72. Risen Beast

When Dean’s knees hit the ground, Castiel doesn’t even have a chance to ask why. 

The scent of the man’s terror hits him like a tsunami, nearly dragging him under with its sheer weight and force and speed. Dean is terrified, terrified, terrified. Worse than anything Castiel has ever seen before, worse even than those first awful nights when Dean thought Castiel was going to hurt him. His heart is in his throat immediately, every muscle in his body tense, everything inside of him screaming alarm bells and claxons and sirens. His omega is scared, and it’s his job to protect. 

All of that flashes through him in an instant, just enough time for Dean to have skittered away. 

Physically and mentally both. 

He’s shoved himself back from Castiel, putting distance between them that Castiel doesn’t even think to respect. When he automatically reaches down to the omega, the man’s heels dig into the gravel drive and he scrambles to his feet, staggering away, chest heaving, face blank. He slams into the side of his well loved car as though he’s forgotten it’s there. Castiel calls out to him, he thinks – says his name, more than once – but Dean doesn’t hear him. 

Or, maybe he does, because he crumples to the ground again like someone cut his strings, like the empty cloth veil of a magician’s disappearing act. His hands come up to circle his head and he cowers. 

He’s making himself small. Small as he can. 

Castiel surges forward, no thought in his mind but to protect, protect, protect. He doesn’t know what Dean is afraid of – doesn’t even know if the fear is over an actual, tangible threat – but it doesn’t matter. Panic, sharp and hot, is slicing his logic to pieces, even if it isn’t his own panic. Maybe because it isn’t his own. 

He reaches out again, blind with the need to soothe and fix, and he’s been talking for some time but only now does he hear his own words. “Dean, please, please, what’s wrong–?” 

Dean doesn’t react to his words, but he does react to his touch – he cries out, recoils from Castiel as though his palm is a glowing brand, curling into a tiny, shaking shape with his side pressed into the Impala and his hands around his neck, and– 

He’s talking. No, he’s pleading, is bleeding out begging words like someone has cut him wide open, sorry sorry sorry and I’ll be good and please don’t hurt me and a million more, so desperate it is physically painful to hear, and Castiel feels helpless dread grow like a spider in his stomach. 

He tells Dean he has nothing to fear, that Castiel would never hurt him, that he’s safe, he’s safe, he’s safe – but it’s like Dean doesn’t hear him. Like whatever monster he’s cowering from is louder and more real than Castiel, kneeling just inches from him; like his fear has built up a wall around him, impenetrable, a concrete cell for the omega and his demons that has no entrance or exit. Castiel tries to help him out of it anyway – tells him to breathe, just try and breathe, Dean, but this too is ignored – the man is stuck in time, frozen in terror and utterly beyond reason. 

“Dean–” 

He bows. 

The air gets sucked out of Castiel’s chest. He watches, frozen, as the omega prostrates, as he flattens himself to the dirt without a thought, another apology tearing out of him like a desperate cry to a god who he knows will not answer. 

He’s so far gone from the Dean that Castiel has come to know that for a moment he feels as though he is looking at a stranger – some hollow shell of the one he loves. An empty husk. His hands are wrapping around Dean’s arms, automatic and horrified, because he can’t – he can’t let Dean be afraid like this, can’t let him stay wherever his mind has trapped him. He can’t, because Dean – Dean smells like he’s afraid of Castiel. Dean smells like he thinks Castiel is going to kill him – not hurt him, not punish him, but kill him. Terror so pure it’s primal.  

And, a moment later, Castiel knows why. 

When the please, master wrenches out of Dean – a sob, a broken attempt at placating an alpha’s rage – Castiel’s heart turns to jagged shards of ice in his chest. 

The hair along the back of his neck raises to attention, his breath catching in his chest as he understands, fully, what Dean thinks is happening here. 

Who he thinks is here. 

He slowly turns around. Stares at the house, heart thudding in his palms, the world in stop motion as he searches the grounds, the windows, the brush. 

