Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The man who just bought him is not his master. That’s all he is told as he is bustled from the auction building into the back seat of the car. He’s meant to be some sort of gift for someone. That’s all he knows.

About fifteen minutes into the drive, he is handed painkillers, which he hasn’t been given for at least five years. Not since the last time Sammy managed to sneak him some. He cuts that train of thought off immediately.

About two hours into the drive, he is asked for his name.

“My name is Dean, Sir,” he says without looking up. “But I’ll answer to whatever you choose to call me.”

In return he is told that the man who is not his master is named Gabriel. He is not told the name of his master nor where they are going nor what will be expected of him. He’s too scared to ask.

About three hours into the drive, he falls asleep. This is something would usually never happen, not when he hasn’t been given permission, but the combination of his injuries, the exhaustion of the auction and the narcotic side effects of the painkillers prove to be too much for his body, and he passes out.

Dean wakes up when the car stops two hours later. They are outside of a small but sturdy looking house, two stories high and surrounded by grass. It is obvious to Dean the moment he gets out of the car that they are in the middle of absolutely nowhere. The house is situated towards the top of a mountain, and from this perspective he can see that there is nothing but forest for miles around. He doubts you could find another person if you drove an hour in any direction.

Wherever they are, they are isolated.

He follows Gabriel to the front of the house and tries not to feel afraid.

The man who opens the door is not immediately terrifying at least. He is tall, but not as tall as Dean, and wearing black slacks with an untucked shirt that is buttoned up all wrong. He has dark hair and startlingly blue eyes that have deep shadows underneath them.

Gabriel grins. “Hey bro. Long time no see.”

The man in the doorway smiles. “Hello, Gabriel. Come in.” And he steps aside, holding the door open.

Gabriel walks in, and Dean trails him. The door shuts behind them.

“I didn’t know when you would be here,” the man says.

“Sorry Cas,” Gabriel answers. “I forgot to call.”

The man, presumably Cas, smiles again. “That’s alright. We should get going though. It’s already four o’clock and shelter closes at nine.”

From beneath his lashes, Dean glances at Gabriel in confusion. Gabriel looks back at him and takes a deep breath. He grabs Dean by the shoulders and pushes him a step forward, towards Cas.

“Actually,” Gabriel says. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

As Dean moves, Cas frowns.

“There is someone with you,” he says, sounding confused. And then it’s Dean’s turn to frown, because what?

Gabriel makes a pained face next to him, like he knows something very uncomfortable is about to happen, and Dean feels his skin prickle in nervousness.

“Well, yes,” Gabriel says, looking over at Dean and smiling awkwardly. “I’d like you to meet Dean. Dean, say hello.”

“Hello, sir.”

His new master does not respond, but stares, unfocused at a spot just left of Dean’s head. The quiet drags on, and Dean shifts in discomfort, unsure of what’s going on.

“Sir?” His master finally says. It takes Dean a moment to realize the word is not directed at him, though the man’s eyes still rest nearer to him than to his brother.

“Gabriel,” he says coldly. “What is this.”

Dean feels his gut sink as the man gestures in his direction, making it clear that he is the “this” in question. He is obviously an unwanted gift, which does not bode well for him.

Fuck, he can’t be sent back, not again. He sold for basically nothing this time, he knows that next time they won’t bother trying to sell him, they’ll just put a bullet through his head and dump his body in a mass grave, next to all the other broken slaves that nobody wanted.

Besides him, Gabriel sighs. “Look, Cas. I know you wanted another dog.”

“I did,” says Cas.

“But come on, buddy, when’s the last time you even talked to someone besides me?”

“I don’t see how that is any of your concern,” the man, presumably Cas, says, and now Dean is very confused. He was, what, supposed to be a dog? The man wanted a pet and instead Gabriel got him a slave? He could see then why Cas would be upset, but it certainly doesn’t make him feel better about his chances here. It would be a lot harder to convince the man to keep him around if what he really had wanted was an animal.

“It’s not my concern,” Gabriel says, and Dean is pulled from his panic and back into the conversation. “Fuck, Cas, I know I’m overstepping here, but I’m worried about you, ok? I’m worried about you all alone in these frickin’ mountains, shut inside all day with your books and your dog. I just think Dean will be good for you, ok? He could help you get around, drive you places, do some of the stuff around the house that a dog couldn’t do-”

“I can do the things around the house that a dog can’t do.”

“I know you can,” Gabriel placates, hands raised. “I just think it would be easier sometimes to have a pair of working eyes to help you.”

And oh, Dean finally understands. His new master is blind.

Cas scowls. “I don’t need any more help than I’ve had for the past 24 years Gabe!”

“Cas-”

“No,” Cas snaps. “I’ve had Anna since I was 12 years old, and I’ve never needed more help than she provided. That hasn’t changed now that she’s dead. I need a seeing eye dog, not a person. Not to help me, not because you are overly invested in my personal life, not for any reason.”

Gabriel throws his hands up. “Fine!” he says angrily. “Fine! What am I supposed to do with him then?”

“I don’t know, you bought him.”

“For you.”

“Well I don’t want him. Keep him for yourself.”

“I don’t want him.”

“Then bring him back!”

Gabriel is quiet for a moment, and Dean feels the man glance over at him. He knows he is looking at the bruises that cover Dean’s face, and thinking the same thing Dean already knows.

“I don’t think they’ll take him back,” Gabriel says quietly, and Dean feels his eyes start to sting. Shit, he will not cry, he will not. Not while there are people here to laugh at him.

“What?” he hears Cas ask, voice laced with confusion.

“He’s pretty damn hurt, Cas.”

The steel in Cas’s expression melts away all of a sudden and is replaced with concern.

“Dean?” he says, acknowledging the slave for the first time. Dean starts, eyes flickering up for a moment before he remembers himself and bows his head again.

“Yes sir?” he mumbles.

“Is that true? Are you hurt?”

Despite himself, Dean feels the wetness in his eyes begin to overflow, clinging to his eyelashes. His eyesight becomes blurrier, and he blinks rapidly.

“Yes sir,” he confirms miserably. Fuck, he feels so broken, standing pathetically trying not to cry as he’s rejected.

Cas surges forward all of a sudden and Dean jumps back, flinching, but the hands that reach out to him do not hit. They dance around blindly until they find his face, his lips, his cheeks, feeling the sore and raised bruises that mar his skin. The fingers that glance across the swelling are soft and gentle, touching but not pressing, light enough that they don’t hurt. They stop finally as they reach Dean’s eyes, the wetness there giving them pause, and Cas’s mouth pops open to form a small “O”. He pulls away then at last, and Dean feels his face flame. He reaches up to wipe at his tears in embarrassment.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Cas asks him, and Dean nods, before remembering that Cas can’t see him.

“Yessir,” he tells the floor.

Cas’s brow furrows in concern, and he tilts his head in a way that reminds Dean bizarrely of an owl.

“Where else.”

“Um,” Dean says awkwardly, not having expected to have to name all the things wrong with him.

“Well. My-my back’s pretty cut up. From the whip. And I can’t bend two of my fingers. And I think my rib might be broken. A-and.” He stops, staring at his feet intently. He feels his cheeks begin to color again. But if this man does decide to keep him, he’ll find out anyway eventually, and then he might be punished for hiding his damage from his master. “And my ass is still pretty torn up. I mean I’m pretty sure I’m still bleeding. Sir.”

He’s curled into himself more and more as he’s spoken, and though he feels both Cas’s and Gabriel’s eyes on him, he doesn’t dare lift his head to gage their reactions.

A wave of desperation hits him all of a sudden, as he realizes that on the off chance that the market decides not to put him down if he’s sent back, he will never end up in a place as nice as this, with a reason as normal as this, with someone as un-sadistic as this man seems. If he leaves out the doors of this house, the only places he will be going are either his grave or some perv’s basement that he’ll eventually in die in anyway.

“Please.” Gabriel’s eyes snap to him. Cas does that head tilt thing again. It still takes him a moment to realize the word has actually slipped out of his mouth.

