73. First Few Desperate Hours

The ride to Balthazar’s home is long and tense, and silent by necessity. Sam is gripping the steering wheel so hard he’s surprised it hasn’t shattered in his hands. Trees and grass and other cars are whipping past him at a rate that’s probably too fast. He’s on autopilot – it feels like he’s watching a movie. 

Like he’s an actor in a play he doesn’t know the lines for.  

Castiel, speaking up just loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the engine, has been giving monosyllabic directions for the last few miles. He murmurs, right, and Sam turns the wheel obligingly. Following orders. He’d given Dean so much crap for doing that when they were kids, for falling into a state where he was just a robot. A tool. And here Sam is, not saying a word, lost in his own head; numbly following the directions of someone else because he doesn’t have the capacity to make his own decisions. 

He should probably be strategizing right now. Should be plotting and planning and preparing for the worst. Every time he tries, though, he feels something stop him. Feels himself shy away from taking that step, because doing so makes everything feel too real. Admitting that they need to plan means there’s undeniably something wrong. 

He’s scared. Scared for Dean. 

So, Sam hasn’t said a word. He can’t.

He just can’t. He’s paralized by – disgusted by – his own childish denial of the facts, but he’s also unwilling to let the other part of him take over instead. He feels like there’s something monstrous inside of him, barely contained. Feels like the instant he opens his mouth, shatters the silence, he won’t be able to stop it from taking over again. Won’t be able to stop it from turning his fear into rage, his protectiveness into something that will only terrify Dean again. 

His eyes, against his will, jump back up to look at his brother. 

Sam can only see the back of his head and his arm, wrapped tightly around Castiel, his pale fist balled into the man’s shirt. He’s hiding. Small as he can get. It feels like a cattle prod to the gut every time he sees it – every time he looks at Dean, crumpled up and hollowed out, scared out of his mind. 

Castiel murmurs something – not to Sam. He’s done that a few times now; has leaned down to whisper something to Dean, to reassure him. To gently reposition him and soothe him after a bump in the road or a too-tight turn. Castiel has him wrapped up in his arms, hidden as much as the other alpha can manage; all the while, he’s been touching Dean; a hand on his back, rubbing careful circles. Fingers carding through his hair. Even his body is wrapped around Dean, his knee pointed up to the cloth covered ceiling of the Impala, his leg braced on the worn bench seat. As much stability as he can manage to give, Sam thinks. 

Right now, it’s all they’ve got. 

Sam swallows. He rips his eyes away from them both and focuses on the long stretch of road in front of him. Takes a long, deep breath, and forces back the tears that keep trying to press their way out.

He tries, and fails, not to think about the way Cas’s hand is still cupped around Dean’s nape. 

Logically, it seems like he should be pissed at Cas right now. Should be wary of the man’s intentions, with him taking – keeping – Dean down like this. Held under. Made malleable. Fuck, Sam should demand that he let Dean up, that he stop touching him in a way that’s textbook possessive alpha, because Sam knows his brother, and the Dean he knows would never have asked for this. 

So, he should stop Cas. He should.  

He won’t. 

He rubs at his face. Stops torturing himself by staring at the pair of them in the rear view, and focuses on the long stretch of wet asphalt in front of them. At some point, it had started raining – Sam doesn’t recall when. The thump-thump of the windshield wipers and the hiss of wet tires gives him little to distract himself with. 

Sam remembers once, when they were kids, asking Dean about that little spot on the back of his neck. His so-called off button. 

It hadn’t gone well, to say the least. Even now, it makes his chest hurt. 

Sam hadn’t known a thing about it, back then. He’d still been a kid. Too young for him to have gotten a school’s version of sex-ed, and too neglected by John to have learned anything at home. It hadn’t been until he’d heard some dick kids – a couple of headstrong eighth grade alphas – shoot pointed jokes about scruffing back and forth across the bus aisles on the way to school. Lobbing them, really, at Sam; short and scrawny and doe-eyed as he was, unpresented for another month or two. 

They’d decided, amongst themselves, that Sam was sure to present as a bitch male. Had taunted him with it. With what would happen to him. With what they would do to him.  

He hadn’t understood, back then. He hadn’t, because Dean was an omega, and Dean was the strongest person Sam knew. Hell, the idea that someone could hurt Dean like that, could so easily get the upper hand like those kids were claiming they’d be able to do – it had seemed almost comically far-fetched. But… the way those older kids had sneered. The way their eyes had flashed with something dark, something sick. Even at that young an age.

It was the first time he’d understood that being an omega was something bad. Something… wrong. 

That it was a way – an excuse – for someone to hurt you. 

He remembers that he’d puffed out his chest, glaring up at the one leaning over his seat, towering over him in a juvenile attempt at intimidation. Had stood when the bus had slowed to round the corner to their middle school, and had taken a wild haymaker swing at him. Had caught him right in the nose – had made him bleed, just the way Dean had taught him to do when someone was trying to scare you. 

He’d kicked and screeched, had hurled mindless, bared teeth threats when the bus driver had dragged him off the kid and then off the bus, had given it everything he could. He had done his level best to let those bastards know he was no pushover. No easy target.

No bitch. 

An hour after he’d been plopped in the hallway outside the principal’s office, a decent shiner and bruised and bloodied knuckles on full display for the rubberneckers, Dean had arrived to pick him up from the office. He’d been tired, Sam remembers – dark circles under his eyes. A sunkenness to his cheeks, a fragility to him that Sam hadn’t understood. Like a mug held together with tape – constantly leaking. Dropping pieces. 

That had been how he’d looked a lot, those days. 

Sam had watched the front office lady say something inaudible to Dean through the glass. His brother had pasted on his patented fake charming smile, had said something to make the woman laugh. He’d shmoozed his way past her to take Sam home, no parent conference required. Sam remembers being bitter about that, even at that age – that Dean was once again covering for John. 

It’s only now that he considers that Dean had been caring for Sam, too. That he’d probably kept their father from ever knowing at all – and had kept Sam from a beating in the process. 

He hates himself for how ungrateful he’d been. For how he’d glared at Dean from under too long bangs when he’d walked in to get him; surly and angry and rearing to fight for a second round, even if it meant fighting someone he loved. 

Dean had taken it in stride. He hadn’t even been mad. God, he’d so rarely been mad at Sam. John had been angry enough for all three of them, and Dean had always tried so hard to be patient, even though he was just a kid himself. As tired as he must have been – as nervous as he must have been, looking over his shoulder for well meaning counselors and social workers that would have made his life a living hell with their mandated reporting – he’d just ruffled Sam’s hair. Had elbowed him gently, and asked if he’d won, if the other guy looked half as bad. Had led him out to the Impala with an arm slung over his shoulder. 

Had asked if he wanted to go home, or to the library, Rocky? 

He hadn’t asked why Sam was fighting. And, honestly, that was probably because it hadn’t exactly been the first time. When Sam had been pissed, or worse, cornered, he’d tended to swing first and ask questions later. It was a necessary habit for someone with hand-me-down clothes and free lunches and a scrawny stature – at least, that’s how Sam had seen it. Dean had protected him as best he could, but he hadn’t been able to handle everything for Sam, and he’d learned to fend for himself pretty fast. 

He’d taken Dean’s lessons to heart: Don’t let anyone talk down to you. Square up to the biggest guy in the room and let them know you’re not afraid. Don’t let anyone treat you like shit. 

So, no, Dean hadn’t been pissed. He’d just assumed Sam had had a good reason, and he hadn’t been mad even though it put him in a rough spot to have to explain to yet another vice principal that no, their dad wasn’t gonna be able to make it to a conference. Yes, he understood that meant out of school suspension – yes, he knew that Sam couldn’t act like that in a school like this. Yes, of course he’d talk to his brother; yes, of course he’d be sure Sam learned his lesson, and would be back the next week with an apology letter and an improved attitude. 

