75. Cry For Judas(1)

In hindsight, Balthazar really should have known this was coming. 

For what seems like the entirety of the last few days, he and Cassie and the brothers Winchester have been spending every waking moment up at the center. Mostly, he thinks, to feel productive – Dean had been crawling up the walls back home, pacing and fretting and not sleeping a wink, from what Balthazar could tell, and Cassie had looked a step away from hunting down Alastair himself every time the omega’s anxiety had ticked up another notch. Finding something constructive to do had been a must. 

If Dean had recognized that it wasn’t strictly necessary for him to help organize the center’s ridiculous amounts of stockpiled supplies, he hadn’t said as much. He’d simply taken Balthazar’s quickly constructed inventory list and had silently gotten to work counting boxes of protein powder and vitamins and blankets. 

He’d looked grateful, frankly, to have something to do. 

Balthazar, on the other hand, had been hard at work doing what feels to be not much at all. Progress has been slow going, unfortunately – they’ve found essentially nothing on Alastair that they can actually use to their advantage. Ash, along with Samuel’s just-a-friend Charlie, had found a few suspect looking bank statements, a witness report or two, a couple instances of a slave that had mysteriously gone missing. But nothing concrete. Nothing they can use. 

It figures that the bastard would have spent his time doing the same. Looking for information on them. Dean had warned them that he would. He had looked at Balthazar with tired, bloodshot eyes – eyes that held too much pain for just one lifetime – and had told him Alastair wouldn’t stop. That, once he’d decided he wanted something, he’d get it. No matter what. 

At the time, Balthazar had inwardly scoffed. Yes, the man cut an imposing figure. He was quite… unsettling, to put it lightly. And of course he’d gone to great lengths to scare Dean, had hurt him in the particularly awful way only a master can. It was only natural that the kid would be scared of him. Only natural that his expectations for what Alastair was capable of would probably be somewhat… magnified. Unrealistic. A monster to Dean, but, in reality, just a mere man. If an exceptionally cruel one. 

That was before, of course. 

The knock on his door barely registers – it’s not Cassie’s knock, and Pamela and Jody don’t bother to so much as tap the door frame anymore so long as it’s open. Balthazar subconsciously ignores it, far too immersed in what he’s doing. It takes Kevin clearing his throat a few times for Balthazar to look up at all. 

“Mr. Tran,” he greets, eyes already drifting back to his screen. He’s looking for GED programs that will take on an emergency addition into their classes – Dean needs to check off as many boxes as he can, as quickly as he can, as far as Balthazar is concerned, and this is a big one. It takes him a long moment to realize that Kevin hasn’t said anything. 

He suppresses a sigh, sitting back and rubbing his eyes. He, like the rest of them, has not gotten much sleep over the last few days – he’s running on a couple of hours, if that. His head is pounding. Now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t actually remember if he ate anything for breakfast. Or lunch. 

“Is there a reason you’re working very hard at holding up that particular wall?” he asks, trying his damndest not to snap. The boy is still gun shy around him from Balthazar ripping him a new one over the damn Reddit post, and the last thing Balthazar needs right now is to be invited back to Mrs. Tran’s humble abode for another apology meal. 

Kevin straightens. He’s clutching an envelope to his chest, nervously rocking back on his heels. Balthazar cocks an eyebrow at him. “Is that for me?”

The young man hesitates. “Uh… no. I don’t think so? But – um. Well,” he hedges, glancing down at the envelope. He chews on the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Maybe… maybe you should just, uh. Just look at it?”

He finally steps forward, holding the thing out toward Balthazar. He blinks at the young man, a little bemused, but takes it from his hand anyway. “What in the world has you so riled up?”

But Kevin just shakes his head. He shoves his hands back in his pockets. “I wasn’t… sure, um. If I should have brought that to Mr. Novak, or to you. But… I didn’t want to upset him, so…” 

Brow furrowing, Balthazar glances down at the thing, flipping it over so he can read who it’s meant for. There is no return address – not so much as postage, which means that this was hand delivered. His stomach sinks before he even reads who it’s been sent to.

It’s for Cassie, alright. But the name on it isn’t what it should be. His heart falls when he reads the addressee, written out in slanting block letters, lines so thin they’re hardly visible. 

Castiel Morningstar. 

He is aware, on some level, that he’s gone far too still. In front of him, Kevin shifts his weight from side to side, as if he’s not sure he should be in the room at all. The kid probably thinks he’s about to be lectured.

“You don’t seem overly surprised,” Balthazar says, carefully neutral. He sets the envelope down with a light touch. It’s thick, he’s noticed. Heavy, for its size. 

Kevin clears his throat. He glances at Balthazar, and then away, flushing. “I… might’a done some research before I applied. I’m sorry for snooping, but… I had to know. It wasn’t hard to connect the dots, exactly.” 

“I suppose not,” Balthazar admits. It’s true, after all – while Cassie has gone to great lengths to be sure he doesn’t attract the attention of his brothers, he has never kept his former identity a secret from the people that he pays. It was all about transparency, he’d insisted, though Balthazar had harbored a sneaking suspicion that the man simply didn’t want to lie to anyone if he could avoid it. 

It was just like Cassie to insist on giving everyone every possible chance to hate him. It had taken a fair bit of convincing for Balthazar to get him to keep his former surname under wraps to any degree – even now, the man won’t so much as hesitate before telling the truth to anyone here who asks. It’s what amounts to the center’s worst kept secret. 

The whole thing is part of his imagined penance, Balthazar thinks. He’s always found it a mix between strangely endearing and deeply frustrating, the alpha’s propensity toward self flagellation. Then again, maybe it’s just because he would like to avoid being stabbed due to any future… misunderstandings. The thought makes him wince. 

He lets out a sigh. In front of him, Kevin is looking very much like he’s considering doing a runner – it wouldn’t surprise him if the boy thought Balthazar was about to silence him for good, mobster style. “Sit down, mate,” he says wearily, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk. “You’re not in any trouble.” 

Kevin lets loose a breath, all but collapsing into the seat. He pushes back his hair in a transparently nervous gesture. “Thank God.” He winces. “I mean, um, not that I thought you’d…” 

Balthazar just waves him off. He looks down at the envelope again. It’s one of those mailers that can be opened by tearing a strip off of the top, the size and shape of printer paper. All the better to blackmail with. “This was just mixed in with the rest of the post?”

“Right on top,” Kevin confirms, his brows furrowed together with worry. “Is it…?” 

“I’d imagine so,” Balthazar confirms, twirling the mailer in his hands by the corners. Kevin knows the basics of the Alastair situation – most of the staff do, if only so they can keep an eye out for the bastard. “I’ve no doubt this is an ill conceived intimidation tactic.” 

He really should open it, he thinks. Should scout it out for anything truly incriminating, and then toss the lot of it in the bin without telling Cassie at all. No need to make the man any more paranoid than he already is. As it is, he’s not been particularly inclined to let Dean out of his sight. At this rate, he’ll have the omega handcuffed to him by the end of the day, and neither of them need that.

He doesn’t particularly want to open it though. He’d much prefer to shred the thing without giving it a precious second of his time. He already knows it will be full of nasty threats. 

“Thank you, Mr. Tran,” he says eventually, letting out a sigh as he shakes off his hesitation. “I figured something like this would be coming.” As he speaks, he bites the bullet and rips the strip from the top, idly wondering if he should be keeping an eye out for white powder as he shakes out the contents into his hand. He doesn’t think the man would go so far as to send anthrax, but… 

He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he hardly even registers the things that spill out onto the desk. But, when he does focus on them, he feels his stomach lurch unpleasantly. Of course it would be this, he thinks, huffing. Of all things. 

He’d expected the photos – no better way to push the point home that Alastair knows exactly who Cassie is. But it’s the particular event he’s chosen that’s making Balthazar’s skin crawl. 

In the picture, Cassie is sitting side by side with his brothers, looking profoundly uncomfortable. Hunched shoulders, a paper pamphlet curled into one fist, his already messy hair disturbed by the wind out on the lawn. His tie is crooked as ever, collar flipped up on one side. Despite the circumstances now, and the ones surrounding the photo, something in the picture makes Balthazar feel fond. His friend looks so young here. Hardly out of his teenage years.

Even though he has no desire to, he tears his eyes from Cassie to study the rest of the photo. Next to the alpha, Gabriel is lounging with his elbow leaned back on the chair behind him, turned to talk with Cassie about God knows what with a frustratingly familiar grin on his face. Balthazar doesn’t like what that does to his chest – doesn’t like the aching feeling it produces. He shoves it away. There’s no love lost between him and Cassie’s only halfway decent family member. Gabriel, short of his donations to NRR, has had nothing to do with him since those days, and that’s just how Balthazar likes it. 

