, thinking again about what it might be like to share that with Cas. Abruptly, he’s glad he didn’t ask. “Now get lost so I can wash up.”

By the time Dean gets out of the shower and styles his hair the way he likes it, Cas still hasn’t gone downstairs. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands in his lap, his eyes on the window across the room. He glances over when Dean walks in, a small smile on his face when he takes him in. 

“You look different,” he says, the fondness in his voice making it clear he’s not upset about that. “Older, I think.” 

“Gee, thanks, Romeo,” Dean says, rolling his eyes. He feels Cas’s eyes on his back when he opens the closet, looking for a flannel to cover the thin black t-shirt he’s wearing now. It’s warm enough that he probably doesn’t need it, but he’s not quite brave enough to go without it yet. “When’s the last time you got a haircut, anyway?”

“It’s been quite some time,” Cas admits. Thing is, he looks fine – Dean’s a big fan of the constant sex hair, if he’s honest with himself. “I go to Balthazar’s barber, upon his insistence. Apparently when he met me my haircuts were unacceptable.” 

Dean grins, wondering what a younger Cas might have looked like. “He is very suave. I guess if you’re gonna take advice from anyone, oughta be him.” 

“He said as much as well.” 

Turning toward Cas as he buttons up his flannel, Dean walks closer to him. Sits down on the bed at his side, leaning in close enough that they’re touching. “Thanks. By the way.” 

“For the haircut?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, not entirely truthfully. He’s got more than that to thank Cas for, but he doesn’t have the energy to explain that. “Sure, Cas.” 

They rest together for a while, Cas reaching around him and holding him snugly. Dean likes it, so he doesn’t protest – just rests his head against the alpha’s shoulder. 

Breathes him in. 

Breakfast is a little rocky, if Dean’s honest. 

Once Cas ducks into the bathroom to shower, Dean goes downstairs. Bobby is waiting for him in the living room. He glances at Dean’s haircut, but doesn’t comment on it – just nods, and returns to his newspaper. "We're heading out to Ellen's when you're ready," he says evenly, and all Dean can do is nod back.

He doesn’t know whether he’s more relieved or embarrassed that Bobby doesn’t make a production out of it, that he doesn't mention last night at all. There’s a lead weight in his stomach, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and he doesn’t know how to get rid of it.

Sam, too, tries to pretend that nothing’s wrong – that last night was totally normal. He’s leaning up against the counter in the kitchen when Dean walks in, a smoothie in one hand and his phone in the other. He gives Dean a brief smile, glancing up at his hair. 

“Wow,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “He did a good job.” 

That annoys Dean, for some reason. He flicks open the cabinet door to grab a bowl. “I guess.” 

“No, really,” Sam says, tilting his head to the side. “Looks great.” 

“You don’t have to pretend last night wasn’t pathetic, Sam,” Dean bites out, the words acidic in his mouth. 

Sam doesn’t reply while Dean retrieves the cereal, then the milk. He just keeps leaning against the counter, placidly sipping at his smoothie. It looks suspiciously green. 

Dean gets through about one and a half bites of his cheerios before he can’t stand it anymore. “What?” 

“Nothing,” Sam says evenly. “Just thinking about how I couldn’t listen to, I don't know, literally any sort of classic rock for years without... How to put this. Bursting into honest to God tears.” 

Dean blinks. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Sam sums up. He takes another drink of his smoothie. “So. Whatever it is that you think I think of you.” He shrugs. “I don’t.” 

Dean looks at him for a moment – his too-tall little brother, bags under his eyes. He looks as tired as Cas does, and he has to wonder if Sam got any sleep, either. “Didn’t want you to have to see things like that,” he says, almost helplessly. He looks down at the little floating o’s of cereal, scared to look Sam in the eye. “You were never supposed to know.” 

Sam sighs. “Doesn’t change how I feel about you, Dean,” he insists, his tone bordering on exhaustion. Dean feels a pang of guilt at that. “You have to know that.” 

Dean looks up. Sees the tired truth in Sam’s eyes. 