They’d be packing up and moving Monday morning, anyway. But the knowledge that he’d be facing no consequences hadn’t brought him comfort. It had just made him tired – had made him wonder how many more times he’d have to do this song and dance. 

He had spent the ride home in subdued silence, his arms crossed over his chest as he’d stared down at his shoes and swallowed around the gnawing feeling that he had somehow been in the wrong for punching that kid’s daylights out. He’d known he wasn’t. He’d known the kid had it coming – that he and his friends would never have stopped, would have kept on bullying him; a relentless pack of wolves surrounding a wild-eyed elk. 

Sam had wanted to feel proud of himself. But the way Dean had rubbed his eyes, had yawned like a man desperate for so much as a catnap… That had made it hard. Had made it so that Sam had felt guilty, had felt like a tool for losing his temper – and then had felt irrationally angry at Dean for making him feel bad for doing what he’d been taught to do. Pissed at him, wildly furious at him, for having been out hustling pool, or… or whatever he’d been doing. Sam had been too ignorant to question Dean’s methods then, and he’s too much of a coward to question them now – even in the privacy of his own mind. Whatever the case, Dean had been out all night to bring home the fistfulls of cash he’d needed to keep them in the motel for another week while their dad had been off chasing ghosts. 

Sam remembers that anger, that formless frustration at himself and at Dean and at the world, stemming from the fact that Sam knew he’d just ripped Dean from the first sleep he’d probably caught in days. He’d wanted Dean to be mad at him. He’d wanted to be told he was selfish. Had wanted to fell the burn of an accusation - something to chafe against. Something to fight against. But Dean hadn’t given him that, because Dean hadn’t felt that way, and somehow that had been worse. And the guilt of it had mixed with that angry confusion, and his fear, and his shame, and he’d just… shut down. 

After Sam had shrugged Dean’s hand off of his shoulder, mouth sealed shut and his face turned away from his brother’s gentle prodding, Dean had just let out a small sigh. Had let him be silent and surly. Ungrateful. 

Sam remembers curling in on himself. He’d let the bullies’ words play on a loop in his head. And, that evening, he’d thoughtlessly – cruelly – re-opened wounds that he hadn’t even known Dean had. 

He remembers, like a faded photograph, the dinner he’d listlessly poked at – mac and cheese with cubed up hot dogs and freezer-burned vegetables mixed in. It had reminded him of canned dog food. 

Once, he’d said as much to Dean. His brother’s laughter hadn’t been enough to hide his flinch. 

“They told me I looked like a bitch,” he’d said, after they’d sat for a while; Dean scooping food into his mouth at a robotic, mechanical pace, Sam spearing individual noodles on each tine of his fork and letting them slide off again. “Like… like an O’.” 

He remembers that Dean had frozen, staring at him from across the table – and he also remembers that he had refused to look up. Had plowed forward, taking weights off his chest and unknowingly dropping them onto Dean’s, instead. Every word out of his mouth had made Dean go another shade paler. “They said they’d – they’d, um. Do things to me. Gross stuff. That I wouldn’t be able to fight. They told me that they’d – that they’d scruff me, and I don’t even know what that means–”

“You ain’t an omega,” Dean had interrupted. He’d looked wide awake then, his exhaustion shoved to the side, crammed into the same box he always had to put it in when Sam was in trouble. “You won’t be.” 

“I don’t care if I am,” Sam had thrown back – he’d known that’s what Dean would land on, somehow, and he’d been frustrated that he’d been missing the point. “ You’re an omega. What the fuck is wrong with it?”

“Don’t cuss, Sammy–” 

“Who cares!” Sam had yelled, explosive and angry and sick with his dawning understanding of the world. Sick with knowledge. “What difference does it make, huh? It’s not – it’s not like they could take you. They’re full of shit, Dean. You ain’t a bitch–” 

“Yeah I am!” Dean had exploded. 

And then there’d been silence.

Sam remembers that the words had sat between them, raw and ugly as Dean’s fist on the table. Slammed there, heavy and sharp and furious, just like John’s. When Sam had torn his eyes away from it, he’d managed to meet his brother’s gaze for only a second before Dean had looked away. Before he’d deflated, and all that familiar, familial rage had bled out of him. 

“I am,” he’d repeated, quieter. “And you– you ain’t gonna be the same as me. You ain’t.” 

“But… but what if I wanna be like you?” Sam had tried, desperate for Dean to get it – that he wasn’t a slut or a whore or a bitch, or any of the awful things those boys had said. That he wasn’t an easy mark. That Sam would be proud to be just like him – proud to be just like his older brother. Strong and smart and capable of anything, no matter the odds. 

But the way Dean had looked at him. Hollow-eyed and tired. Haunted by fears that Sam didn’t even know existed. The way he’d shaken his head, his hand coming up to cover the back of his neck, a subconscious tell that Sam had long ago learned meant he was scared. 

“You don’t,” Dean had said. 

And Sam, in that moment, had believed him. 

They’d never talked about it again, that spot. Never really even talked about Dean’s designation again, after that – there just hadn’t been time. Hadn’t been a reason. It had been something painful, a raw wound that Sam felt like he was only pouring salt on top of. Just like John, Dean had avoided talking about anything even remotely related to himself unless he’d had no other choice, and sometimes not even then. Easier for everyone to pretend that the weight hanging over them wasn’t there at all. 

Back then, Sam couldn’t have imagined Dean like this. Pliant and trusting, allowing himself to be made vulnerable. Allowing someone to touch the softest parts of him. And maybe, for that reason, Sam should assume that Dean wouldn’t want this – maybe he should be shoving Castiel’s hands away, gentle though they might be. 

But Sam also thinks this is exactly what Dean needs. 

Someone – anyone – to be gentle with him. 

So, no. Sam doesn’t snap and snarl at Castiel. He doesn’t even want to. He doesn’t know when that changed. When he went from persistent, hard-eyed suspicion to something closer to kinship. From second guessing the alpha’s motives, to looking to him for guidance. 

There’s just something about him that’s… earnest. Kind. Trustworthy. It’s the way he looks at Dean, Sam thinks. The way his eyes go soft. The way he’s shown Sam, time and time again, that Dean comes before anything else in his mind. 

Dean deserves that. Dean has earned that. 

“It’s another right up ahead, Sam. Straight shot from there.” 

Castiel’s voice from the back is intentionally low, as it has been every time he’s spoken. Sam knows he’s trying not to spook Dean, and his care – even when Dean is down, is unlikely to be processing much of anything at all – it’s what finally makes the fingers around Sam’s throat loosen enough for him to talk. 

“Cas? What the fuck are we gonna do?”

The words are so hoarse they’re nearly whispered. Sam’s not afraid to admit that he’s scared. He’d happily have ripped the bastard to pieces the instant he saw him, but that’s not exactly an option right now. Shit, his very existence had sent Dean into a tailspin so bad he’d gone catatonic. He doesn’t know what someone would have to do to scare Dean like that. To break him like that. 

He doesn’t ever want to know. 

“What we have to,” Castiel responds grimly. And he leaves it at that. 

Dean drifts. 

He’s warm. Secure and steady and surrounded by comfort, by a low rumble that he recognizes down to his bones, by scents that he knows. Trusts. 

He’s safe. Cocooned. 

There’s not much in his mind other than that fact. A profound exhaustion, maybe – something that means he drifts in and out of sleep, hardly awake even when his eyes flutter open. He feels a comforting weight on the back of his neck, holding him down to earth and letting him float free at the same time. Suspended, weightless, in sun warmed water. 