He breathes in through his mouth. It’s a wolflike pant, hackles raised as he scents the air in a way that feels ancient. There’s nothing but the sick sharp tang of Dean’s terror. It’s blocking out everything else. 

Every one else?

“Dean,” he says, voice low and urgent. He tightens his hands around the man’s upper arms – Dean is still trying to wrench out of his grip, trying to fight his way to the ground, but Castiel can’t let him do that. Can’t let him lay himself out flat, face in the dirt, heart in his throat. “You have to calm down. Who–” 

“Please, please,” Dean is begging, crying. He’s hysterical, eyes blank with fear and filled with tears, locked on the dirt – nowhere near Castiel’s own. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t run again, I swear, you don’t have to–” 

“Who am I?” Castiel demands, forcing himself to keep his voice quiet. He’s starting to get hysterical himself – he’s filled with fear, with paranoia, every instinct screaming at him that there is something wrong here, something he’s missing. “Dean, who am I?”

Dean chokes out a sob, turns his face away, tilts his chin so that his neck is exposed. His soft white throat, laid bare for someone he’s terrified of. “You’re– you’re Master, you’re–” 

“No, Dean,” he tries, drawing closer – but Dean flinches, nearly slams his head into the car door, saved only by Castiel’s quick hand between the metal and his temple. He sobs out another apology, formless and nonsensical, broken words that mean nothing. 

Begging forgiveness for flinching. 

He swallows down his nausea. He doesn’t like that his back is to the house – he feels exposed. Vulnerable. But he can’t turn –  can’t leave Dean like this. “I’m not that. Never that. I’m – we’re not like that, remember? We–” 

“I’m yours, I’m sorry, I’m yours,” Dean is gasping, frantic, the words obviously not his own. An echo of his training, parroting what someone in his past wanted to hear before the pain would stop. “I – I’ll stop, I’ll stop–” 

Castiel puts his hands on Dean’s face. 

Instantly, the omega goes still. He stops fighting, stops pulling away, stops begging. 

He just… stops. Chest heaving, tears streaking down his face. 

At first, Castiel takes his stillness as a sign that he’s coming back to himself, that he recognizes Castiel isn’t someone to fear. But one look at Dean’s eyes – blank, void of every spark of love and humanity and humor that makes him who he is – tells him he’s wrong. 

Dean has gone limp because he’s been trained to. Nothing more. 

The thought makes him sick. Nearly makes him shrink away, tuck his hands around his own body, let Dean be. But there’s something screaming in his head, a roaring he can’t ignore, and it won’t let him move his hands. Won’t let him do anything to move back at all, because Dean is afraid. 

His omega is afraid, and Castiel isn’t supposed to leave him. 

“Dean,” he tries again, his voice rough. Firm. Far stronger than he feels. “Look at my face.” 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, fresh tears spilling out of them. He shakes his head, the movement hardly anything but a flinch. It should be strange that Dean is disobeying him, right now, considering the state he’s in… but he knows Dean was trained not to look his master in the eye. He knows, because he’s read about how slaves are conditioned, has forced himself to sit through the indoctrination videos for employees of training and discipline centers and auction houses. He knows that it will go against everything Dean knows. 

“Look at me,” he says again, only this time, it’s an order. Solid and clear and inarguable. “Now, Dean.” 

Dean makes a sharp, high noise – something scared, something that tells Castiel he expects to be punished for what he’s about to do, even if Castiel is the one ordering him to do it. An impossible catch-22 that he’s probably been in hundreds of times, cruel as his masters have been. Brave as Dean is. 

His eyes flutter open, gaze locked somewhere on Castiel’s shirt for a breath before the omega forces his gaze up. 

Their eyes meet. 

For a moment, there is still no recognition. Nothing. His gaze is searching, lost, behind glazed glass. His lips part, a response nearly slipping free, but he remains silent. Stunned. 

Castiel’s voice breaks. “Dean?”