In the photo, Gabriel, perhaps bravely – perhaps stupidly – has his back to the twins. Balthazar looks at them only briefly, but it’s enough. By comparison to their younger siblings, the alphas look like matching statues. Politely facing forward, their hands resting in their laps. Sporting perfectly appropriate solemn expressions for the media. Wouldn’t want to look too pleased at the passing of one’s sire, even if it means you’ll be inheriting a fortune. 

Even all these years later, the sight of the twins makes him sick to his stomach. He has far too many unpleasant memories of the times Lucifer had managed to corner him in the manor. Far too many memories of Michael’s treatment of him after his escape attempt. 

Balthazar grits his teeth. Of all the things Alastair could have sent them, it had to be photos of the bloody fucking funeral. 

He supposes he’s just glad the casket isn’t visible from this angle. Balthazar has no doubt that seeing the lifeless body of his former master would have brought him a great deal of savage happiness, back in the day, even if it meant he’d be passed on. He’d been disappointed, in fact, that the man had had the audacity to expire on a business trip rather than at home, where Balthazar could revel in it. 

Now, though, he’s not sure there is any circumstance in which he’d willingly look at that man. Dead or not. 

“Sir?”

He manages to keep his flinch very contained, but it’s unfortunately still visible enough to spark the kid’s concern. When he looks up, Kevin seems even more nervous than before. Seeing him rattled will do that, he’s noticed. It’s part of why he tries so hard to keep his composure, regardless of the company he holds. For the residents, he needs to remain calm, needs to uphold an image of stability for people that have gone far too long without it. For the staff, he needs to maintain an equally stiff upper lip in the face of tragedy, if only to encourage them. 

He is managing to do neither, at the moment “Is… is it bad?” Kevin asks, his tone implying that he already knows that it is. Balthazar would like to reassure him, but his throat is a little too dry for a response. 

When this photo was taken, he had been in a world of pain. Burned at the neck, beaten within an inch of his life. Pumped full of those blasted, hateful drugs, and left to boil in a bare room with his hands cuffed behind him and a gag prying his teeth apart. He’d been there for days. So long that the hours had begun to blur together. Nothing but a seemingly endless stretch of agony and fear, interrupted only by Michael’s visits to bring him enough water that he wouldn’t quite literally die, and to continually refresh his lessons regarding Balthazar’s proper place.  

Stress relief between funeral preparations, he’d called it. Balthazar shudders. 

He remembers what had happened after the service, as well. How, the instant the latest dose of those false heat drugs had faded enough that he wouldn’t send a room full of his associates into rut, Michael had held one last hurrah with said men before dumping him off on Gabriel. He remembers, vividly, their cruel hands. Their sick scent of lust. Their taunts, the way they’d spoken of him as a thing. 

The memories are not nearly as faint as they ought to be, considering how profoundly high he’d been. He supposes that it had probably been engineered purposefully. No sense in making it easy. Michael had wanted him to suffer. Had wanted to remind him of his station, and have the lesson stick.  

Balthazar had already known the funeral was held on the grounds. But he’s steadfastly refused to think about how close Cassie actually was to him, that day. He and the alpha have never discussed it, and for good reason. He knows Cassie has put together that they’d been in the same building. Knows that, while Cassie had been awkwardly rebuffing invitations to parties and social gatherings, counting down the seconds before he could leave, Balthazar had been busy choking down screams.

He knows Cassie is guilty about it, too, silly as that is. It’s not as though he could have done anything. Not as though he wouldn’t have gotten himself killed, if he’d known enough to try. There’s no point in speaking of it. No point in picking at wounds that are doing their best to heal, all these years later. 

Swallowing, Balthazar steadies himself. He pushes away the unwelcome rush of memories with a mixture of grief and disgust. He has to set his sights on the here and now. Alastair had not sent him this photo – he’d sent it to Cassie. He hadn’t known that it would touch a nerve with Balthazar. It’s simply an unfortunate coincidence that the man has managed to throw him off kilter. 

“It’s… not unexpected,” he makes himself say. His voice is remarkably even, all things considered. He takes a moment to be proud of himself for that. “I assumed he’d begun digging. It’s only logical that he’d want us to know he’s found something.” 

Kevin nods, though he looks unconvinced. “Do you think he’ll… you know. Try to tell the Morningstars about… us?”

Balthazar sighs. “I’m sure he’ll threaten to. Though, to be frank, the chances of them taking the time to speak to a low life like him don’t seem high. It’s probably not something we need to worry about,” he finishes, shrugging with a nonchalance he doesn’t really feel. 

He does believe it – mostly. The thing is, he can’t deny that even the possibility of Michael getting them in his sights is making him profoundly nauseous. He shakes off the creeping feeling, shuffling through the rest of the contents of the mailer. The photos underneath are similar shots to the first, and he glazes over them. Point made, no reason to wallow. “At any rate, it’s good to know where he’ll be… aiming…” 

He trails off as he reaches the middle of the stack. He’s looking at a document – or, rather, a photocopy of one. Slightly skewed to the side, printer ink blackening the edges around the paper. He frowns down at it, confused. At first, the words refuse to arrange themselves in a way that makes sense. 

And then they do. 

The world, quite suddenly, tilts on its axis. 

“... Mr. Balthazar? Are you okay? You… you look kinda pale.”

Kevin’s words seem distant. Behind a wall of glass. 

He can feel his pulse in his palms. 

“Should I… Should I go get Mr. Novak? You… sorry, man, but you really don’t look good. I’m – I’m gonna – I’m gonna go get him, unless you tell me not to do that…” 

He should be saying something. He should. He knows he shouldn’t let Cassie see this – if there’s anything that’s bound to make the man have a paranoia induced breakdown that doesn’t involve Dean, it’s this. But logic like that seems far away right now. 

Impossible, in fact. He’s stuck in place. Fight, flight, freeze. There’s no one to hit, no one to run from. The last will have to do. 

“Okay. Okay, I’ll… I’ll be right back. Just. Do you want – um, water, or something? That’s… that’s stupid. Sorry. Never mind. You’re – fuck, okay. You’re not okay. Shit.” 

He hears, as if from far away, the sound of chair legs scooting across the floor. Footsteps padding away. 

He needs to get himself together. He needs to, because if Cassie sees him like this… But he can’t make himself stop reading and re-reading, eyes skating over the page like shaking hands trying to find the source of the bleeding. There’s too many wounds to count. His name, over and over. His photo. 

He keeps checking anyway, again and again. As if the document will magically change. Transform into something else. Anything else. 

Alastair shouldn’t have access to this. He shouldn’t have access to this. It’s confidential, locked in the derelict file room of a division of the county clerk’s office that no one cares about, left to gather dust into perpetuity. He shouldn’t have it. 

But he does. 

When Cassie bursts into the room, Balthazar cannot contain his flinch at all, can’t keep his scent steady or hidden or even slightly suppressed. He knows he’s probably polluting the entire floor with his fear, right now, but he cannot stop. 

Cassie is just Cassie, but he’s also an alpha, and Balthazar feels a sudden flush of fire through his veins. He knows, even now, it is all in his head. Psychosomatic. But it terrifies him anyway. Nearly sends him to his knees. 

“Bal. Bal. Balthazar,” Cassie is urging, his voice low and insistent. “Are you with me? We’re at the center. NRR. In your office. You’re safe here.” 

Balthazar nearly laughs, feeling hysterical. Cassie is falling back on their old flashback protocol, the routine they follow any time Balthazar stumbles into a situation that triggers him so badly he cannot discern reality from his memories. It normally works, after a time. Normally pulls him back into his safe and sound present day life, where there are no longer monsters around to torment him.

But, this time –  

This time. This is not something that’s just in his head. This is not a danger that, when he blinks back into reality, will disappear like smoke. This threat is tangible. This threat is real. 

“Balthazar, you need to breathe.” 

He can’t. He’d like to, he’d very much like to, but he can’t. He can feel his heart thrumming in his chest, beating so hard it might very well be about to stop, crying out for oxygen.  

Cassie’s presence, in times like this, is usually grounding. Balthazar had long ago given the alpha permission to touch him when he was going postal – the gentle reminder of family usually helps to bring him out of his memories, and, no matter how embarrassing it is for Cassie to see him in that state, he’s not keen to stay there longer than he has to. But this time, everything is different.

When the alpha reaches out to steady him, he flings himself backward on instinct alone, jumping up from his chair and slamming his back into the bookshelf. He sends a picture frame crashing to the floor. The noise nearly makes him vomit right there on the spot. Broken things mean broken skin. His master will punish him for that. 