Not a care in the world. 

Distantly, he’s aware of some things. The rocking motion of their travel, the low murmur of conversation with indeterminable gaps of silence. He recognizes the familiar creaks and groans of his childhood, the scent of the leather seats, the whoosh of miles and miles of road rumbling by. He takes comfort in it all. Feels like a little kid, almost, cradled in the protective arms of someone who cares for him. 

Eventually, the rumbling stops. The creaks grow louder, and he can tell he’s being moved. The hand on his neck doesn’t stray, and Dean doesn’t protest. He just curls forward. Rests his chin in the crook of Cas’s shoulder. Nuzzles into his scent, and wraps his arms around Cas’s back, his hands fumbling together in a loose grip. 

Cas says something, maybe – his chest vibrates. There’s an answering noise, higher pitched. Dean doesn’t pay it any mind. They move forward. The air grows warmer. 

Dean lets out a long, slow breath. 

He drifts. 

When Cas eventually does take his hand off of Dean’s neck, he doesn’t instantly spring back into consciousness. Instead, he floats for a while – aware, faintly, that there is no weight holding him down, but also reluctant, for some reason, to come back up to the surface. 

He doesn’t fight it. He just stays adrift. 

He can feel the soft fabric of Cas’s shirt. Can feel and smell his funky tan coat wrapped around his shoulders. Can smell the alpha, a thunderstorm and honey, all protective and strong. Dean finds that he needs that, for some reason. Well, he always needs it. Always wants the stability of Cas, his safe haven, his steady rock in the storm. 

Right now, though, he feels like he’s clinging to it with all his might. That, if he lets go, he’ll be washed away for good. 

So he rides out peace for as long as he can. Keeps his eyes closed, his cheek pressed against Cas’s chest. One by one, things swim back into awareness anyway – the slow thumping of Cas’s heart under his ear. The warmth of his body pressed up along Dean’s. There’s a vibration, a low thrum. Cas must be talking. What he’s saying, exactly, Dean doesn’t know, and he has no energy to figure it out. 

There’s a hand in his hair, and Dean sighs. Feels contentment settle over him like a heavy blanket. He doesn’t want to wake up, because he’s at ease, and it feels good to be comforted like this, all wrapped up in the alpha’s arms. 

Dean wants to be safe. He needs it. 

Thinking too hard about it makes something flicker to life in the back of his mind – a little animal, curled up in a forgotten corner of his brain. It’s a small, trembling thing, but it feels bigger than it is. Grows larger and larger the longer he stops to look at it, morphing and changing into something that makes an unpleasant shiver travel down his spine. 

He looks away from it. Focuses on his surroundings instead. 

“... may be best not to bring him ‘round in here, Cassie, with all of us about…” 

The voice is familiar. Dean must know the man who’s talking. It takes longer than it probably should for him to put the pieces into their correct order, and by the time he realizes it’s Balthazar, Cas has already been talking for a while. 

“... probably right. I’ll, um… Do you mind if we…?” 

“Go on, mate. Your room will do.” 

Dean doesn’t really know what they’re talking about, or what the words even mean on an individual basis. He’s still pleasantly lost, even when the alpha’s arms tighten around him and he feels the world shift and change. He curls closer to Cas automatically, his arm snaking around his middle and gripping the back of his shirt for extra stability. 

“You’re alright, Dean,” the alpha murmurs, and Dean does understand that. His eyes flutter open, hooded and heavy, and he tries to say something back. He needs Cas to understand that he knows he’s safe. But all he manages is a weak sort of noise that makes no sense at all. Cas’s grip tightens a little more, the colors of him blurred and shifting. “I won’t drop you. I promise.” 

That may be the stupidest shit Dean’s ever heard in his life. Of course Cas ain’t gonna drop him. Cas wouldn’t drop him if he was being chased by a damn bear. Dean doesn’t know if he just laughs inside his head, or if a chuckle makes it out into the real world – either way, a tendril of worry snakes its way into Cas’s scent. Dean wrinkles his nose at it. Tries not to sneeze. 

He lets his eyes drift closed again – mostly ‘cause he’s exhausted – but he can still hear their progress through… the house? Wherever they are. Floorboards creak under Cas’s feet, and a door squeaks a little when it opens, and Dean can smell the scent of someone else all around them. Balthazar, he remembers. That fresh, sliced-orange scent is Cas’s friend. He thinks about asking why they’re at Balthazar’s house, then thinks about the effort that would entail, and changes his mind. 

The world shifts again, and then he’s being set down on a cool mattress with a soft blanket, pillows under his head. The strangely faded scent of Cas is all around him, like the alpha has slept here before, but not for a long while. Cas tries to pull away from him, but Dean’s not having it – he reflexively tightens his arms around the alpha’s body and makes a protesting noise, a sudden jab of anxiety making him tense. 

“It’s alright, Dean.” Cas’s voice is low. Calming, like it almost always is. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

The words are a balm, and Dean slowly relaxes back into the bed. Convinces himself, sluggishly, to loosen his arms from around Cas’s body. It feels wrong. He hates it, but it doesn’t last long; Cas climbs right in with him not a half beat later. There’s a thump-thump of shoes hitting the floor, and then the alpha is pulling Dean in closer. One hand around his back, another in his hair. Dean lazily presses his forehead to Cas’s collarbone. 

They lay like that for a while. Dean slowly returns from outer space, listening to the hum of a ceiling fan and the gentle whirring of the AC, the softened murmur of voices from the other room. Dean still doesn’t really want to wake up, but he does anyway, and when his eyes finally open again, the hollow of Cas’s throat is fuzzy and unfocused. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice is rough. His throat hurts, he realizes. Aches, like… 

The alpha lets out a sharp, relieved breath. His voice quivers a little. “Dean. I… Are you, um…?” 

Dean’s mouth is dry, and it takes him a few tries to get the words out. He coughs. “Wha… where are…?”

“We’re at Balthazar’s house,” Cas explains quickly. More anxiety has started to spike into his scent, and Dean finds himself scrunching his nose. He wants to smooth it away, wants the alpha to be calm again. “We’re safe.” 

Dean’s brow furrows. Safe. He feels safe, but… but there’s that burned-coffee worry in the air, and they’re… they’re at Balthazar’s house, and Dean doesn’t really – well, he doesn’t remember coming here, honestly. There’s a hole in his memory, and…

And there’s the shaking little creature in his mind again. The shadows around it seem bigger than before, somehow. Sharper. 

“Did’ja… um.” the words feel clumsy in his mouth. Too big. He tries again, and even though he slurs a little, it’s better. “Did you… was I down?”

Cas is quiet for a little too long. “Yes. For… for a while. At least an hour.” 

Dean takes a moment to process that. The words are laid out before him like a random collection of screws and bolts and parts, no instruction manual in sight. No picture to go off of, no idea what he’s even supposed to be building. He stands before them with useless tools clutched in each hand, his grip so tight it hurts. 

“Why?”

The question feels like a mistake, and he wants to take it back immediately, wants to shove it and all the scattered parts and pieces away in the box they came in and throw the whole thing out. But it’s too late for that. 

Cas takes a breath. “I… um. You don’t remember what happened when we got home.” 

It’s not a question, really, but Dean takes it as one. He nervously eyes the curled up animal in the corner of his brain. Realizes that he doesn’t want to go anywhere near it. It has teeth, he’s pretty sure. 

He knows it does. 

But he finds himself stepping closer anyway. One foot in front of the other, against his will, like being dragged forward in a dream. Helpless.

“We… we got out of the car,” Cas continues. “And – and you picked up on… something. Someone. A… scent.” 