“I…” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his newly shortened hair. 

“I’m working on it.” 

The Harvelle household is different than Dean remembers. 

Back when he was a kid, it was a bit lonely, a bit run down – a nice enough house, long and wide and ranch style, with a shoddy wooden fence and trees that were gnarled with undergrowth. When he’d known Ellen back in the day, she’d still been grieving, and she’d spent most of her time at the Roadhouse. Working through the pain, she’d always told him, a smile on her face that was a little grim even though it reached her eyes. 

Dean hadn’t cared that the garden was overgrown and unused or that the weeds had started to grow into the tires on Bill’s old truck in the scraggly gravel drive. He’d loved visiting with Sam and Bobby whenever John wasn’t around. Had loved the fact that Ellen hadn’t seemed to transfer the animosity she’d felt toward John onto him or his brother. Had loved their goofy, overgrown Rottweiler puppy, Rumsfeld, and the way he’d leap up and bowl Sam over with sloppy kisses and excited whines every time they came around, and he’d especially loved the way Jo would laugh at Sam’s outraged noises of protest. 

When Bobby rolls up the gravel drive this time, Dean has to wonder if they’re even at the same house. No longer is the garden overgrown. No more are the vines and the weeds crawling up the sides of the shed and abandoned trailers and tires. No more is the paint peeling from the exterior. 

Instead, the house is… well. It’s neat. It’s clean cut, but homey – well ordered with plenty of life and growth thrown in. Flowerbeds full of colorful blooms and carefully trimmed trees, a mower and a trio of bikes and a pickup all in a row off the side of the driveway that actually look like they’re in working order. And, out beyond that, there’s dark, tilled soil, little sprouts and wooden stake signs poking up in every direction, a shovel and a rake leaned up against the cleaned up shed that look like they’ve been dropped there only hours ago, not years. 

“Damn,” Dean breathes out loud, and from the driver’s seat, Bobby laughs. 

“I know it. I always tease her about how much better the place looks now-a-days, but really, It’s amazing. All this life breathed into it. The folks she takes in…” He trails off, shrugging. “They like to give back. Like to work with their hands.” 

Dean nods. He knows exactly what Bobby means – knows how healing it can be, to take control of your environment like that. To actually feel useful, and not in a way that makes your stomach turn. 

“She never forces nobody, ‘course,” Bobby goes on, his tone unhurried as he backs into the narrow, shaded space between a couple of trees. They’re quite a ways down the driveway, far away from the front door. “But folks like to volunteer. She uses what they grow here for the roadhouse. Pays the omegas in room and board, if they need it, ‘cause most of ‘em won’t take money.” 

Next to Dean, Cas nods. “The omegas at the center are quite similar. For those that volunteer their time in the cafeteria or on the grounds, we put aside the additional funds to grant them when they’re free. Balthazar insisted that I simply add the check to all of their paperwork, rather than ask ahead of time.” 

“‘Cause they wouldn’t take it if you did,” Dean says quietly. He can feel Sam’s eyes on him in the rearview, but he doesn’t look up. “They’re grateful, Cas.” 

“Maybe so,” the alpha says, squeezing his hand. “But many of them also don’t know the value of the work they’re providing. They deserve to be compensated.” Dean just shrugs, unwilling to argue. He knows Cas is right, in a way – he just can’t see himself ever complaining about a paycheck when Cas is literally giving him his freedom for free. 

Maybe Cas sees that, because he chews on his bottom lip for a second before adding, “The residents don’t need to earn their freedom, Dean. They shouldn’t have had it taken away in the first place. We’re just… returning what was stolen.” 

Dean can see Sam nodding in the front seat, but Bobby looks more… contemplative. He doesn’t have time to think about what that might mean before they’re opening the doors and piling out. 

The air is a little chilly, even this late into spring, and Dean tightens his jacket around himself against the wind. The grass around the drive leans to the side, and Dean can feel it blowing back his newly shortened hair. Absurdly, he wishes he’d thought to put some gel in it. Not that a little bit of product is going to make him look any better, really. 

