71. Until Olympius Returns

The next morning, Dean finds himself waking up later than he has in a while. 

The sun is shining into his tiny room, streaming through the dusty aluminum blinds and throwing golden stripes across the carpet and the bedspread. Dean finds himself smiling at them; at the warmth of the old, worn quilt that's about three sizes too big for the bed, at the lazy turn of the ceiling fan and the little question mark calls of goldfinches outside the window. 

He and Sam had said goodnight not long after their talk, hugging each other out there on the porch again before they’d traipsed inside. Chest to chest, man to man. It had still been so strange to be dwarfed by him, strange to have Sam’s arms wrap all the way around him with so much room to spare. But it had felt good, had felt right, and if they’d let the hug linger past what Dean remembers to be their usual brotherly gruffness, neither of them had blinked an eye. 

Cas had been waiting for him when he’d made it back up the stairs, of course; sitting on the edge of the bed with the hem of his shirt balled up in his hands. He’d still looked gutted, and exhausted, and Dean had felt love for him swell up so fast that he’d been helpless with it. He hadn’t even been mad at Cas, hadn’t blamed him in the least, but the man had still been tearing himself to shreds over it. Over Dean. 

So he’d crawled into bed next to him, blanket still over his shoulders. Had tugged Cas over until he was laying down, and had leaned into the instinct to bury himself in blankets and softness and familiarity. He’d essentially tucked them in. Hands flying over the covers, tugging at this and nudging at that, rearranging pillows until they’d formed a crescent around them both. Cas had watched him silently, the guilt on his face running parallel to a gentle sort of fondness that Dean’s grown so familiar with he could probably sketch it out with his eyes closed. 

When they’d been cocooned to Dean’s liking, he’d flipped himself onto his stomach and nestled close to Cas, dropping his head onto his chest. The alpha had sighed, long and slow, his hand automatically reaching down to lay at the small of Dean’s back. Warm and steady. 

“M’not mad,” Dean had reminded the alpha softly, closing his eyes. “Promise.” 

“I know you aren’t, Dean,” he’d murmured – though, he hadn't really sounded all that relieved. “I’m not… I’m upset with myself.” 

“Well, stop,” Dean had said, half petulant and half exasperated. “You didn’t know.” 

“Yes, but–” 

“Cas,” he’d interrupted, blindly reaching up to drop his hand against the alpha’s mouth, fumbling clumsily until he’d felt his stubble under his palm. “Stop.” 

It’d been like an off button – the alpha had fallen silent immediately, his breath hitching a little like he was trying not to cry. “It’s okay,” Dean had found himself murmuring, exhausted and relieved and in love, so painfully in love with this man who cared enough to be upset. “I’m okay. Everyone and everything is okay.” 

Cas had debated with himself for a moment, the silence loaded. Eventually, he’d dropped his head forward and taken a breath, pushing his weight against Dean’s touch like it was grounding him. Steadying him. 

“I’m sorry,” he’d whispered, the gentle shapes of the words pressed into Dean’s palm. Dean hadn’t even known what he was apologizing for – spilling the beans, hiding it from him for a day, or for continuing to be upset about it even when Dean was clearly trying to move past it. “Dean, I – I’m…” 

“I know,” Dean had assured him. “Promise. Ain’t nothin’ to forgive, but I forgive you anyway.” 

The tension had fizzled from the air like a lit sparkler, flaring for a moment before fading and leaving nothing but blurred afterimages. Dean had smiled, and then he’d been asleep. 

Now, Cas is still out cold, his breathing deep and peaceful. They hadn’t stirred at all; Cas’s arm still wrapped around Dean, the backs of Dean’s fingers brushing up against Cas’s unshaven stubble. It’s odd, for Cas – normally he’s an early riser, but it’s got to be past ten at this point. Maybe it’s just ‘cause he hasn’t been sleeping much in the last few days, too worried about Dean to get the rest he needed, and now he’s catching up. 

Dean shifts slowly, determined not to disturb Cas, for once. It’s difficult to shimmy out of his little cocoon, but he somehow manages without waking the alpha. He stands next to the bed, taking in the mess he’d made of it last night. Squints at the way he’d made a little wall of pillows along the back, how he’d boxed them both in with the scrunched up spare blanket. The word for it comes to mind a half second later. 

Nest. 

Dean had… made a nest. A tiny, impromptu one, but a nest all the same. 

It makes him huff out a laugh at himself. Wasn’t that long ago that this sort of thing would have been a complete and total fever dream. Even when Dean was free, this sort of crap was something he could only do in private, something that had to be quickly dismantled if he was in a place where his dad might see. John Winchester had never been a fan of soft things. So much so that, for the most part, Dean hadn’t even tried.

Winchester men didn’t need to be soft. 

Cas, though. Cas had seemed… happy. He’d liked it, had seemed to enjoy watching Dean make them both comfortable. He firmly stamps down on that insidious little voice in the back of his mind, and he lets himself be pleased. Lets himself laugh, but does it gently. 

Downstairs, Ellen is already here. Dean’s got no idea what time it actually is, so he isn’t surprised – she’d told them she’d be by to pick them up again today. She and Bobby are across from each other at the newly cleared kitchen table, both absorbed in their own tasks – Ellen is doing the crossword, and Bobby is peering through his readers at a laptop that looks so old Dean’s pretty sure he’d seen it the last time he was here. 

He hangs back, observing from the doorway for a still moment. Watches as both Ellen and Bobby reach for their respective coffee mugs. As their hands bump, knuckles brushing. As they do not jerk away. 

Dean feels a huge grin bloom across his face. Neither of them have seen him yet, and he doesn’t announce himself. He just watches as Bobby slowly drags his thumb across Ellen’s knuckles before taking hold of his mug. 

He and Sam used to spin wild theories about the two of them, trying to decide if they were secretly together or not. It was a favorite pastime. Was Bobby laughing a little too hard at Ellen’s joke? Had they shooed the kids out to the barn because they needed peace and quiet, or because they were up to something? They’d been even more suspicious when John, of all people, had commented on their friendship; Dean remembers the night that his father had drunkenly and crudely asked what Bobby saw in that stone cold bitch. He’s not sure he’d ever seen Bobby closer to punching John’s daylights out. 

Still, they’d done their best not to tease. It had been a delicate subject for everyone involved. Bill Harvelle hadn’t even been gone half a decade, and Dean and Sam both knew that Karen had been Bobby’s everything – based solely on the look in his eyes when he’d quietly speak of her. But they’d wondered anyway. Had hoped anyway. 

Maybe it was just because they wanted to see Bobby happy. Or, more likely, maybe it was because they were secretly hoping that their pretend family could become a little more real. 

He’s sure to be loud and obvious when he finally steps into the kitchen, feigning a large yawn that conveniently keeps his eyes closed. When he opens them again, their hands are no longer so close, and they both seem a little sheepish. Bobby’s face is even slightly red, and Dean isn’t quite able to hold back his amusement. He gets a glare from the old man for his trouble. 

“Mornin’,” he says easily, brushing Bobby’s look off with a smile. 

“Not hardly,” Ellen says, quickly regaining her composure. “It’s nearly noon. Were you boys up partying?”

“Something like that.” Dean inspects a cabinet that used to house the cereal, finds it still does, and pours himself a bowl. “Sorry we slept in so much.”

“Still sleepin’, by the looks of things,” Bobby corrects. “I ain’t seen Sam’s sorry hide yet, and I’m guessin’ that boy of yours is still out for the count if he ain’t followin’ you around like a puppy.” 

Dean gives him a glare of his own, his cheeks going pink now, but Ellen saves him from further embarrassment by swatting Bobby with her folded over paper. “Enough of that,” she scolds, and even though Bobby rolls his eyes, he relents, looking at Dean as if to say, what can you do?

“We ain’t in a rush,” she continues easily, shaking out the paper to return to her puzzle. “Jo’s got the lunch crowd covered just fine, and what’s left of the mess in that field ain’t goin’ anywhere. You boys take all the time you need.” 

Bobby grumbles to himself as Dean sticks out his tongue, petulant and easy like a little kid, but even he can’t hide his smile. “Surprised Cas is still asleep, honestly,” Dean admits, leaning against the counter by the door frame and spooning up his cheerios. 