Dean’s right in front of it now – the dark and awful thing. It’s shaking, violently, its face hidden against the wall, its arms up covering its head. Its neck. He feels sorry for it, but he can’t help but hate it, too. He wants it to go far away. Is desperate for it to disappear, for it to leave his mind empty and clean, free from the dark shadows in its corner. 

But instead of shouting at it, or kicking it, Dean finds himself with his hand outstretched toward it. Hesitant, but unable to help himself. 

“Dean,” Cas pushes, his voice a little rough, like he’s seeing the same thing Dean is. Like he’s waiting, breath held, for Dean to make contact. Like he wants Dean to understand the ugly thing that's hiding from him – or… Or, that he’s hiding from? He doesn’t know. 

He touches the terrified creature with one light hand. And, when it looks up at him –  

Dean is staring into his own eyes. 

He recoils away from it – or, he tries, but it’s too late. It’s too late, because he remembers, now. Remembers the sick stench in the air, a million nightmares packed into one suspended flashbang. Remembers his knees on the dirt, his heart in his throat, everything inside of him screaming until it was hoarse and raw, so impossibly loud that it had just become a ringing silence.

His breath catches in his throat like hawthorn branches. 

Alastair. Alastair had been – 

“No.” The word is pathetically small. Broken. He turns his face into Cas’s chest, tries to stop the tears before they come, but it’s too late. It’s a flash flood, and the word rips out of him again, unstoppable. “No-” 

Cas is already trying to soothe him. Already trying to take the sting of fear away; his hand rubbing up and down Dean’s back, his calming scent ramping up in response to Dean’s anxiety. Dean wants to crawl underneath him and hide, wants the rest of the world to go away. He can’t– he can’t go back to that. 

He can’t. 

“You won’t,” Cas murmurs. His voice is quiet, but it’s strong, too – sure. Solid. “Never, Dean.” 

“He– he came for me, he’s coming for me, he knows where I am–” 

“He will not touch you.” 

The growl that rips out of Cas is so sudden and intense that it stops Dean’s panic in its tracks – he freezes, his ribs fluttering like he’s a tiny, terrified animal. And, Cas – Cas is everywhere, all around him. His touch, his scent, his voice. 

Mine, his scent is screaming. Mine. 

Maybe it’s stupid, but Dean isn’t scared of that. Not like he would have been before. Because he knows better than to think this is some alpha pissing contest, some growling argument over property. He knows that he belongs to Cas in a completely different way than he belonged to Alastair. 

Mostly because Cas belongs to him, too. 

“He won’t,” Cas repeats. His hand is cupped around the back of Dean’s head, pressing him closer to the crook of his neck, and Dean pants in breath after breath and tries to calm himself down before Cas has to put him under again. “I would never let him come anywhere near you, Dean.” 

Dean closes his eyes. Feels sick dread wash over him at the mere thought of Cas and Alastair in the same room. He doesn’t want their paths to ever cross. The man is… he’s a demon. Blood stained teeth, razor sharp smile. Dean had been lucky to survive him as long as he had – unbelievably lucky, considering his love for making Dean bleed. 

He likes to play. And this – this is his exact kind of game. Root out every last bit of hope and dash it against the rocks. 

So, no. Thinking about Cas getting anywhere close to Alastair is doing nothing but making him sick with dread, so intense that he clings to Cas even tighter than before. He’d have to be pried off of the alpha with the jaws of life, at this point. 

“He wasn’t at the house by the time we got there,” Cas says eventually, in a way that’s probably supposed to be comforting. “Hadn’t been for a while, seems like.” 

Dean swallows. He doesn’t know – he’d been too busy freaking out to notice details like that. He shakes his head, and maybe Cas thinks that means he doesn’t believe him, because he elaborates. “I… you… um. I couldn’t… I stayed with you. Sam… checked out the house–” 

Dean stiffens. It’s like Cas knew he would, because he rushes through the rest of the explanation. “I – we didn’t have a choice, Dean. I couldn’t leave you alone, and Sam was the only–” 

“You had a choice,” Dean bites out, incredulous anger bubbling up inside of him. He shoves away from Cas, his hands lingering on his chest – even pissed like this, he can’t bring himself to pull away. To break contact. “You… you don’t put Sam in danger like that. You never–” 

“Sam wanted to check it out,” Cas interrupts firmly, looking up at Dean with eyes that are half guilty and half stubborn. “It was his choice.” 

“He doesn’t get to do that!” 

Cas falls silent, and for a moment, there’s only the sound of Dean’s rapidly beating heart, the harsh pants of his breathing. He glares down at Cas, formless frustration rearing up inside of him. The thought of Sam in danger… 

“He doesn’t get to do that,” he repeats, bitterness turning the words into something awful. “Not – not after everything I’ve done to keep him safe.” 

It feels wrong even as he says it. Manipulative, playing dirty. It feels selfish. Cas’s expression cracks in a way that is not at all satisfying, and he looks away. 

“I knew you’d be upset,” he says softly. “And I’m sorry. But we didn’t have a choice.” He looks back at Dean after a moment, his blue eyes serious. “And it was the right thing to do. We were keeping you safe.” 

I’m not worth it, Dean wants to say. Almost does say, the words fighting to escape his mouth, pushing against his clenched teeth. But he keeps them in, because he already knows what will happen if he tells Cas that. Already knows how it will hurt him, to hear that Dean still doesn’t see himself as worthy of protection, even though Cas thinks he is. 

“You’re allowed to be angry,” Cas says after a while. His voice sounds so small. Defeated, like he’s already assumed Dean will be. 

Like he took that into consideration before letting Sam go out there, and still decided Dean was worth it.  

Honestly, Dean is angry. But he’s not mad at Cas. He’s mad at himself, mad that he can’t protect himself. That other people feel like they have to do it for him. That his damn fool brother and his damn fool alpha can’t seem to stop themselves from catching grenades aimed at him. 

He swallows down words that will do nothing but hurt them both. Cas doesn’t deserve to get torn to shreds over this – Dean’s the one who couldn’t handle himself. Who turned into a sniveling little coward at the mere scent of his old master. 

Cas looks like he has so much more to say. More reassurances, probably – about how Alastair has no right to touch him, about how he’ll never let Dean be taken. But Dean doesn’t want to hear it. 

He doesn’t, because Alastair plays by his own rules. He knows better than to think good – even Cas’s version of good – will stamp out Alastair’s evil. 

So he just… closes his eyes. Lets himself lay back on Cas’s chest, lets the alpha tentatively wrap his arms around Dean again. Light, like an apology. 

He doesn’t know what else to do. 

Dean doesn’t sleep. 

They’d left the room for a little while. Cas had tried to do so on his own – had tentatively told Dean he could rest, if he’d wanted to. Dean, still mute with frustration and fear and guilt, had just nodded, stony and silent, and Cas had lingered for a moment before slowly shutting the door. 

The second he had, shrieking alarms had gone off in Dean’s head, a flashbang of wrong wrong wrong, and he’d bolted out of bed, flung open the door, and barreled straight into the surprised alpha’s chest. Breathing hard, body shaking. 

They’d gone out into the living room together when Dean felt like he could walk without stumbling. (Like he could walk. How pathetic was that?) They’d sat curled up on Balthazar’s couch, Dean leaning into Cas’s space unapologetically. Sam hadn’t said shit about it. Neither had Balthazar. For his part, his brother had just nodded at Dean, his expression tight. Balthazar had given Dean a blanket that he’d accepted with something sharper than gratitude. Couch had skulked into the room, flattened her ears at the sudden company, and hopped up on the arm of Balthazar’s chair with a dainty huff. 

