76. Chapter 76

Castiel, foolishly, doesn’t realize something is wrong until it’s far too late to do anything about it.

He’d left Dean at Bal’s house with no small degree of reluctance. He hadn’t wanted to, by any stretch of the imagination – in fact, it had made him vaguely ill to do so, because letting Dean out of his sight hadn’t felt natural, or particularly smart. But he’d been trying to respect the man’s boundaries. Had been trying to make him feel comfortable and safe in whatever way he could, even if that meant stepping away. He’d figured that some time on his own had been something Dean needed, and so he hadn’t given in to the monstrous animal feeling inside of him that had snarled at the prospect of leaving Dean alone.

He’d thought, funnily enough, that Balthazar might have actually been proud of him for that, but when he’d shown up to the center without Dean, the man had been none too pleased. 

“You’re telling me he wanted to be alone?” the omega had asked skeptically, eyebrows climbing to the ceiling. The circles under his eyes had darkened overnight, deep and painful as bruises, and though he’d been trying to hide it, Castiel had seen the tremor in his friend’s hands as he’d sipped at his coffee. For all those reasons, and more, he’d been more than willing to forgive Balthazar for the sharp notes in his tone. Grimacing down at his cup, he’d set it down with a huff – cold. “And you’re telling me you were alright with that?”

Castiel had bit his tongue. “Does it truly matter?” he’d asked tightly, setting the fresh cup of tea he’d brought in front of his friend. “It’s not really my choice to make, Bal.” 

“No,” the man had grumbled, wrapping his hands around the paper cup, a long sigh escaping from his nose. “I suppose not. But it worries me.”

It had been a mark of Bal’s exhaustion, Castiel thinks, that had allowed him to be so honest. It's not that Balthazar doesn’t care for people – quite the opposite, in fact, no matter how much he’s protested otherwise over the years. What had surprised Castiel was the blatant, transparent concern in his tone, the way his expression had tightened almost to the point of pain. 

“Why?”

“Because any idiot with a brain can see that he’s chomping at the bit to do something about it all,” the omega had growled, shaking his head. His eyes had slipped closed, hand rising to his temples to rub them. “Fuck, Cassie. The kid is so guilty it’s painful.” 

“I know,” Castiel had muttered, something tightening in his throat. “I’ve tried to explain that no one blames him, but…” 

“Doesn’t matter, so long as he blames himself.” Bal had sighed again. He’d grimaced as he’d tugged the laptop resting in front of him closer, squinting down at it. He’d slipped on the readers Castiel had handed him a moment later, one hand flying over the keyboard as he’d done so. “He hasn’t left the house, so–” 

“You’re tracking him?” 

Balthazar had scoffed at Castiel’s affronted question, shaking his head. “Not him, mate. How would I? But his phone, yes.”

“You– why would you–” 

“Because if the kid had made a break for it, he’d have needed someone to pick him up,” Balthazar had snapped, the understanding in his eyes betrayed by the sharp bite of his tone. “Did it way back when you first gave him the thing, mate. Wasn’t my first choice, but if he’d run…” 

He’d trailed off, jaw tightening, but Castiel had understood enough that he hadn’t really needed to press. More than anyone, Balthazar was well aware of the dangers of being a vulnerable and empty-handed omega without papers. 

“Haven’t checked it since, to be clear. Had no reason to. But…” 

Castiel had frowned. “I don’t want to keep that from him.” 

“I’ll tell him myself this evening, if you’d like,” Balthazar had sighed. “And I’ll turn it off if he has a complaint. But… I can’t deny that it’s nice to know he’s still safe and sound, and not galavanting off on some contrived attempt to solve the world’s bloody problems.” 

Privately, Castiel had agreed, though he’d not said as much. 

He and Balthazar had spent a couple more hours together, mostly pouring over paperwork to dot i’s and cross t’s, double and triple checking that there was no easy way for Alastair to come for them legally. 

Sam had joined them after a spell, fresh from doing the same with Jody, and they’d worked in a silence that was strangely comfortable considering the tension surrounding them all. He, too, had not been pleased that Dean had asked to stay behind, something deep and scared in his eyes making itself known immediately when Castiel had told him. He’d only relaxed when Balthazar had casually mentioned the phone, and though he, too, had looked guilty, he had only shot Dean a quick text and plunked open the first of many books on the slave trade he’d sourced from Ash. 