Luckily, the sun is pounding down on their heads enough that Dean warms up before he’s two steps away from the car, and he squares his shoulders next to Cas. Feels that familiar skitter of nerves down his spine, even though, by all accounts, he should be excited. 

This is more of his family. Two more folks he thought he’d never get to see again. That would never want to see him again. 

“You called ahead, right?” he finds himself asking Bobby nervously anyway. Cas has already wandered away, bending down to investigate some tiny little sprout in the tilled soil with careful hands. 

His uncle turns around and gives him the eyebrow. “‘Course. Yer man over there ain’t exactly someone we want to spring on the folks she’s puttin’ up,” he points out, throwing his thumb over his shoulder to point at Cas. “No offense.” 

Dean can feel his cheeks flush at Bobby’s choice of words. He scowls, jamming his hands into his pockets, and ignores Sam’s barely muffled snicker. “Alright, alright,” he says, rolling his eyes and jabbing Sam in the middle with his elbow. “Yuk it up.” 

Bobby has a point, though. When Dean sniffs the air, he can pick up on the traces of a couple of unfamiliar sweet scents, mixed in with Jo’s. The smell of her, fresh and melon sweet, makes something in him relax, for whatever reason – it shouldn’t be familiar, but it is. She hadn’t presented, last time Dean had seen her, and it’s strange to pick up on that telltale omega overlay. 

“Are they here?” he asks, glancing at Sam with a pang of worry. “I’m sure Cas ain’t the only one that might give ‘em pause.” 

But Bobby shakes his head. “Nah. She told me they’d be at the Roadhouse till late in the afternoon. We’re in the clear.” 

Sam shrugs goodnaturedly when Dean glances at him, conceding his point. “Even if they were here, though, they usually know I’m family.  Ellen tells them. And I’m careful, anyway.” 

Dean has to wonder how much that really helps, all things considered, but he doesn’t push the point. Sam may be his brother, but Dean knows how unsettling it can be for a six-foot-somethin’ alpha man to surprise you. And, considering the bull-in-a-china-shop behavior Sam had shown at the center… 

Sam must sense his skepticism, because his mouth twists to the side. The guilt in his scent is clear as a bell. He lets Bobby start up the drive to the front door, making no move to follow him with any sort of urgency – so Dean hangs back too. He’s got the feeling that one lone beta approaching the door will freak out the folks here less than all of them charging up at once. 

“Most of the time I’m… better. Less of an asshole,” his brother mutters, kicking at a pebble. “I know the way I acted, uh. Back in Washington. I know that isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement. But…” 

Cas’s voice behind them startles Sam. “But you were scared,” the alpha sums up. His voice is as kind as it always is, and he falls into step on the other side of Dean. 

Sam doesn’t say anything, but his guilty scent does ease a little. And when he glances over Dean’s head at Cas, his expression looks almost grateful. 

Dean reaches down and takes Cas’s hand back in his own, squeezing it in his own silent sort of thank you. Cas squeezes back – unaware, as usual, of how much he’s doing without even trying. 

Up ahead of them, Bobby has already knocked on the door, and through the screen and the wood, Dean can hear deep, warning barks. When the door swings open, a black and brown blur shoots right out, darting around Bobby and barreling straight toward them. Cas blocks his view a half second later, appearing out of seeming nowhere as a human sized shield. 

Dean tugs Cas out of the way absently, only distantly taking in the fact that the alpha stepped in front of him just now, putting himself in harm’s way – he’ll deal with that in a minute. His brain is struggling desperately to connect the dots here, to cram two puzzle pieces together. It’s not till Sam is flat on his ass, the gray-faced rottie kissing him like there’s no tomorrow, that Dean manages to connect the dots. 

“Rumsfeld?” 

The dog’s ears perk up. Pausing in his slobbery assault on Sam, he turns to Dean with his long pink tongue lolling out. Dean braces himself subconsciously, digging his boots into the gravel, but when the dog abandons his brother to greet him instead, he’s far more gentle. Instead of a couple of paws to the chest, Dean gets a wet nose snuffling gently at his hand, and a soft whine. The dog ignores Cas completely, and when it’s clear he’s got no intention of knocking Dean to the ground, the alpha lets out a tense breath. He backs up a step, a steady presence behind Dean rather than a shield in front of him. 