They’d talked strategy around him. Had discussed the fact that Alastair had likely been tracking Dean’s collar – locked away in a safe in Cas’s office, of course. That the alpha wasn’t doing anything legally, that he had no leg to stand on when it came to trying to get Dean back. That, yes, he’d technically trespassed – though, no, there wasn’t really a way to prove it. 

All stuff Dean had already known. He’d not contributed anything at all to the conversation. Had actually fallen asleep, at one point – had blinked groggily at Cas some unnamed amount of time later, when the sun had already set, his head on the alpha’s lap, the blanket tucked in around him, his back to the room. Couch had been curled up on top of his side, a little warm ball of fluff. He’d lied to himself and pretended that he was only staying put to placate her. 

He’d listened to Balthazar informing Sam in no uncertain terms that he would be sleeping here, despite his brother’s half-hearted protests about finding a motel. Had breathed out a little shaky sigh of relief when the older omega had told Cas, in the same no-nonsense tone, that they’d be staying here for the duration of this particular cluster-fuck. 

Eventually, he’d started sneezing, giving himself away as awake – Couch had hopped off of him in a damn hurry. He’d shaken his head when Cas had asked if he was hungry. Had avoided Sam’s eyes when they’d gone back to bed. Had avoided Balthazar’s, too. 

After a while, Cas had managed to drop off. He had to be exhausted, Dean figures – he’s been in non-stop protective mode for hours, and before that he’d been driving for even longer. So it’s no small wonder that he’d eventually knocked out, his hand still splayed protectively over the span of Dean’s shoulder, his heartbeat finally slowing to something approaching normal. 

Dean wants to sleep, too. 

He’s desperate for it, actually. But his brain is filled with buzzing wasps, a giant nest knocked to the ground. Clouds and swarms of stinging hornets, blacking out the sky. 

He can’t stop thinking of Hell. 

It’s been… it’s been a very long time, he realizes, since he allowed himself to think of those days. He’s become somewhat of an expert at refusing to remember. Sure, he’s woken up by nightmares. Sure, he finds himself knocked back without permission here and there. But he hasn’t allowed himself to dwell. Hasn’t allowed himself to actively think back to those dark hours and days and weeks and months, chained to a bed he wasn’t allowed to sleep in, constantly afraid. 

Constantly waiting. 

In the early days, Dean had schemed. He’d plotted. Not because he thought he’d actually get out – he’d given up that pipe dream a long time ago. It had been nothing but a dream of fucking Alastair over. An attempt to make sure that the bastard would lose his business, would have to give up all the slaves he’d so painstakingly trained. Three successful escapes and subsequent re-captures by the state – just three – and Alastair would be banned for life. That’s how it worked. 

Dean had done it before. 

It had been a grim sort of hope. He’d assumed, when it was all said and done, that he’d be returned to an auction house with all the rest. That he’d go on to some new torment. Probably – impossibly – something worse than even Hell had been. He’d already known his value was low, had already known that Alastair had basically fished him out of the reject bin. 

It’s where he seemed to get most of his slaves. Ones that would fight no matter the cost, like him. Or ones that had long ago been broken past the point of return. Alastair had liked both kinds of toys, and so had his customers. 

Dean hadn’t wanted to imagine something worse. Someone with even lower standards. He’d thought, honestly, that they might just kill him and be done with it. 

Despite knowing that, Dean had still planned attempt after attempt. He’d focused on the possibility of shutting Hell down like a fallen man might look up at the light at the top of a well. He had structured his days around those plans with a single-minded intensity. 

At first, everything he’d done, he’d done to make those escapes easier – or to survive so he could try again. He’d eaten the slop that had been dropped into his bowl not because he’d wanted to live another day, but because it meant he could run that much farther. He’d gone to his knees, bowed his head, dropped into position, not because he was scared of the punishment, but because it would be logistically easier to escape without injuries. He’d acted meek and compliant and cowed because it meant he’d be watched less closely. Had meant that Alastair’s goonies wouldn’t keep him chained at every opportunity, because they thought he’d been too broken to try and run. 

It had all worked like a charm the first time he’d made a break for it. He’d even gotten pretty far before fucking Abaddon had found him. His mistake, of course, had been assuming that Alastair would play by the rules. 

What Dean had imagined to be strike one on his record hadn’t been so after all. And Dean had paid dearly for trying. Had bled for it. 

It had just made him more determined. 

The second attempt had been planned even closer than the first. It had to be, because Alastair had learned his tricks – had figured out that Dean’s compliance was only surface level, that he wasn’t truly broken. Not yet. 

It wouldn’t be that way forever, Dean knows now. But, at the time, it had seemed like he still had a chance. 

Dean had plenty of time to hatch out a new and improved escape attempt. One of the consequences of the crude surgery Alastair had put him through was that he’d been thrown into a room to heal, at least for a little while, because as much as Alastair had wanted him to suffer he hadn’t wanted him to bleed out and die. A waste of resources, he’d said. Those days had been… 

Dean doesn’t like to think about them. He’d spent a lot of time in the dark. 

A lot of time alone. 

At least it had given him time to plan. Time to work out how he’d pick the new and improved lock on the chain that wound through the cuffs that were on him at all times, now. Time to consider different ways he might pop his collar, now that he knew Alastair was using the tracking data to get him. 

He’d never found a way that he was sure wouldn’t kill him. 

Dean knows, honestly, that he’d come close to trying to rip it off anyway, damn the consequences. He’d come close. More than once.  

At any rate, it had been nearly a year before Dean had been able to try again. Time enough for him to heal – mostly. Time enough for Alastair to have relaxed his watch a little. That time, there’d been no lucky breaks, no walking past Alastair’s crew with his head down. He’d gone out a damn window, had squirreled away ripped up clothing and blankets and towels for weeks until he’d had a rope long enough to reach the ground. Had stolen and hidden paperclips – sometimes in his cupped palm, once in his mouth. He’d shaped them meticulously into the picks he needed, tucked them behind loose and rotting baseboards in his cell of a room for safe keeping. Had stolen a battery after a client had left him in the room with a fucking – with a goddamn toy, still on – and had shaped and flattened and sharpened it until it was pointed enough to cut. 

He’d sliced Abaddon across the face with it when she’d caught up to him. 

That time, Dean had actually been trying to get caught – but not by her. He’d bee-lined straight for what he thought was a police station. Had hoofed it as fast as he could, weak as he’d been, injured as he’d been. He’d planned on getting “spotted” by a cop outside the station – and, failing that, had planned to cause a scene in the front lobby. He’d hoped it would be enough to get Alastair into extra trouble, since he’d known the man wouldn’t report him missing. Illegal. 

It was a good idea. But he hadn’t gotten that far. Abaddon had caught him before he’d even made it off the grounds, all sharp teeth and red eyed excitement when she’d pinned him to the dirt. 

He’d spent a damn week out in the shed after that, and he’s still got the scars to prove it – retribution, he knows, for the slash he’d painted across Abaddon’s pretty cheek. 

It had scarred. Despite it all, Dean’s still proud of that. 

The last attempt had been the least planned, and the most foolish. It hadn’t even been intentional, really – just desperation. Dean had – 

He closes his eyes. Breathes slowly, inhaling the scent of Cas next to him. 

He’d just snapped. Had lost his mind. There had been a lackey – one of Alastair’s employees – who had been escorting him to the favorite room of a client Dean hated more than any of them. A cruel man, one that rivaled Alastair himself in terms of liking to watch Dean suffer. The guard had told Dean, sneering and snickering, what new torture the client had dreamed up for him. What he’d planned to make Dean do. 