Perhaps it is the sound of his name, or the sight of Castiel’s eyes, or the fear in his tone. Whatever the case, it works. When Dean’s expression collapses, it’s no longer formless terror. It’s grief, plain and simple, and Castiel only catches it for a moment before Dean is burying himself in his chest, wracking out sobs between panicked pants of air, his fists tightening over handfuls of Castiel’s shirt. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Castiel knows the scent of relief. Knows it, even through Dean’s lingering fear. Throat tight, he draws Dean in closer, presses a hand to the back of his head, his knees bracketing the man’s smaller frame. 

“Cas,” Dean is breathing out, over and over, like prayer or meditation, like thank you, like I love you. “Cas, Cas–” 

“I’m here,” he answers. His voice is shattered. Shaking. “I’m right here.” 

“Cas,” Dean sobs. “Cas, he’s – I smelled–” 

Again, that tightening of his shoulders, the prickle of hair on his neck, the feeling of being watched. He still can’t pick up on anything but Dean, but– 

“Who?” he asks, trying his best to stay calm. But Dean just shakes his head, too afraid to speak the name; too afraid, maybe, to chance the ghost becoming real. His breath hitches, no slower than it had been moments ago, fear still holding him in a stranglehold. 

“Dean,” he says, because he has to, he has to know, because if it is they have to act. He has to keep Dean safe. “Did you… is it Alast–”

Dean doesn’t let him finish. He curls forward, a formless sound tearing from him as he hides from the word – desperate denial and confirmation all in one, and Castiel knows. 

He knows. 

“I’m picking you up,” he says, giving Dean no chance to argue. “Putting you in the car.” Before he can even try, Castiel is pushing himself to his feet, grunting with the effort of bringing Dean with him. It’s harder than it had been, back in the day – Dean has put on weight. Has filled out. 

It’s still too easy. 

He intends for the motion to make Dean feel safer, but being off the ground launches the man straight back into panic. He flails, a terrified wild animal, clinging to Castiel’s shirt. “No, no–” 

“Calm down,” he asks more than tells, everything inside of him fighting to keep his voice level, to keep the strain out of it. He balances Dean precariously against him, leaning back, fumbling to open the back door of the Impala as he goes. It takes far too long, but when he finally manages, the door swings open with a creak. “Dean, just–” 

“Don’t– don’t,” Dean is begging, only this time he’s pleading with Castiel, rather than the ghost of his master. “God, Cas, please don’t leave me, please.”  

Castiel’s eyes close along with his throat. He stands in front of the open door, Dean in his arms, the man clinging to him with everything he has. He feels torn in half. One part of him wants to shove Dean inside and lock the door, wants to keep him safe while he tears the place apart looking for the source of his fear. It’s the part that’s thrumming with alpha instinct, with the sick feeling of violation, formless fury with the thought of another alpha – the one that hurt Dean, the one that hurt his Dean – on his territory. In his home. 

But the other part of him is snarling, too. It’s telling him that leaving Dean now – isolated with his terror, cold and abandoned and alone, even if it’s for his own good – is a crime he’d never be forgiven for. 

“I have to check the house,” he tries, voice rough like sandpaper. He’s barely clinging to calm. If there’s danger here, if Dean is right…

“No,” Dean begs, shaking his head, his eyes wide, face pale. “No, no, you c-can’t, you – he’s – he can’t touch you, he can’t–” 

When the wind picks up, it sends the new leaves on the trees waving. Sends their hair fluttering. On instinct, Castiel inhales deeply. 

And this time, he smells it. 

Smells him. 

He’s snarling. Baring his teeth, his whole body tight as a bowstring, he whips his head around to search the house and find the source of the thick, cloying scent of smoke and sulfur; to find the threat, the Enemy, the alpha who has dared to scare Dean, to step foot on Castiel’s land–

He feels violence roar to life inside of him. Feels something in his core shake and yank against the chains holding it down, links popping under the strain. He readies himself, stoops to put Dean down. Begins to turn himself into a weapon. 

“Cas.” 

Dean’s voice is faint. Distant. But he hears it all the same – the fear making it small. The desperation making it shake. 