The day crawls by achingly slow. He checks his phone again and again, wishing for a text from Dean, for a call – and, at the same time, he is very careful not to reach out. Dean needs his space, he thinks. Dean wouldn’t have asked to stay home if there hadn’t been a damn good reason. He doesn’t take up Balthazar’s offer to show him how to check Dean’s location, doesn’t take up Jody’s offer to stop by the house to check in. He keeps his eyes glued to his screen and his papers and he lets his thoughts spin in useless circles and he tries, unsuccessfully, not to go feral with the waiting game. 

He trusts Dean. He trusts Dean enough to leave him be. It’s a little silly, honestly, that he is having second thoughts at all. 

He even, at some point after the sun starts to set, wonders if he should consider calling Gabriel. His brother, for all his faults, does love him – and he already knows that he’s willing to risk the wrath of the Morningstars if he’s sufficiently convinced. He’s not done more than write a sizable check every year since he’d helped them with Balthazar, but even still – Castiel knows he’d snoop around. Knows he’d do his best to suss out if Alastair had been in contact with the twins, even if he’d gripe and grumble about sticking his neck out again. 

Frankly, after Michael had found out about Bal’s supposed death by sea, Castiel is surprised that Gabriel is willing to go within spitting distance of the man’s estate for any reason. He doesn’t understand the ties that his brother still has with the business, and when he asks, all he gets are evasive jokes and changes of subject, and Castiel has learned to leave it be. 

He suspects, privately, that Gabriel is doing more to sabotage the business than he lets on, but he has no way of knowing for sure. His thumb is hovering uncertainly over his brother’s contact photo when his door slams open, ricocheting off the back wall with the force of it. Sam, face white with fear, is clutching the frame, chest heaving. 

Castiel is on his feet before Sam speaks a single word. 

By the time Dean can breathe again, Alastair is long gone. 

He should leave, he knows. He should have left already. He’s wasting precious time here, stuck on the ground with his heart lodged somewhere in his throat. Cas will be looking for him. Sam will be looking for him. But his legs are shaking too much for him to stand right now, and he thinks if he moves too fast he’s going to vomit. His throat hurts so badly he’s scared it’s gonna close for good, scared he’s never gonna breathe again.  

So, he stays. He stays in the dark, dirty alleyway with dirty, scraped up palms pressed against his tear-streaked face, stays with his knees tucked into his chest, ass going numb from the cold concrete underneath. He stays, and he breathes, and he tries as hard as he can to pull the shaking, broken pieces of himself back together.  

He wants to go home.  

He wants it like air. He wants, with an intensity that is ugly and raw, to kneel down at Cas’s feet. Wants to beg for forgiveness for leaving, wants to be told everything is gonna be okay. He wants Cas’s touch, want’s Cas’s voice and scent and warmth. He wants safety so badly it’s a physical pain in his chest, so badly that he’s afraid to open his eyes, because he knows Cas isn’t here to give it to him. He’s afraid the proof of that might kill him. Might shake him apart for good. 

And he thought he was brave, coming here. What a fucking joke. 

He doesn’t know how much time passes before he finds himself on his feet. The world is spinning around him, and he closes his eyes and tries to find his bearings. Alastair’s scent is still potent around him, sick like miasma, and he feels a wave of nausea crest through him that he swallows back with a shudder. 

His legs are unsteady beneath him, shaky like a newborn colt, and he has to lean against the wall for a long time before they’re strong enough to hold him up. He feels weak and stupid and small, torn to shreds by nothing but simple words and casual cruelty, the uncaring hand of his former master long gone but somehow still present, still painful, like a burning brand around his neck. 

Like another collar. 

He has to go home before he gets lost inside his head again. 

With trembling, cold hands, he pulls his phone out of his front pocket. The screen swims in and out of focus. It’s still recording. Barely been half an hour since he started it, and the sight of the numbers feels impossible. He feels like he’s been fighting for hours, like he’s been trapped with Alastair for days. Not minutes. 

He ends it. Saves it. He can’t bring himself to check if there’s anything usable on it – not right now. He hopes to god it actually picked up Alastair’s hissing voice. Hopes to god all of this will make a damn bit of difference. He doesn’t allow himself to think about the possibility that it won’t. 