His whole body is shaking. Flashing between hot and cold like something in his wiring has gone awry. He doesn’t know why he’s still standing – his death wish must be particularly strong today. He should be on his knees. He should– 

Cassie backs up, and for just a moment, Balthazar gets a flash of the present. For just a moment, he knows that Cassie is not his father, not his elder brothers, that they would never raise their hands just to leave them at waist height, hoping to calm him. That they would never be speaking soothing, gentle words. That they would never lower themselves into a chair to be less of a threat. The message couldn’t be more clear, and Balthazar knows the alpha won’t hurt him, knows it down to his bones, but– 

But. The photocopied bit of paper clutched in his hands shouldn’t exist. Alastair shouldn’t have known to even look for it. And, right now, Balthazar is having a very hard time separating reality from his memory of Michael grinding his heel into the freshly burned ring of fire around his neck.  

He holds out the papers. He doesn’t quite know why he does, but it feels correct. 

When Cassie reaches forward and gently pries the stack of documents from him, Balthazar doesn’t protest. He lets go automatically. Following the implied order of the alpha in the room, maybe – he doesn’t know. Doesn’t matter. He feels his stomach clench. Feels the urge to drop to the ground roll through him again like an electric current, goose flesh raised across his skin at the slight brush of Cassie’s fingers against his. 

“Please sit down, Bal,” Cassie says quietly. “Deep breaths.” 

He sits. Just barely manages to land in his chair, rather than on the floor. He tucks his head down between his knees, some distant memory of how to force himself calm rearing up. He’s had plenty of practice with getting himself under control in a scant few seconds.

Cassie doesn’t ask him why he’s panicking. He doesn’t have to. He can see it well enough, can read it just like Balthazar did. He ought to be familiar enough with the damn thing – he’d spent hours poring over it, after all. Making sure that every signature was in order, that every requirement was filled. He’d dotted the i’s and crossed the t’s and had done everything in his power to be sure that Balthazar would never again have to fear the pain of being owned. 

He doesn’t want it to be real. But the catch in Cassie’s breathing, the shift in his scent from concern to fear – that tells him it is. Balthazar isn’t seeing things, no matter how much he wants to be. 

The envelope was meant for them both after all. 

He makes a noise that he hardly recognizes. It’s sharp and pleading. Bitter. Hysterical. Because, really, isn’t it just his bloody luck? There’s a certain degree of irony that it’s the copy of his emancipation paperwork – the proof of his freedom – that Alastair has chosen to blackmail them with. A degree of irony in the fact that, knowing what he does about Cassie, the alpha is going to try to use it to collar him again. 

Balthazar just wishes he had the bravery to laugh. 

The rest of the day passes in a blur of grim expressions and low spoken words, and the evening finds them in Balthazar’s living room, gathered around in suspended, heavy silence. Like they’re attending a wake. 

They might as well be, Dean thinks. 

They’re camped out in various positions – Bal is curled into the corner of the couch, his laptop resting on his knees. Sam on the other end of it, cross-legged; his ridiculous, too tall body folded up like a kid’s. He’s got his computer, too. He and Bal have been at it all day. Looking for ways to protect Dean, and the center. 

Looking for something to use against Alastair. 

Cas, on the other hand, is occupying his own chair on the other side of the room. Dean doesn’t think he’d be sitting there normally, but these are strange circumstances. He’s fairly sure that the alpha is only here because Dean is. 

When they’d come home, Dean had dragged a cushion away from the window and had plopped himself down onto it, tugging a blanket off of the chair to fold around his shoulders. He’d been beyond caring that he was acting like a bitch, honestly. Beyond caring what Sam or Cas or Bal would think of him, sitting on the floor like a damn dog. He’d been too anxious to consider anything else, too antsy to pretend at sitting on the furniture like he was supposed to. 

None of them had said a thing. Sam had just brushed a comforting hand across Dean’s shoulder as he’d passed. Bal had brought him water and some food and told him on no uncertain terms that he was to finish both, conveniently ignoring the fact that he’s had nothing to eat either. Cas, for his part, had taken one look at the crumpled, beaten expression on Dean’s face and had opted not to sit on the ground next to him. Instead, he’d carefully positioned himself on the armchair behind him, only letting out his held breath when Dean had scooted closer and pressed his body against the alpha’s leg.

Someone had turned on the TV, at some point – it’s playing so low in the background that it’s nearly on mute. Dean had finished his food a long time ago, eating on autopilot, hardly tasting a thing. He’s just so tired. So ready for this shit to be over. 

He’s never done well with dread. Brutality, he can handle. Terror, pain. He can survive that. But dread… the long waiting game, the anticipation of some dark fate. That, he’s never been able to deal with for long. 

Even his worry feels selfish, though. Because right now, it’s more than just him that’s at stake. It’s Cas. It’s Balthazar. It’s the whole damn center. 

Just like he was scared it would be. 

Cas had been the one to tell him. He’d come back from Balthazar’s office looking white as a damn sheet, his scent sick with worry. With genuine fear. And Dean – Dean had held it together, just barely. Had done his level best to keep calm, to not add on to the alpha’s panic about his friend, about the stack of paper that could very easily destroy everything he and Bal have worked for. He’d pretended to believe him when Cas had said that everything would be okay. That they’d figure it out. 

But Dean had been scared, too. They’re all scared. The packet that Alastair had dropped on the center’s doorstep has landed in their lives like a fucking bomb . 

Just like he intended. 

“I can’t believe he didn’t get a single damn one,” Sam mutters, a break in the persistent silence. His focus is entirely centered around his computer screen, his food long forgotten. Nerd mode, Dean used to call it. Sam always hated when he’d tease him like that. “I mean, what are the odds, with how long he’s been running that place?”

“You’re gonna have to translate for the rest of us,” Dean says, a bittersweet sort of fondness blooming inside of him despite the circumstances. 

He missed this, he realized. Seeing Sam getting focused on a goal, watching his brother pour his everything into some task or another. Sam’s always been a genius, but it’s different to see him grown like this. Different to see innocent, child-like determination translated into his six-four adult frame, his intensity focused on something other than a science project or a research paper. 

It’s… it shouldn’t be, but it’s a little bewildering for Dean to realize that that’s all for him. That Sam is trying this hard for him. And it shouldn’t surprise him, really, ‘cause he already knows that Sam has spent pretty much the whole time Dean was gone trying to get him back. Fuck, his whole degree is centered around that. But it’s one thing to know something, and another to see evidence of it in front of his eyes. 

Dean just never thought he’d matter enough for this. He’s still not sure he actually does. 

Sam looks up distractedly, taking a second to focus on Dean at all. It’s clear his mind is elsewhere. He doesn’t actually have to explain, though, because Balthazar does it for him. 

“He means escapee strikes, mate,” the omega says. His voice is carefully neutral, and his eyes linger on Dean for a long moment, a clear question in them. “For runaways.” 

Whatever levity that had been inside Dean curls up and dies, and Balthazar must read loud and clear what Dean ain’t gonna say – no, Sam doesn’t know. Sam doesn’t know anything about his time in Hell, and Dean would very much like to keep it that way. The fact that Sam knows it was Alastair that owned him in the first place is already far more than Dean would ever have willingly shared with him on his own. 

Sam doesn’t need to hear about the specifics of Dean’s past. Sam doesn’t need to hear how badly Dean was broken. How he was violated and hurt. Knowledge like that – it won’t do anything but make Sam feel guilty, he thinks, as misplaced as that guilt would be. And Dean doesn’t want him to know anyway.

He doesn’t want to think about those days. He’d give anything to forget them. 

Balthazar must understand that, because he keeps his mouth shut. He turns back to his computer and minds his business. And Dean’s grateful for that; out of everyone in this room, Bal is the one that knows best what he’s been through. Bal’s the one that knows what it’s like to want to keep your pain a secret, because telling the people you love will do nothing but allow it to hurt them, too. 

But Cas, of course, doesn’t understand any of that, and so Dean really shouldn’t be surprised when he unintentionally lets the cat out of the bag. 

“Not for lack of trying,” the alpha rumbles, voice thick with compassion as he reaches down to rest his hand on Dean’s shoulder. His tone is full of sympathy. Love. Clearly, he’s interpreted Dean’s distressed scent as guilt – for not stopping Alastair to begin with. 

It’s not a ridiculous assumption to make, considering that’s exactly how Dean feels, but fuck if this isn’t the wrong time to bring it up. 

Sam didn’t know. He didn’t know Dean had tried and failed, but now he does.   

Dean’s not mad at Cas for spilling the beans. The man had no way of knowing Dean hadn’t shared that information with Sam – he’s told Bal, after all, so it’s not out of the question that he’d mentioned it to his brother. And even if he hadn’t thought so, Dean knows Cas ain’t trying to hurt him. Knows that Cas doesn’t think Dean’s failure is a failure at all, that he doesn’t understand the shame Dean feels every time he thinks about it. Cas is just trying to make him feel better. 