Fuck, he needs to shut up, he needs to not say another word, before he digs himself into an even deeper pit, but all of a sudden he’s on his knees and the words are falling out of his mouth unbidden.

“Please. I can be good. I’ll be good.”

Shut up you fucking idiot! Shut up!

“I’ll do what you want. Please keep me, sir.”

SHUT UP!

Dean digs his nails into the palms of his hands, clamping his jaw shut.

The silence stretches on for a long, long time.

At last Dean feels a hand on his hair, gentle, not pulling or yanking but just resting lightly.

“Stand up, Dean,” he hears Cas’s voice say. His voice in quiet and unthreatening, but Dean’s breath still shakes as he rises to his feet.

He keeps his eyes on the floor in the next few moments, trying to keep his racing heartbeat under control. Just as he begins to believe he’s going to be dragged out by Gabriel without another word, Cas speaks.

“If you’re hurt that badly, I may need to call a doctor.”

Dean holds his breath.

“So…” Gabriel says. “I guess that means you’re keeping him?”

Cas sighs. “Yes Gabe, I’m keeping him.”

Chapter Text

It seems to come as a big surprise to his master that no doctor will treat a slave. It's below them. He had tried telling Cas as much, but his protests had gone ignored. Instead he’d been bustled over to the couch, had a blanket wrapped around his bare torso, been given pajama pants to replace his tattered jeans, and been told to stay seated as his master made a few calls.

Gabriel had left then, giving Dean an awkward smile before letting the door close behind him, and he is now alone with the man who owns him.

Castiel slams the phone down into the receiver for the 18th time, and Dean tries not to flinch.

“Damn it.” He hears the man mutter, running his fingers through already-tousled hair.

Dean watches him warily as he chews his lip in thought. That’s one upside to all this, Dean realizes. He can watch for his master’s reactions without being punished for his impudence. Cas will never know. The thought gives him some measure of relief, knowing he will at least not have to guess what this man wanted without being able to look at him.

Cas turns in his direction then. “Dean?” He calls out. “Are you still on the couch?”

Dean sits up straighter. “Yes Master.”

“Oh.” Cas says, moving towards and sitting besides him. “There’s no need for that. Please, call me Cas.”

“Yes Master. I mean. Yes C-Ca. Yes Mr. Cas.” Dean ducks his head in embarrassment, half expecting to be slapped for not following orders. Instead, he just hears Cas sigh.

“Or that’s ok too. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Dean continues to stare at his knees religiously, even though he knows Cas can’t see him. He has no idea how to respond to that, or if that even warrants a response.

The silence stretches on just long enough for Dean to start panicking, but it is luckily interrupted before Dean really gets himself going.

“Um. Anyway.” Castiel mutters. “It seems you were right about the doctors. I don’t think I will be able to find one who is willing to come.”

That had been obvious enough to Dean, but of course he doesn’t say as much. Instead, he finally gains the courage to speak more than a two word response. Cas has seemed nice so far, so Dean figures he probably won’t hit him.

“It’s fine Sir- I mean, Mr. Cas. I don’t need a doctor. I’m fine.”

“You just told me you were hurt.”

“I am Sir, but I’m fine, really. I’ve healed on my own from much worse.”

And he has. He really doesn’t understand why Cas is bothering to worry about his injuries at all, much less bring an actual doctor into it. He figures it must be since Cas can’t see what’s wrong, and he feels guilty all of a sudden for taking advantage of his masters disability and obviously kind temperament to make it seem worse than it is. He should have just sucked it up and said there was nothing wrong when he was asked before. He just hadn’t wanted to hide anything. Cas should know if he’s getting damaged property. But clearly that was the wrong choice, and now Cas things he’s hurt bad enough to warrant professional help.

Well, he thinks, since Cas can’t see that he’s ok, he’ll just have to show him in other ways.

“Mr. Cas.” He says. Cas looks over towards him, and Dean reaches out tentatively, gently taking Cas’s hand in his own. Cas squints at Dean in confusion, but doesn’t pull back or immediately start beating Dean, so he proceeds. Turning around so he is facing away from the other man, Dean guides Cas’s hand to his scarred back.

“See.” He says, trying not to hiss as Cas’s palm splays out on his raw skin. “It’s not that bad.”

It really isn’t, as far as Dean can see, but if Cas’s sharp intake of breath and the way he jerks his hand back is anything to go by, his master doesn't agree.

Dean turns back around to see Cas staring, unseeing, down at his now wet palm.

“Your bleeding.” Cas breathes. He sounds horrified, as if this hadn’t been a given when Dean mentioned he’d been whipped.

“Just a little.” Dean says. Cas’s head turns abruptly towards him, and Dean panics, realizing what Cas must be thinking.

“I didn’t bleed on your couch Sir, I promise I didn’t.”

Cas continues to stare blankly.

“Really. I was leaning forward this entire time.”

Cas looks down at his palm again, then up at Dean. He seems suddenly incredibly overwhelmed, and Dean’s stomach twists in shame. He did that. He doesn’t know how, but he knows he did. Fuck, he’s supposed to be here to make Cas’s life easier, not harder. At this rate he’ll be back at the market by tomorrow.

Standing up, Cas turns to him. “Um.” He says awkwardly. “You. Should follow me now.”

Dean feels like a rock just landed in his stomach. Crap, he’s gonna be whipped again. Cas looks really upset. He probably doesn’t believe him about the couch, Dean thinks. And why would he? Dean’s just a filthy slave, he probably comes off as a liar too.

Nonetheless, he can’t help making a last ditch effort.

“Mr. Cas. There really isn’t any blood on the couch, Sir.”

Cas doesn’t say anything, and if anything just looks more confused. So Dean shuts his mouth and stands up.

But they don’t go downstairs to the basement, where slaves are usually punished, but upstairs, heading first into what he presumes is Cas’s bedroom and then a large, clean bathroom that’s attached.

Cas tells Dean to sit on the closed toilet, which he does.

Cas opens a cabinet above the sink and gropes around around until he finds a bottle of what looks like cough syrup. He feels the shape of the bottle for a moment before shaking his head and putting it back. The second bottle he pulls out seems to be the right one, and he uncaps and tilts two pills out of it before replacing it. All of this Dean watches intently, relishing in the fact that he can do so so freely, rather than spying out of the corner of his eye.

Dean is surprised when Cas hands him the pills rather than taking them himself, but allows the two to be dropped into his cupped palm.

“Take those.” Cas says absentmindedly, nearly knocking over the glass standing on the sink before filling it with water and handing that to Dean too. Obediently, Dean takes the offered liquid, yet hesitates at swallowing the pills.

“Sir?” He says nervously.

He’s been given drugs before, things that made the world go white and had him writhing on the floor in desperation. Things that made his penis stand up for hours on end, things that made him ache and hurt. Or sometimes they just made him easy and pliable, so that he could barely lift his limbs or make himself move. As if he wouldn’t just lie still and take it if that’s what they wanted, or squirm and moan and beg if that’s what they told him to do.

Worse somehow were the ones that made everything blank, made him just pass out. So that he’d wake up sore and bleeding and covered in come, having no idea what had happened or who had used him. It didn’t make any logical sense, he couldn’t stop it from happening any more while he was awake than asleep, but it scared him more than anything all the same.

His voice sounds small to his own ears when he speaks.

“I’ll do what you want, Sir, you don’t need to drug me.”

He stares at Cas openly now, scared to see his reaction but needing to know all the same.

All Cas does is look sad.

“Those are painkillers Dean. They’re just to make you feel better.”

He’d been given pain killers before, he remembers, in the car, but he had seen the bottle that time. It’s true they're beginning to wear off though, and he can feel his back and ass beginning to throb again. He had been grateful for the luxury then, and had not assumed it would be something he would be granted again.

He looks at the pills in his hand apprehensively, then at Cas’s ernest face. Finally he gives in. Even if they aren’t painkillers, they’ll be forced down his throat one way or another. He might as well make it easier.

“I took them.” He tells Cas once he’s swallowed.