This hadn’t been new. Lots of the guards had liked to do that, the sick bastards. Had enjoyed ramping up his fear, his dread, by telling him all the shit he had in store. Sometimes it had been the truth, sometimes it had been pulled straight out of their ass. It had worked often enough, when Dean was too slow to block them out. When he’d been too tired to know the difference between a cruel joke and the crueler truth. 

This particular taunt, he thinks, had been the latter. It had been something in the guard’s eyes – excitement. Anticipation. He wonders, now, if the man had been invited to watch. Clients did that sometimes – requested an audience. This one had done so before. Had invited guards who took special pleasure in watching Dean suffer, since he’d caused them so much trouble over the years. Bloody noses and black eyes. 

This, he’d been told, was a special occasion, because the client was getting a two-for-one. He’d rented out Dean for the night not to hurt him… but to watch Dean hurt someone else.  

A new slave – a girl, a kid, hardly old enough to be in the trade at all. Dean had seen her in passing a few times, had watched the light slowly leave her eyes, had watched her cheeks grow hollow and sunken. Barely a month in, she’d been broken, and Dean remembers, to his shame, that he’d hated looking at her. That he’d tried to drop his eyes anytime their paths crossed in the halls. 

He remembers wishing – actually hoping – that she’d get the mercy of being put out of her misery. 

That client – Lee was his name, Dean remembers. Lee. He had wanted Dean to hurt her. To take from her, again, what so many others had already taken. 

He’d wanted to watch. 

And that had been enough to kick-start Dean’s desperate need to run. He’d thought up no plan, had spent no time strategizing. He’d just – he’d gone feral, had pulled strength out of nowhere, had hit the guard frog-marching him to the client’s room so hard he’d dropped like a sack of potatoes. He’d bolted, had nearly blacked out he'd run so hard, trying with everything he had to do what was right. To do his part – even if it wasn’t enough – to keep Alastair from ever being able to do this to anyone ever again. 

To help that kid. To try. 

And, somehow, he’d actually made it to the police station that time. 

He hadn’t made it into the building, though. Someone in an idling squad car had grabbed him by the neck. A young beta. Maybe one that Alastair had over a barrel, or maybe someone who frequented Hell. Maybe someone on his master’s payroll. 

Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter, because regardless of what he’d said, how he’d pleaded, the man had turned a deaf ear. A blind eye. Dean had been cuffed and dropped back on Alastair’s doorstep within a couple of hours, nothing but the officer’s twisted expression and dropped eyes as an indication that he felt in any way bad for doing as much. 

Dean hadn’t even tried to fight it when Alastair had grabbed him by the collar and drug him out to the shed. Hadn’t kicked or screamed or tried to plead. He’d just let it happen, the punishment, because - 

He’d earned it. 

He’d failed. 

Something inside of him had finally broken, that night. He’d felt it – the final snap of a constantly worn-down part of his heart. The collapsing decay of his soul. And he doesn’t think he’d ever recovered from that loss of hope. From the realization that he’d failed, that he was as weak as everyone had always assumed, that he was no Winchester worth his salt. 

He’d thrown in the towel. Too scared of feeling hope grow, only to watch it be ripped out of him again, to try. 

Coward. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. Crams the heels of his palms against them, pressing down until he sees stars. This life he has with Cas – this softness, this comfort. 

He hasn’t earned this. He’d given up. 

And now, Alastair is back for what belongs to him. 

Dean hates himself for his fear. For the raw, sick panic inside of him, the instinctive terror that the thought of his old master brings to the surface. For the way he'd treated Cas, especially - like he was a monster. Like Dean was terrified of him, despite all the good Cas has done for him. Because, underneath all the growing and healing Dean’s been doing, he’s the same broken man that he’d been in Hell. The same loser who had been too afraid of pain to do what was right. 

Cas loves to tell him he’s strong. But he’s not. He’s not, and Cas and Sam and everyone who knows and loves them deserve so much better than what Dean can give them. 

They deserve someone that didn’t give up.  

It’s that thought that finally pushes him out of bed. He slides off of Cas’s chest, careful to not wake him. The alpha frowns. Shifts. But he doesn’t open his eyes. Dean stares at him in the darkness for a while, numb, before stepping out into the hall. 

There’s nightlights, he notices. More than one. Little lamps that cast cones of golden light to the floor, so that he doesn’t have to wonder if he’s going to stumble over a rug or the leg of a table. He wonders how often Balthazar is up during the night, wandering the halls. 

Unlike the first time he came through the house, Dean has the wherewithal to look around. The walls are all covered in photos and little sculptures and art, a menagerie of different frames and shapes that Dean doesn’t think he could count if he tried. The living room is cozy, covered in plush furniture – a recliner that’s so fancy Dean thinks he could get lost in it. Cushions on the floor next to the slowly lightening window, so large they must be purposeful. A big, deep couch in an L shape, covered in blankets and pillows. 

Sam is asleep on that one, his big lanky arm tossed over his eyes, his feet sticking out from under one of the quilts. He’s dead to the world. Oblivious to Dean sneaking around, trying to find his sanity. 

There’s a couple of side tables with mismatching lamps and a stack of coasters, a coffee can with remotes poking out of it, a wall of bookshelves that reminds him of Cas’s house. More than one cat tree, most of them complete with tufts of grayish fur and scatterings of cat toys. A surprisingly big television with a complicated set of speakers, an entertainment center built around it that’s stuffed full of DVDs and more books and knick knacks. A variety of souvenirs, mismatched book ends, rocks and boxes and colorful bottles. Little bronze animals. There’s no dust on anything, somehow. 

He wanders for a while, picking up this or that. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the pointed nose of a tiny metal fox, willing his thoughts not to wander too. They do, unfortunately. He unwillingly thinks of the bare walls of the auction houses. Thinks of the rotting scent of Hell. 

He sets it down with a tight sigh. This isn’t settling anything in him – the longer he’s away from Cas, the more antsy he feels. The more he thinks he might kneel down right in the middle of the living room and wait for someone, anyone, to tell him what to do. 

He thinks of coffee, dark and staining, soaking into white carpet. He thinks of how guilty Cas had looked when Dean was afraid of him. 

Maybe coffee is what he needs. Maybe Dean acting like a man – a free one – is what they all need. 

When he stumbles into the kitchen, he’s not alone. He can’t figure out whether to be relieved or annoyed by that – can’t decide whether the pounding in his temples and the ache in his eyes is gonna be in any way helped by the presence of Balthazar, or if he’s just gonna make it worse. 

He’s here, though. Balthazar has already seen him. He’s not gonna turn tail and run now – he’s been pathetic enough around the dude for a damn lifetime. 

The older omega is sitting with his chair leaned up against the wall, chin in one hand, staring out into the slowly lightening dawn. The bags under his eyes, honestly, might rival Dean’s. He doesn’t look over right away when Dean hesitates in the doorway. He just gives it a few seconds, allowing Dean to make the choice to step into the room all on his own. When he does, he gives Dean a slow nod, holding up his mug in a silent salutation without so much as a word. Below the lip of the table, on Balthazar’s lap, Dean can just see the tips of Couch’s fluffy ears. 

And those things – the easy greeting, the clear lack of expectations, even the stupid cat – make it easier. Make it just possible for Dean to grit his teeth and slide out a chair and drop himself into it, his body rigid even on the comfortable cushion. 

He feels like he’s doing something wrong, and that’s exactly why he forces himself to stay. He hates the crawling spider feeling inside of him, the tightness in his chest. For fuck’s sake – he’s in the house of a freed slave, and he’s still nervous to plant himself on a damn chair– 

“Plenty of places on the floor,” Balthazar says neutrally, like he’s reading Dean’s mind. He takes a long sip from his mug, like he hasn’t just dropped a bomb.