He doesn’t dare to look up at his brother, but he can pretty easily scent the shift in the room anyway. “What do you mean?” Sam asks. His voice is carefully level, but that doesn’t fool Dean in the slightest. 

Balthazar and Cas speak at the same time – whatever confused question Cas had been about to ask is drowned out by the omega’s sharp voice, a clear warning in his tone. “Cassie, don’t–” 

“He means that I tried, Sam.” 

Silence rings out after that. It’s a long time before Dean is brave enough to look Sam in the eye. A long time before he can speak around the lump in his throat. Cas’s scent has stumbled into an abrupt sort of guilt – obviously, he hadn’t known he’d been telling a secret. Dean’s just glad he isn’t trying to apologize right now. He can’t handle reassuring Cas on top of everything else. 

His brother is staring at him, his expression blank, and Dean feels something in his stomach sink. “I… I tried.” 

Sam’s eyes are wide. Face pale. “You mean you…” 

“Ran, yeah,” Dean says, his voice a little rough. 

He clears his throat in the resulting silence. Fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He doesn’t want to fucking talk about this. Doesn’t want to get into the nitty gritty details of his failure. Of the real reason they’re all in this position to begin with. 

If Dean had just fought a little harder…

“But… that’s not on his record,” Sam says slowly, glancing from Dean to his screen. “Charlie and Ash dug up everything they could find, and there’s not a single…” 

Balthazar huffs. “You’re a lawyer, Samuel. Surely you don’t need to be reminded that not everyone feels the need to follow the letter of the law.” 

His voice is twisted with bitterness. Dean can’t blame him. Out of all of them, Balthazar really has the most reason to be panicking, the most reason to be an asshole. But he’s held strong all day. Hasn’t let the strain of the fucking anvil Alastair’s holding over his head make him lose his cool again. 

Dean studies his hands, shame bubbling up inside of him again. Balthazar hadn’t even suggested that they give Dean up. Hadn’t done so much as entertain the idea that they give in to what Alastair wants. Even though it would keep him safe. Even though his own hard-won freedom is in danger, now. 

He’s too good for that. 

Dean keeps his eyes fixed on the carpet, but he can still sense when Sam turns to look at him. His brother’s scent is beginning to sharpen at the edges. Something between anger and grief. But, even as guilty and exhausted as he is, Dean has the common sense to understand that Sam’s anger isn’t directed at him. 

Even if it should be. 

“Of course you ran,” Sam says finally.

It’s not what Dean expected to hear. When he looks up, Sam is staring at him with some unidentifiable emotion on his face. A cross between fondness and frustration. His voice is tight. “I should have known,” he continues, shaking his head with a little laugh. “No way you wouldn’t.” 

It sends a pang through him – Sam’s confidence. His little-brother surety that Dean would do the right thing. Because he may have tried, but he hadn’t actually succeeded. Dean had given up far before he could. Sam’s pride in him is misplaced. 

“Didn’t matter,” he manages. His voice is small. “In the end.” 

Cas squeezes his shoulder. “The man’s failure to face justice isn’t your burden, Dean,” he says solemnly. And shit, he probably believes that. Probably thinks Dean isn’t a coward for stopping when he did, for throwing in the towel. Dean knows better, though. Cas might forgive him for his weakness, but Dean’s never gonna forgive himself. Especially not now, when the cost of his cowardice is the safety of the people he cares about. 

“It isn’t,” Balthazar echos, his voice terse. He sounds very much like he knows exactly what Dean is thinking. “You were off your rocker to try once, let alone thrice. That he refused to play by the rules is not your fault.” He takes a breath, massaging his temples. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. More controlled. “None of this is.” 

Shame snakes through him. Dean knows that’s a lie, but it’s one the omega seems to actually believe. Balthazar has every reason to hate him, but for whatever reason he doesn’t seem to. 

Dean kind of wishes he would. That someone would. 

He can feel Sam’s eyes burning a hole into him. The silence in the room sits like a weight on his chest, pressing down. Wringing the last of his composure from him. What must Sam think of him now, knowing that, in the end, he had the ability to escape, but not the will? That he could have kept trying, if he’d wanted to? 

After that third time, Alastair’s grip on him had loosened considerably. He’d let it loosen, because he’d thought Dean was too broken to try running again. 

He’d been right. He’d been right. 

“It’s illegal,” Sam says finally, and if he notices that Dean flinches at the words because he’d been expecting something different, he doesn’t mention it. “The fact that he didn’t report it.” 

“I know,” Dean says woodenly. “Knew then. From Dad.” John had been called in as a black market bounty hunter enough times – fetching slaves that owners didn’t want to report missing for the exact same reasons as Alastair. What he doesn’t say is that Alastair might well have hired someone like his dad, if Dean had continued to run, or been harder to find. He and Sam both know that, and neither one of them wants to face it. 

Dean shrugs. “He must’a… bought my tracking info off someone, I guess. ‘Cause he never…” He swallows. Feels an unpleasant shiver crawl down his spine. “He never had to report it. Always caught me before he had to.” 

“So then, if you knew,” Sam says carefully, “after the first time. That it wouldn’t work, I mean. That he wasn’t actually going to get any strikes. How come you…” 

Dean half laughs. “Man, I had to try,” he answers, brow furrowing. He looks up at his brother, wondering if Sam is fucking with him. He knows exactly what must have been going through his mind – hell, he knows that if Sam had been in Dean’s position, he would have done the same. Done better. He doesn’t know why he’s pretending there was any other option. Trying to make him feel better, maybe. “I… I should have kept trying.” 

The words are hard to say. Feel like arrows ripped out of him, honestly. But Sam doesn’t nod like Dean expects him to, doesn’t agree that Dean should have kept fighting. Instead, his expression crumples into something pained. “Dean…” 

He trails off. At a loss for what to say, and Dean can’t blame him. It ain’t exactly how they were raised – to give up when things got hard. “Don’t, Sam,” he mutters. 

“No, man, listen–” 

“I don’t want to fucking talk about it, okay?”

The words are loud, harsh, and the silence that rings after them is loaded. Dean can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on him like a physical weight. He clenches his fists at his sides, looking down at the carpet, guilt bubbling up inside of him. “I don’t want to talk about that shit.” 

He knows he’s being a coward. If Sam wants to call him on taking the easy way out, Dean should let him. But fuck if he isn’t tired of thinking about what a screwup he is. Fuck if he doesn’t want to face the fact that it’s his fault that they’re here now, with this monster breathing down their necks. Threatening everything they hold dear, all because Dean didn’t do his damn job. 

“You don’t even know what I’m gonna say,” Sam insists, hurt laced in his tone. “I just– ” 

“That’s enough,” Cas interrupts, his voice a veritable stop sign. Dean knows the alpha probably only understands half of this conversation – the nonverbal argument he and Sam are having. That doesn’t stop him from trying to have Dean’s back, of course. Cas never seems to need a reason to defend him. And, as much as Dean doesn’t deserve that kind of loyalty, he’s grateful for it anyway. 

Sam’s mouth snaps shut. He glares at Cas like he’s considering an argument, and then thinks better of it. He just runs an agitated hand through his hair, letting out a harsh sigh. “It… it would just be nice if we could prove it, is all,” he finally settles on, not looking back up at Dean again. He sounds so beaten down. So tired. 

They all are. 

“Wouldn’t work,” Balthazar mutters darkly. But Sam frowns, sitting up straighter. Dean barely holds back a groan at the familiar expression of determination that blooms on his brother’s face.

“Why?” Sam asks, looking at Bal. “If we could prove it, it would mean he couldn’t own anyone, let alone Dean, and we could probably keep him from using what he has on you, too–”  

“And how would you prove it, Samuel?” Balthazar snaps, flashing his teeth. “Do you plan to make him confess? To manifest documentation that doesn’t exist? The man knew exactly what he was doing by not reporting it. He’s not stupid.” 

Sam’s jaw tenses, and the spark of frustration in his scent would probably be enough to send Dean to the floor if he wasn’t there already. “I know, I’m just…” 

“Engaging in pointless wishful thinking,” Bal finishes tersely. “Do us all a bloody favor and stop.” 

Dean could happily melt into the dirt, at this point – he hates that they’re fighting like this, snapping at each other over him. “Ease off, man,” he mumbles at Balthazar, eyes on his lap. Cas’s hand on his shoulder tightens. “He ain’t wrong.” 

Balthazar huffs, irritation snaking through his scent to match Sam’s. “Perhaps not, but hypotheticals help no one. You tried your best to take the bastard down the only way you could, Winchester. It’s not your fault that he didn’t play by the rules. No one thinks it is.” 