Cas smiles at him then, genuinely, and it makes something warm bloom in Dean’s stomach.

“Good.” Cas says kindly, and Dean is suddenly glad he decided not to make things difficult. Even if they do turn out to not be painkillers.

Cas gestures to the tub next to Dean.

“Your wounds need to be cleaned before they can be treated.” Cas says. “Why don’t you shower? There’s soap on the shelf.”

Dean blinks in confusion. He thought they had finally established that he was fine.

“Mr. Cas, I don’t need to be treated. I’m ok.”

“Your back is clearly a mess.” Cas says bluntly. “And you said your. Ah. Your a-anal region is bleeding.” His master clears his throat, blushing. “Beyond that.” He continues. “You likely have a broken rib and possibly two broken fingers.”

“Well yeah, Sir, but their ain’t much to do about it but wait. And you already gave me medicine, which was real nice of you.”

“There is ‘much to do about it’” Cas insists. He reaches towards Dean, finding his upper arm and pulling him gently to his feat. “I don’t want you hurt. I know you must be in a lot of pain right now, so I can help you bathe if you think that would be best. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable though. It’s up to you.”

What? What does that even mean?

“Sir?” He tries. Does Cas want to fuck him in the shower? Then why doesn’t he just do it?

“Are you-.” He starts. “I. Do you want. Whatever you want, Sir.”

“It’s not about what I want.” Cas says simply. “I just need to know if you think you can shower without help.”

Dean nods, stupidly, before remembering again that Cas can’t see him.

“Yes Mr. Cas. I don’t need help.” He says quickly.

It’s strange to be speaking so much. With his last owner, he had been used to going months without using his voice, except to scream. He’s going to have to become accustomed to verbally acknowledging this new master.

Cas leaves then, with instructions to come out to the bedroom when he’s done.

Dean cleans himself quickly and efficiently, shivering the whole time. He aches to turn the shower knob just a fraction towards the heat, but he knows better than that. A few minutes of cold isn’t worth the punishment he might face if Cas found out.

He rubs his body down with soap and washes his hair, but hesitates when he gets to the next part. He doesn’t know if Cas wants that right now, and he could be punished for touching himself without permission if it turns out he’s wrong.

Dean feels a strange mix of frustration and fear rise up inside him. Cas keeps saying things that make no sense, acting like he has a choice when Dean knows he doesn’t. How can he be expected to serve his master if he keeps spouting gibberish?

Eventually he decides to risk it, working through the pain as he fingers himself open. After a few minutes he’s not even close to ready, but he doesn’t want Cas to get impatient. He shuts off the water and gets out, hoping that Cas will at least use lube.

He considers putting the sweatpants back on, but figures there’d be no point anyway.

When he comes out into the bedroom Cas is sitting on the bed, facing him. There is a first aid kit on his lap, and a cell phone in his hands on which he seems to be listening to some video that’s playing. As Dean closes the door, Cas looks up towards the noise and pauses the video. Placing the device next to him, he smiles.

“All finished?”

“Yes Mr. Cas.” Dean says awkwardly. He resists the urge to cover himself with his hands, self conscious about his nudity despite the fact that Cas can’t even see him.

“All right. Come here and we’ll see about those injuries.”

Dean obeys, moving over to sit by Cas on the bed.

“You must forgive me.” Cas says. “I’m no doctor, but I’ll do my best. I’ve just been researching proper treatments from what you’ve told me.” He gestures to the phone. “It seems that the best thing to do for the rib is to just leave it alone and try to keep the pain down. We will see about getting stronger pain killers tomorrow, but today the over the counter ones will have to do.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say. He had rarely been given anything for the pain in his life, and even then it had been in secret. He had been grateful for the pills today, but certainly had not assumed that it would be a regular thing.

“Thank you, Sir.” He says, meaning it for the first time in years.

“It’s no problem at all.” Cas answers. “The same seems to go for the. Um. Anal fissures.” Cas blushes. “They will heal on their own fairly quickly if left alone.”

Dean, of course, knows this from personal experience but says nothing, suddenly unsure. Maybe Cas isn’t planning on using him right away. It seems like this might be the case from what he’s saying, but being allowed time to heal has not been a luxury he’s ever been granted in the past. He doesn’t know what else Cas could mean though.

Hope starts to rise up in him as he further considers the implications of the words. The fact that Cas wants him to heal implies that he is bothered by Dean being hurt to begin with. That means that maybe-maybe he will be careful enough with Dean that he won’t be expected to live his life limping around, torn bloody.

Cas, oblivious to Dean’s train of thought, barrels on.

“Your back and your fingers though, we can do something about. Give me your hand.” Cas offers out his own hand to the space between him and Dean. Hesitantly, Dean places his palm in Cas’s, half expecting to have his broken fingers yanked backwards or another digit snapped.

Instead, Cas pulls a thin piece of metal from the first aid kit with his other hand, and places it underneath Dean’s cracked bones. He tries not to gasp as his fingers are straightened and pressed against the tin, as Cas draws out a roll of ace bandages from his box. Gently, Cas wraps the cloth around his two fingers, trapping them against the metal. He envelopes Dean’s injuries in several layers of the gauze, firmly but not painfully, and when he’s done Dean has to admit it feels marginally better.

“How does that feel?” Cas says.

“Good, Mr. Cas.” Dean acknowledges, inspecting his hand. “Better. It aches, but not as bad as before.”

“Is it sturdy? Does it seem like it will fall apart?”

“Not at all.” Dean says. It’s the truth, and Dean can’t help but be rather impressed, considering Cas couldn’t even see what he was doing. It makes Dean remember what Cas had said earlier to his brother, and he thinks that perhaps Cas is more capable than most people believe.

“Good.” Cas says, and something about the way he says it makes Dean pause. He looks genuinely relived, the lines in his face relaxing, the tightness in his jaw easing. Dean doesn’t know what to make of that.

“We essentially just need to disinfect your back and wrap it in gauze.” Cas continues. “Ideally you would probably want at least some of those wounds to be stitched, but we can’t do that without professional help, and…” Cas sighs. “Well. My point is that they’ll heal, but I don’t think we can prevent scarring.”

Bewildered, Dean shakes his head. “That’s fine Mr. Cas. My back is already scarred.”

Cas purses his lips, looking upset. Dean feels himself flush, knowing the fact must make him significantly less appealing to Cas, who can’t even see what he looks like. All that makes him attractive to Cas is how his body feels, and though he is young and fit, his skin being ripped and ruined is certainly not a selling point.

Part of Dean feels like this isn’t fair. He doesn’t ask to be whipped and beaten, and he it’s not like he doesn’t try to be good. But a bigger part of him knows better. If he was just quieter or faster or better, then his masters wouldn’t have to punish him so much.

Shame course through his body, making him feel incredibly small.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly.

Cas, who had been looking down at his lap, turns his head towards Dean sharply.

“Are you apologizing for your scars?” Cas asks, sounding baffled.

“I…Yes?” Dean tries.

Cas looks at him sympathetically. “Dean, it’s not your fault that people have hurt you.”

Dean stays silent, not knowing what Cas is talking about. Of course it’s his fault. It’s always his fault.

Eventually Cas seems to realize that he is not going to get a response, and he moves on.

“Here.” Cas says. He reaches out towards the slave until he bumps into Dean’s neck, and moves his hand down along Dean’s skin until he finds his shoulder. He pushes it gently, and Dean moves with Cas’s hand as it guides him to turn so his back is towards Cas.

“I’m going to disinfect the wounds now. This might sting a bit.”

It does, just the tiniest bit, but Dean barely notices it as Cas washes his back with a mat of cotton soaked in neosporin. Instead all he can focus on is the feeling of Cas’s hands on his skin, and how light his touch is. He hasn’t been touched in a way that wasn’t sexual or brutal for a long time. Not since the last time he saw—

No. Fuck no, he’s not going down that lane. It hurts to much.