He tears his eyes away from the house, focusing instead on the terrified omega in his arms. 

Dean is staring up at him. Face pale, streaked with tears. Distraught. “Cas, please. Please. I – I can’t–” He takes in a trembling breath when the wind kicks up again, flinching at the scent of the monster that had owned him. He closes his eyes, his expression crumpling and shaking apart despite his frantic attempts to hold it together. His voice has dropped down to a strained, painful whisper. “He can’t hurt you. Not you.” 

Castiel swallows. Closes his eyes. 

When he bends to gently place Dean inside the car, the miniscule slivers of calm the omega had scraped together disintegrate. He cries, shakes his head, refuses to let go of Castiel’s shirt, his protests wretched and broken. Somehow, he isn’t trying to run from Castiel, despite the fact that he knows he smells of rage and of violent intent. Somehow, Dean doesn’t want him to leave at all. 

And… Castiel can’t. 

Castiel can’t leave him. 

He crawls inside with Dean. Reaches behind himself to slam the door shut, pressing down the lock – he reaches forward over the driver’s seat to press down the main one, fumbling till he hears an automatic click. 

Maybe it’s the renewed scent of his former master, or maybe it’s because Castiel is no longer touching him, but by the time he looks back at Dean, he’s already slipping away again. He’s sliding back into the Dean from before, the broken shell he’d been when Castiel had brought him home; sliding off the seat, to kneel, again, in the footwell of the car he once called home. Not even that is enough to remind him that he is not expected to act as a thing anymore. 

Maybe Castiel should let him – should allow him to act in a way that feels familiar, placating. Should let him prostrate, because in its twisted way, it could make him feel calm. But he can’t, because the image of Alastair – his cruel gray eyes, his bloody slash of a smile – towering above Dean while he kneels like that, shaking and starving and scared… 

It’s anathema. It’s wrong. 

So, instead, Castiel hauls him back up. He presses himself in around Dean, braces the back of his head with his hand, his other arm pinned around his shoulders. Holds the man’s nose to the crook of his shoulder, hoping that at least one of his senses will reconnect with reality. 

It doesn’t work. Dean, confused and afraid and reverting to the only safe behavior he knows, thrashes. Tries to pull away with a fumbling apology and protest, fear twisting thorns into his scent. He reaches blindly for the handle behind him, probably intending to bolt again – back outside, back into Danger. 

Castiel acts. Reacts. 

The panic that had gripped Dean in its jaws moments ago can’t be allowed to take over again. His hand slides down from Dean’s head and cups firmly around the back of his neck instead, and he squeezes with steady pressure. 

Dean whines. 

It’s the sound of fear. Of hopelessness. Of knowing that he’s been pinned, and knowing there’s no running – the worn down, exhausted, token protest of someone who already knows he will not escape without pain.  

He doesn’t fight anymore. Maybe he can’t. 

Maybe he has learned better than to try. 

“Breathe,” Castiel commands, and Dean, lost as he is, can do nothing but obey. “In, out. Good. Again. Slow down.” 

Dean tries. God, he tries. But his panic is bone deep, a parasite that has infected every cell of him, and the fear has made him lose all reason. His breath is staccato sharp and broken and Castiel wants nothing more than to envelop Dean completely, to make him safe in mind and body. His senses are on high alert, screaming at him to get out of the damn car and do something, but Dean is more important than any of that. 

Dean comes first. 

Castiel settles his palm over the middle of Dean’s chest. Allows it to rest heavy, to give the omega something physical to latch himself to. He murmurs the words into Dean’s ear, keeping him held in place; surrounded by the protective shield of his body and presence in every way possible. “You’re safe. You’re here with me, and I’m keeping you safe.”

Dean doesn’t stop crying. But his breathing does gradually slow, until hyperventilation fades into the occasional hitching, exhausted inhale. Quivering exhales. At some point, the raw panic in his scent retracts its claws, and Dean wraps his arms around Castiel again. It’s clear that Dean has remembered who he’s with once more. Clear that he knows Castiel isn’t trying to hurt him. 