The words are tense – harsh in tone. But they’re ultimately kind. Trying to take the burden of blame off of Dean. He wishes he could believe them. 

He shakes his head. Cas’s hand slides off of his shoulder when he leans forward and hauls himself off the floor. “I’m tired,” he announces, throat tight. His voice cracks. He can’t keep it together for the life of him. 

Cas doesn’t need to have it spelled out for him – he rises to his feet as well, glancing around the room. “As am I. Perhaps… perhaps we should all call it a night?” he suggests, far less sure of himself than he’d been moments ago. Clearly, it’s sunk in that he’s unintentionally opened a can of worms. 

Dean nods, even though he knows they ain’t gonna get much sleep. He doesn’t know how they could – not with the knowledge that Alastair has them over a barrel like he does. It’s a waiting game, at this point. They’re holding their collective breath until the man decides he’s tired of playing with his food, and lets the ax fall. 

Much as he’d probably like to continue to argue, Sam deflates. “... Yeah,” he mumbles. “It’s… getting late.” 

Balthazar nods his agreement, snapping his computer closed. “We’ll reconvene in the morning. The bastard has slipped up somewhere,” he says, confidence in his tone that Dean isn’t sure he really feels. He can scent the fear that’s lingering on the omega’s skin. The remains of the terror that had sent Kevin bolting into Cas’s office in a panic. 

Dean wouldn’t know it now, though. Not with how calm the omega looks now. “No one has a record that’s completely clean – especially a man like him,” he continues grimly. “We’ll find something.” 

Dean appreciates the optimism – he does. Especially coming from someone like Balthazar, who he knows isn’t exactly one to say useless shit just to make people feel better. But even that doesn’t change the facts. 

Alastair has them exactly where he wants them.

Cas falls asleep before he does, and Dean is grateful for it. 

The alpha is wrapped around him, his front to Dean’s back – his breath is tickling the hair behind Dean’s ear, his hand curled against Dean’s chest. He’s pretty sure Cas had only managed to fall asleep because Dean had pretended he was, too – he hadn’t answered Cas’s quiet calling of his name half an hour ago, keeping his breath carefully even and deep instead. Cas had drifted off after that, exhaustion finally pushing him over the edge. 

The alpha needs the rest. Needs the chance to recover from the shit show they’ve all been through over the last couple of days. 

Dean can’t get his expression out of his head – the fear that had flashed across his face when Cas had realized what Alastair had dug up about him. When he’d realized what Alastair had on Balthazar. The way the older omega’s fear had clung to his skin, acid sharp and stinging. The memory makes him sick. 

Dean’s an idiot to not have thought of it before; the possibility that his former master would use something like that against them. The man has a talent for finding things to hold over people that will hurt the most. Doesn’t matter how well they’re hidden or buried. Twist enough arms, slip money to the right people, stick your nose in enough places where it doesn’t belong, and there’s always something. Some noose he can use to strangle you with. 

Dean’s phone blinks at him from the nightstand. His stomach twists. He closes his eyes.

Sam’s words keep playing on repeat in his head, a hamster wheel he can’t get off of. If Dean could just prove it. If he had something, anything concrete that he could hold over Alastair – some way to fuck up his life in the same way he’s threatening to fuck up all of theirs. Some way to keep him at bay. Fire to wave in the face of the wolf. 

The man had been careful. Even when Dean had belonged to him, even when he’d been too broken even to beg, he’d been careful. Dean knows good and well Alastair’s mixed up in shit he shouldn’t be, knows that the brothel ain’t the only way he made his money. Alastair had had his fingers in all kinds of pies – drugs, black market deals, whatever. Dean knows some of the shit he forced on slaves ain’t legal. Knows that, when slaves disappeared, it hadn’t always been because they’d been re-sold. 

But Alastair hadn’t left a trail. And now, every shred of evidence that might prove he was breaking the law in more ways than one has burned down along with Hell. 

Everything, that is, except for Dean. 

The number he’d found on the table is burned into his memory. He hadn’t picked up the card – he’d known better than that. Had known that if the thing went missing, Balthazar or Cas would know immediately that he’d found it. But he’d memorized it anyway. He hadn’t been able to do anything else. 

Cas hadn’t even tried to keep the card from him. Apparently, Dean’s history of taking deals with the devil wasn’t enough to make the man lose trust in him. He’s told Dean that Alastair left it with Balthazar – along with some unnecessary reassurances that Cas wouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of reaching out to the man. 

Dean had tried to put the damn thing out of his mind. He’d known how much it would hurt Cas, if he ran off to Alastair – if he tried to give himself up to get the man out of their lives before he could do any more damage. He’d been tempted – of course he’d been tempted. But he’d thought about what it would do to Cas, to have him disappear. What it would do to Sam. 

He’d told himself they’d find another way. 

But, of course, his hesitance had cost them. Now, Alastair has found things he can use to hurt them – to destroy Cas’s life, Bal’s life. And Dean has no doubt that he won’t stop there. That he’ll keep digging and digging, tearing at the vulnerable underbelly of the center until he finds enough to shut them down, to paint a big enough target on their back that no one there is safe. He’ll take away the only hope of freedom that those slaves have ever had.

All because he wants Dean. 

He swallows. Takes a deep, fortifying breath, trying to keep himself calm. If he works himself up into a panic, Cas is gonna wake up, and he doesn’t want that. Dean needs time to think.  

If he could only prove it, that Alastair broke the law. That he legally shouldn’t be allowed to own anyone ever again. It wouldn’t just help Dean, if he could do that – it would be enough to keep Alastair away from them. He knows it would, because the man wouldn’t want cops poking into his business. Wouldn’t want any attention drawn to himself that he couldn’t easily wriggle out of. 

Dean could hold that proof over his head just like Alastair is so talented at doing to everyone else – if only he could get it. 

He stares at his phone from across the bed. Bites his lip. 

He closes his eyes. 

In the end, it’s almost disappointingly easy to convince Cas to leave him home for the day. 

The alpha has been nervous about taking him up to the center anyway, ever since Alastair had shown up there. Dean knows that, and he uses it to his advantage the next morning. When he wakes up, he grimaces a little. Lets his movements become lethargic and sluggish. Lets himself lean on Cas a little more than he usually does. It ain’t exactly a hardship. 

“Are you alright, Dean?” Cas asks, right on cue. 

Dean, with his face tucked into the alpha’s shoulder, shakes his head. “Don’t feel good.” 

Cas’s scent sharpens with worry. “Are you sick?”

“Dunno,” Dean mumbles. Guilt is eating away at him already, but he hopes Cas will just take it in stride – he’s been guilty for days now, anyway. “M’stomach hurts. Head, too.” 

Cas’s hand comes up to his forehead – probably checking for a temperature that Dean doesn’t actually have. “You should see Pam. I’ll call her, make sure she has the treatment room open–” 

Dean grips Cas’s shirt before he can reach for his phone, shaking his head. “No,” he says quickly. “No, I… I don’t need that. I’m fine. Just… just a little. Off.” 

Cas’s worry doesn’t dissipate, but he does relax back against the bed frame. He takes a deep breath. “You know she won’t do anything without your permission.” 

Dean swallows. He does know that. At this point, he trusts Pam, because he trusts Cas. But, much as it pains him to do it, he knows he can use Cas’s assumption to his advantage. 

“Please don’t make me go,” he whispers, shame curling inside of him immediately at the blatant manipulation. He feels fucking dirty. 

Cas melts, his worry softening into care. Protectiveness. “Of course I won’t. Wouldn’t. We… we can just stay home. I’m sure it’s simply the stress of… of everything. You need rest.” 

Dean closes his eyes. He loves this man so fucking much it hurts, and he doesn’t want to keep lying to him. But he has to do this. He has to, or everything Cas has worked for will end up destroyed because of Dean. And Dean won’t be able to live with himself if that happens.

“You gotta go to work, Cas,” he mumbles, shaking his head. “They need you. Bal needs you,” he adds, going for the heavy hitter. And he ain’t even wrong, honestly – the omega needs Cas right now more than ever. 

“Dean…” 

“I’ll be okay,” he says stubbornly. “Just… just gonna sleep.” He lets his body soften against Cas. Lets his breathing go slow, go more even, like he’s drifting off even now. “M’tired.” 

Cas hesitates for a long time. His hand has come up, probably automatically, to rhythmically rub up and down Dean’s back. “I… I’m sorry. The thought of not being here with you is making me irrationally worried.” 

Dean takes a breath. “I know. But… m’safe here. I know that.” 

Cas sighs. “You are,” he agrees, and if the words are a little reluctant, Dean can’t really fault him. “I have a hard time believing that he would not have already shown his face here, if he knew Balthazar’s address.” 