He makes the mistake of navigating back to the home screen before he puts the thing away, and the litany of missed calls and texts hits him like a blow to the chest. He feels his heart tighten. Feels guilt crawl up his throat. The temptation to call Cas and beg for rescue feels like water in the desert, but Dean doesn’t deserve even that. He drove himself here – got himself into this. He can drive himself back. He’ll call Cas once he’s in the car, and he’ll tell him he’s okay, and that he’s coming home, and that he’s sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. The promise to himself feels like a lifeline. 

The door back into the bar creaks when he fumbles it open, and the immediate blast of music and noise and cacophony of scents from inside is enough to make his stomach lurch. He stumbles through the door, eyes glued to the floor, thinking only of the Impala out front and the keys in his pocket and his cellphone, and the recording, and the fact that he’s on his way back to Cas. 

Someone says something to him, he thinks – maybe the bartender asking if he wants another round. Maybe some punk alpha kid making a pass at him. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even bother to look up. Briefly, there’s a hand on his shoulder, and he flinches so violently that he knocks into someone, feels and smells beer splash onto his sleeve and there’s a curse and a snarl and he cringes back into himself, eyes glued to the ground, a mumbled apology stammering out of him. There’s someone trying to talk to him, he knows, but he can’t understand a word – like there’s cotton in his ears. He blurts another apology, prays he’s not about to get the shit kicked out of him, and darts away, making a beeline for the door. 

Somehow, no one grabs him before he manages to stumble back out into the brisk night air. He silently thanks whoever might be listening, desperate gratitude replacing any shame he might normally feel about praying to things that, for people like him, just don’t exist.  

He keeps his eyes locked on the ground, shoulders hunched forward, hands in his pockets. Navigates around the trash and the shit in the parking lot, fully on autopilot. He knows he’s not doing what he should, right now. His dad’s lessons about how to carry himself are echoing in his head. He’s not supposed to make himself small, not supposed to make it obvious that he’s a fucking target. But he figures that’s a lost cause, anyway – the scent of his fear is probably covering the whole damn block, at this point. Ain’t no way he’s convincing a single soul he’s not an omega now. 

Besides, he’s… he’s barely holding it together. And he can’t lose it and cause a scene and draw attention to himself, can’t puke or fall to his knees or have a fucking panic attack right here in front of god and everyone. He can’t do any of that, can’t afford it, because–

“Dean Winchester?”

And Dean’s soul goes cold.

Fear shattering the tiny bit of self control he’d been able to scrape together, he snaps his eyes up on well trained instinct, and by the time he realizes his mistake, it’s an instant too late. 

There’s a cop leaning up against his car. Older beta, scruff on his face. Arms crossed over his chest, a frown fixed in place like a slash in the concrete. His velcroed on name tag says Kubrick in tiny, block letters.  

He was waiting. He was waiting for Dean. 

He knows Dean’s name. 

For half a second, he’s stuck in place. Overwhelmed and exhausted and so fucking scared it hurts. He just wants to go home, but the man is, likely intentionally, blocking the driver’s side, staring Dean down like the barrel of a gun. 

His dark eyes narrow with impatience. “Is this your car?” Kubrick asks, though the excited gleam in his gaze tells Dean he definitely already knows the answer. “Answer me, slave.” 

Dean’s scrambling backwards before he makes the conscious decision to do so, feet propelling him away from this man who screams danger, who knows his name and knows he’s a slave and knows Dean isn’t supposed to be here. But he’s not fast enough, not nearly fast enough – Kubrick catches his arm a split second later and yanks him forward, spins and shoves him bodily into the side of the Impala, so hard that Dean’s breath is forced out of him like the blast of an airbag. 

The man isn’t even talking, isn’t even giving Dean a chance to explain himself – he can feel the man’s hot breath on his neck, can feel the cold, merciless grip Kubrick has on his wrists, digging in and painting new bruises where the old ones have only just healed. 

Dean gets it, now. He gets it. He should have fucking known. 

The cop was sent here to get him. Set on his trail like a hunting dog. He’s here to catch Dean out without a driving permit, without a collar, without any papers. It’s reason enough to arrest him, as if he even really needed that – but Alastair is careful. Alastair thinks things through, and he plans, and he’s meticulous, and he’s… 

He set Dean up. 

And Kubrick – Kubrick is going to put him in a cell, and Alastair will be one step closer to having Dean back again. Just like he said he would.  