All the while, Castiel whispers reassurances. Shows Dean, in every way he can, that he is not alone. They are rocking back and forth, gentle movements that follow Castiel’s breathing and help to bring Dean back from the brink. 

Castiel feels the sick dread of paranoia lurking in the shadows. But he can only handle one crisis at a time. 

When Dean finally goes pliant against him – when the tension, wound up like the spring in a cocked pistol, drains away – Castiel feels tears well up in his eyes. He blinks them away, because he needs to be the strong one right now. He needs to be the one holding himself together. They can’t afford for Castiel to fall apart, too. 

He removes his hand from Dean’s chest, but keeps the one on his nape in place. Afraid, honestly, that bringing him up too fast will launch Dean right back into another panic attack. 

Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Castiel leans down and presses his lips to Dean’s sweat soaked brow, letting out a slow breath of tension as he does so, and the man only curls closer to his chest in response. Dean is well and truly down for the count. Not ideal – not something Castiel feels good about – but better than the alternative had been. 

He has no idea how much time has passed since they arrived home, even when he fumbles his phone out of his pocket with his left hand. The numbers on screen don’t make any kind of logical sense, probably because he’s still shaking with adrenaline. He’s just trying to estimate how long it will be before Sam gets here – he’d fallen behind a ways after stopping to pick up some dinner for them all – but he can’t seem to focus. 

It ends up not mattering, anyway, because the man himself pulls up next to the Impala not thirty seconds later. 

He doesn’t see Castiel at first – clearly, he’s intent on getting his bags and food out of the car, too busy to really take stock of his surroundings. But the scent of the strange alpha – or, perhaps, the scent of Dean’s fear – doesn’t escape his notice, either. After a moment, Castiel sees him look up, brow furrowed, his nose pointed upwind. He squints, looking around, and then… 

And then he locks eyes with Castiel. 

Sam’s attention sharpens to a knife point, his gaze instantly dropping down to Dean – still cocooned in Castiel’s arms, held in place by Castiel’s hand on his nape. Castiel feels his heart in his throat, feels his breath catch in his chest when Sam steps closer, head lowered, looking as if he’s going to attempt to wrench open the door and demand to know what Castiel thinks he’s doing. 

Praying to God that Sam will understand, Castiel frantically shakes his head. 

He can’t let Sam in here. Can’t let an angry alpha anywhere near Dean, regardless of Sam’s intention. If Dean had been terrified of Castiel, he’s almost guaranteed to be just as reactive to Sam, and the last thing he wants is for Dean to be wrenched out of his trance-like state to the sight of red eyes and snapping teeth. Even if they’re only there on his behalf. 

Maybe Sam senses some of that, because, miraculously, he stops. 

And, what’s more, he looks to Castiel for what to do next. 

He’s still suspicious and sharp, every bit the dangerous alpha that had pinned Castiel to the wall by his neck in his own office; only this time, that aggression is – somehow – not directed at Castiel. Despite what the situation probably looks like from his perspective, he’s… not trying to come for Castiel at all. 

He’s trusting him, instead. 

Sam takes a slow step back, and nods when Castiel holds up his phone, the movement serious and intent. A soldier, waiting for orders. Castiel finds that he’s wildly, almost fervently grateful to have the man on his side. Glad to have the backup of someone like this, who loves Dean as much as he does – enough to put his own needs aside. 

He fumbles to dial Sam’s number, praying it’s the right choice. 

If Dean were any more coherent, Castiel would never chance this. He knows good and well that if the man doesn’t want him investigating the house, he certainly won’t want Sam doing so. Protective as he is of the ones he loves, Castiel is quite sure that Dean would volunteer to throw himself on the fire before asking anyone they know to do the same – he won’t like what Castiel is choosing to do here, and he’s well aware of it, but he doesn’t have much choice. It’s this, or leave Dean by himself, and the latter isn’t an option he’s willing to consider right now. 