Dean nods, and when Cas doesn’t say anything else, he noses into the man’s neck. Lingers there for a while, slowly rubbing his jaw back and forth across the spot behind Cas’s ear. An intentional scenting. He hasn’t done that since his heat, and he can feel the way it makes Cas relax. The way he subconsciously lets down his guard, knowing Dean has marked himself as his in the most innocent way possible. 

“I… I kinda want time to myself, anyway,” he forces himself to say. Forces himself to make it sound like a confession. “Just… I need time to process. Wanna call Bobby, I think. Maybe Benny, too.” 

The lies sit like acid in his stomach, and immediately, he wants to take them back. Wants to fess up, to scramble backward, to go with Cas up to the center where he feels safe and surrounded by people who care for him, even if that safety is rapidly fading away.  

But he doesn’t take them back. He can’t. 

Cas lets loose a breath, and with it, his argument. Before he says anything at all, Dean knows he’s won – Cas is so bad at denying him what he asks for, even if it goes against what he himself wants. It makes something in him ache. 

“Alright,” he says softly. “I… okay. It’s your choice, I know. I apologize for pressuring you.” 

Dean hates himself. “S’okay,” he mumbles, gripping Cas a little tighter. God, he doesn’t want to fucking do this. “You just wanna keep me safe.” 

“Of course I do,” the alpha says gently. His hand cards through Dean’s hair – soft and even. Soothing. “We’ll figure this out, Dean. I know we will.” 

Dean nods. And, when Cas finally pulls away from him to get ready for the day, he feels something in his heart splinter and crack. 

Alastair answers his text like he’d been expecting it. 

There’s no hesitation, no confusion. When Dean messages him – I want to meet – his former master doesn’t even bother to ask who it is. He simply replies with an address and time, rapid fire, like he’s been waiting to pounce on the phone for days. Like he somehow knew Dean would have access to a phone, to his number. Like he somehow knew Dean would end up using it. 

Just to talk, Dean messages back, heart in his throat. Hands shaking so hard he can barely get the message out. 

Of course, his former master sends back. Dean can see his fucking smile behind those words. The smug satisfaction poisoning his expression – the knowledge that he has Dean at his beck and call once again. It makes him shudder. Makes his stomach roll with nausea, so sick that he nearly flings the phone away from himself so he can pretend he hasn’t opened this door. Like he isn’t about to walk through it all on his own. 

If I do this, you have to leave them out of it, he sends, after ten solid minutes of dredging up the courage, his heart in his throat. Even like this, with miles separating them, phone screens between them, he’s scared. Scared to speak to Alastair out of turn. Phantom pains keep licking up and down his spine every time he types out a new letter. Every time he dares to make a demand of a man who once had him begging for mercy at a mere glance. 

Deal, he gets back, and then nothing more. 

Dean isn’t an idiot. He doesn’t believe it for a second; Alastair has never had any problem lying through his teeth. He’s not one to keep silly things like promises or deals. Honor, to him, is a foreign concept. Dean had figured that out a long time ago. 

The only thing that Alastair follows through on are threats. 

But he also knows that, in order for his former master to actually keep him, he’ll have to break the law. He’ll have to run and hide with Dean in tow, and Dean won’t make it easy. Alastair had dug up plenty of incriminating information about Cas, but that also means he knows Cas has money. Has resources. Has the determination it would take to hunt him down. And as much as Dean knows Alastair isn’t intimidated by anyone, he also knows that the man likes to play it smart. Doesn’t like to stick his neck out more than necessary. 

He won’t want to give Cas the chance to hold something against him, even if that something is Dean. So, he’ll probably leave Dean alone. He won’t drag him by his scruff into his car and disappear into the night, no matter what Dean’s stomach-sick dread is telling him, because he won’t want to go on the run as a thief. There’s a reason he’s trying to do this the legal way, and it’s not so he can fumble it last minute by getting over eager. 

Dean hopes not, anyway. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He has no choice. This is his one chance to get something to hold over the alpha. His one chance. And he can’t give it up because he’s scared. 

He’s careful to keep his mind off of Cas for the rest of the afternoon. He can’t think too hard about the alpha, can’t stop to consider what he’s doing. It goes without saying that Cas is going to be furious with him. If he was mad when Dean got out of the car by himself in a damn parking garage… Dean doesn’t even want to consider how he’ll feel after this. After Dean walks into the lion’s den all on his own, knowing full well what waits inside. 

It’s not the anger, though, that nearly makes Dean call off the whole thing. Not the threat of the alpha’s rage. It’s that he doesn’t want to hurt Cas. Doesn’t want to worry him. And if he chooses to do this, he will worry him – Alastair had chosen a meeting place near Seattle, miles away. He’d wanted Dean to be out late. He’d wanted Cas to know he was gone. 

He’d wanted to fuck with Cas’s head. 

Dean spends the afternoon steeling his nerve. Picking out the right clothes that will help him blend in and look free, pacing around Balthazar’s house with his heart in his throat. Checking and double checking and triple checking that the Impala’s keys are in the bowl by the door, right where Cas left them. He’s lucky the alpha got his own car a couple of days ago. Lucky that he trusts Dean enough to leave the keys here. 

The thought makes him sick, because it means that Cas has no idea he’s going to do this. It’s going to blindside him. Hit him like a fucking truck. 

He’d been fortunate, in hindsight, that Sam and Bal had already left for the center by the time he played sick with Cas. He’s pretty sure that either of them would have seen through him in a second – Sam because he knows him. Knows what self-sacrifice looks like on him. Bal because he’s a suspicious, cynical bastard. For good reason.

He’s already gotten one message from Sam, simply telling him to feel better. Nothing from Bal, but that’s not too surprising. The man’s got enough on his mind, with the threat of the fucking Morningstars hanging over his head. Dean, again, wonders how the fuck he’s keeping it together as well as he is. Balthazar is a better man than he’ll ever be. 

And if this goes south, he hopes the omega will be strong enough to keep Cas in one piece. 

Half an hour or so before he needs to go, Dean finally works up the courage to pick up the Impala’s keys. The car has always brought him comfort, has always felt like home. But when he slides into the driver’s seat, Dean can’t feel anything but dread. 

His first time driving in over a decade, and he’s heading right back toward the man who wants to take it all away.  

Dean can already feel tears trying to press out of his eyes, can feel the way his body and his mind both want to bail. He wants to crawl back into bed, wants to bury himself in blankets and pillows and the scent of Cas. He doesn’t want to do this. 

He starts up the car anyway, because he knows better than to think he has a choice. 

The rumble of the Impala, despite the circumstances, soothes him. He leans forward. Closes his eyes and lets the thrum of the engine slow his heartbeat. His hands on the wheel still feel familiar, even after all this time. Muscle memory, he figures. If he concentrates hard enough, it’s like no time at all has passed since he last drove her. He can take a breath and throw himself back to that moment where he said goodbye to Sam for the week, his heart aching with bittersweet happiness at his baby brother getting to do some normal shit for once. He can still feel the flash against the back of his eyes when Sam’s teacher had snapped a picture of them both before Sam had run up onto the bus – a before photo, she’d said jokingly, laughing about how the kids always seemed to come back from camp a little older. A little more mature. 

Dean hadn’t thought Sam would change like that at all. Dean had thought Sam, for once, would get to just be a kid. 

He opens his eyes. 

Sam hadn’t been able to be a kid at all, after that. Dean had ripped the only stable thing he’d ever had out of his life. And yeah, it had been to keep him safe. But it had still done damage. 

This… will do damage. No matter how it turns out. This will hurt Sam again. Cas, too. 

His hand goes to the key automatically – like he’s going to turn off the car. Like he’s going to clamber out and go back inside with his tail between his legs, like he’s gonna give up before he’s even tried. 

He nearly does. 

When Dean pulls up to the bar, he has to convince himself all over again to actually get out of the car. 

It had taken nearly an hour to get here. He’d carefully plugged the address he’d been sent into the GPS built into his phone. Cas had shown him how to use it, nearly a month ago now – he’d wanted to be sure Dean could find his way home if the worst were to happen. Had wanted to be sure he’d be safe. The memory makes Dean want to laugh – or maybe cry. 

A little ironic, that Dean is using what Cas taught him to do this. 

He’d driven extremely carefully the whole way here. Had done a couple of laps around a street near Bal’s house before he’d ventured out properly, making sure he actually did remember how to drive. It had been a little rough, at first – recalling how to be gentle with the gas, how to hit the brake at just the right time, how to coax the wheel to the right position for a smooth turn. He’d shaken off the cobwebs pretty fast, all things considered. Some things are like riding a bike.  

He wishes, desperately, that the first time he’d gotten to drive Baby again had been to anywhere but here. 