Bobby glances past him with a long suffering look. Dean doesn’t clock why until he hears Cas’s rough rumble. “Good morning,” he mumbles from behind Dean, blearily rubbing his eyes. He looks soft in his pj pants, barefoot and bed-headed, and Dean can’t keep the sappy look off his face even if it makes Bobby snort into his coffee. Cas misses the exchange entirely, focused as he is on finding a clean cup to fill with liquid gold. 

“Mornin’, Cas.” He’s blushing already, and blushes even harder when the alpha sleepily reaches over and thoughtlessly squeezes his shoulder, as if he doesn’t care where they’re touching so long as they do. Ellen’s so gleeful she looks like she just scratched a winning lottery ticket, and he knows he’s not gonna hear the end of it, but he doesn’t care. He just lets himself reach up and intertwine his fingers with Cas’s, and feels the strange fluttering of something feather light and delicate in his chest. 

Dean ends up back at the Roadhouse for the day, feeling weirdly official in his apron and newly done-up nametag, the plastic sticker shiny and fresh from the label maker. Jo had presented both to him with a shit eating grin on her face, but he’s pretty sure it’d been meant to make him more comfortable, not less. Meant to help him fit in, even if he’s mostly doing back of house stuff with Max for the day. 

The remainder of the lunch crowd ebbs and flows without a hitch – Dean’s stuck on dish duty, and he doesn’t mind it at all. The warm water feels good on his hands, and after a while, Cassie drags a chair over for him to rest one knee on while he works. It’s mindless, and easy, and there’s a steady flow, and he finds that he enjoys it. 

Around four, things have slowed to a crawl, and for once there’s an empty sink in front of him. He dries his hand on his apron, smiling a little to himself, and wanders out into the front for the first time since he got here. 

Cassie’s been manning the bar, and Jo’s been handling the rest of the diner with relative ease, and he’s pretty sure Max has been bussing tables. Sure enough, when he pushes through the kitchen doors, he spots Cassie wrestling with the milkshake machine, and Max carefully stacking cups in his tub. There are only a few customers around – a lone guy by the jukebox, a four top by the bathrooms, a giggling couple at the bar next to a mom and her chatterbox kid – and he figures it’s a good time to take a breather. 

Cassie slaps the heel of her hand sharply against the top of the machine, and it finally whirrs to life. “Remind me to tell Cas to buy you a new one of those,” Dean says with a grin, leaning against the back counter. “That one looks like it’s straight outta the fifties.” 

“Probably is,” Cassie admits, looking at it fondly. “I like it, though.” 

“You like it? Why would you–” 

Raised voices are still more than enough to make Dean’s heart rate skyrocket, and it only takes a couple of words from the single man at the far table to make his attention snap away from Cassie. He’s got his arms crossed and a frown on his face and he’s looking at Max, and all of Dean’s alarms are going off at once. 

“I’ve been waiting for the check for ten minutes,” the man complains, blatantly irritated, his eyes narrowed at Max like that’s his fault, despite the fact that Jo’s the one waiting on him and the kid is just trying to bus his table. “Come on, man. I’ve got places to be.” 

Max, of course, ain’t saying a word – Dean strongly suspects he couldn’t even if he wanted to. He’s slowly putting the last of the man’s plates in the tub, craning his head around, probably looking for Jo, his body tight as a bowstring. He’s half ignoring the man’s temper tantrum and half watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he’s doing great, honestly. Probably better than Dean himself would have done, in the same situation. Right up until – 

“Hello?” the beta demands, snapping in Max’s face – the kid flinches away, startled. “Jesus, does anyone have a brain around here? I want my check.”  

Max freezes, his face pale, and his eyes are locked on the man’s hand as it drops into a fist, curled up on the table. He takes a step back, and rather than getting ahold of himself, the man just barrels on through those warning signs and keeps bitching. Like he doesn’t see that he’s scaring the living daylights out of the kid. Dean feels his heart speed up in his chest. 

It’s like things are moving in slow motion. The man makes like he’s gonna stand up, and Max’s careful hold on himself slips. Dean sees it – sees the kid’s legs start to buckle, sees him tip his chin to the side, sees him drop his eyes – the layers of freedom heartlessly peeled back until the slave underneath is exposed.  

And Dean’s moving before he even knows what he’s doing.

He shoulders past a bewildered Cassie and steps around the counter, beelining toward the table by the wall. Max flinches when Dean steps up beside him, his eyes flicking to Dean before dropping back to the floor, his shoulders tight as the dishes rattle against the sides of the tub in his grip. Dean doesn’t know if his touch will be welcome right now, so he doesn’t reach over and grip the kid’s shoulder like he wants to. Instead, he subtly places himself in front of him, directing the customer’s attention at him, instead. 

“Back of house needs you,” he tells Max lightly, careful not to take his eyes off the frustrated looking beta that’s thankfully glaring at him now. When the kid doesn’t move, Dean leans back, pressing his arm against Max’s as he slowly wraps his hands around the bus tub. 

He meets the kid’s eyes in a silent exchange, feels himself try to breathe slower, feels himself try to soothe Max’s spiking, rotting fruit scent with his own. “Max.” 

It’s like the spell breaks – Max shoves the tub into Dean’s hands and stumbles back, all but flat out running, and Dean’s left with an armload of dirty dishes and the asshole who freaked the kid out in the first place as the doors to the kitchen swing shut.  

He’s glaring before he knows what he’s doing, looking down his nose at the man and about a second away from baring his teeth. He feels a long forgotten sort of anger building inside of him, feels himself stiffening in preparation for defending both the kid and himself. 

But, instead of pissed, the man looks… surprisingly wrongfooted. He’s glancing back and forth between Dean and the path of Max’s retreat, eyes wide, the irritation from before long gone. His excuse is fumbling, like he’s realized exactly what kind of bear trap he’s stepped in and is mortified about it. “I – shit, man, I didn’t realize he was – you know, one of the, uh – because he’s so, um, young –” 

“So it would’ve been fine to be an asshole to the kid otherwise?” Dean snaps, entirely unsure where his anger is coming from, entirely unsure how he’s managing to keep it without choking on the feeling that he’ll be punished for it. 

The man reddens, and rather than snap at Dean for being disrespectful – rather than standing up and going chest to chest, or getting in his face, he… shrinks. He looks ashamed of himself, like he wants to dig a hole and drop himself into it. And he should, he should, but Dean hadn’t exactly been expecting it. 

Dean takes a breath. Tries not to let his anger bleed into fear or apologies, tries to keep himself calm so he doesn’t fuck up the Roadhouse’s reputation or really get himself in trouble. He’s not free. He’s not, and if the man figures that out, he might be less willing to let it go, because slaves don’t speak to free people this way. 

“I’ll get your check,” he finally grits out, feeling his heart start to pound. Feeling what he’s doing start to catch up to him. 

“I – nah, man, it’s fine,” the beta says quickly. He fumbles his wallet out of his pocket, throws down a fifty that more than covers his meal. “I’m – I’m real sorry about that. Wasn’t thinking.” The words are sheepish, almost pleading, and he slides in a hurry out of his seat and pushes in his chair in so quickly that it goes crooked. 

Dean feels his mouth go dry when the man steps toward him, but he’s not looking for a fight – he skirts right past Dean’s stiff shoulders and balled up fists, and all but scurries out the door, face bright red with embarrassment. 

For a moment, Dean can’t hear a damn thing. There’s blood roaring in his ears, and his chest hurts a little, and he can feel that his hands are shaking more than they should be, considering that man didn’t threaten him at all. And, when he zones back in, he realizes that half the damn diner is staring at him. 

He swallows. Presses the bus tub more securely against his chest, reaches down and crumples the fifty in his grip. It’s like the diner exhales – the chatter starts back up, and people go back to their food like nothing even happened. 

Cassie’s busy with a couple of folks at the bar, but she gives him a long, knowing look as he goes by, shouldering his way into the kitchen. 

Jo already knows something happened, based on the worry on her face – she abandons the big pot of tea she’d been stirring and takes the tub from Dean, setting it down in the big metal sink with her eyebrows drawn together. “You know what’s up with Max?” She glances toward the very back – the same place Dean had met the kid yesterday. “He looked kinda shaken up–” 

“Asshole by the jukebox wanted his check,” Dean interrupts, tossing the wrinkled fifty on the counter. 