Dean forces himself back to the present, making himself concentrate on the prickling of the neosporin on his gashes and the comforter beneath his bare body. He loses himself in the feeling of skin on skin contact until at last Cas finishes and his hands move away. Dean has to stop himself from moving backwards to chase the touch.

“Alright. Now we just need to wrap your back.” Cas says.

Dean looks over as Cas picks up the gauze again, and turns away once more when Cas reaches forward towards him.

Cas starts at the top, near his shoulder blades, and Dean lifts up his arms at Cas’s request. Cas moves down his torso with the bandage, wrapping it over and over around his chest, stomach, and at last lower back.

It’s only as Cas finishes that things go wrong.

Cas ties off the bandage at Dean’s tailbone, his hands brushing over the top of Dean’s ass as he does so. Dean would think nothing of it, except that a moment later he feels Cas freeze behind him.

Dean tenses. Cas’s hands stay extremely still for a moment before they jerk back as if burned. Dean turns back towards Cas warily.

Cas is as red as a beet, and in fact looks rather alarmed. He opens and closes him mouth a few times, seemingly speechless.

“Mr. Cas?” Dean says timidly.

“Um.” Says Cas. Blinks. Shakes his head, as if to clear it. Finally speaks.

“Dean.” He says in a strained voice. “Are you- are you wearing any clothes?”

Shit.

“No, Sir.” Dean responds softly.

“You’ve been naked this whole time.”

“Y-yes Sir.”

Cas gets even redder, so much that Dean feels like his ears might catch on fire.

“Oh.” He says dumbly. “Right. Erm.”

He stands up abruptly, and runs his hand through his hair before sitting down again.

“Erm.” He says again. “Here. You can. Here.” He reaches across Dean to the end of the bed, where a throw blanket has been lying folded. He shakes it open before reaching around to find Dean, trying to drape the cloth over his shoulders. It ends up over his head, but Dean gets the idea and fixes it so that it covers him like a robe.

“I’m sorry.” Dean says miserably. “Am I in trouble?”

Cas, who’d straightened himself back up next to Dean, seems to start, breaking out of the embarrassment he’s been in.

“No!” He says, looking upset. “No, of course not. I- just. Why? Why didn’t you put the sweatpants back on?”

Dean hunches over, staring at his knees.

“I just. I wasn’t sure Sir. If you would want to. If.” He lets out a shuddered breath. “I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Dean.” Cas soothes, suddenly seeming to get himself together. “It’s ok. I’m not mad. I just don’t understand.”

“I just didn’t know if you were going to want to fuck me right now.” The words rush out of Dean all at once.

Dean can’t even bring himself to look at Cas, even to see if he’s mad or not. Even though Cas can’t see him staring. All he can do is look down at the floor and wait.

He feels Cas shift besides him, his weight rocking through the mattress as he resettles himself angled at Dean. He feels a hand pressed to his cheek, and he can’t help the flinch that runs through him. Instead of scratching or punching though, the hand moves to cup his jaw lightly, turning his face towards Cas’s own. Dean keeps his eyes lowered, gazing at Cas’s chest. He notices again that his shirt is buttoned all wrong.

“Listen to me.” Cas says calmly. Dean does.

“I’m not- I’m not going to do that to you. I won’t touch you like that.”

Dean’s eyes shoot up to Cas’s face at last as fear bursts inside him. Unthinkingly, his hand flies up to clutch at the one held against his face, letting the blanket he’d been holding fall off his shoulders.

“Sir, no.” And for the second time today, words are falling out of Dean’s mouth without his permission. “Please. I’ll be good. I’ll make you feel good.”

“You don’t need to.” Cas insists. “That’s not what your here for.”

Dean shakes his head, uncomprehending. “That’s all I can do.” He tries to keep the shaking out of his voice as he speaks, with debatable success.

“You can see.” Cas says wryly. “So you’re already ahead of me there.”

Dean doesn’t understand what’s going on. He’s a pleasure slave, he’s a fucktoy, he’s just a goddamn hole to be used. He’s useless otherwise. He knows he can see, he knows if Cas keeps him he’ll be helping him around, but that’s superficial. His main use is as a warm body to fuck. That’s all he’s ever been, really.

There was once- once he had a real job to do. He’d been entrusted with something important, so so important. Back then, he was more than just a hole. He had a purpose. He was a protector, a soldier, a brother.

But he’d failed. He’d fucked it all up, and revealed himself as what he really was- a sex toy posing as family, a whore playing at being more than he ever was.

He can’t do that again. He can’t fail like that again.

Desperate, Dean dives towards Cas, knocking him backwards in his panic so that he’s lying on top of him.

“Dean!” Cas yelps, but Dean keeps going. Planting kisses all over his masters face and neck, he moves his legs so that he is straddling the man, and grinds down on Cas’s crotch.

He hears Cas gasp underneath him, and feels the man start to harden through his jeans. He starts to think that maybe he can turn this around, when suddenly he is shoved away, hard enough that he falls off of Cas and onto the floor.

“Stop!” Cas commands.

Dean jerks in fear. Immediately he curls into a ball, with his knees to the floor and his head to his knees, arms coming up to protect his head. He waits for the pain, but it never comes.

He hears Cas sit up, staying for a moment unmoving, breathing harshly. He hears Cas stand, and walk to the other side of the room. He hears a drawer being opened, then closed seconds later, and he hears Cas come back over towards the bed.

“Dean?” He says. “Where are you?”

Dean digs his nails into his palms.

“Here.” He forces himself to answer. It comes out a breathy whisper.

“Are you on the floor?” Cas asks. “I have some clothes for you. Please stand up.”

But Dean can’t, he can’t force himself to move.

“Sir.” He whimpers. He hears Cas take a few steps closer, then feels Cas crouch down in front of him.

Cas’s arms are under his all of a sudden, trying to tug him upwards, and he should be moving with his master, he should be, Cas shouldn’t even have to move him physically, he should listen, but he can’t, and instead he is pulling back, yanking against Cas, trying to stay drawn into a ball.

“Come on, Dean.” He hears Cas saying. “It’s ok, you’re ok.” But it’s not, and he isn’t, and he doesn’t know why he can’t just fucking do as he’s told, do as you’re told, do as you’re fucking told.

And finally he manages to relax his muscles by sheer force of will, going lax in Cas’s arms. But the sudden lack of resistance against Cas’s pull sends them both stumbling, Cas backwards and so his butt hits the floor, and Dean forwards and into Cas. And Dean finds himself pressed flush to Cas’s chest with Cas’s arms around him, and instead of crawling away like he should, he can’t stop himself from clutching at the man’s shirt and hiding his face in his neck.

And Cas, by some miracle, doesn’t throw him off this time, but lets him stay clinging to his master like some untrained child. He can feel Cas’s heartbeat against his own much faster one, and he focuses on it as he tries to calm his breathing. He can hear Cas murmuring kind things to him, and it makes his own voice come at last unstuck.

“You’re nicer than the others were.” He whispers into Cas’s skin. “I want to stay with you.”

“You can.” Cas mumbles back. “You will. But not for that anymore. You’re safe here.”

For perhaps the first time, the words feel true.

Chapter Text

After Dean dons the boxers, shirt and second pair of sweatpants he’s given, Cas brings him downstairs into the kitchen.

“Please, have a seat.” Cas says, waving his hand around vaguely. Dean drops to his knees on the floor, grateful not to have to stand. The exhaustion of everything is beginning to catch up to him, and he’s starting to feel like he’s going to keel over.

Oblivious, Cas has moved towards what looks like a pantry and is pulling out bread from one of the shelves.

“You must be starving. Mostly I just do frozen food, but I can cook a few simple meals that I’ve had a lot of practice with. Is grilled cheese ok?”

It’s more than ok, considering he’s lived off his master’s leftovers for most of his life.

“Yes Mr. Cas.” He says, and his stomach grumbles as he speaks.

Cas pauses from where he is pulling cheese and butter from the refrigerator, his brow furrowing. He places the two items on the counter before closing the fridge and turning around.

“Dean, are you on the floor again?” It’s not really a question.