Dean bristles, in spite of himself. Irritable. More than he should be, considering what Balthazar is doing for them right now. But it doesn’t stop him from snapping, “I ain’t supposed to.” 

“Says who?”

“Cas.” 

“Did he?”

Dean opens his mouth to insist that, yeah, Cas has told him not to sit on the floor. But… that’s not exactly true, is it? Of course he knows that Cas doesn’t like him to ignore the furniture, but it’s been a long time since Cas has tried to make him do anything at all. 

He’s not counting that screaming siren moment in the Impala, the one he only vaguely remembers after hours of forcing himself to try. He can’t count that. 

Dean scoffs. The smooth wood of the table top is pleasantly cool under his elbows when he settles his weight on it. He rubs his temples. “... No.” 

“With me, he didn’t have to deal with that very often,” Balthazar says evenly, taking another sip before continuing slowly. His words are so even – so different than Dean, even with this new fucking threat that none of them asked for. Dean doesn’t understand how he can be so calm. But maybe it makes sense, honestly; it’s not like Balthazar wakes up shaking and sweating to the thought of dead gray eyes and the rotting stench of sulfur. It’s not like Balthazar had needed to be restrained so he wouldn’t bolt out into the trees to get away from a ghost. 

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, but when they do, Dean pauses. Looks at him carefully. “You mean…” 

“I’d already been broken of that particular habit,” Balthazar continues, apparently unashamed of the fact that there had been a time where he’d kneeled without being ordered to. “Rather… forcefully.” 

Dean winces. He doesn’t know much about Balthazar’s life before Cas, other than what the man has told him himself. “I’m guessing that… Cas’s older brother? Gabriel? He wasn’t a huge fan of the whole…” He gestures expansively, not articulate in the least. 

Balthazar seems to understand him anyway. He shrugs. “Gabe was a far sight better than the twins. You’d not have caught me complaining at the time – much,” he amends, a slight flicker of a wry smile on his face. “And, no. He wasn’t exactly enamored with the idea of subjugation, much to my surprise. He found it… uncomfortable.” 

Dean leans back in his chair, rubbing at his mouth. This isn’t what he expected to be talking about, but it beats the hell out of discussing his own problems. “Kinda weird, ain’t it? I mean, it makes sense for Cas. He’s – he’s Cas, yeah, but he also didn’t grow up with… uh–” 

“Daddy dearest?”

He winces. “Yeah.” 

Balthazar sighs lightly. “No, he did not. Lucky for him. And perhaps Gabriel had a distaste for the whole affair because he was, by and large, sent to boarding schools for his rearing. Cassie told me that. Much later, of course.” 

Dean, against all odds, finds himself interested. He knows so little about Cas’s family, and if nothing else it’s a great distraction from the current shit-storm they’re all weathering. 

“What was he like? Gabriel, I mean,” he clarifies, hurriedly and awkwardly. “Not – not the other ones.”

Balthazar lets out a short laugh. He takes a moment to answer, slowly spinning the mug and passing the handle back and forth between his hands. “He was… juvenile. Naive. Largely ignorant. Not a particularly good bloke – not the hero type, really. But he had a conscience. In spite of himself, I think.” 

“You said he, um. He ‘broke you of the habit,’” Dean asks – it’s only after he’s done so that he realizes he’s used air quotes. He drops his hands, but not before Balthazar raises an amused eyebrow at him, probably clocking that the move is something he picked up from Cas. “How?”

“He ordered me to stop.” 

Dean must make a face, because Balthazar laughs. “You didn’t think I stopped on my own, did you?”

The thing is… yeah. Dean guesses he would have assumed that. Balthazar seems so sure of himself, so steady – it’s hard to imagine him on his knees. But the man rolls his eyes at Dean’s expression. “Oh, he certainly tried to get me to choose it myself. But it felt like a trick. A test. A sentiment I’m sure you’re familiar with.” 

Dean drops his eyes to the table. Balthazar doesn’t wait for him to confirm – he just presses on. “Even when I realized he meant it, though, I still probably wouldn’t have ever done so on my own. He had to tell me to. Explicitly. Probably the first half dozen times, at least – I’d just drop to the ground automatically. Trained quite well, I suppose.”

The conversation feels strange. Almost surreal. Because, normally, Dean would be feeling the burn of embarrassment. Would feel… small. But with Balthazar, it’s different, because the man knows. He’s been where Dean has been. Has felt the same fear. The same pain. “Join the club, I guess.” 

“I hated it,” Balthazar says flatly. “I hated it. But it felt safe, yeah? Or safer, at least. Sometimes it still does.” 

Dean flicks his eyes up. The older omega is studying him, but not in a way that makes his skin prickle. Not in a way that feels like a dressing down. It’s more recognition than anything else. Maybe even kinship. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees softly. He rubs his thumb along his first knuckle, swallowing. “Yeah. It does. Do you… do you ever, um–” 

“At least once a week. Usually fresh out of a nightmare.” The flat way he says it leaves no room for embarrassment – no room for shame. And, for once, Dean finds himself without it either. He just nods. Like seeing like. 

And, honestly, why shouldn’t he? Who the fuck wouldn’t have nightmares, after the shit he’s been through? 

That’s what he tries to tell himself, anyway. There’s a persistent, hissing voice in the back of his head – one that sounds a lot like John Winchester, or maybe Alastair – that keeps trying to insist that he should be over it, that he’s a coward for still being afraid. He thinks those voices are more convicing than his own. 

“So… those don’t go away?” He bites the inside of his cheek when Balthazar doesn’t answer immediately. “None of it goes away?”

Balthazar observes him for a moment. Dean doesn’t know if he’s weighing his words, or if he’s weighing him. “No, Dean. It doesn’t go away.”

Dean half laughs. He hates that there are tears trying to press out of his eyes. “Great. So – so I’m just. I’m stuck. I’m in the best fucking place in the world, with – with Cas, with fucking Cas, and he-” He squeezes his wrist. Drags in a breath. “He still gets to scare me. Cause I’m just stuck.” 

“No.” 

Dean glances back up. Balthazar is shaking his head. “No. You’re not.” He pauses for a moment, gathering his words. “You’re getting better. Day by day, inch by inch, you’re shaking off your collar. Your bloody training. You can’t honestly tell me you think you’re no better now than you were when Cassie first brought you home.” 

Dean looks away. “I… I mean, I don’t know. I think I am, and then…” 

“And then you get punched in the gut with the scent of a man that rightly terrifies you,” Balthazar says flatly. Again, there’s no judgment in his tone. No criticism. He’s just matter-of-fact. “Mate, it would be… frankly insane if you hadn’t reacted like that. What else was your body supposed to do, but pull out all the stops to try and protect you?”

Dean closes his eyes. “But – But I thought Cas was…” He forces himself to say it. Forces himself to come clean to somebody, because he can’t tell this to Sam, and he’s too raw to speak to Benny, and he’d rather chew off his own arm than tell Bobby or Jo. “Fuck, Bal. I was scared of him. Of Cas. I called him master. It’s… it’s blurry, but… But I know I did.” 

He swallows something thick and sharp down. Covers his eyes with a hand. He’s not gonna cry – fuck, there’s no way he has anything left in him to cry. “That probably ripped him to fucking pieces.” 

“Probably,” Balthazar agrees. His voice is… almost gentle. From his lap, Couch lets out a soft mrrow – his hand drifts down to pet her absently. “But he also knows better than to think you meant it. You were out of your head, Dean. He’s got experience with that.” 

Dean opens his mouth. He means to ask how, but it sinks in before he has a chance to make an ass of himself. He looks across the table at Balthazar – calm. So well put together, in a robe that’s half tied and nothing but a tee shirt. The scar on his neck is shiny, even in the dim light of dawn. 