Jo pales and then goes supernova in the same second, her face hardening. “If that fucking dick touched him–” 

“He didn’t.” He leaves it at that – she can figure out the rest. 

He doesn’t debate long with himself before he pushes open the door to the employee lounge. Max is sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chest, and his head snaps up. When he realizes it’s just Dean, he looks away, shrinking further into himself. His eyes are wet. 

Dean swallows. He can sense the conflicting emotions coming off the kid in waves, can pick up on the shame and lingering fear and adrenaline in the air. He doesn’t have to think too hard about it before he steps forward, slowly sliding down the wall next to Max until he’s on the ground too. There’s a careful foot of space between them. 

Max doesn’t look at him. He covers his face with his hands, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes for a long moment before he drops them, holding one arm in a bruising grip instead, pressing down against his own chest. Dean can just hear the sharp little breaths he’s panting out, can almost feel how fast his heart must be beating. 

He knows this, he realizes. He knows this fear. He’s felt it a hundred thousand times – the sick realization that he’d fucked up, that someone was displeased with him; the awful knowledge of exactly what was in store for him in terms of correction. He knows the jackrabbit tattoo of a heart that’s terrified, that’s waiting, the shaking of a body that already knows what’s coming. 

He thinks of what it felt like to break the rules at the training facilities, to know that the impersonal little camera in his room was logging every rebellious move he made for some handler to beat out of him later. He thinks of waiting on his knees for Alastair to grab him by the hair. His hands twisted behind his back, every muscle trembling as he waited for the inevitable punishment for failing to please, for refusing to open his mouth, for fighting when a customer wanted him broken or breaking when a customer wanted him whole. 

He’d hated it for so many reasons. For the dread and the pain and the awful, hollow feeling after it was over. But the worst might have been the shame of someone else knowing he was afraid, knowing he was ready to plead. He’s never gonna forget the glittering excitement in Alastair’s eyes when he knew Dean was ready to beg; the satisfaction in his scent when he brushed Dean’s tears away from his face and hurt him anyway. 

So, this shame – he knows it, too. The self-loathing that comes from being unable to handle it, the mortification of everyone knowing just how fucked up and weak he is. He thinks, honestly, that in times like this, where the threat isn’t even real, when he has the ability and the right to escape, but doesn’t… it’s almost worse. 

At least back then, he’d actually had something to be afraid of. 

Neither of them say anything for a long time. 

“That guy was an asshole,” Dean finally announces, when Max’s breathing has finally slowed to something approaching normal. He leaves no room for argument in his tone, but the miserable cloud in the room doesn’t budge even a little. 

Max’s grip on his arm tightens. He doesn’t respond – if anything, he looks more ashamed than before. He squeezes his eyes closed.   

“Really,” Dean continues, his voice softening even as he doubles down. “You weren’t even his waiter – why he thought he could talk to you like that, I don’t fucking know–” 

“Yeah, you do.” 

Dean opens his mouth to deny it, but… he can’t. He does know. He’s intimately familiar with how omega men are viewed, how they’re treated. How much of a punching bag they are – lowest men on the totem pole. 

He takes a breath. “You didn’t deserve it.” 

Max half laughs, shaking his head in disbelief. “Since when does that matter?”

“It matters,” Dean insists. “And, I mean. You did pretty good, all things considered.” Better than I’d have done, he doesn’t say – but that’s what he means. He doesn’t know what he would have done if that man had spoken to him that way, if he’d used that tone that Dean thinks might be forever locked with the matching urge to drop to his knees. 

“I froze.” Max hisses the words down at his lap, nails digging into his skin – it’s obvious he thinks he’s being lied to. Maybe even made fun of.  

“Come on, man. How –” Dean hesitates, then pushes forward with the question anyway, even if it’s gonna be uncomfortable. “How long’ve you even been out?”

The kid’s misery just about doubles – he flinches like Dean slapped him, his voice going impossibly quieter. “A month. A whole month. And I – I still can’t even look people in the eye, can’t act normal.” 

Dean doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry. He thinks about what he was like, at a month away from auction and whore houses. Thinks about how fragile he’d been, how timid and broken, about how doing something like this would have been so far from something he could have handled that it’s laughable. Fuck, a month in, he’d still been scared of Cas. 

“And how long were you in?” he asks, half sure he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

Max doesn’t look at him. He squeezes his eyes closed again, squeezes his arms to his chest too, until it looks like he’s trying to hold himself together through sheer will alone. “Three.” 

Dean blows out a long breath of air. “Months?”

The kid chokes out a laugh. A tear follows it – he angrily swipes it away like it’s poison on his skin. “Years.” 

A wave of nausea crests through Dean. “Kid… how old are you?”

Max doesn’t look at him for a long time, burning a hole into the carpet with his red-rimmed glare. It’s pretty clear he doesn’t want to answer Dean – pretty clear he knows exactly what Dean’s thinking. Dean doesn’t press, and maybe that’s what does it. “M’nineteen,” he mumbles, the words followed by another dose of sickly shame. 

Nineteen. That’d make him sixteen when he went into the trade, at the oldest. 

Just a damn kid. 

“Fuck, Max,” he says softly, and something in the air cracks and breaks, and then the kid is turning toward him, and Dean’s opening his arms, and he’s suddenly got a lap full of too-skinny, broken teenager. 

He feels his throat tighten. The kid’s face is pressed against the crook of Dean’s shoulder, and he swallows thickly as he wraps his arms around his sharp shoulders in a loose grip. The movement is automatic, natural as breathing, and he holds Max steady as he finally lets himself cry. 

Dean knows he needs to, and he hates it all the same. He hates the thought of someone this young being subjected to anything he went through – he doesn’t care what the kid’s history is. There’s nothing he could have done to merit being treated like property when he should have been cared for, nothing he could have done to earn being hurt when he should have been loved.

It takes a long time for Dean to remember that he was only a kid, too. 

He lets Max cry himself out, leaning against the wall with his heart in his throat. When the kid finally pulls away, it’s on his terms – he slowly shuffles backward, sniffing and wiping at his face. Dean hauls himself up from the floor, grabs a paper napkin and hands it over, and Max takes it gratefully. He blows his nose. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice rough. 

“Don’t be,” Dean says, shaking his head. “God knows I’ve been there.” 

“Didn’t used to cry,” Max mumbles, blinking harshly. “I mean, at first, yeah. But for a long time, I didn’t. Didn’t think I could anymore.” 

Dean knows that feeling, too. “S’like you turned off, right?” he asks, settling back down with his legs crossed, hands in his lap. “Like you were… shut down. Outside yourself.” 

Max nods. “Kinda miss that,” he says quietly. “Kinda don’t.” 

“Shitty as you might feel right now,” Dean says, “I promise it’s a good thing. Feeling again. ‘Cause you’ve gotta deal with this shit to get to the good stuff.” 

Too old for his years, Max gives him a weak, wry smile. “You sure it’s worth it?”

“Dead certain,” Dean replies, thinking of the aching love in his chest for his family. The butterflies in his stomach for Cas. The cautious, flickering joy of a moment like this, even, where he gets to tell someone it gets better. 

The kid breathes in, long and deep, and when he releases a sigh it seems like he’s pushing away something heavy. “You really are doing pretty damn good,” Dean offers again, sure now that Max might actually hear him. “A month after I was… you know. After Cas helped me. I wasn’t… uh.” He grimaces. “Let’s just say I wasn’t at the point where I’d have been okay with being outside the house at all.” 

Max tilts his head to the side, studying Dean. “Really?”

Dean runs a hand through his hair, laughing a little. “Not even close, kid.” He huffs. “You’re bein’ real hard on yourself.” 

The young man’s mouth twists to the side. “Guess I’m not used to… to being…” He swallows. “Enough.”

Heart clenching, Dean knocks his knee against the kid’s. “You were always enough. Maybe you didn’t have anyone to tell you. But you were.”

“My dad would get a kick outta that one,” he says, almost flippant – but not quite. “Uncle, too.” 

“Mom wasn’t in the picture?” 

His mouth twists. “Dead.” 