“Um. Yes, Sir. Am I not supposed to be?”

“Well, I meant for you to take a seat in a chair.” He points more definitively this time at a small kitchen table to his right.

“What, at the table?” Dean blurts incredulously. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and though he slams his mouth shut immediately after, it’s too late.

Face flaming in embarrassment, he shuffles over to the table quickly, pulling a chair out and sitting down.

He tries not to wince as he does so. It hurts, not so badly that he can’t handle it, but it certainly hurts. The auctioneers always love to play around with him more than others for some reason, but it had been really bad this time. They hadn’t even bothered to try and not leave visible damage, which only goes to show just how worthless and used up Dean is at this point. There wasn’t even anything left of him to break.

Once Cas hears Dean sit down, he turns back to the counter. Mostly to distract himself from the pain, Dean starts to watch Cas work, but he soon finds himself genuinely absorbed in what Cas is doing.

While most people would have their heads craned down to watch their hands, Cas surreally seems to stare straight ahead as he cuts and butters and cooks. It reminds Dean sharply that the man cannot see at all what he is doing.

None the less, he clearly has no trouble. He finds everything he needs without hesitation, seeming to have memorized where every little thing goes, be it a pan or bread or a utensil. Dean thinks back to how he’s seen Cas move about the house thus far, without a cane and without doubt, knowing surely how to navigate his home and where everything in his house belongs. Dean files that information away, reminding himself not to move any of Cas’s things without permission.

Possibly himself included.

Cas finishes making the meal soon enough, but before he moves the two sandwiches onto plates, he gently scrapes a knife over the bread to feel if it’s been toasted enough. Dean, who is staring blatantly now, feels his mouth pop open at how clever that is.

Holding the warm sandwiches on two plates, Cas moves over to the table.

“Where are you sitting?” Cas asks.

“Um, over here Si- Mr. Cas.”

Guided by Dean’s voice, Cas places one sandwich in front of the slave and moves to sit in the opposite seat.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you anything better.” He says as he sits down. “This is about as complex a meal as I can make.”

Dean, who had been staring at the food in front of him rabidly and concentrating on not making a dive for it, looks up at the uncertainty in Cas’s voice. The man has turned a bit pink, and though the man never makes eye contact, he is looking somewhere far down enough that he must know it’s not even close to where Dean is.

If Dean didn’t know any better, he would think his master is embarrassed.

As if he thinks Dean is going to think it’s not good enough or something. As if it matters to him what Dean thinks.

He could probably get away with just ignoring the comment, and in fact it probably would be safer to stay quiet when he hasn’t been explicitly asked to speak, but something about the man’s uncertainty makes Dean’s heart clench in a way it hasn’t in years.

“Well.” Dean finds himself saying. “It-It looks very good to me, Sir.” He’s not lying, but his voice comes out a lot more timidly than he’d been aiming for, the fear of speaking out of turn clenching at his throat and threatening his words into submission as they leave his mouth.

Instead of looking happy, Cas somehow looks even more upset. “There’s no need for that, Dean.” He says, gesturing to the food. “Please, eat.”

Confused, Dean resists reaching for his food, watching the other man go for his own sandwich for a moment before it clicks.

Cas doesn’t believe him, Dean realizes. He thinks Dean only said anything because he feels obligated, because Cas is his master and is unhappy and Dean is afraid.

The kicker is, Dean is afraid. He’s always afraid. And yet just making that tiny comment is the only thing he’s done in so many years that hasn’t been motivated by fear, and the fact that Cas doesn’t even believe him makes the twist inside him grow a thousand times.

Grabbing half the sandwich, he shoves the damn thing into his mouth and eats it in two bites.

“This is so good.” He says, a lot more forcefully than before. His mouth full, the words come out muffled, barely understandable. Forcing himself to swallow, Dean tries again.

“Sir, this is great.” It’s the truth. Even though he’d scarfed it down fast enough that he could barely taste it, it somehow seems to be the best thing he’s ever eaten. That may have something to do with the fact that he hasn’t been fed for more than two days, but none the less he means what he says.

This seems to come across in his words, as Cas’s eyebrows raise in surprise at Dean’s vehemence.

“Oh.” He says. “I’m glad you like it.” His words are calm, but he looks pleased, a small smile painting his face.

Something happy and bright bubbles up inside Dean at the knowledge that that is his doing, and he finds himself grinning dumbly.

Cas finishes a minute after Dean does, and despite the slave’s protests, leaves the dishes in the sink for the next morning. Dean doesn’t know exactly what time it is, but it’s been dark outside for at least a few hours. Either way, Dean is barely keeping himself awake. He’s never able to sleep at all before an auction, and at this point has probably been awake for upwards of 40 hours straight. Pile on the stress of the being sold to a new master, the pure physical exhaustion of the past few days, the malnourishment, and all his injuries, and Dean is straining to keep from literally collapsing.

Luckily Cas seems to sense this, and brings him upstairs to get ready for bed.

“I think it’s ok if you sleep in what your wearing, since you only put it on a few hours ago.” Cas says as Dean follows him down the hall. “Unless you want to change?” Cas asks.

“Whatever you think is best, Mr. Cas.”

He thinks he hears Cas let out a slight sigh at this, but he could be wrong.

“Alright.” Cas decides. “I guess what your wearing is fine then.”

Dean flinches a bit at his resigned tone, getting the distinct impression that he has disappointed the man in some way but not knowing how. Not for the first time since he arrived, Dean wishes Cas would be clearer about what he wants from him.

For the second time that day, Dean follows Cas through his bedroom and into the bathroom. As they step inside, Cas kneels down and opens the cabinet beneath the sink.
“I believe I have an extra toothbrush somewhere.” Cas says as he rifles around the shelves. “It may take me a moment to find it. I don’t often have guests.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, but stands and watches quietly as his master rummages through rolls of toilet paper and cleaning supplies, pushing things aside as he feels around for it. His bare feet feel cold against the linoleum floor, and he curls his toes as he shifts slightly in nervousness.

After a few minutes, Cas lets out a noise of frustration, and Dean takes that as his cue. Kneeling down next to the man, he joins him in his search, and finds the thing almost immediately, crammed in the back and buried beneath a rag. He’s pulled it out and pressed it into Cas’s palm before the man even realizes he’s there.

“Oh!” Cas says in gentle surprise. He holds the toothbrush loosely in his palm for a few seconds, blinking the confusion out of his eyes. “Thank you.” He says eventually.

“Of course, Sir.”

Cas seems to start a bit at his voice, remembering all of a sudden what they’re doing.

“Oh, but this is for you.” Cas says, offering the toothbrush back out to Dean. Dean takes it, and suddenly he is being helped to his feet as Cas stands, pulling him up by his arms and taking the weight off his cracked rib. The kindness of the gesture makes something weird flutter in Dean’s stomach, and, bizarrely, he blushes.

After that, they brush their teeth in silence, Dean thankful it is the fingers on his left hand that are broken and he can still use his right without difficulty. Cas shows him where he keeps his own toothbrush, in the cabinet above the sink, and tells Dean to put his somewhere else so he doesn’t accidentally use the wrong one. Dean chooses to put it on the shelf where he found it, and hopes as he does so that this means Cas is keeping him. He wouldn’t waste his things on a slave he was planning on sending back, right?

He follows Cas back out into his bedroom and then the hall, and trails along behind him until they come to a stop at a door at the other end. Dean, who had been looking at the floor out of habit, has to rock backwards on his feet to avoid bumping in to Cas. He takes a step back as his master, oblivious, opens the door.

They are standing outside of a small bedroom, plain and white but neat and clean. A made twin bed is pressed against the wall, and a brown bedside table sits on it’s right. On the other end of the room, there’s a wooden dresser, a floor lamp, and an empty bookcase. Much of the opposite wall from where they are standing is taken up by a large window, which looks out over the mountains and a huge part of the sky. The room is clearly un-lived in, but looks idealistic to Dean.

“This is your room.” Cas says.

Dean, who had been staring out at the view, jolts, certain he could not have heard that right.