He’s lucky, honestly, that Dean trusts him enough to let go like he has. Lucky that Dean’s body and mind recognize him as someone he can let his guard down around, even as scared as he is. In this state, Dean will not understand a word he says. He’s too far gone, nearly comatose against Castiel’s chest, far too exhausted and overrun with hormones to have a single chance at comprehending anything meaningful. 

Despite knowing this, Castiel is still nervous as he listens to the phone ring for half a second before Sam picks up.

“What’s going on?” the alpha demands immediately, not bothering with pleasantries. His voice is low, probably intentionally so – he doesn’t want to spook Dean, either. “Is he–” 

“He’s alright,” Castiel whispers. He’s careful not to shift Dean as he speaks, his thumb running slowly up and down the first notches of his spine, smoothing down his hair. “He’s… he’s okay now.” 

He’s not. Castiel knows he’s not, knows that if it weren’t for this little trick of biology, Dean would likely still be in the death grip of a panic attack, would still be reverting back to slave behavior. But he’s as okay as he’s going to be until this situation is resolved. 

Sam, mercifully, doesn’t call Castiel out on that, despite him likely knowing it’s the truth. Instead, he takes in a short, open-mouthed breath, just like Castiel had before. “I smell… someone. It’s pretty faint, so… I don’t think they’re still here, if I had to guess, but do you know who –” 

“Not for sure,” Castiel replies shortly. “I picked up on it too. I think – it’s what scared him,” he explains unnecessarily, glancing down at Dean. Sam follows his line of sight, worry and anxiety making his expression flicker. “He…” 

He swallows. 

“Dean… recognized the scent, Sam.” He meets the younger alpha’s eyes, watches the pieces settle into place. “He knows it.” 

He understands immediately – faster than Castiel himself had. In an instant, Sam becomes an entirely different man to the one Castiel has grown used to over the last week. Any shreds of boyish softness vanish, any veneer of logical calm is gone, and in their place there is a wolf with red eyes and sharp teeth. 

He’s very, very glad Dean is pressed up against him. Unable to see Sam like this. 

Castiel sees the flash of crimson for only a second before Sam’s head whips around and he’s staring down the house with all the violent, single minded intent of a hungry predator. He still has the phone up to his ear, thank God – Castiel can only hope he’s still coherent enough to listen. 

“I can’t leave him,” he explains quickly. “He asked me not to, and I’m – he’s not stable on his own–” 

“You should stay,” Sam agrees, his voice rough. He leans toward the house, unafraid and unstoppable, a hurricane wind. “If the bastard is still here, he’s dead.” 

The thing that’s still snarling inside Castiel snaps its agreement, and Castiel can’t bring himself to argue. The fact of the matter is, the alpha – whoever it is – is trespassing on his land. Has threatened his omega. Castiel would be well within his rights to respond with deadly force, and Sam, acting in his stead, would likely be legally covered as well. 

All of that is secondary, though. If Alastair were in front of him now, he’d already be choking on his last breaths. Castiel is well aware of that. 

“Be careful,” he says, the only words of caution he can bring himself to say, and Sam takes that as his permission to bolt like a foxhound let off its lead. 

Sam disappears around the corner, and Castiel forces himself to leave that responsibility to the man. He can, he knows he can, because Sam cares for Dean’s safety just as much as Castiel does and the man is fully capable. Still, though, there’s something inside of him that’s angry, that’s telling him it's wrong to let one of his own run into danger without Castiel there for backup. 

One of his own. It’s a strange thought, but it’s not one he has time to unpack. 

Balthazar picks up on the second ring, calm and collected, the sound of his keyboard clacking in the background. “Did you and the merry men make it home? I half expected that you’d end up wrecked in a ditch, driving that boat around–” 

“Someone was at the house,” Castiel interrupts, and Balthazar goes silent. “Someone – an alpha. He was here. He might still be here – I don’t think so, but Sam is checking, just to be safe.” 

Any lightness to Balthazar’s tone is gone. Castiel hears him stand up, hears him gather up his coat and his keys. “Do you know who? Delivery man, or something?” he asks, though the sound of his office door opening and slamming shut behind him gives away that he doesn’t think an easy explanation like that is the correct one. 