The similarity to Dean stings, hits him harder than it probably should. It’s a coincidence, nothing more, but it’s making his head spin a little. Making him think about his own life, and his own family, and how things might have been different if there had never been a house fire, or if he’d been born an alpha. 

Max is looking down at his lap, quiet. “My step-mom, uh. Really didn’t give two shits about me, you know? Hence, the, um…” He gestures at his neck. “She wasn’t exactly falling all over herself to stop him.”

“Your dad forced you to sign?” Dean guesses, his stomach clenching. John had been a lot of things, but Dean doesn’t think he’d ever have stooped that low. Doesn’t think he really ever wanted to see any kids collared, let alone his own. 

The kid laughs, dry and exhausted. “Man, I didn’t sign anything. People who buy kids aren’t exactly… they don’t really care about doing things by the book, you know?” 

Dean furrows his brow. “Whadda you mean?”

“I mean it’s illegal, right?” Max says, shrugging. “Black market. S’how I ended up freed. Someone – a non-profit, or something – figured out the sale wasn’t legit, and the police showed up to get me, if you can believe it.” He rubs at his face, scrubbing away the last evidence of his tears. 

Dean thinks about how strange and terrifying that must have been. Freed, but sitting alone in a squad car, probably dropped off at a homeless shelter after. No collar, sure, but no money, either – nothing to his name at all, and no one to help him. “Lucky me, huh?” the kid says, the edge of a hollow laugh in his voice. “Was, uh. Was kinda rough going till Ellen picked me up.” 

Dean isn’t quite done processing, and he shorts out long enough that the kid realizes something’s wrong. “What?”

“Does that… Do you mean kids can’t sign anymore?” he asks slowly, feeling like he’s missing something. 

Max stares at him, taken aback. “No, man,” he says, clearly confused. “Not legally. It’s eighteen in most places. Twenty-one, even, in some states.”

Dean’s glad he’s sitting down already, because he feels a little lightheaded. “Since when?”

Max shrugs. “Dunno. Gotta be at least a decade now, I think.” He studies the conflicted expression on Dean’s face. “I’m guessing it wasn’t like that when you got collared.” 

He shakes his head, mute. “Uh… no. It was… it was still sixteen back then.” The look Max gives him tells Dean he knows exactly how old Dean must have been when he went into the trade – equal parts sympathy and exhausted recognition. 

“Guess it must have changed not long after,” Dean says, feeling off-kilter. He echoes Max’s bitter words from earlier. “Lucky me.”  

And, honestly, maybe it was. Maybe being sold the right way had been marginally better than being black market goods. At least it’s illegal to outright kill slaves, since they’re really mostly owned by the government. At least he’d been sold back to training facilities that had to make sure he survived, that he didn’t starve to death in some back-alley auction house. 

Still. It’s strange to think about – how close the law-change might have been to that awful day in April. He wonders what Crowley would have done if both he and Sam had been illegal. Would Dean have been able to protect Sam at all? Would Crowley have tried it in the first place?

He shakes himself. There’s no point in dwelling on the past – it won’t change anything now. So, instead, he focuses on Max. “My point is… you’re young,” he says, and he means it. Max has got a better chance than Dean’s got for a normal life – that’s for damn sure. “You’ve got your whole friggin’ life ahead of you. Shit was rough there, for a while,” he admits, and Max huffs out a genuine laugh at that particular understatement, “but you ain’t old like me. You’re not too far gone.” 

Max smiles at him, and while the expression is a little shaky, it’s still there. It’s genuine. “You know that’s true for you too, right?”

The words hit him unexpectedly hard. He blinks at Max, feeling something tighten a little in his chest. He doesn’t blame him for his naivete – The kid doesn’t know he’s still collared, after all. He does his best to dredge up a smile. “Yeah. I’m sure Cas would agree with you.” 

He pulls himself up off the floor for the second time, only this time he reaches down and helps Max up, too. They brush themselves off, as much to correct their rumpled aprons as to give themselves a moment to find their composure. 

“What’s he like?”

Dean glances up at the kid as he knocks dust off his knees. “Who, Cas?”

Max nods. He looks… almost begrudgingly curious. “Yeah. He’s your alpha, right?” Dean nods – it’s the simplest explanation he has, and the one that feels right besides. “I guess I’m just… curious,” he admits. “How can you…” 

“Wanna be around an alpha at all?”

The kid blushes. “No offense against him. I’ve just… I’ve never been around an alpha that’s not…” 

“The literal worst?”

Max’s expression tightens. “Yeah. I mean, you know. It’s not like it’s just them that fucked me up. But… They’re the ones I’ve got the most trouble with, right? The ones I can’t just…” He gestures outside the door, out into the dining area. “Ignore. Not that I’m doing a great job of that in general, but…” 

“I get what you mean,” Dean says softly. “Hell, I’m a few months past you in the de-collared department, and Cas is about the only one besides my brother that I can stand.” He studies Max for a moment – his rounded shoulders, the lingering traces of his shame. “You wanna meet him?”

Max’s eyes flick up to his, more than a little shy. It’s not an automatic, emphatic no, and Dean doesn’t know if he’s ever been that brave in his life. “You kinda smell like an alpha,” Max explains. “Like him, I guess. But not… not in a, uh. Not in a bad way. Doesn’t freak me out like it usually does.” 

Dean smiles. “I love him,” he says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to admit. It kind of is, because he does, and if anything something like this will help Max see that not every alpha is out to hurt him. “And he loves me.” 

“I can tell,” the kid says, his cheeks a little pink; a typical teenage boy reaction to the concept of love, Dean guesses. It sends an unexpected pang through him to see the kid actually getting to be a kid, even if it’s in this small way. “You get all…” Max waves his hand in a vague motion, “when you talk about him.” 

Dean smiles, feeling a strange sort of pride flicker to life in his chest. “He’s a good man.” He elbows Max slightly. “No pressure, though. We’re goin’ home tomorrow,” he adds. “So, if you ain’t ready… next time works too. I get it if you ain’t interested. But… Far as alphas go, he’s a pretty easy pill to swallow. You could come hang out after dinner, if you wanted?”

Max is quiet for a long moment. He waits until he’s pushing his way out of the back room, stepping back out to face the rest of the day with a practicality that Dean recognizes and admires.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’d like that.” 

 All in all, Dean thinks, it could have gone worse. 

Max shows up an hour or so after dinner, his hands jammed in his pockets after he’d rung Bobby’s bell, shoulders nearly up to his ears. He relaxes a little when Dean opens the door, his eyes flicking around like he’d been expecting Cas to jump out of the hedges or something. 

“Hey, Max,”  Dean says warmly. “Glad you came.” 

“Almost didn’t,” the kid admits softly. He peers around, eyes watchful, and Dean knows it’s not because he’s curious about Bobby’s digs – his uncle has already told him that he hosts Ellen’s crew often enough that they’re plenty familiar with the salvage yard.

“Sam’s out gettin’ groceries.” The way Max lets out a breath tells Dean his suspicions had been on the money, and he bumps Max playfully on the shoulder as they make their way to the living room. “Figured one alpha was enough for the day. Hope you don’t mind.” 

Max huffs, shaking his head. “Not exactly heartbroken,” he admits, and Dean cracks a smile. Really, Sam had volunteered to go, after hearing that Max would be visiting – he hadn’t wanted to overwhelm the kid either, and Bobby had gruffly agreed that it was probably in everyone’s best interests. He’d been more than happy to excuse himself for a self-imposed journey to Walmart to get snacks for their drive home tomorrow, and to buy some boxes for himself. 

“I’ll ship most of yer’ stuff, Sam,” Bobby had said, shaking his head, “but you oughta take at least the essentials.” 

The grace with which Bobby had simply accepted that Sam would be moving out to Washington had, frankly, baffled Dean – he’d been torn between gratitude and an apology for taking Sam away. But Bobby had waved him off when he’d tried to say as much, rolling his eyes. 

“Kid,” he’d said, fixing Dean with a look, “I knew he’d be goin’ out there soon as I heard you were okay. Ain’t like I’m new to bein’ an empty nester – the boy’s been livin’ in California ‘cept for holidays for years, remember?”

Dean had nodded, had felt gratitude for his uncle swelling up inside of him until he hadn’t known what to do with it. When he’d hugged him, Bobby had gruffly patted him on the back, muttering something about how he wasn’t dyin’, for chrissake. Still, his eyes had been a little misty when Dean had pulled away. 