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes, squatting down to examine the dog properly. And it is Rumsfeld, there’s no mistaking it – though his old leather collar has been replaced with a sun bleached, weathered bandana that might have once been red. He noses against Dean affectionately, his little nub of a tail wagging like crazy, and Dean finds himself hugging him with half a laugh in his voice. “Boy, you got old.” 

“He’s thirteen, if you can believe it,” Sam says, affection clear in his voice as he picks himself up off the ground, brushing off his pants. “Still runs around like a puppy.” 

Dean smooths his hand down one of Rumsfeld’s velvety soft ears. Thirteen. 

Last time he’d seen him, he’d been two. 

Dean knows, logically, how long he’s been gone. He knows it’s been over a decade. He’d managed to see the date here and there, had kept track of the weeks and the months and the years somewhere in the back of his mind. That had gone away with Alastair, honestly – there’d come a point when Dean didn’t care anymore. When each day passing just felt like an endless blur. 

When he’d seen his file in Cas’s office, he’d done the math. Had realized just how long it had been since he signed himself away – give or take a month. But this… this old, graying dog that Dean hasn’t laid eyes on since he was a spry young thing. This is hitting home more than any of that did. 

He doesn’t know why. And he doesn’t have time to think about it before he’s looking down at an old pair of boots and well worn jeans. 

Ellen, too, looks a decade older, though the years have been nicer to her than they have to Rumsfeld, and a hell of a lot kinder to her than they’ve been to Dean. She has some crow’s feet that he doesn’t remember, and some graying strands of hair falling from her braid he doesn’t recall being there before. But her smile is just as warm, and her voice is unchanged. 

“Dean Winchester,” she says, half fond and half exasperated. “You’re telling me you’re gonna hug the damn dog before you hug me?”

Dean straightens up quickly. He half expects Ellen to surge forward, to give him one of those rib crushing hugs she always went for back in the day, but she doesn’t. Instead, she opens up her arms, and she waits for him. 

He’s not exactly sure why that, of all things, makes tears spring to his eyes, but it does. He steps forward and wraps his arms around her before she notices them. 

She’s warm and strong, years of carrying trays of drinks and full body lifting drunk bastards out of her bar clear in the sturdy, wiry frame under her flannel. That’s unchanged, just like her hops and smokey smell and her ability to make him feel small and mothered with nothing more than a couple of pats on the back. 

“Good to see you, kid,” she murmurs, and Dean can only nod into her shoulder. “Missed you like crazy.” 

“Missed y’all too,” he manages, his voice only a little strained. He’s getting better at this whole reunion thing. Not something he’d ever thought he’d get to have once, let alone something he’d get to practice. 

Ellen steps back after a long time, and wipes at her eyes just like Dean wipes at his. They both laugh a little at the sight, shaking their heads – neither of them are big fans of the chick flick moments, something Dean has always liked about her and Jo both. When she catches sight of Cas, though, the smile melts away from her face. 

“You must be Castiel,” she says, her voice unreadable – maybe hostile, maybe just curious. It’s always been hard for Dean to tell. One minute, he’d have been sure he’d gotten away with sneaking out, and the next, Ellen had been verbally filleting him. He tenses, waiting to speak up. 

Cas clears his throat, and Dean steps back and to the side of him, shoving his hands back into his pockets. He’s nervous for Cas – can feel Cas’s nerves rolling off of him in waves. He means to reach out, to link arms, to defend Cas from yet more of Dean’s family that doesn’t trust him as far as they can throw him. But Ellen doesn’t give him a chance. 

Instead, she steps forward, uncrosses her arms… 

And pulls Cas into a bear hug, too. 