All of that flashes through him in an instant. 

And, in the next instant, something bone-deep and terrified inside of Dean makes him plant his boot against the door of the Impala, and shove.

It sends them both sprawling backward, Kubrick with a surprised shout and Dean with a desperate cry. He tries, unsuccessfully, to pull out of the cop’s grip, and when it doesn’t work he sends a wild elbow back and up in a move that’s based on muscle memory alone. 

He feels the impact, the sick crunch of a swiftly broken nose. There’s a muffled curse, and the grip around his wrist loosens enough for him to break free entirely. 

Dean scrambles away, blind with fear, his hand digging into his pocket for the keys to the Impala, instinct he didn’t know he even still had making him slot them between his fingers like a poor man’s brass knuckles. He needs to run, but his only real chance of making it back to Cas is the car, and that means he’ll need to get through Kubrick, and –  

And, really, he doesn’t have a chance in hell. But that’s never stopped Dean before, and it sure as fuck won’t now.  

The cop has already staggered back to his feet, his hand covering his bloodied face, his eyes alight with fury that threatens to send Dean to his knees before the fight even starts. “You fucking bitch,” the man snarls, words sharp as a whip against Dean’s skin.

When Kubrick lunges toward him, Dean falls back on years and years of John Winchester’s snapped commands and corrective backhands – a childhood full of disappointed looks and raw, doomed determination to earn his father’s respect. He swipes his fist up, aims for Kubrick’s eyes, catches him on the cheek instead. The keys leave parallel gashes in his skin like cat claws, and Dean feels distant satisfaction rip through him at the sight. The beta curses again, swings out a wild haymaker, and Dean dodges once, twice, ducking and weaving and working on animal instinct alone, trying desperately to lead Kubrick away from the door so he can slip in and slam the gas pedal to the floor and bolt. 

It might have worked, if he’d still been sixteen and in good shape. If his well-honed fighting instinct had been backed up by muscle mass that he hasn’t had in years. If he hadn’t spent the last decade surviving as nothing more than a malnourished punching bag. 

Dean used to be able to take hits without so much as flinching. Used to be able to shake off a blow like it was nothing. He used to be able to win. 

But when Kubrick’s fist connects solidly with his stomach, Dean goes down like a sack of fucking bricks. 

In seconds, he’s on his knees, and then his belly with Kubrick straddling him, and the white hot panic of a man pinning him, the weight of someone on top of him, blanks out any rational thought in his head – he makes an inhuman noise of terror, bucks and writhes and tries with everything he has to throw the man off of him, to claw his way out of the grip of the predator, to get away with his life. 

But it’s too late. 

It’s too late, because the man has already got one hand around Dean’s wrist, twisting until Dean’s shoulder is a breath away from popping out of its socket, and the other is digging bruises into either side of his nape as he wrestles Dean under control. Dean couldn’t fight the encroaching blackness in his vision even if he had the strength to. He can’t do anything except let out a sob and go limp because he’s terrified, he’s so fucking scared, and that’s the only opening Kubrick needs to cinch down the cuffs so tightly that they cut into Dean’s skin. 

And, with his face in the dirt and Kubrick’s knee against his back, his chest aching with the need for air, the man digging bruising pressure into his nape and turning off the last bits of self preservation he’s got… Dean can do nothing. 

He can’t do anything at all. 

When Kubrick finally lets off of him, he hardly gets a second to breathe before the man is dragging him up to his feet, one hand digging dark bruises into his upper arm and the other scruffing him like a disobedient dog, forcing his head down and forward. Dean can barely keep his feet underneath him, can barely understand the man’s barked order to move, his terror metallic and sharp in his throat when he makes the distant, blurred realization that Kubrick is manhandling him toward his police cruiser. 

The last time Dean was in one of those, he was being dragged back to Hell. 

With the last of his strength, he scrabbles against the ground, lets out wordless pleas that he already knows will be ignored, tries everything he can to keep from being shoved inside. But nothing he does makes a damn bit of difference. 

The door slams shut behind him like the lid to his coffin. 

It’s not the police station, in the end, that gets in contact with Castiel – it’s Castiel that gets in contact with the station. 

The woman he finally manages to get on the phone with is as unhelpful as she is surly, unimpressed with the man with the missing slave. Castiel grips the phone so hard that, distantly, he begins to wonder if he’s at risk to break it, and grits out polite sounding words, and asks for the charges, and gets absolutely nothing in return. 