The bar in question is seedy. In the middle of town, music thumping across the parking lot and into Dean’s car. There’s a steady stream of people coming in and out of the doors – loud, drunken laughter. People shouting. The patio is filled with music and conversation and bottles clinking together. 

Dean doesn’t want to go in there. 

He unbuckles his seat belt anyway. He knows Cas has got to be almost home, by now. The sun is starting to set, and even though he knows Cas wants to work late, he’s sure Bal has sent him home. He wonders when the first call will come in. 

He clicks his phone over to silent, lip caught between his teeth. 

It’s not too late. He can still leave. He can still drive away, put his back to Alastair and this whole fucking thing. He can still go home and say sorry and he didn’t know what he was thinking and yeah, of course he’ll wait for Cas and the center to figure things out. 

He could. But, at the same time. He really can’t. 

The door swings open with a familiar squeak of hinges, something he wouldn’t fix even if he could – it reminds him too much of home, that noise. Of long trips with his dad in the driver’s seat and Sam passed out with his head on Dean’s shoulder. Of safety and warmth. 

The sound of it shutting doesn’t bring him nearly the same comfort. 

He puts his hand on the roof. Takes a deep breath, and tugs his phone out of his pocket. He navigates to and taps the little button that will tape what he says. Another feature built into this fancy little brick. He thinks his old flip phone did the same thing, actually – he has a vague memory of waiting by the radio for his favorite song to come on, hurriedly pressing the record button so he could use it as his ringtone. Sam had thought it was funny. He’d burped as loud as he could right at the good part. Dean had given him a noogie for it. 

Dean closes his eyes. He needs to get his head screwed on straight. Start fucking focusing. 

The bar isn’t upscale enough to card at the door – it’s just a local joint, something that looks like it’s full of college kids and regulars from the surrounding blocks of apartments. He ducks his head when he walks in anyway, hands jammed in his pockets. Ain’t like he’s gonna get recognized, but he doesn’t want to draw any attention. 

Immediately, he’s assaulted by a million different scents, a million different sounds. He feels his heart rate tick up, feels himself go pale. His instinct is to freeze, to back up. But he forces himself forward anyway. 

When he gets to the bar, he collapses onto the first open stool he sees and tries to breathe normally. He knows his scent is probably spiking and spiraling out of control, and by the smell of it there’s plenty of alphas in here who could pick up on it. He doesn’t want to be sitting here, but he also doesn’t think he’s gonna be able to stand without looking suspicious, and frankly with the number of things that are freaking him out right now, the fact that he’s on furniture isn’t even touching him. He has to calm down. He has to– 

“What are you havin’, hon?”

Dean jerks his head up, startled. The barkeep is staring at him with her hand on her hip, canted to the side. Dean wonders if she’s tried to get his attention more than once. He figures it’s pretty likely. 

He tries to open his mouth, tries to say something normal, but his throat feels glued shut. Her eyebrows climb higher on her face, and she studies him. Probably trying to figure out why he’s being so fucking weird. “Everything okay?”

Dean feels himself flush. “I – uh. Yeah,” he blurts intelligently. He clears his throat. “Whiskey. On the rocks.” 

He hadn’t known he was gonna order it until the words popped out of his mouth. It’s lucky that Cas gave him cash for emergencies – he fumbles with his wallet and throws a ten and a five down on the counter, hoping like hell that’s enough to cover it. He doesn’t remember what shit like this costs. Doesn’t know if the price of things has changed since then, anyway.  

The woman gives him an even more confused look, but she doesn’t keep questioning him. She just shrugs and pours him a drink, not bothering to ask what kind of whiskey he’s after. She swipes the money off the counter and folds it into her apron and he figures she’s probably given him the cheapest they’ve got. More for her tip. 

He doesn’t care. He doesn’t think too hard before he downs it, the now unfamiliar burn of alcohol nearly making him retch. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been drunk. Willingly, anyway. He doesn’t count the couple of times a master forced him to drink with them. Those memories are blurry. 

The alcohol splashes into his empty stomach, sending a flash of warmth through him. He should have eaten something. He shouldn’t have had anything to drink. 

The barkeep leaves him alone, after that – he’s lucky she didn’t card him. Dean doesn’t think he looks young, but it could have happened anyway, and then he’d be fucked. He takes a shaky breath. Tries to gather himself. 

A couple of seats down, there’s a gaggle of beta girls having a great time. Laughing and joking with one another, trading brightly colored drinks. Dean can hear the clack of pool balls, the snick of darts flying into a board, can hear the dude on the other end of the counter trying to sweet talk the bartender, can hear glass mugs and bottles thunking down on old wood laminate. 

He feels nauseous. 

He should pull out his phone. Should check to see if Cas is looking for him. But he doesn’t want to pull it out of his pocket. It feels like a little shield – the fact that it’s recording. He knows that’s stupid, but he can’t help but take a litle comfort from it anyway. 

He sits. He waits. 

It’s just like Alastair, to make him wait. The fucker always took his sweet time. Relished every chance he got to make Dean squirm. He doesn’t know what time it is, and doesn’t want to look at his phone to check – he’s too afraid he’ll see missed calls and texts flash on the screen, and he’s not gonna be able to hold it together at all if he thinks too hard about how freaked out Cas and Sam probably are right now. 

He hunkers down and grits his teeth. 

He feels Alastair’s eyes on him before he sees him. 

The alpha is leaning on the far wall opposite Dean, half in shadow, nursing a glass of scotch. It’s only the wicked, silvery scar pulling his skin to the side that proves any time at all has passed – the rest is exactly the same. His shirt sleeves are rolled up in that precise way they always are, folded to expose his lean, twisted forearms. His jaw and his gaze are exactly as sharp and cruel as Dean remembers.

He’s smiling. 

Dean feels his insides turn to ice. He grips his empty drink in front of him with a shaking hand, eyes dropping like a stone. Shrinks into himself in an automatic attempt to hide – but it’s too late. Alastair already knows he’s here. Alastair already knows he won’t leave.

He doesn’t have to wait long for the man to make his move. 

The touch on his shoulder is like a brand – so cold it’s hot, searing into his skin, his former master’s hand pinning him to his stool more effectively than a chain and a metal stake in the ground. He sidles in, his body brushing against Dean’s. Possessive, even in this. Touching as much of Dean as he can. As much as he wants. 

Around them, people go about their business. The bartender is mixing up some complicated looking drink, grinning at someone and angling for a better tip. The girls a few seats down have meandered toward the dartboards, laughing and giggling as a couple of college aged boys volunteer to show them how to make a bullseye. Dean is surrounded by people, but not a single one even looks in his direction. Not a single one sees how his eyes widen, how his breath picks up in his chest, how it takes everything in him not to wrench away when Alastair’s hand creeps up to rest just below his nape. 

Alastair sees it, though. He sees everything. Dean’s never been able to hide from him. 

“No collar, I see,” he breathes, voice hardly audible over the thump of the music and the murmur of the strangers around them. “You must sit very pretty for your new owner, to have earned that treat.”  

Dean swallows. Feels sweat drip down his back. He doesn’t think he’s breathing. 

“I know you better than that, though. Don’t I, pet?” the man asks easily, his thumb ghosting over the back of Dean’s neck. A blatant threat. A warning about what will happen if he doesn’t behave. Dean doesn’t dare to move. Doesn’t dare to look up at all, let alone meet the man’s gaze. He couldn’t if he wanted to. 

“I’ll be honest – I didn’t truly think you’d come,” he says, clearly amused as he traces a burning path along Dean’s skin, sending a shudder down Dean’s spine. “Didn’t think you’d have it in you.” 

“That was the deal,” Dean forces himself to say, nausea already threatening to take his words from him. His voice is shaking. “You s-said. You…” 

“Of course. And you know I’m a man of my word,” Alastair soothes, lightly scraping his fingernails through the hair at Dean’s nape. It makes goosebumps erupt across his skin. He swallows bile. “You know that better than anyone, don’t you?”

Dean closes his eyes. Feels the world around him spin. He wants, more than anything, to run. 

He can’t, though. He has to play the game, or–

“What a mess you’ve made of things,” Alastair coos, his words soft enough that only Dean can hear their poison. He wants to scream. Wants someone – anyone – to look. To care. “Pretending to be something you aren’t.” 

Swallowing, Dean struggles to control his breathing. Struggles to remember why he’s here. His phone is in his front pocket, recording every single thing Alastair is saying. Every hateful hiss. They’re bound to work in his favor at some point – bound to be something Dean can use. Evidence. He isn’t giving up, no matter how much it feels like it, no matter how much Alastair must think he is. 

Alastair can’t do anything to him here. Not in public.

Now when he doesn’t own him.