“Sir?” He says tentatively.

“Yes?”

“Did you say- Did…” Dean trails off, too unsure, but Cas seems to pull the thought from his mind.

“I said this is your room.” He repeats.

Dean gapes, first at Cas, then at the room again. He clutches at the doorframe until his knuckles turn white.

“I know it’s small.” Cas is saying. “And a bit boring. We can redecorate though. It’s the guest room, which is why it’s so simple.”

The words barely register to Dean, who is still reeling from Cas’s announcement.

“Can I go in?”

“Of course.”

Tentatively, Dean makes his way inside. Staring around the room, he takes everything in for a second time, this time with the fact that he will be the one sleeping here in mind. The rug is soft beneath his feet, so unlike the cement floors he’s used to sleeping on, and the claustrophobia usually brought on by being trapped in a tiny room is gone with the window there to open it up.

He pads over to the dresser, running his hands over the solid wooden frame, then to the lamp, and feels excitement rush through him when he turns it on and it works.

He looks back over to where Cas is still standing in the doorway.

“I can stay in here?” He asks hesitantly, still unsure.

“Yes, Dean.”

“On the bed?” Dean breathes.

Cas furrows his brow. “Well yes, of course.” He says, sounding concerned. “Where else would you sleep?”

“My last master kept me chained to a wall in his basement whenever he wasn’t using me.” Dean says bluntly. He feels bad almost immediately when he sees Cas’s face morph into horror, then guilt.

To be fair, he hadn’t actually expected Cas to do that to him, not after the gentle treatment he’d received all day. Not that he was naive enough to think that just because a master acted kind that they were, or to believe any of Cas’s promises about not touching him sexually. Still, there was something earnest in Cas that couldn’t be faked, and he hadn’t been afraid of the man tying him down like a wild animal. He had thought it most likely that Cas would keep him in his room, probably on the floor next to his bed so he could access him easily during the night if he had the urge.

He’d thought it a lot more probable though that Cas would chain him up than give him his own room.

“There’s a lock on the door.” He hears Cas say.

“Yes Mr. Cas.” He says absently, having moved over to feel the fabric on the bed.

“Feel free to lock it whenever you want. There’s no way to unlock it from the outside, so you can be sure I won’t be bothering you.”

“Yes Mr.- What?” He stands up straight then, spinning around to face the other man.

“Erm.” Cas says awkwardly, looking confused. “There’s…a lock on the door.” He repeats. “Feel free to lock it whenever you-”

He cuts himself off as he hears Dean stride back over to him.

“It locks from the inside?” Dean says incredulously.

“Well, yes.” Cas says kindly. “This is your room now. I won’t come in without your permission regardless of whether you lock the door-that’s why I’ve been over here this whole time- but there is a lock, and I did want you to know about it.”

Dean is so shocked he almost feels sick. He honestly doesn’t know how to respond.

“Dean?” Cas says nervously after a few seconds of unbroken silence.

“Mr. Cas.” Dean answers weakly. He feels dizzy all of a sudden.

Completely overwhelmed, Dean shifts back into automatic, and tentatively reaches out to grip Cas’s dick through his jeans.

Immediately Cas stiffens, and catches Dean’s wrist in his hand before he has a chance to yank it back. Dean flinches, but instead of hitting him or twisting his arm backwards until he’s forced to his knees, Cas just pulls his hand away, and moves his own down to lace his fingers through Dean’s.

Dean stares down at their hands in shock.

“It’s alright, Dean.” Cas says. “It’s just a room.”

But it’s not. It’s not just anything, because it’s so much more than Dean deserves. All of this is so much more than he deserves.

But he’s so goddamn tired by now that he isn’t even sure he’s 100% awake anymore. He has no energy left to protest, to tell Cas he doesn’t have the right to a bed, to tell Cas he’s supposed to suck his cock, that he should be washing the dishes or cleaning the house or getting fucked or getting beaten. He’s too tired to explain to Cas that it doesn’t matter if he can’t, he’s a slave, he has to.

So he gives in, and lets himself be pulled over to the bed, and lets Cas yank the covers down, and lets himself be pushed down onto the mattress. And then, instead of pulling his pants down, Cas pulls the blankets up, and instead of biting his nipples, Cas kisses his forehead, and instead of climbing on top of him and fucking him raw, Cas turns off the light and says goodnight and closes the door behind him.

In the dark, Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He feels a rush of some emotion hit him very very strongly, but is asleep before he can figure out what it is.

Chapter Text

It takes Dean a few seconds to realizes he’s awake. So unused to waking up gently rather than being ripped from sleep, he at first doesn’t recognize the feeling for what it is.

When he does realize, he starts a bit, then freezes.

What had happened after he’d passed out? The last thing he remembers is being pulled over to the bed, Cas hovering over him, and then… leaving? He thinks. He remembers falling asleep here, which wouldn’t have happened if his master had been using him. But had Cas come back during the night?

Dean goes as still as he can, trying to see if he can hear the breathing of someone lying behind him. He can't feel anyone pressed against him, and he almost always wakes up if someone comes to fuck him during the night, but he doesn't want to be wrong and wake the man up with his movement.

Very, very carefully, as to not shake the bed, he wiggles his lower half around the tiniest bit.

He doesn't feel sore, or at least any more so than yesterday.

Goddamnit.

Slowly, he turns his body from his side and onto his back, and looks to the side.

The bed is empty. There's nobody there. He’d been left alone the whole night.

He isn't sure if he should be happy about that or not.

On one hand, he certainly doesn't enjoy being fucked, and is always glad for a reprieve, however brief.

On the other, he would feel much more secure about his place here if Cas expressed interest in his body.

So far, it looks like Cas really is planning to keep him. But if not as a fucktoy, as what? A helper? A caretaker? He can't be those things. He doesn't know how. He’ll fuck it up somehow, and it'll be back to the market for him. And probably right into his grave.

If Cas fucked him, he’d at least know the man wanted him. And he’d at least be able to do the job he’d been assigned, which was to lie there and look pretty. He isn’t capable of doing more than that. He’d proved that well enough.

He decides that Cas being uninterested in his body is not a good thing.

With that happy thought, Dean pulls himself out of bed.

Standing up, his eyes widen as they land on the alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.

1:06 PM

1:06 PM

He isn’t quite sure when he’d been put to bed last night, but it certainly hadn’t been after midnight. Which means he’s been asleep for at least 13 hours, if not more.

Dean’s pretty sure he’s never been allowed to sleep so long in his life, and he starts to panic, wondering of he was supposed to wake himself up. Some masters had expected him to do chores or come pleasure them in the morning, and they were never happy if they had to come find him. Other masters though hadn’t allowed him to move from where they left him, not liking it when their sex toy took initiative.

He starts for the door, but his courage fails him. Is he allowed to leave the bedroom?

Probably not, he decides, remembering his resolution not to move any of Cas’s things. It wouldn’t do if Cas couldn’t find him. He’s most likely the kind of master who will expect him to stay put until he has a use for him. Anyway, Cas would have come and dragged him out of bed hours ago if he was supposed to already be up.

Coming to that conclusion, Dean moves from where he stands hovered by the door, walking back over to the bed and sitting down in the middle of it. Leaning against the headboard, Dean contemplates the room he will most likely be spending most of his time. It is far from the worst place to be kept, considering. One master had locked him in his closet when he didn’t want him. And he hadn’t been lying when he’d told Cas his last master had kept him chained to the wall in the basement. Another had just kept him in his bedroom, and while the room was big and certainly nice, he’d had to deal with harassment of other slaves who came in to do chores. Some of them just mocked or hit him, but a lot of them liked to get a taste of what their master enjoyed. None of them ever full on penetrated him, they wouldn’t risk the master noticing, but the groping was unpleasant enough on it’s own.

No, he much prefers being left alone, and as far as Dean can tell, Cas doesn’t own any other slaves. And while the room he’s to be kept in is small, it’s a lot bigger than a closet, and a lot brighter than a basement, and he’s not even chained to anything or tied up at all. He has a bed (a bed!) to sit on, and no other slaves to bother him, and a window to let light pour in and give him something to look out on.