Dean blinks for a second, feeling like he might be hallucinating or like his brain is short circuiting, but no – he’s seeing things correctly. Ellen’s got her arms wrapped around Cas just like she did to Dean half a second ago. The alpha looks comically startled, and over his shoulder Dean can see Sam’s got the same gobsmacked expression on his face. Even Bobby, leaning up against the porch railing, looks taken aback. 

“Um,” Castiel says intelligently. “I– Hello?” 

Ellen ignores his awkward fumbling in favor of patting him on the back before stepping away, her hands on his shoulders. She looks up at him with her eyes squinted and searching – and, apparently, she likes what she sees, because she breaks out into a huge smile. 

“Good to meet you, Castiel,” she declares, her voice warm and genuine. 

Cas’s eyes widen – he flicks his gaze to Dean, clearly a little panicked. “Uh – Good… good to meet you as well, Ma’am. Mrs. Harvelle.” 

“Call me Ellen, kid,” she corrects fondly, half laughing. “I ain’t your teacher.” 

At this point, Dean’s pretty sure Sam is going to have to pick his jaw up off the floor – Dean’s not far behind him. Ellen had never been quite as curmudgeonly as Bobby, but she also, historically, hadn’t taken well to strangers. She’d generally been the type to threaten first and ask questions later; Dean’s seen her strike fear into the hearts of grown alpha men with nothing more than a dish towel. 

“Ellen, then,” Cas amends, clearly dazed and very confused. Dean’s got the feeling this was not the meeting he’s been gearing himself up for – not after the picture Dean had painted him while Cas was cutting his hair. 

“I’d like to thank you,” Ellen continues with no preamble, looking Cas in his eyes like she’s daring him to tell her no. 

“Thank–? I…” Cas starts, and then fumbles to a stop, transparently panicked. He clears his throat, nervously wiping his hands down his pants. “I’m not sure I, um. Follow?” 

“You saved my kid over there,” Ellen sums up, with that blunt, simple sort of love that Dean had always missed the moment he had to say goodbye to it. “I think that deserves at least a thanks, don’t you?”

Cas looks like he thinks the exact opposite, but before he can protest, Ellen is linking arms with him and escorting him up the gravel drive and into the house, chattering about something Dean’s too shell-shocked to hear. With one last panicked look, Cas disappears inside, and then Dean’s left with Sam and Bobby. 

They stare at each other for a half beat before Dean lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. Bobby just shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck and looking strangely rueful, and when Dean turns to Sam, he’s got an odd expression on his face – the kind you see on someone when they’ve just realized they’ve been on the wrong side of an argument for far too long.  

“Jo’s still on her way up,” Ellen says to them absently. 

She’s pushing a mug of hot coffee into Cas’s hand like he’s a treasured house guest, and Dean can’t quite help the grin that springs to his face as Cas takes it automatically. He’s holding it like there’s a live snake in the chipped ceramic, perched on the edge of the couch while the rest of them stand – looking, honestly, like he regrets the decision. “Told her to head this way ‘bout half an hour ago, so it shouldn’t be long.” 

Dean nods, taking his own mug gratefully. He likes Cas’s fru-fru coffee just fine – last thing he’s gonna do is complain – but he’d missed Ellen’s jet fuel more than he’d realized. The drink scalds his throat almost pleasantly on the way down, and he finds himself smiling into his cup. 

“Is she still working around the community college?” Sam asks from the kitchen. Apparently, hand delivered drinks are only for prodigal sons and their rescuers. “Recruiting?”

“That, and advocating,” Ellen replies. “Not to mention lookin’ for places that will hire out of the Roadhouse.” 

Dean glances around the living room, taking in the additional couches and chairs, the cushions on the ground that look suspiciously similar to his pair back home. There’s all kinds of books on the wall – not just fiction, but textbooks, too, from what looks like junior high all the way to college Algebra and literature. There’s all kinds of texts on farming, too, that he can see just from where he’s sitting, and around the corner, what he’s pretty sure used to be a section of the wall dedicated to a gun safe has been transformed to what looks like a study area, complete with spiral ringed notebooks and pencils and even a laptop. 