Saying goodbye tomorrow is gonna be the hardest thing he’s done in a long time. 

Bobby has made himself scarce for the evening as well, removing himself out to the shop for a couple of hours. He’d made some noises about how he’d been behind on a couple of repairs, but Dean knows he’s out there for the same exact reason Sam’s off with a mostly fabricated grocery list. 

Cas looks up at them when they round the corner, almost comically nervous – he looks like he’s gearing up for a job interview, and it makes something in Dean’s chest ache with fondness. He’s taking this seriously, of course – he’d actually asked Dean what to wear. 

“I – I just don’t want to be intimidating,” he’d fretted, staring down at his dwindling selection of clean clothes with something approaching hysteria. Dean had refrained from telling him he’d be intimidating regardless of what he chose to wear, and had instead picked out a soft shirt and oversized flannel from his own closet, holding it out like a lifeline. 

“Ditch the tie,” he’d advised, and Cas had done so instantly.

He gives them both a shaky smile as they file into the living room, nearly standing up before he remembers that’s a bad idea – he has to awkwardly drop back down to the couch out of a half crouch, and Dean doesn’t know whether to laugh or kiss him. 

Max is hanging back a little, but, to his credit, he’s not running screaming. He gingerly perches in Bobby’s armchair, his eyes locked on Cas like he’s waiting for the alpha to lunge forward. He probably is, Dean reminds himself. 

For his part, he plops down next to Cas and leans against him, bumping his shoulder in a gentle greeting. He can feel how tense the alpha is, how nervous – terrified that he’s gonna scare Max. Dean’s reminded of how he’d looked when he’d met Claire for the first time; wide eyed and careful and moving slowly, like he was convinced he’d make one wrong move and knock over the proverbial china cabinet. 

Neither of them seem inclined to talk first, Dean jumps in. “Max, meet Cas. Cas, meet Max,” he says shortly. He presses a bottle of soda he’d grabbed earlier into Max’s hands, mostly to give him something to fidget with. “There. Introductions are done.” 

Cas glances at him, almost comically uncertain, and looks back up at the kid. “Nice to meet you,” he tries, the words a little stilted. He winces. “Dean’s told me a lot about you.” 

The kid’s a lot braver than Dean would be, that’s for damn sure – his scent doesn’t shift much, even though he looks uncomfortable. He looks at Dean, obviously not sure what to say, and Dean’s beginning to think this was a bad idea.

He leans forward and snags his bottle of soda off the table, cracking it loudly, and both Max and Cas jump. 

Cas clears his throat. “Dean tells me you’re showing some promise as a mechanic?” 

Max blinks. He glances at Dean like this information surprises him, running his thumb along the lid in a blatantly nervous gesture. He doesn’t answer, and Dean ain’t exactly shocked, but it seems to make Cas’s nerves shoot up even higher. 

Dean drops a hand on the alpha’s leg, and Cas startles. He resists the urge to sigh. “He’s been keeping that beat up old clunker Ellen’s loaning him in good shape,” he says conversationally, like he isn’t talking to two skittish colts. “Fixed the battery terminal in no time flat.” 

Cas’s smile is a little strained. He hadn’t really wanted to do this, Dean knows. Had all but balked at the suggestion. 

“That seems… ill advised,” he’d said hesitantly, when Dean had called him and told him about the plan. “I… I would think that he would be… uncomfortable around me, no?”

“That’s kinda the idea, Cas,” Dean had said patiently. “He wants to… to get used to people again, and you’re… you’re safe, you know? Yeah, you’re an alpha, and yeah, he’s gonna be nervous. But he trusts Ellen, and Jo, and they’ve vouched for you. And so have I,” he adds on, only realizing once he’s said it that his opinion must matter to Max just as much. If not more. 

Cas had been quiet for a moment, but he’d eventually relented. “Alright,” he’d said, clearly still a little unsure. “If… if you think it’s a good idea.” 

“I do,” Dean had said firmly, so sure of it in that moment. Positive that a good interaction with someone who was supposed to scare him would be just what would help Max after the shitshow of a day he’d had. Max had seemed determined, if not eager, and before they’d known it the plan had been in place. 

Now, though, with Cas about to worry a hole through his jeans, and Max looking like he’s about ready to bolt out the door, he has to wonder if this was too much too soon. He blows a long stream of air out of his mouth, the sound sharp in the quiet, and Cas jumps next to him. 

Oddly enough, that’s exactly what saves the evening. His elbow catches the bottom of Dean’s bottle and tips it, and Dean can’t quite catch it in time, and the alpha ends up with a lap full of coke. 

Dean leaps up to find a towel before Cas has even finished processing it, and he tries not to snort at the stupefied expression on the man’s face. “Sorry, sorry,” he laughs, dashing to the kitchen for a roll of paper towels. “Fuck, Cas, my bad – wasn’t paying attention.” 

Cas isn’t mad, of course – he never seems to be. He accepts the wad of towels and tries his best to pat himself dry, scooting out of the way so they can both try and remove the evidence from Bobby’s ancient leather sofa. Cas snorts when Dean tells him the man will never notice, since it’s the same color, and outright chuckles when Dean has to plop the soaking wet pile of towels onto a conveniently abandoned newspaper, and they’re laughing at the ridiculousness of the situation before they know it. 

He almost forgets Max is in the room until the kid appears with the trash can. All traces of his nerves are gone, and his shoulders have relaxed, and he’s examining Cas with something closer to surprise than wariness. 

Cas trots upstairs to change his pants, and by the time he comes back down, Max is sitting cross legged in his chair and smiling softly at them both. 

“Promise to treat her right, Sam.” 

Jo’s over-dramatic words made Dean grin and shake his head as he tosses his duffel into the Impala’s trunk. She’s clutching the keys to her beat up Cobalt against her chest, fanning herself Southern belle style. “She’s a lady. You have to be gentle with her.” 

“You and Dean are impossible,” Sam grumbles, trying to grab the keys out of her hand. “Cars aren’t people. And I literally can’t be gentle – I’ve gotta slam the door, or it won’t latch.” 

Jo dodges back easily, throwing a hand against her forehead and tipping back as she does, like she’s about to faint. “Oh, the inhumanity! The disrespect! I changed my mind, you can’t have her.” 

“Not allowed,” Dean says, pointing at her. “No take-backs.” 

Somehow, Jo had agreed to let Sam borrow her car so they could drive back separately. She’d claimed it was so that Ellen would quit bitching at her to get rid of her Harley, but Dean knows better – knows that she’d be perfectly capable of guessing what a ride with two alphas breathing down his neck would be like. 

“What are you, twelve?” Jo asks, wrinkling her nose at him. 

“I’m gonna start complaining like I am if I have to spend another couple of days in the car with him and Cas,” Dean says, not ashamed of it in the least. “It’s like being stuck in a metal trash can that’s rolling down a hill.” 

Sam’s face pinches into something that basically guarantees a lecture. “Dean–” 

“Don’t start, Sammy. I’m on your side, here.” He winks at Jo. “Now, tell the woman you’ll be nice to her car.” 

Sam rolls his eyes, but he relents. “I promise I’ll be nice to your car, Jo,” he says flatly, raising his hand up like a Boy Scout. “Satisfied?”

“Yep.” She tosses the keys at him, and he catches them in one hand, swinging down into the car to start it up before she can change her mind.

Dean slams the trunk of the Impala closed, smiling at them both.  

Bobby and Cas emerge a moment later, Cas with a stack of books that Bobby is sending him home with, Bobby with a little accordion folder. He hands it to Dean without preamble. 

“You can open it when you get home,” he says gruffly, no room for argument. “Only when you get home.” 

They’d said their goodbyes already. Dean had hugged Jo, and then Ellen, hard enough to knock the wind outta them, and he’d been sniffing when he’d pulled away, nodding at their reminders that they were only ever a phone call away. “You’ll be back soon,” Ellen had told him, and Dean hadn’t doubted it – he’d seen that look in her eye plenty of times before. Something better than a promise. “And you’re always welcome.”

“You need free labor that bad?” he’d joked, and both her and Jo had barked out suspiciously wet sounding laughs. 