“Dean… he…” Castiel falters, his throat tightening. He holds the omega a little closer to his chest, wary of saying Alastair’s name. He thinks that alone might be enough to rouse Dean, and he doesn’t want to chance it after finally getting him calm. “I think it’s…” 

“Dean knows who it is.” The words are flat. Final. “You think it’s that bloody brothel keeper,” he adds, already sure of it – Castiel is glad he doesn’t have to voice the words. “God dammit. God dammit.” 

Castiel takes a long breath, trying to steady himself as Balthazar continues, anxiety twisting his words into something low and fast. “He was probably the one who was trying to get into our system. Ash kept him out, thank fuck, but if he’s digging around here at all–” 

“He’s looking for Dean,” Castiel finishes. He feels sick at the words, at their implications. Alastair has no right to purchase records, no right to know where Dean went after he was repossessed at auction. If the man had somehow known to look here – Castiel’s home – odds are he’s not looking up anything legally.

Balthazar echos his thoughts, clearly having come to the same conclusion. “He must have bought the kid’s tracking information. Winchester told me he was doing that before,” he says, cursing almost to himself. Castiel can hear the faint sound of the elevator buttons, the whir of it coming to life. “He told me that – I should have expected him to try something similar.” 

Castiel swallows. “He… When? Why would he have–” 

“Dean ran from him. More than once. Kid told me when we started looking for him to begin with.” 

He closes his eyes. It doesn’t surprise him – Dean had run before plenty of times. But these attempts hadn’t been on file, hadn’t even been hinted at. “He didn’t…” 

“No. Never bothered to report him missing,” Balthazar finishes grimly. “With how often Winchester had gotten off his lead before, it makes sense. The bastard wouldn’t want anything risking his ability to own in the future.” 

Castiel feels nausea crest through him. He looks down at Dean, a protective ache in his chest as he thinks of it – of futile escape attempts, one after another. Of being hunted down and dragged back without mercy, likely to punishments that would make the training centers look like spa retreats. 

He’s heard cases of slaves like Dean before. Ones who make it their mission to take as many owners as they can out of the trade – three strikes against a master for letting their slave escape, and they’re usually banned from buying or owning anyone else. It’s a smart policy, in a sick sort of way – necessary to ensure that owners aren’t careless or frivolous, that they keep a tight hold on their property. That they keep them beaten down enough, well trained enough, that they don’t want to even risk fighting against the system. 

Slave rebellions, after all, tend to haunt the nightmares of those that profit off of the slaves themselves.

He’d already known Dean was one of those slaves – his file was a textbook case. He’d known the man was brave, that he faced punishment after punishment, retraining after retraining, to ensure that the people that owned and hurt him would never be able to hurt anyone else. And he’d suffered for it, had bled for it, had been devalued for it and subsequently purchased by owners with lower and lower standards. By alphas who had no motivation to keep him healthy or whole, because with enough black marks on his record Dean would never again be sold for a profit. 

It’s how he ended up with Alastair in the first place. And, when Dean had tried again, had attempted to dig strikes into the man’s record with bare and bleeding hands, despite all the danger of doing so… 

Alastair hadn’t played by the rules. And Dean had tried again anyway. 

Castiel wants to cry. He wants to hold Dean in his arms for the foreseeable future, wants to remind him all the ways in which he’s brave and strong and intelligent, all the ways in which he deserves better than what life has given him. He buries his face into Dean’s hair, inhales, reassures himself that he’s safe. It’s all he can do. 

Mostly because the other part of him wants to hunt down Alastair and rip his head clean from his fucking shoulders.

He’s forced back to the here and now by the sound of Balthazar’s car door slamming. “Where are you two?”

“The car,” Castiel answers, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Doors locked. Dean –” He breaks off, not sure how much he should be sharing. He swallows. “Panicked.” 