“I’ll simply come up there to settle this,” he finally snaps, patience dangerously thin considering what’s at risk here – Balthazar shoots him a warning glance from the driver’s seat, his own white knuckled grip on the wheel betraying his own stress. He’s trying his damndest to keep it together, Castiel knows, but they’re both running on nothing but adrenaline at this point. 

“Sir, there’s no need for you to–” 

“I’ll decide that for myself, thanks,” Castiel grits out. “Can you even tell me what he’s been charged with?”

There’s a sigh, and a few clacks on a keyboard. “Slave 4126–” 

“Dean.” 

The woman pauses, and it’s only Balthazar’s warning grip on his wrist that makes Castiel draw in a breath and let it out slowly, the jagged defense he’d been preparing forced away. The cops don’t see Dean as anything more than troublesome property – he knows that – and attempting to humanize him will get him nowhere. “I have a right to know why your officer is withholding my slave,” he bites out. “Do I not?”

There’s another long, put out sigh, and Castiel is thrown unwillingly back to the days of making cold calls trying to secure Balthazar’s freedom – of dealing with humans who are hostile about the idea of universal rights, of dredging up the strength to fight through yet another conversation with someone who thought Balthazar would be better off as a plaything than as a man on his own two feet. It’s been a long while since Castiel has had to be reminded of the general attitude that much of the public has toward the enslaved, and his stomach is tight with tension and nausea. 

“When the report is properly filed–” 

“Which will take how long?” Castiel asks sharply, frustration clawing into him. 

“Sir,” the woman says, condescension thick in her voice. Castiel resists the urge to rip the armrest off of his seat. “You need to be patient.” 

Balthazar lets out a disgusted huff beside him, but he, far more successfully than Castiel, manages to hold his tongue. Castiel doesn’t want to think about why he’s able to do so.

“I’ll be at the station shortly,” Castiel finally says, when he’s certain he’s not going to shout. “And I’d like to settle this as quickly as possible.” 

He can practically hear the woman’s eye roll, but she just makes a disapproving noise and types something on her computer. “Don’t expect the paperwork right away.” 

“We’ll expect the paperwork to be expedited,” Balthazar finally speaks up, voice cool and professional. It’s only the ticking of his jaw that gives away his stress – there’s no trace of it in his tone. “Considering you’ve already violated the owner’s right to be informed of the arrest within the hour. As I’m sure a woman of your caliber well knows.” 

There is a resounding silence for a beat or two – just enough time for Castiel’s heart to climb into his throat – but the defeated huff on the other end makes both of their shoulders slump in relief. “I’ll be sure to address that oversight with the arresting officer,” she says, voice saccharine. The beep of the phone going dead buzzes over the speaker.  

Balthazar reaches over and flicks the volume knob disdainfully, ending the call. “Cunt.” 

Castiel presses his lips together. He’s caught somewhere between rage and incredible anxiety – terrified for Dean, angry for Dean, and even, shamefully, angry with Dean on some level. 

“I just – I don’t understand why he would do this,” he blurts, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “Fuck, Bal… Why did he…”

“He’s a dumb kid,” Balthazar mutters, shaking his head. “Trying to do the right thing. He’s not thinking farther than that.” The man eyes him, a masked expression tightening the corners of his mouth before he flicks his gaze back to the road. “Don’t… don’t take it out on him.” 

It’s such an unusual thing for him to hear from his friend that any outrage Castiel might have felt at the accusation instantly withers away. Balthazar, for all his kindness, is typically quite a harsh person, and the request, softly and quickly spoken, makes something in Castiel’s chest tighten. He thinks back to the night Balthazar had come back home, fear painted on his face, his knees on the cold wooden slats of the porch. Hands shaking. Thinks back to the transparent shock in his expression when Castiel had welcomed him back with open arms. 

“I won’t,” he replies quietly, and Balthazar lets out a small breath. 

The same woman who had spoken with them on the phone is clearly the one manning the front desk – she gives them an unimpressed look when they walk in together, her eyes flicking up and down each of them in a disdainful sort of way. There must be something in Castiel’s no doubt thunderous expression, though, that gives her pause – she falters when their eyes meet, slowly sliding her chair toward the phone. 