Bobby – he’d been harder. Dean had felt his heart in his throat when his uncle had wrapped his arms around him, and he had cried then, unashamed of it for once. Bobby hadn’t let him go for a long time. 

“Quit your snifflin’, kid,” he’d said, his voice rough enough that Dean had been well aware he’d been crying too. “I’ll be over there to see you real soon. Won’t even have time to miss me.”

“I already miss you,” Dean had mumbled, and Bobby’s arms had tightened even more. 

They hadn’t needed many more words than that. Dean hadn’t needed them – he’d felt their love just fine. 

The trip back home feels a hell of a lot faster than the trip out, probably because Dean’s head ain’t on a swivel the whole time, waiting for his brother and his alpha to kill each other. 

He sure as hell sleeps easier, that’s for certain – he’s out cold not long after they turn onto the highway, the lull of the Impala soothing, his head resting on Cas’s shoulder as he’d driven. He’d woken up a few times here and there, had blearily eaten lunch at a rest stop, and dropped right back off when they’d headed out again. 

Still, even though the day goes without a single hitch, Dean ain’t ashamed to admit – at least to himself – that he’s bracing himself for the worst when they arrive at the motel for the night.

The place itself, at first glance, looks just like the sort of digs he would have stayed in as a kid. He’s expecting suspect looking bedspreads and stains, weird spots on the ceiling and carpet, grass growing out of cracks in the concrete. After all, the motel obviously ain’t the nicest place in town, with its crumbling curbs and dated paint colors and decor. So, when he steps out of the Impala and stretches, he’s surprised when Cas holds his hand out for Dean to take. 

He does, after a brief moment. And rather than be bothered by his hesitation, Cas’s eyes soften. “Just thought you might want to check in with me. It’s alright if not.” 

Dean straightens out his shoulders. Ignores the trill of nerves, the muffled little alarm in his brain with the trigger happy tripwire. It’s fine – they’re in broad daylight. Cas is here. Dean’s pretty damn sure he wouldn’t even let a stranger be rude to him, let alone touch him. So he steps away from the car, ignoring the way Sam’s eyes trail after them, trying not to make it obvious that he’s half ready to bolt.

But, as he looks, he realizes the place seems… friendlier than he was expecting. Less shady than he’d anticipated. There are flower pots everywhere, and kitschy little signs hung all over the walls of the lobby when they step through the doors, and the clerk behind the desk actually smiles at them when she spots them. It’s a far cry from the glazed or downright irritated look that he remembers from most of his previous motel stays. 

Dean tries not to shrink back. Tries to stand next to Cas like an equal, rather than a scared little kid. The alpha’s arm is warm against him, his palm smooth. 

The clerk nods along when Cas tells her that they’ll need two rooms for three people. “And will you two be rooming together?” she asks, her eyes flicking to their joined hands. Dean fights the urge to pull his away – he’s not doing anything wrong, and he doesn’t care what she thinks. Far as she knows, he and Cas are marr–  

He freezes. Cuts the thought – startling and sudden, vivid in its detail – down where it stands, before it starts running at him. 

Cas, oblivious to how Dean’s reeling at the thought of a ring on his finger, just gives her a polite yes, ma’am. He squeezes Dean’s hand a little as he slides his license and credit card across the counter. The clerk doesn’t look annoyed, or anything – she just smiles again. “Will you need two separate beds?”

Dean chokes on a small laugh, considering where his thoughts had been a moment before, but… her voice is perfectly polite and professional. She’s not joking, Dean realizes. Nor is she fazed by the insane question she’s just presented them with. And… 

She’s looking at him. 

Dean can only stare back at her, at a loss for words. He glances at Cas, not sure if the woman is clocking them right – he’s pretty sure Cas comes off as a hundred percent alpha, and he knows it’s obvious he’s an omega. They’re holding fucking hands. So, either the woman is a particularly slow beta and doesn’t realize it, or…

Cas smiles back at her a few seconds later, obviously understanding that Dean’s not gonna be able to answer any time soon. “No, thank you,” he says politely. Then, he hesitates, glancing at Dean. “I mean – I suppose I shouldn’t assume–” 

“You should assume,” Dean interrupts. He feels a little unsteady, for some reason. Torn between being indignant that Cas is still wondering if Dean wants to sleep with him, and being… weirdly touched that both of these people don’t seem to think it’s odd that he’d want his own space. Either way, he can feel his face heating up. He looks down at the counter, avoiding the clerk’s eyes. “Jeeze, Cas.” 

To the clerk’s credit, she doesn’t comment. Her tone doesn’t change, except to maybe get a little warmer, and she hands them both room keys when Cas settles the bill. She hands them to them both separately. Like…

Like she doesn’t have a single doubt that Dean is allowed to come and go as he pleases. 

He is, he knows. He doesn’t think Cas would be upset with him, or even really bothered, if he wanted to leave the room and go see Sam or something. He knows he doesn’t even really have to ask. But… 

He’s not used to the rest of the world acting like Cas does. Like Dean’s family does or the folks at the center do. He’s gotta wonder if it’s always been this way, and he was just unlucky enough to have missed it… or if things have really changed that much since he got collared. 

He thinks, honestly, that it’s probably a little of both. 

Dean keeps his mouth shut until they’re back outside, but when the glass door swings closed behind him, he bumps Cas with his shoulder. “Did you set that up, or what?”

Cas has the audacity to look at him with surprise. “Set up… what?” Dean holds back a sigh and stops, turning to Cas. The alpha obligingly stops as well, looking at Dean with a furrowed brow. 

“Did you look up this place on purpose?” Dean clarifies, his voice a little strained. “‘Cause, I ain’t ever interacted with someone that nice when there’s a check-in counter between us. And I sure as shit ain’t ever been offered my own bed.” 

The corners of Cas’s mouth seem to tighten a little, but, for once, he doesn’t comment on how fair or unfair that might be. Instead, he just shrugs. “I simply read the reviews,” he says calmly. “This one had good ratings.” 

Dean squints. “And who was doing the reviewing?”

Cas pointedly ignores him, glancing away. His attempt at changing the subject is awkward and bumbling at best. “What do you think we should do for dinner? I believe Sam mentioned that he was craving a salad–” 

“Cas,” Dean interrupts, dropping the alpha’s hand. He’s about a second away from crossing his arms like a pissed off pre-teen. “I’m serious.” 

The alpha sighs. “The reviews said the staff was… polite. That’s all.” 

Dean narrows his eyes. “Really? So, it wasn’t, like… like some O’ rights website, or something? ‘Cause, I know you were doin’ that, too, on the way here. Scoutin’ out places that – that aren’t, uh –” 

“Discriminatory?” Cas finishes for him, raising an eyebrow. 

“Normal,” Dean corrects bluntly. “Places that ain’t normal.” 

Cas just lets out a long sigh, like he’s frustrated with Dean. Like he doesn’t agree that omegas – especially omega men – being respected is the outlier, not the other way around. “You deserve to be treated decently, Dean,” he says, looking at him pointedly. “Is it so wrong to try to patronize places that will not be disrespectful toward you?”

Dean swallows. No, it’s not wrong. It’s easily the kindest anyone’s ever been to him. But it still feels… strange. Feels like Cas is giving him something he hasn’t really earned, that he doesn’t even need. Dean can handle random assholes as long as he has his family, but Cas seems to think he needs to be protected from the realities of the world all the time. It’s like he thinks Dean can’t… 

“I can handle it,” he says quietly, eyes on the ground as they walk back toward the Impala. 

Cas is quiet for a long moment. “You believe I’m attempting to shelter you.” 

Dean’s ears are bright red, he just knows it. He’d like to deny what Cas is saying, but… that’s exactly what it is, isn’t it? He doesn’t want to be babied, or treated like he’s a fragile little flower that’s gonna be cowed by everyday, normal bullshit. Dean went a real long time without anyone worrying about him like this, and he did okay – before. So it – it sort of does hurt, the idea that maybe Cas thinks he has to protect Dean from everything, or else he’s gonna break. 

Dean refuses to look up. “I… I know that I haven’t acted the best in public, sometimes,” he admits, thinking of that first trip to the clothing store, to Hannah’s shop, to the… the parking garage. To the gas station, even, on their way here. The Roadhouse. “And I know I seem a little, uh, skittish around strangers. But that doesn’t mean… I don’t know,” he breaks off, frustrated. Annoyed with himself for making a thing of it. 