It is, Dean realizes, an incredible view, one he hadn’t properly appreciated in the dark and the panic of the night before. Curiously, Dean gets up, and patters over to the glass.

He can see the land for miles. He’d noticed before that the house is on top of a mountain, but rather than being nestled in among other, higher ridges, they seem to be roughly above everything else. The sky is huge, empty and blue, and the mountains roll out in front of him, green and endless. Oddly though, Dean observes, there doesn’t seem to be all that many trees, at least not the ones he’s been accustomed to seeing. Rather, the land is covered in bushes, stringy and wild, and instead of grass or even dirt beneath them, the land is an weirdly pale color, like everything is seated on top of huge piles of sand. For the first time, Dean wonders where they are.

Last he was aware, he’d been in Wyoming, but that had been days ago, before his last master sold him. He has no idea where the auction had been held, only that the transportation van he’d been shoved into had driven for at least 15 or 16 hours. He could be anywhere.

The realization means nothing to him. He thinks that maybe he should be more afraid or at least more disoriented than he actually feels. But his entire life has just changed drastically for the fifth time in as many years, and he got used to the feeling a while ago. And fear? His whole life is permeated by fear. That’s nothing new.

A long time ago, his life hadn’t just been one uprooting after another. Well, no, that’s not quite true. They’d moved constantly, but the important things had stayed the same. He’d known what his job was, and he’d known how to do it. He’d known what the next day would bring, the same incredibly important monotony of the day before, of getting up and cooking for Sam and cleaning for Sam and living for Sam, helping him with his homework and helping him with his problems, backing him up and making him know he was loved and protecting him.

The strangely alien landscape in front of him starts to blur, and Dean barely even realizes he’s beginning to cry before he’s wiped the tears away. No. He can’t think about that. What was and what he was doesn’t matter anymore. Sam is gone from his life, and it’s his own god damn fault. He’d fucked that up like he fucks everything else up, like he’s gonna fuck Cas up if he keeps at this weird game of expecting him to be what he’s not and what he’s never been. He couldn’t protect Sammy, not ever, never took care of him the way he deserved. He can’t take care of Cas either, and if he were a better man he would run away or set this fucking quaint and idealistic house on fire just so they’d catch him or Cas would be forced to send him back. And then they’d put a fucking bullet through his head like he deserves.

But he won’t. He won’t because he’s pathetic and afraid, and not the strong older brother he’d tricked Sam into believing he was.

Dean decides he doesn’t care where they are. It doesn’t change anything at all.

At that moment, Dean hears the door behind him creek open. Spinning around, he sees Cas standing in the doorway, looking hesitant.

“Dean?” He calls softly. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, Sir.” Dean answers, grateful Cas can’t see the puffiness of his eyes. He’s embarrassed himself enough.

Cas stands up a bit straighter and opens the door wider.

“Good morning.” He says smiling, seeming to brighten all of a sudden.

“Um.” Dean says brilliantly. “Good morning, Sir. Mr. Cas.” He corrects himself, cringing at how many times he’s already fucked up the only order Cas has given him. God, he can’t do anything right.

“I don’t want to make you feel like you have to, but if you come downstairs I can get you something to eat.” Cas tells him pleasantly.

Dean’s eyebrows pop up at that, surprised. He hadn’t expected to be fed again so soon. He’d also assumed that he would take his meals in here, whenever Cas chose to feed him.

But no, that doesn’t make sense. Cas doesn’t have any other slaves to bring him his meals, and why would he bring them up when Dean was perfectly capable of getting them himself? He will probably be expected to get his meals himself, and go straight back up to his room afterwards. He wonders then if he is supposed to eat downstairs or come back to the room as soon as he’s gotten his food. Well, he’s about to find out.

“Of course, Mr. Cas.” Dean responds, his entire thought process taking less than a second. He moves away from the window, and follows Cas downstairs.

“Please take a seat. At the table, not on the floor.” Cas says once they are in the kitchen. His voice holds no venom, but Dean still flushes in humiliation as he obeys.

“I don’t have much variety.” Cas says. “I almost always eat cereal for breakfast. I think I may have a few frozen waffles left, but that’s really it.”

“I like cereal.” Dean assures. He likes anything, really, as long as it’s food, and is always grateful when “are you hungry” doesn’t end with a dick in his mouth and cum in his empty stomach.

Cas moves over to open the pantry. “Cereal it is then. I have Corn Flakes, Fiber One and Rice Krispies. Nothing very exciting, as Gabriel is always ready to complain about. I must admit though, I go through the Rice Krispies much faster than the others. I’m not as healthy as I’d like to be.”

Dean doesn’t say anything, having very little idea of what the man is talking about and unsure if he’s even supposed to respond. The answer becomes clear after a moment of silence, when Cas suddenly flushes a very bright red and ducks his head, and Dean figures he probably should have said something.

Still, the intensity of the reaction seems a bit off, and it only then occurs to Dean that his master’s very slight ramble about cereal is the most words Dean has heard out of the man at once so far. It hadn’t stuck him as odd before, as he’s used to only being spoken to when being given orders. But all of a sudden he finds himself wondering what this blind man is doing living out alone in the middle of absolutely nowhere.

“I’m worried about you.” Dean remembers. “All alone in these frickin’ mountains, shut inside all day with your books and your dog.”

But it’s not his place to judge, or even wonder. It’s his place to keep his head bowed and keep his mouth shut before someone shuts it for him. So he tramples down his curiosity, and doesn’t say a word.

By the pantry, Cas seems to be haltingly recovering from…whatever that was.

“Do you. Uh. Do you know which one you want?” He asks awkwardly, gesturing to the cereal.

“I don’t. Um. Anything’s fine, Mr. Cas.” Dean tells him. Is this a trick question?

Cas tilts his head, looking sad. “Have you had any of them before?”

Dean pauses. He’s pretty sure he recognizes the box labeled “Rice Krispies”, with the three weird looking elves on it. He thinks he might have had it with Sam a few times.

“I might have tried Rice Krispies before.” Dean tells Cas. “I think I liked them.”

Cas smiles, pulling out the box and putting it on the counter. “Good choice.”

So there was a right answer. Damn.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” Says Cas, pulling out two bowls from the cabinet. “I’ve been up for a while, but I haven’t eaten yet. I often skip breakfast.”

Dean frowns. So apparently the man can’t cook, lives off of almost entirely frozen food and cereal, and doesn’t even eat enough of that garbage.

It’s none of your business. Dean tells himself. But it bothers him more than it should.

Dean watches as Cas slowly pours the cereal into the bowls, and after pulling the milk out of the fridge, very carefully pours in the milk, after feeling the entire rim of each bowl with his fingertips. He puts away the milk and cereal then, and places both bowls and two spoons on the table. He finds the opposite chair without help from Dean’s voice this time.

Dean waits until Cas has begun eating before taking his first bite. They eat in silence for a minute, Dean noting that he’s supposed to stay downstairs while he eats. The cereal is good, and he does sort of recognize the taste, but it certainly wasn’t a staple food when he was with Sam. He’s kind of grateful for that. Anything that reminds him of before isn’t good.

Eventually, Cas speaks, breaking Dean out of his thoughts.

“So.” He says. “I made a few calls this morning. And I found a doctor who will see you. We have an appointment for tomorrow.”

His food suddenly sits a lot heavier in his stomach.

Doctors are scary. The only time that slaves see doctors, to his knowledge, is when their masters want to change something about their slaves body.

“Are you going to castrate me?” He blurts. Immediately he drops his spoon, so shocked that the words came out of his mouth, and it makes a loud clanging sound as it splashes into the bowl.

Cas’s face gives him his answer though, even before he yells “No!” loud enough to have Dean jerking backwards and curing into his chair.

“Jesus, Dean, no.” He says again. “It’s just so he can take a look at your injuries. And to get some stronger pain medication.”