He tries to keep his fury contained. Tries to take deep breaths, to relax his shoulders, to remind himself that the best way to bring Dean home is to be calm and controlled. If he pisses off the wrong person, Dean could be sent in for retraining. The thought, unfortunately, does nothing to calm him.

Balthazar is doing his best – his scent is so blatantly calming that Castiel feels half as though he’s being forcefully wrapped into a blanket. It’s helping, at least a little, but he can tell it’s a strain. Luckily, he doesn’t have to do any more strong-arming – the woman behind the counter doesn’t waste any time before tapping a button on her desk phone and calling down an officer. 

Jody has called ahead, lucky for them. She’s still got plenty of friends at the station, and Castiel is glad for it – it means that he doesn't have to explain to anyone else why they’re here. 

Frankly, he’s not sure he could get the words out if he tried. The only thing he can think of is Dean.

It doesn’t take long before another officer – Donna –  appears, wearing a sympathetic look. She doesn’t seem bothered when he essentially growls at her in response to her asking how they are. They've met her before, under better circumstances – have worked with her frequently in the past, in fact. But any grasp Castiel might have on civility is long gone, lost to panic and fear for Dean, his anger flowing through him fast and hot enough that he barely recognizes himself. 

“Would you mind remaining in the waiting area?” she asks Balthazar diplomatically, her face clearly outlined in embarrassment at having to make the request. “It’s just… technically only Mr. Nov… Castiel, I mean, has the legal right to pick him up. And, um. Not to… you know. But it can get a little rowdy back there, if they pick up on… on an omega scent, and…” 

Balthazar’s face tightens into what can only be described as a warning glare, and it takes an alarmingly short moment for his scent to swing from calculated calm to something wilder, a bomb seconds away from detonating. Castiel realizes, very quickly, that his friend is not as collected as he seemed. Realizes, first, that it was selfish to put the weight of keeping them both rational on Bal’s shoulders, and second, that he needs to pull his own shit together now. For Dean. 

He places a hand on the omega’s arm, drawing his attention away from Donna, who has tensed beside them. “Dean needs me,” he murmurs, knowing as he speaks the words that they are true. Dean, no doubt shaken, no doubt terrified, no doubt in some dark corner of his mind, needs Castiel. And he needs him now. “And I need you here.”

Balthazar draws in a breath, scent settling somewhat. “Have you got a room in mind, Officer Handscum, or…” 

“Just Donna,” she corrects, the words a little fumbling. She seems earnest, if nothing else, her cheeks reddening at his flat look. “And – yes. I mean. Just down the hall. Interrogation room two.” 

“Interrogation-?”

Once more, it’s Balthazar who reaches out to calm Castiel. “Standard procedure, mate,” he says, shaking his head. “He’ll be fine.” There is more behind the tension of those words, the weight of the history they carry, but they have wasted enough time already. 

Donna nods quickly, likely eager to move things along. She’s helped the center plenty, and Castiel knows she will continue to do so, but painting herself as a sympathizer is unlikely to get her very far with her coworkers. It’s a fine line, and all three of them are aware of it. 

“I’ll update Sam,” Balthazar says, rather than arguing further, and Castiel isn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset. They’d left the man, much to his frustration, back at the center, figuring that adding more fuel to the fire was unlikely to be helpful. “He’ll want to represent you, I’ll wager.” 

“Right,” he agrees, trying to shake off the feeling that they’re being intentionally separated. “You’ll be alright here?” Alone, he doesn’t add, but Balthazar knows what he means. 

“Not my first rodeo,” he muses, slipping his phone from his pocket. “Go get him.” 

The holding area is loud and rancid with the scents of alphas, rage and despair and fear and nerves all swirling together with alcohol and drugs and god knows what else, and Castiel feels his hackles rise up impossibly more as they step inside. Against his will, he automatically levels a glare at Donna, fear for Dean once again twisting into anger. 

She raises her hands calmly. “He’s in a separate cell, Mr. Novak. I can promise you that.” 

Dean is in a separate cell, for all the good it does him. He’s the only omega in the room, and everyone knows it. 

Pressed up against the back wall as far as he can go, small and curled up against the jeers of the men on either side, Dean reeks of fear, of terror, and it’s all Castiel can do not to rip the keys from Donna’s belt and break inside the instant he lays his eyes on him. He can pick up on Dean’s distress even through all the rest of the chaos in the room, and there’s something inside of him that’s demanding he take action . 