He frowns, scrubbing at his forehead. He’s tired from the ride today, and sore, and he kinda just wants to drop it. He wants to curl up in bed with his head on Cas’s chest and go to sleep with the alpha running his fingers through his newly shortened hair. 

But he doesn’t let himself. This is important, and he knows if he lets it go now, he might not be brave enough to bring it up again any time soon. 

“I mean, I’m… I am scared,” he settles on, because he is, and that’s no secret. Not something he’s gonna be able to hide, not from Cas. “But I’m not gonna break. I can handle it. You don’t have to constantly make sure I’m in the shallow end of the pool, or whatever.” 

Cas tilts his head to the side. “I know you can handle it,” he says slowly, like he thinks it should be obvious. Dean can tell at least he believes what he’s saying. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.” 

Dean swallows back a knee-jerk protest at those words – stops himself from denying it. Isn’t that exactly what he’s trying to convince Cas of? That he can handle the real world, as it is, without the alpha cherry picking his interactions?

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Cas goes on. “I simply do not believe you should have to handle those situations, if they can be avoided. You deserve to be around people that will not be cruel to you because of something as arbitrary as your designation. Something you didn’t choose, and can’t change.” 

“Yeah, I get that, Cas,” he says, fighting back his irritation – Cas doesn’t deserve it. He’s just trying to take care of Dean, and Dean knows it. “But…” 

Whatever asshole thing he’d been about to say is thankfully interrupted by Sam when they get back to the car. “Your phone was ringing, Cas,” he says easily as he unpacks their bags, not even looking up, and Dean doesn’t even know why that feels weird until he replays it. 

Cas. Sam’s calling him Cas. Not Novak, not Castiel. Dean glances at the alpha, and sees that he’s clocked it, too – he’s looking at Sam with transparent surprise. 

“Oh – thank you,” he says belatedly, sort of fumbling over the words as he reaches for his phone, laying abandoned in the front seat. Dean thinks it probably fell out of his pocket when Dean was using him as a human sized pillow. The alpha furrows his brow as he peers down at the screen. A flicker of worry snakes into his scent. “It’s Balthazar.” 

“Call him back,” Dean suggests, thinking of the room key the clerk slipped him. “I’ll get our stuff.” 

Cas gives him a slightly worried look, glancing at the two measly duffel bags like they’re somehow gonna be more weight than Dean can handle. Dean raises an eyebrow, daring him to say something – Cas takes the hint. “Thank you, Dean,” he says diplomatically, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

Sam walks with him up the stairs to their two adjoining rooms. He also doesn’t attempt to take the bags, lucky for him, but he is pretty unapologetic about keeping a wary eye on their surroundings. Dean stamps down on a flicker of irritation. Jesus, but he’s being a dick. 

Sam waits till he’s got the door open before he disappears into his own room, and Dean suppresses a sigh.

The room inside is clean and surprisingly homey, considering they’re at a motel. The art on the walls is a little warmer than he’s used to, and the blanket on the bed is a large quilt that looks handmade. He snorts, shaking his head as he drops the bags on the little table off to the side, and promptly tips over the little vase of actual fresh flowers that are set in the middle. 

Cursing, he fumbles to catch it before it can fall completely, gently putting it back into place. He stares at them for a second, thrown for a loop. He’s not sure what’s fucking him up more; the fact that he likes them, the fact that they’re here, or thinking about what might have happened if he’d broken the damn thing. 

Nothing, probably. Maybe Cas would have had to pay for it. But somehow he can’t see the woman behind the counter demanding that Dean get whipped for being clumsy. 

The thought makes his stomach do an awful little flip that he does his best to ignore. 

Dean wastes no time in crawling into the shower, sighing as the hot water works out some of the knots in his back. He bows his head forward. Lets his eyes close for a while. It’s dumb that he’s this tired, considering he’d been sleeping basically on top of Cas all afternoon, the alpha’s trench coat thrown over him like a blanket. Cas hadn’t seemed embarrassed about carding his fingers through Dean’s hair, nor had he been shy about dropping an arm over Dean’s back to keep him in place when they’d stop.  

He’s so fucking lucky. 

Not long after that, he makes himself get out of the shower, yawning mightily. Outside, he hears Cas come in, the door closing with a thunk behind him. He’s surprised the alpha left him alone this long, honestly. Phone call must have been important. 

He slips on his sleep clothes, blushing a little when he realizes he’s still wearing an old t-shirt of Cas’s. He vaguely remembers grabbing it the other night, but he hasn’t thought about it since then. He’s such a goddamn sap. 

Cas himself is sitting on the bed when he emerges, his hands in his lap as he looks out the window. He looks bizarrely proper, his jacket back on, his shoes tied neatly, tie crooked – as usual. It had made Dean laugh when he’d realized that, after a couple days straight of seeing him in clothes fit for a farm, Cas was gonna be back in business attire for a literal road trip. He hadn’t said anything. It’s a comfort thing, he thinks. Something about the routine of it that makes Cas feel better, even when he’s somewhere new. Dean can relate. 

The alpha gives him a quick smile, but there’s a tightness around the corners of his eyes that Dean doesn’t like. “What was up?” he asks, toweling off his hair as he meanders over to the duffels for his blanket. “Everything okay?”

There’s a beat of hesitation before Cas answers, just long enough that Dean knows something’s not right. “Everything is fine,” he says, wholly unconvincingly. 

Dean suppresses a sigh, keeping himself from turning around. “So much for me being strong enough to deal with stuff, right?” he says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice. 

There’s an immediate prickle of guilt in the air, and Dean just barely keeps himself from apologizing. Backtracking. Not even because he’s afraid – more, just. He doesn’t like making Cas feel guilty for stuff. 

Cas doesn’t say anything, though, and when Dean turns around, the alpha is studying the floor with a troubled expression on his face. He looks torn, and Dean feels the first real pang of worry shoot through him. Irritated as he might be that Cas is treating him with kiddy gloves, he’s also aware that Cas wouldn’t keep something from him unless it was bad. 

He wants to press, to dig in and get to the bottom of it, but Cas doesn’t give him the chance. He shakes his head. “I need to shower,” he says, his voice a little distant. 

Dean tries not to grit his teeth. “You can’t just–” 

“Please.” 

Cas’s voice isn’t angry. It’s not even pleading. It’s just… it’s tired, almost. His eyes are, too. He rubs a hand on the back of his neck, looking away. “I’m sorry. You’re right, and I’ll… we’ll discuss it. But I’d like to take a moment to gather my thoughts.”

Dean’s mouth is a little dry. “Is it bad?” 

“It’s not… great,” Cas hedges, distracted as he makes a beeline for the bathroom. “We will talk, Dean. I promise.” 

And Dean has no choice but to let him go, as much as he wants to force him to stay. 

By the time Cas steps out of the shower, Dean’s worked himself up into something a few steps short of a frenzy. He’s curled up in the center of the bed, trying his damndest not to flip. Trying to prove that he can, in fact, handle bad news – that Cas can share that kind of stuff with him without Dean freaking the fuck out. 

Cas takes one look at him and softens completely. “Oh, Dean,” he murmurs, setting down his towel on the back of the desk chair and coming close, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I’m sorry.” 

Dean doesn’t dignify that with a response. He tugs Cas into bed, not caring that he’s supposed to be mad. The alpha is pliant, more than willing to let himself be moved. He doesn’t protest when Dean leans against him, when he wraps an arm around his chest and scents him. It’s kinda pathetic how fast it calms him down, even though Cas is half the reason he’s wiggin’ out in the first place. 

The alpha sighs. “Ash – the man who handles maintenance and IT at the center? He let Balthazar know this afternoon that there had been… some attempts to hack through our firewalls.” 

Dean stiffens, but Cas’s scent isn’t stressed or upset, and that helps. “What does that mean?”

“It means just that,” Cas says gently. “Someone tried. They failed. We’ll need to keep a close eye on things for a while, but that’s all.” 

Dean lets loose a breath. “Okay.” He swallows. Pushes down the instinctive paranoia he’s feeling – the instinctive fear. It’s hard, though, because he can’t help but think of–

He cuts himself off. Presses a little more firmly into the crook of Cas’s shoulder. 