“I lived with the man for quite a long time, Winchester. There have been plenty of moments where I was, kindly put, absolutely off my rocker. Some asinine trigger or another pushed me over the edge, and suddenly Cassie – wee little Cassie, softest alpha I’ve ever known – might as well have had his teeth to my neck for how I acted.” He laughs – the sound isn’t quite happy, but it’s not quite self depreciation, either. “And, even after all that. Even after he’s seen me… revert, for lack of a better word. He doesn’t see me any different.” 

Dean sniffs. Rubs the back of his hand across his nose. “Yeah?”

“Yes. And he hasn’t ever held it against me, either. He’ll certainly not hold it against you, as wrapped around your little finger as he is.” 

Dean chokes out a chuckle that sounds a little too wet. “I just… I know he’ll forgive me. Has already forgiven me. He wasn’t even mad at me. But… I just don’t want him to think I’m, uh. That I think he’s someone who will hurt me. Not for real.” 

Balthazar snorts. “Winchester, with all due respect – and, mind you, I’m not judging – you were clinging to him like a creeper vine all day. He knows.” 

The laughter that bursts out of Dean is unexpectedly genuine. “I really was, wasn’t I?”

“Quite. If not for the circumstances, I’d call it adorable. Or, perhaps nauseating.” He stands with that, much to Couch’s irritation – she leaps off his lap and lands on the table instead, flicking her tail at him in disdain. “Tea?”

“You got coffee?”

“Americans,” the man says with a shake of his head. There’s no heat to the insult, and he obligingly begins to pull a can of ground beans out of the cabinet. The machine itself looks… complicated. Almost fussy, with all its buttons and dials. It fits in with the rest of the kitchen, now that Dean’s bothering to look. Professional-grade appliances. Slick looking pots and pans hanging in a row, a dozen knives in a dark wooden block on top of marble countertops. 

Dean wonders how much of this is from years of having nothing like it. Years of eating scraps out of a bowl on the floor. 

He finds that he doesn’t blame Balthazar in the slightest for his tendency to collect. To make a space his own. Dean will do it too, he thinks, if he ever has the chance. 

Couch steps daintily across the table, blinks at Dean, and then hops into his lap. He buries his hand in her fur immediately, and she starts purring. His nose stings, and he can’t tell if it's because he’s about to cry or if he’s allergic to the damn cat. 

“I don’t want to go back to him.” 

The confession is whispered, even though it’s not much of a secret. Balthazar has seen how he’s been acting all day. Terrified terrified terrified. It’s not much of a logical leap to understand that Dean would rather off himself than let Alastair take him back. But the omega doesn’t call him on that. He doesn’t even turn around. 

“You won’t.” 

“How do you know?”

The question is meant to be tense. Maybe accusatory. But it just comes out tired. 

Balthazar carefully scoops a spoonful of coffee grounds into his machine. “I think Cassie would catch a murder charge first, for one.” 

Dean feels something inside him twist. And maybe his guilty scent makes it over the dark smell of coffee, because Balthazar angles his head back to eye him. “You don’t like the idea?”

“Of – of him and Cas in the same room? Fuck no,” Dean spits, running a hand through his hair. “No. No. God. I ain’t… I ain’t worth that.” 

“I think your alpha would disagree,” Balthazar argues, the neutrality of his voice fading a little. “He’s risked himself for people he hardly knows, Winchester. I doubt his self sacrificial tendencies will reach their limit because of you.” 

“That’s the problem.” 

Balthazar eyes him. Waits him out. And when Dean can’t stand the silence any longer, he gives a frustrated huff, not sure if he wants to scream or cry. “If he – if he found me. That means he’s been looking for a while. Means he’s probably got Cas’s number already. What if he comes after the center?”

There’s something on Balthazar’s face, there – a flicker. Dean feels his stomach sink. “He is, isn’t he? He’s already –” 

“He’s not gotten in,” Balthazar interrupts. He looks very much like he’d rather not be telling Dean this. “Ash stopped him before he could get into our files… and Beth realized who she was speaking to before she said anything dangerous.” Dean’s stomach swoops – he called, Alastair called them –  

Balthazar barrels right through his panic. “We didn’t realize till after Cassie called who it was. He was going by a pseudonym, but we’re fairly certain. But, Dean – he’s not got a clue that we’re a rehab center. He was looking to buy – had a detailed description, too, and wasn’t shy about sharing it. Beth talked circles around him, like she’s been trained to. He’s not tried to call back.” 

He’d wanted to buy Dean, is what Balthazar doesn’t say. They both know it’s true. Dean’s willing to bet everything he has that the detailed description had fit him to a T.  

Balthazar’s words, reassuring as they are probably meant to be, don’t bring him any comfort. They just make him sick. Alastair already knows where those people are, he already knows where he’ll need to hit to hurt. He might not have it all worked out yet, but Dean knows he will. Dean knows how dangerous he is. How cruel. How good he is at digging out the vulnerable parts of someone, at dissecting them, at flaying them apart piece by bloody piece. 

“What if, ‘cause of me, all those omegas are in danger? What if he – what if he threatens them, threatens Benny or Pam or Jody, or you – or Cas, because he’s trying to get to me? I’m just supposed to live with myself?”

“What’s your plan, then?” Balthazar asks, quickly becoming frustrated. “Plate yourself up like a sacrificial lamb, just to ensure that none of us are inconvenienced?”

Dean’s stomach gives a sickening swoop at the thought. But… yeah. Yeah. If it meant the difference between keeping Cas out of Alastair’s line of sight, if it meant keeping all those omegas at the center off his radar… if it meant keeping everyone safe. 

Yeah. Of course Dean would do it. 

Balthazar must sense his answer to that question, because his eyes grow hard. He sets down the can of grounds – a measured movement that looks restrained. Like he wants to slam it, instead. “You can’t do that to him, Dean.” 

Dean stares him down. Or, he tries to – he can feel his hands shaking. His mouth trembling. Caught between defiance and cowardice, again. 

Balthazar’s eyes flash. “I’m serious. Do you know what he’d do to himself, if he woke up one morning to find you gone? Do you know how he’d torture himself over it?” The older omega glares at him. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking martyrdom will help anyone. Your brother would tear apart the country looking for you, and Cassie–” 

He cuts himself off. Takes a breath. When he speaks again, his voice has lost some of its volume, but none of its bite. “Cassie would tear himself apart at the seams.” 

Dean… deflates. He looks down at his hands. Feels fear and frustration try to rise up inside of him again, snakes in his throat. “They can’t get hurt ‘cause of me, Balthazar. None of you can. I’m not…” 

“Worth it?” Balthazar finishes, snapping out the words. “Well, they clearly believe you are. We all do. The fight hasn’t even started – stop giving up.” 

The words hurt. They’re meant to. Dean flinches away from them, sick shame curling in his stomach.

He doesn’t look up from the wood grain until Balthazar drops his mug of coffee in front of him. He lets out a long, harsh sigh. Pauses, as if he’s torn, and then finally sits back down at the table across from Dean. 

“... Sorry.” 

The word is muttered. Dean swallows. Grips his hands around the piping hot cup. Steam curls out of it. It’s not as calming as he hoped it would be. 

Balthazar sighs again. Rubs the bridge of his nose. “Really. I… I’m being harsh.”

“Nah. You’re right,” Dean says softly. 

He is giving up. He is. He’s thinking about going back to Alastair before the man has ever even gotten eyes on him. But the truth of the matter is that, if it comes down between him and someone else, if it’s Dean versus the people he loves, people he cares for, people who haven’t done anything to earn the kind of shit Alastair would put them through… 

Well. 

That’s not much of a choice at all.