“Alright!” Donna calls out, banging her flashlight on the bars of the next pen over. “Knock off the noise, gentlemen!” 

Dean doesn’t even look up, his eyes pressed closed and his hands over his head. He looks pale. Haggard. He’s only been here for a few hours, but already, he’s slipping back to the small, terrified man that he’d been when Castiel had first met him. It stokes the fire inside of Castiel impossibly hotter, makes his rage flare out until some of the alphas in the holding cells around Dean fall silent of their own accord, eyes wide and averted from the obvious territorial fury he’s letting loose. 

Castiel cannot bring himself to give a damn. Dean’s silence, his fear, has let loose something inside of him that he doesn’t know how to get back under control. 

There’s an ugly metal collar around his throat – painted white and branded with the jail’s information, clipped in place with an honest to god lock, as though there’s any fucking conceivable way Dean would be able to escape. 

It makes Castiel’s blood boil. “Dean,” he chokes out, unable to keep himself quiet and the omega’s head snaps up and toward him, his eyes wide. 

In a flash, he’s stumbling up, bolting to the door, reaching his arms out for Castiel to grab. When he touches Dean’s hands, they’re ice cold and trembling. He does his level best to ignore the jeers of the men on either side, does his best to focus his attention solely on Dean. The omega is breathing harshly, his legs shaking beneath him. He’s got a bruise across one cheek that makes Castiel want to kill something. Dark marks around the collar that look like they’ve come from someone’s hands. 

Donna, for her part, wastes no time in unlocking the cell. When the door creaks open far enough for Dean to stumble out, he goes straight into Castiel’s arms, shaking violently. 

“Cas,” he whispers. “Cas, I–” 

“I know,” he murmurs, voice low. “I know. It’s going to be okay.” 

Dean shakes his head. “Alastair. It was Alastair who called them, he told them I was a runaway, and they didn’t believe me when I – when I t-tried to tell th-them–” 

Protective, murderous rage makes Castiel’s lip curl over his teeth. Donna intercedes before he can fan the flames, before he can work the room full of alphas into a frenzy. “Come on. You two can talk in that interrogation room.” 

They follow her past the jeering men, out the door and down the hall, into a room with a table and three chairs and a one-way mirror. Dean is clearly meant to sit where the cuffs go, but Castiel isn’t having it – he holds Dean close to his chest. Tries, despite his protective fury, to imitate Bal’s ability to put out a calming scent on command. Dean needs him to have that mental strength. 

But he doesn’t. He can’t, can’t at all, because the instant he puts his nose to Dean’s neck he can scent Alastair all over the man. Possessive and sick and wrong, a lingering poison on his skin.

He knows his eyes have reddened. He knows that he’s a hair’s breadth away from exploding. 

“I’m sorry,” Donna says quietly, and to her credit she really does sound apologetic. Her eyes are trained on them both, wary. “But, technically, Dean should be…”

“You are not going to cuff him,” Castiel interrupts, snarling, and Donna, for all her sympathy, puts her hand on the taser at her belt when she backs up a step. Her eyes are wide – she’s never seen him like this, and if the circumstances were any different, Castiel might be embarrassed. Right now, he has no room for it.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs. His palm is ice cold on Castiel’s arm when he pulls him back. Castiel feels his heart stutter in his chest. “S’okay. She’s just gotta follow the rules.” 

“But–”

“It’s – I’m. I’m gonna be okay,” Dean says, his eyes flicking up to meet Castiel’s for the briefest of moments. They’re bloodshot, more than a little glazed. Dean is so clearly afraid, yet here he is – comforting him. “Right?”

“Of course,” Castiel relents, his voice breaking despite his best efforts. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Dean.” He means it, but the words themselves are meaningless. Castiel, in reality, has no more control here than Dean does.

He limply allows Donna to handcuff him to the table with an empty, glazed expression, something vacant in his eyes. Something that makes him look, once again, like a slave. 

At the very least, she doesn’t force him to kneel. Castiel can see the steel loop welded onto the floor near the table. He’s got no doubt as to why it’s there. 

“Would you two like some water?” Donna asks, raw sympathy tugging her face into a frown. Dean trembles, refusing to look up at her, and a terrible thought occurs to Castiel. His hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. 