“I’ll bet he did,” Balthazar answers grimly. He doesn’t elaborate, but Castiel can fill in the gaps. This isn’t the first time Castiel has seen Dean when the man thought Alastair was present. It isn’t the first time he’s seen an omega in this state, frankly. 

It’s been a long time since Balthazar has had this sort of reaction in front of him, but that sort of fear is hard to forget. 

“Bal, if he’s here–” 

“Then he’s trespassing,” Balthazar says, blunt. “And you have every right to tear him limb from limb. I doubt the man is stupid enough to stick around, Cassie.” 

Castiel can only hope he’s correct. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

The question is almost helpless. He feels stuck, trapped, waiting for an attack from the shadows with Dean, vulnerable and scared, clutched in his lap. He wants to be out there fighting, helping, wants to track Alastair down with all the manpower and money he has at his disposal and make him disappear off the face of the earth. 

But, right now, he can’t. He’s needed here. 

“You’re going to stay right where you are,” Balthazar says, unknowingly agreeing with the conclusion Castiel has already come to. “You’re going to wait for Samuel to confirm the slimy git isn’t anywhere near the grounds. Then he’s going to drive you here.” 

“But–” 

“Don’t argue with me, Castiel,” his friend snaps. 

Castiel does just that. “I’m not – what if we lead him straight to you? Bal, I can’t–” 

“You will.” The words are a growl. “He’s not tracking you, he’s pinging Dean’s collar – which I assume you’ve got squirreled away in your office, yes?”

It is. It’s locked away in his safe, along with Dean’s papers. “I… yes,” he admits. 

“Normally I’d berate you for that, but it’s probably a bloody good thing he wasn’t able to follow it to the center. Point is, he’ll not be able to follow you.” 

“But what if he’s –” 

“Cassie,” Balthazar interrupts, the word severe. “I need you here.” 

Castiel bites his lip. The vulnerability in Balthazar’s tone is as rare as it is raw, and Castiel knows he’s not going to be able to deny him. Balthazar cares for him as much as he cares for Balthazar, and he knows that, if the roles were reversed, he’d be demanding the same. 

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, choking on the words. Because he is – he doesn’t want to bring fear and uncertainty into Balthazar’s space, doesn't want to load him down with his problems. Doesn’t want to ruin the safe space of a home Balthazar has painstakingly constructed for himself after a lifetime of having nowhere at all. 

“Yes,” Balthazar says, the edge of something like humor in his voice. “How inconsiderate of you to hide out in my home while a crazy alpha searches for you. Who would do such a thing to his family?”

Castiel’s throat goes tight, but he’s saved from answering when Sam appears back around the corner. He locks eyes with Castiel and shakes his head, something thwarted and angry in his expression. Something that tells Castiel Sam is feeling just as violent as he is. 

He should probably be relieved. In a way, he is. But the fear doesn’t dissipate. Somehow, the threat of an absent monster feels just as real as a present one. Maybe more so. 

“He’s not here,” he tells Balthazar, his own voice sounding distant. “Sam is on his way back.” 

“Perfect,” Bal says. “Have his sasquatch self drive you all to my place. And don’t dawdle. I’ll beat you there, but not by much.” 

Castiel nods, clearing his throat when he remembers Balthazar can’t see him. “Thank you, Bal.” 

“Thank me after you’ve slept on that lumpy bloody mattress in the guest room,” he grumbles. 

“... But I have–” 

“See you soon, Cassie,” he interrupts. Obviously, Balthazar isn’t keen on rehashing the many nights that Castiel has spent in his home, helping him fight off demons that only the omega could see. Castiel can’t exactly blame him. 

There’s a pause, and when Balthazar speaks again, his tone is softer. Almost gentle, strong and decisive as it is. “We’ll not let anything happen to the kid. Over my dead body. Alright?”

Castiel’s heart, still jumping in his chest, tells him differently. Tells him that they are far from out of the woods. If Alastair had gone to these lengths to track Dean down, he’s not going to give up after a singular attempt, and both he and Balthazar know it. 

But there’s no point in thinking that way now. 

“Alright.”