“Ain’t much, but it helps a few folks,” Ellen says, correctly guessing Dean’s thoughts. “Jo and I do what we can.” 

“It seems to me that you do quite a lot,” Cas says plainly. The approval on his face is loud and clear – he looks impressed. “Do you receive state funding at all?”

Ellen perches in the chair across from him, leaning forward like she does when she wants to talk shop, and Dean’s hit with an overwhelming wave of nostalgia so strong he doesn’t even catch what they start yammering about. Sam joins them not long after, his hair brushed back from his face and tucked behind his ears, and even Bobby joins in after a while, his words a low murmur under them all. 

Dean just sips his coffee and basks, feeling himself breathe easy in a place that has always felt a little like a home. 

He hadn’t really planned on leaving Cas alone – not when he thought Ellen would be interrogating him – but now, he feels like he doesn’t have to play guard dog for Cas’s honor. So, after a while, he slides off the wall and rounds the corner to the back porch. Fresh air sounds nice, and Cas seems engaged enough. 

Dean settles himself down on the step and smiles when Rumsfeld trots up behind him, settling down against his back with a heavy sigh. Dean reaches down to pet him, still a little dazed, his coffee slowly growing cold on the wooden decking underneath him. 

He feels, strangely, like he’s in a dream. Like he’s going to blink his eyes and wake up and he’ll be right back where he was a couple of months ago. He’s not used to so much going his way – doesn't think he’s ever had this much good in his entire life. 

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” 

Jo looks older. Way older than Dean remembers, anyway – he recalls a scrawny teenager, not much older than Sammy. Jo’s all grown up now, though – long blonde hair pulled back into a messy braid, like her mom’s, her jeans well worn and battle scarred, her boots mud caked. She looks like a farm hand and a college student mixed into one, and for a moment, Dean can’t breathe around the wave of emotions that brings to the surface. 

“Heya, Jo,” he manages, and Jo just raises an eyebrow at him, her hands on her hips. She doesn’t beeline in for a hug, and he’s glad – he needs a damn second. She waits patiently instead, apparently happy to wait for him to wipe his eyes on his jacket sleeve and stagger to his feet, Rumsfeld dancing circles around him. 

When he pulls her in for a hug, she loses that stiff-shouldered soldier stance, and softens. He’s pretty sure he hears her sniffing, but it doesn’t matter, because she’s got the back of his jacket in a death grip, and it doesn’t seem like she’s planning on letting go anytime soon.  

“Fucking idiot,” she sniffs, burying her face in his chest. “I hate you.” 

The words have no heat, and they hurt only because Dean knows exactly what she really means. “I know, Jo,” he murmurs. Her head fits under his chin. “I’m sorry.” 

“Better be,” she threatens. “I had to get stupid Sam to finish teaching me how to shoot a sawed off. You know how humiliating that was?”

Dean laughs in spite of himself. He and Jo have always been good at pretending to be okay, even when they aren’t – losing a parent will do that, he thinks. He pulls back so he can get a better look at her. She’s shorter than him still, thank god, but she’s really grown into herself – pretty as hell, and just as fierce as he remembered her to be. “Still kickin’ ass?”

“Never stopped,” she confirms, wiping at her eyes. “Only started kicking harder when I got my O’ card. Didn’t see that one coming.” 

Dean’s mouth twists to the side, though he tries to play it off as a smile. “Told Sam I thought you’d be alpha.” 

She laughs, punching him in the arm. He, somehow, manages not to flinch – maybe because she does it slowly enough that he has a chance to brace himself. He wonders if that’s intentional. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. You wanna come check out my Harley?”

“Aunt Ellen’s letting you drive a Harley?”

“My graduation present,” she replies with a grin. 

“Bet she makes you follow the speed limit,” he teases. He shakes a finger at her with his hand on his hip. “And wear a helmet, Joanna Beth.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, shut up.” 

Dean elbows her, smiling, and she laughs and elbows him back. Dean’s been smiling so much lately that his stupid cheeks hurt. 

He figures, as he follows Jo into the house, that it’s not exactly a hardship.