Maybe Alastair senses those defiant thoughts in him, because his grip tightens for just a moment. Dean feels a flash of terror, feels his vision start to go a little blurry at the pressure on his nape, and he opens his mouth – to shout, to draw attention to himself, damn the deal, damn the consequences –  

But the alpha releases him just as quickly. He’s standing in the next instant, his touch falling to Dean’s hip. The mockery of something loving, something intimate. He leans forward, lets his breath ghost across Dean’s ear as he speaks. 

“Come,” he commands silkily, alpha in his tone, and that’s all it takes for Dean’s will to crumble to nearly nothing. Force of habit – a nearly irresistible, well-shaped response to training, something drilled into him as deeply as will to breathe. Submitting to his master has been force fed to him as the only way to escape pain. 

He feels tears burn at the back of his eyes, feels his heart drop to his stomach when he truly understands how easy this is going to be for Alastair.

He’s steering Dean up off his seat after that, guiding him like a gentle lover away from the counter, directly toward the door that leads out toward what must be a back alley. The whiskey Dean so foolishly downed threatens to come back up when he realizes what the alpha is doing. Trying to get him alone. 

Alastair is ready for him when he finally dredges up the will to try to twist away. His touch goes from gentle and guiding to painful in an instant, his thumb digging into Dean’s hip with bruising pressure. “Ah ah ah, pet,” he warns lowly, dragging Dean back toward him until their bodies are pressed together. Revulsion crawls up Dean’s throat. “Not a peep.” 

The warning goes unspoken – Alastair knows damn good and well what he has over Dean. He doesn’t need to wave the information he’s got stockpiled in Dean’s face. Because, no matter how badly Dean wants to run, wants to rip himself away from the choking scent and lust of his old master… if it’s between his discomfort, and the very lives of the people around him…

That’s no contest. That’s not even a question. 

So Dean stops trying to pull away. Forces his body to go limp and pliant against every screaming voice in his head telling him how dangerous it is to do so. He’ll play the game because he has to. The risk is worth the reward. 

He has to be brave. 

Dean tells himself that over and over as Alastair pushes him through the door. Repeats it like a prayer when he stumbles out into the alley, his heart in his throat.

It’s taking him far too long to dredge up the courage he’ll need to turn around. 

It’s surreal, to say the least. Standing with his back to his former master, a bright street light casting shadows down the alley where they’re hidden from view. People are passing them in a steady stream; a business man with a briefcase and his phone to his ear, an elderly couple holding hands, a pack of ratty teenagers with too much eyeliner and not enough supervision, joking and laughing. All with Dean just a few feet from them, heart jackrabbiting in his chest. 

He feels like he’s in a dream. A nightmare. One where, no matter how hard he tries, no matter how hard he runs, he can’t move a single step. 

The feeling only increases when he finally dares to turn around and look at Alastair. 

He wants, instantly, to fall to his knees. To press his forehead to the ground, to beg forgiveness for daring to stand and look him in the eye. And the man knows it, smiles wickedly at the obviousness of Dean’s terror, his eyes glinting in a way that has always promised agony for Dean. 

He wants to cry. He wants to vomit. 

“What a brave little bitch you’ve become,” Alastair murmurs, just loud enough to be heard over the din of rushing cars, the thump thump of the music in the bar behind him. His voice is like spiders on Dean’s skin, skittering legs and dripping fangs and merciless, unblinking eyes, and Dean shudders, takes an unwilling step back. Alastair doesn’t chase him. Somehow, that’s worse. 

Because if Alastair chased him, that would mean he had a chance to get away in the first place. 

“Look at you,” the alpha breathes, excitement clear as day in his voice. “You silly, foolish thing. Standing there on your own two feet, just like a real boy. Like you have any right to do so at all.” 

Dean’s eyes have already dropped, fixed on an indistinct point on the ground, his heart crawling into his throat. He wants to run. Wants to bolt like prey from a predator. He wants to roll onto his back with his tail between his legs and beg. This was a mistake. 

“And here I thought,” Alastair continues, a smile in his words that Dean doesn’t need to see to know is there, “that I’d broken you of that for good. You surprise me. How quickly you forget my lessons.” 

Dean wants to apologize. He wants to apologize, wants to collapse to his knees, to bare his neck, to tuck his hands behind his back like he’s been taught, like he’s been trained. Everything inside of him is screaming to do it, to do it now, to mitigate the damage he’s already done, to escape a tiny bit of the punishment that must be coming. 

“Speak, pet,” Alastair coaxes softly, a mockery of forgiveness in his voice. It’s something Dean’s heard many times before – this pretend sympathy, the glimmer of a possibility that Alastair was going to be gentle with him. He learned a long, long time ago not to trust it. He learned a long time ago to be even more afraid when he heard it. “That’s why you’ve come here, isn’t it?”

He should be apologizing. Should be begging. 

But… he isn’t. He isn’t, and it takes him far too long to remember why. Takes precious seconds for him to remember why he isn’t already prostrated on the floor, why he isn’t offering anything he can to get Alastair to forgive him.

It sinks in slowly. But when it does, it’s like a warm blanket over cold shoulders. 

“You’re not my master anymore,” he whispers.

The words are somehow unforgivably loud despite hardly being audible at all – his signature on his own death warrant. Or, that’s what they feel like. Because he’s got to be fucking insane, telling his master no. He’s suicidal. He’s–

He shakes the fear desperately, clings to the warmth he’d found a moment ago. Clutches the blanket of Cas’s love with two trembling hands. “You ain’t,” he repeats, louder this time. “And – and I don’t have to l-listen to you.” 

The words are stumbling, shaking and cracked and not at all strong, but he says them. Against all odds, he says them, and the fear that grips his spine is momentarily weakened by something like triumph. It’s been so long since he’s said anything at all to Alastair that wasn’t a lie. Please punish me and I deserve it and I want it. Words forced from him, words repeated so often that Dean had begun to think they had to be true. 

But they hadn’t been then, and they aren’t now. He’d just been surviving. 

“Oh, such courage,” Alastair purrs. 

Any sort of warmth Dean feels vanishes instantly. His master is amused, and the cold, lilting humor of his words makes Dean want to curl into a ball on the floor, hands over his head. “It’s a beautiful sight to see, that fighting spirit. And here I thought I’d doused it for good. Here I thought you’d been…” He trails off, stepping forward into Dean’s space, into his air, his choking brimstone scent smothering Dean like a towel and a bucket of water over his face. “All used up.” 

Dean’s whole body is shaking, his knees going weak, and when Alastair reaches up to touch him, he wants to wrench away, wants to put as much distance between them as he physically can. But all he can do is step back, just once – the cold, hard brick wall behind him stops him from going any further. He’s trapped. 

His master reaches up slowly. Caresses his face with a gentle touch. Runs the pad of his thumb along his cheekbone, slow and cold and far too familiar, and Dean feels the tear streak down his face before he can stop it. 

“ He lit that fire back in you, didn’t he?” Alastair asks, voice delicate. Almost pitying. “Made you feel special. Made you feel… salvageable. What a stupid lie for you to believe, pet,” he murmurs, tracing his other hand along the line of Dean’s throat, eyes alight with curiosity. 

Dean shakes his head, tries to pull away and tell him he’s wrong, but Alastair doesn’t move. Doesn’t do anything except lean in, tower over him, dwarf him. He inhales and draws in Dean’s fear like a perfume made just for him. He hums. “Free a dog of its collar,” he says with a slight sigh, his tone chiding, “and it begins acting like a man. A mistake that’s easy enough to rectify.”

He smiles, pointed teeth and dead dark eyes. “I will enjoy making you mine again,” he says softly, the words a promise of violence that caresses Dean’s ear like a lover. “What a treat.” 

Dean turns away as far as he can, feels the rough brick behind him press into his cheek, feels his nails digging into the mortar as he struggles not to drop to his knees. “You c-can’t do that to me,” he pleads shakily, the words held up in front of him like a rusting, crumbling shield. “You– you can’t–”

“Can’t I?” Alastair asks patiently, and his touch goes from soft to pointed in an instant – he digs his nail into Dean’s cheek and forces his head back, pinning him in place like a butterfly in a shadow box. Dean’s chest heaves, his heart threatening to burst under the strain. “And who will stop me? Not you.” 

Fear seizes his breath, threatens to steal his voice away, but he forces the words out anyway. “I ran before,” he chokes out – because this is why he’s here. He’d nearly forgotten. Had nearly let Alastair terrify him into useless, cowardly silence. “I ran from you. I got away.” 

Alastair chuckles. “Oh, yes,” he muses, as if it’s an entertaining, fond memory, as if Dean’s fight for freedom, for his life, had been funny to watch. “You did run, didn’t you? Disobedient, untrained little bitch that you were. But I broke you of that nasty habit.”