“Were you the one who arrested him?” he asks, his voice dangerously still. 

But Dean shakes his head before Donna can answer, eager to defend the woman even when he’s wrapped in his own fear. “N-no,” he whispers. “She– she’s nice. Nicer. Than, um. Than the other one.” 

Donna sighs, pushing back her hair. She looks regretful. “Kubrick. I’ll print off the complaint paperwork myself, if you’d like.” 

Castiel would prefer, he thinks, to file his own sort of complaint. “Did he do that to you?” he growls, brushing his thumb against a dark mark on Dean’s cheek for emphasis. The man doesn’t answer – just stares down, swallowing thickly. “Dean...” 

“I resisted,” he admits quietly. “Tried to make a break for it –”

“You hadn’t done anything wrong,” Castiel growls.

“Don’t matter, Cas,” Dean says, shaking his head. 

“But–”

“He’s right, unfortunately,” Donna says, regret plain in her voice. She scrubs a tired hand across her face. “Slaves don’t get the same rights that free people do, Mr. Novak. They can’t refuse a search. Can’t refuse to answer questions.” 

Castiel grits his teeth, but Dean speaks up, his voice trembling. “I. I forgot,” he says, his throat tight. “I forgot that I couldn’t – that I’m not allowed to say no. Freaked out.” 

And those words, small and trembling as they are, break Castiel’s heart. Dean is well on his way to freedom, and his mindset, the way he carried himself – it had begun to show it. But now, he’s back to avoiding eye contact, back to fiddling with the cruel collar around his neck. His wrists are bruised. 

His wrists are bruised. 

“I’m taking him home,” Castiel growls, not interested in an argument. “Obviously he’s not a runaway. The tags on his person should have proved that, and–” 

“Cas,” Dean whispers. 

He breaks off. Looks at Dean, pale as a corpse. Sick with fear. He’s staring down at his cuffed hands with something sick and grieving in his expression. Like he’s already lost the war. 

“He’s tryin’ to get me back,” the man breathes out, eyes pressed closed, like saying it too loud will make it come true. “He’s… he’s sayin’ that I shouldn’t have been sold to you at all.” 

The words take a moment to sink in. When they do, Castiel bristles. Stands up, the movement sharp and furious, and snaps his attention to Donna as the chair skitters out from underneath him.

“He’s trying to claim him?”

Donna presses her lips together, drawing in a breath through her nose. “He… I’m sorry, but yes. He is.”

“That’s absurd,” Castiel hisses, even as fear claws up into his throat. It’s the confirmation of everything they were terrified that Alastair would do, all coming true in one horrible instant. He can do nothing but protest with empty words, nothing but climb up onto his rickety soapbox and speak, as if anyone with the power to change a single goddamned thing is there to listen. As though the system is fair, as though it has ever once worked in the favor of any of them. “I bought Dean months ago. His paperwork is all in order. He was sold at auction, because his previous owner’s,” he says, spitting the word, “window of time to claim him expired. That monster has no right to him.” 

Donna blows a long breath of air out of her mouth, her eyes flicking between them. They linger on Dean, who has his hands balled up into fists. His eyes glued to the table. 

Dean knew this was coming, Castiel realizes. He knew. And the worst part is that Castiel can’t do a damn thing to protect him, right now. Can’t tell him that he’ll be safe, that Alastair will never touch him again. 

He already has. 

“Alastair Carn,” Donna says slowly, “is claiming that Dean was repossessed under unlawful circumstances. He was severely injured after the explosion at his…” she trails off, mouth twisting in disgust, “establishment. And because he was not identified while unconscious, his window of time to claim Dean had already expired by the time he was fit to leave the hospital. Which,” she adds, looking ill, “is… technically grounds for the wrong judge to call it an unlawful removal.” 

“No,” Castiel snarls, heart in his throat. “No. He is not going to take him. I don’t care that the damn auction house broke the rule – that isn’t our fault. I purchased him, I have his paperwork. Donna – Donna, I’m in the process of freeing him,” he can’t help but add, voice breaking in desperation. 

He expects, somewhere in his heart, for Dean to protest with him. For the omega to fight for his freedom with the same fire he’s seen burn in his eyes, with the same passion Castiel has come to know. 

But when he looks down at Dean, he’s got his eyes closed, and his hands wrapped around each other in something like prayer.