He’d told Cas not to tell him if… if Alastair was alive. He’d asked for that specifically, and to be honest, he doesn’t really want to know even now. He doesn’t think either answer would bring him any sort of comfort, not even if Alastair was dead. It wouldn’t feel real. His ghost is just as scary as he was in the flesh, as pathetic as that might be, and Dean’s not prepared to deal with either. 

He’s safe, he reminds himself. Cas owns him now. He reaches up to grab the tags, pressing the metal into his palm like a worry stone. Cas owns him, and he owns him legally, and there’s nothing Alastair could do about that even if he is alive. It’s not like Cas is gonna sell him. The very thought would be laughable if it didn’t make Dean’s throat tighten to the size of a straw. 

Cas won’t let anything happen to him. He won’t. 

“Okay,” he repeats, breathing slowly until his heart slows too. 

“I know it isn’t the best news,” Cas says softly, his hand resting between Dean’s shoulder blades. “But, Dean, I promise. You’re safe.” 

“I know, Cas,” he replies, squeezing his eyes closed. 

They lay there together for a long time, just steadying each other. Dean can tell that Cas was stressed, too – maybe over the news, maybe just over how Dean would react to it. He reaches up, slips his hand behind Cas’s neck, following some sort of instinct he doesn’t really recognize. Whatever it is, it works – when he slides his fingers through the soft hair at the alpha’s nape, Cas sighs, long and low, and his scent softens around the edges. 

“Sorry ‘bout earlier,” Dean mumbles after a while. “I wasn’t really mad at you.” 

Cas huffs out a soft laugh. “Yes you were,” he disagrees gently. “I don’t blame you. I… I’ll admit that I have probably grown a little… over-protective.” 

Dean bites his lip, his earlier irritation replacing itself with guilt. “S’nice,” he admits. “Most of the time. I didn’t think anyone would ever, uh. Care about me like that. Not ever again.” 

“I do,” Cas agrees softly. “Still. I think you’re right that I’ve probably been slightly… overzealous, perhaps, in my attempts to soften the world for you. I’m sorry.” 

Unable to stop the laugh, Dean turns so his forehead is pressed against Cas’s chest and groans a little. “Feels like a crazy thing to complain about.” 

“You’re your own man,” Cas says easily, like he really believes it. He must. “And you can protect yourself. You can care for yourself. I haven’t forgotten that, much as it seems as though I have.” 

Dean bites his lip. “You really think so?”

Cas hums. “I know so.” 

He lets that warm him. Lets himself believe it, that someone like Cas – someone this strong, this capable – thinks he’s strong too. 

“I don’t want to hide anymore,” he says, squeezing his eyes closed. “I’m – I wanna do more.” 

Cas lets him gather his thoughts. He shifts a little, dropping his head on top of Dean’s, and that gives Dean the courage to push forward a little more. 

“I… I really do wanna start coming to work with you,” he says, nervous in spite of himself. “I know we talked about that a little, before, um. Before my heat.” 

“We’ve had a few… distractions, since then,” Cas says, almost managing to sound diplomatic. Dean snorts, and he can hear Cas’s smile. “To say the least. But… yes. I would like that.” 

“Yeah?” Dean asks, weirdly self conscious about it. “You won’t get tired of me tagging along?”

“Dean,” Cas says, exasperated. “Really?”

“I just – I know you’ve got like, real work to do, and I don’t want you to feel like you have to drag me along–” 

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure,” Cas interrupts, “Than to ‘drag you along.’ I think you’ll be a great help, actually.”

Dean blinks. He sits up, leaning back on his knees so he can actually look at Cas’s face. The alpha looks entirely serious. “What?”

“With the residents,” Cas clarifies, furrowing his brow at Dean’s uncomprehending look. “I think you’d do well with the newcomers.” 

“Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. “I – I’m pretty sure I need to have my shit together before I can help someone else.” 

The alpha gives him a wry look. “Does that mean you’ll be seeing Benny again?”

“If you do,” Dean bats back, and Cas unsuccessfully suppresses a smile. 

“It couldn’t hurt,” he admits. “Though, to be frank, I should probably find a therapist outside of the center. Conflict of interest.” 

Dean nods, chewing on his lip. “You really think I could help?”

“I do,” the alpha says easily. “You were wonderful with Max. With Claire, too, based on what Jody has told me. I think you’d…” he trails off, his gaze softening. “You’d do well.” 

Dean smiles. He lays back down, settling with his ear over Cas’s heart. “I wanna plant a garden, too. Can we do that?” 

Cas hums, and his words rumble through his chest. “We can do that.” 

In the end, they beat Sam home. 

Cas pulls into the driveway with a fond little smile on his face, clearly as happy as Dean is to be back in Washington. It’s not that he won’t miss Bobby and Ellen and Jo – hell, he already does – but he can’t deny that coming back home feels good. Can’t deny that he’s looking forward to curling up in their bed, to making coffee in their kitchen. 

It doesn’t even feel strange anymore, calling it theirs. The thought makes him smile. 

Cas, upon his insistence, doesn’t pull Baby into the garage. “There’s not enough room,” Dean insists, biting his lip. “It’s okay out here for now.” 

“Dean, it’s a three car garage. There’s one car in it. There’s room.” 

“Yeah, but. I’m… listen, Cas, I’m not so sure you can park it–” 

“Did I, or did I not, drive it all the way here safely?”

Dean winces. They’d had a couple of close calls, especially on day two, when Cas had actually needed to navigate through traffic for the first time in a while. He’s also pretty sure they’d backed into a sign at McDonald's, though he hasn’t been brave enough to check. 

Cas rolls his eyes at Dean’s expression, tossing up his hands. He looks irritated, but his scent is anything but – it’s bright, and happy, and Dean can’t help the smile that seems affixed to his face more and more these days. 

They pile out of the car and stand side by side for a long moment, looking up at their two story home with the peeling paint and the overgrown flowerbeds, and Cas links his arm through Dean’s, and they step forward without even bothering to get their stuff out of the trunk, because they want to be home. 

And then the wind shifts, and the scent of sulfur hits Dean square in the heart. 

His brain doesn’t have time to catch up. He’s on the ground, in the dirt on his knees, and then he’s falling back on his ass, scrambling backward, away, away, his head going blank and blind and empty, his body burning white hot and cold with terror. He hears someone talking – saying no, no, nonono, over and over, a broken record, skipping and scratching, ugly and loud, and he has to – he stumbles up to his feet, because he has to run, but he shouldn’t be up, he should be on his knees, his knees. He’s gonna get punished – he hates it when Dean runs, hates and it and loves it too, and Dean can’t – he can’t – 

“Dean!” 

He hears the word, he does, but it’s far away and it makes no sense, because he doesn’t have a name anymore, it’s bitch or slut or pet, and he’s – he feels cold metal against his back, but he shouldn’t be standing, he shouldn’t be standing, so he drops to his knees in the gravel, feels terror claw up his throat, because he shouldn’t be outside, either; he didn’t mean to run again, he told himself he was done running, that he couldn’t take the pain anymore, the punishment and the failure–  

“Dean, please, please, what’s wrong–?” 

Someone’s touching him, and he wrenches back, away, away away away, even though he’s just making it worse, because he’s not allowed – that’s one of the rules, he can’t say no, he belongs to whoever paid for him, he’s – he’s gonna get whipped, he’s gonna get strung up in the shed again, and he can’t, he can’t, he’s sobbing and he’s begging and he’s so far past caring that it doesn’t even register, he just – he can’t– 

“I would never, Dean, I would never – Please. Please, breathe–” 

“I’m sorry!” 

The words rip from him, tear out of him, high and sharp and desperate, so desperate, he’s begging, because Dean has no pride left, has nothing left – he doesn’t want to die. He can’t breathe. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please–” 

There are hands wrapping around his arms, and someone is trying to pull him off the ground, out of his bow, out of position, and he’s so scared, he doesn’t want to die, he doesn’t want to be hurt again, he can’t, he’ll – he’ll go away again, he’ll turn off again, and he doesn’t want to, he’ll do anything not to–

“Please, master,” he sobs, and the word is like a knife. Carving up his back, digging into the soft skin of his thighs. 

Dragging across his gut.