Dean nods, before remembering, and forcing a quiet “Yessir.” out of his mouth.

He does feel somewhat relieved, and the shock on his master’s face would have told him he was telling the truth if the eighteen doctor’s calls yesterday hadn’t. But he’s a lot lest trusting of this doctors intentions. Like he’d told Cas, doctors don’t see slaves. If this one had agreed, he almost certainly believed Cas wanted something horrific done to him, and his stomach churns at the thought of being poked and prodded by someone like that. He wonders if Cas will be there with him the whole time. He wonders if the doctor will insist he can’t be. He wonders if he will try to talk Cas into something terrible, and if Cas is someone who is swayed easily.

He can’t eat any more.

After a few seconds of terrible silence, he hears Cas drop his spoon into his bowl as well.

“That reminds me.” The man says. “You need your pain medication today. And we should change your bandages. Are you finished with your food?” He asks.

“Yes Mr. Cas.” He says, even though the bowl is still half full. He couldn’t eat any more right now even if he was ordered to.

Cas puts the dishes in the sink, once again leaving them for later, and tells Dean to follow him. He does so, and they end up in Cas’s bedroom. Awkwardly, Dean watches his master rifle around a drawer in increasing frustration, before very timidly telling him that the first aid kit is on the bedside table, if that’s what he’s looking for. It takes him longer to jump in than it might have this morning, still shaken from the doctor thing.

Cas doesn’t look mad though, just embarrassed, and moves over to grab the kit and sit on the bed.

“Come sit, Dean.” He says, and Dean does, sitting cross legged on the bed, pointed away from Cas.

He strips off his shirt, and Cas peels away the blood soaked bandages until there’s nothing left but his raw back. The man cleans his wounds again, and even though it stings Cas’s hands feel so nice that he starts to space out, losing himself in a quiet haze of calm, relaxing until he’s lose and limp.

He really, really hopes Cas stays with him at the doctor. He knows better than to think of a master as safe, and yet he’s starting to feel safe anyway, and the thought of being separated from him makes panic pull at Dean’s gut. But he doesn’t know what the fuck this doctor wants to do to him, and though he’s not so naive to think of Cas as a protector, he’s as close as Dean’s gonna get. And Dean’s pretty sure that, if he’s there, Cas won’t let the doctor hurt him. Honestly, even if he does let the doctor fuck him up, pathetically, Dean would still feel better if Cas was there while it happened.

Behind him, Cas taps his shoulder, and Dean starts, coming back to earth.

“Lift your arms, please.” Cas says, and Dean does, clean bandages circling their way down his chest.

“Let me get you a clean shirt.” Cas says as he finishes. “And some pants. We’ll need to get you your own clothes, but we can do that tomorrow when we’re in town.”

Dean blinks.

“Like, clothes that only I’ll wear?” Dean asks.

“Of course.” Cas says as he opens a drawer. “You can’t keep wearing my things forever.”

Dean doesn’t see why not, but doesn’t say anything. He’d honestly assumed when he’d come here that he wouldn’t need any clothes, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. He wonders if Cas maybe means like, lingerie and panties and stuff. The man couldn’t exactly see him in them though. But maybe he’d like the feeling, or even just knowing Dean in them might get him off.

He kind of hopes that’s what Cas means, just because getting him actual real clothes would mean Cas is really invested in the idea of him being his helper. More than that, clothes cost money, and while he’s been given “gifts” of bondage gear and underthings, they weren’t really his, and they were entirely for his masters benefit. Real clothes though would be money actually spent for him.

Now that he thinks about it, doctors cost money too. A lot of money. Whatever the hell happens at the doctor, it’s going to be costing Cas, and if he actually ends up getting pain killers, that’s gonna be even more.

Fuck, he’s not worth all this. As in, he literally isn’t worth that much money. A slave as used up and skilless as him is worth next to nothing, and if Cas decided to sell him today he’d barely even make a profit.

Life is cheap, and a slave’s life even more so. He’s been selling for less and less each time he’s been sold, until Gabe bought him yesterday at fifty-five dollars. He knows this doctor’s visit is going to cost more than that. Hell, there are shirts that cost more than that, and not even that wildly overpriced ones.

As he moves through these thoughts, Dean feels himself shrink, until he’s sat cross-legged on the bed with his spine bent over and his shoulders curled in. When Cas hands him another t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, he can barely force himself to put them on. He does though, because it’s what his master wants.

As he gets off the bed to change, Cas looks conflicted for a second, before, bizarrely, turning his back. It’s so ridiculous, not just because Cas is blind but because Dean is a fucking sex slave, that he almost laughs.

Something catches it though, as it comes up his throat, yanking it back down into his stomach, and oddly enough that thing is not fear. He knows fear well enough to be sure of that, but is too unfamiliar with any other emotion to identify it.

Whatever it is though, it makes him think of how flustered Cas looked when Dean didn’t respond to him that morning, and how for some reason he seemed embarrassed when he cooked last night, and how isolated this house is from absolutely anything.

Dean doesn’t want to laugh at Cas. You shouldn’t laugh at someone for being too kind.

He finishes changing quietly, trying to ignore how the odd feeling has moved from his throat and is now clawing at his heart.

“Finished.” He says eventually, and Cas turns back around. He looks somewhat embarrassed, but probably a lot less so than if Dean had giggled. The thing scratching his heart scratches harder. Dean finally identifies it as guilt.

“I’m going to have to look up places to shop.” Cas tells him. “I don’t get out much. I haven’t been in town in months.”

Once again, Dean is reminded he doesn’t know where they are, and his curiosity burns at his stomach, louder now that Dean is almost sure Cas won’t hit him if he asks.

You don’t need to know. He reminds himself. It doesn’t change your position.

Instead of dying, though, the interest just reroutes itself, and he hears himself speak rather than consciously choosing to.

“Then how do you get, you know, food and stuff, Sir?”

But Cas doesn’t look mad. His face doesn’t change at all, in fact, but he answers without hesitation.

“I have all my groceries delivered, and anything else I need I just order online.”

Instead of sating him, it makes another question appear, like the fact that no one is hitting him is making him want to ask as many questions as possible while he still can. He should probably quit while he’s ahead, but Dean has never been very well trained, and he at least gives himself permission to speak this time if not consciously choosing to do so.

“How do you…” Dean stops, starts again. “How can you shop online- If you can’t, you know, see?”

Far from getting angry, this time, Cas smiles.

“I can show you, if you’d like?”

“Yes, please.” Dean says immediately, unable to stop himself from replying honestly. Cas leads him then into another room on the top floor, some sort of office, with thick books lying all over the place. On the desk, Cas opens what looks like a normal laptop. Upon closer inspection though, Dean sees a plastic cover over the keyboard, with braille lettering instead of printed.

As Cas turns the computer on, Dean turns to look at a book sitting on the desk. Unable to resist, he carefully opens it, only to see hundreds of tiny, raised dots covering the page. He closes it quickly and looks back at the computer.

Cas has already opened google, and is typing into the bar. The screen quickly redirects to amazon.com.

“Alright.” Cas says. “What’s something you need?”

Dean looks over from the screen to the man, startled.

“Wh-me, Mr. Cas.?”

Cas nods.

Dean feels nervous all of a sudden. He can’t think of anything he needs, and he doesn’t like the idea of Cas spending money on him. He’s a slave. He’ll take whatever his master is generous enough to give him, and shut his mouth about anything else.

Cas had said he wanted him to have clothes, but he’d also said they were going to buy those tomorrow. And he already has a toothbrush. He doesn’t know what else he could possibly need.

“I don’t know, Mr. Cas.” He says truthfully.

Cas purses his lips a bit, and Dean feels ashamed, knowing he’s done something wrong but once again not knowing what.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

“It’s ok, Dean.” Cas replies. He tilts his head in that odd way of his. “I guess we’re getting all your clothes tomorrow anyway. And we don’t want to get you shoes that don’t fit.”

He pauses, then turns his head towards Dean.

“Can you read?” He asks.

The question comes out of left field, and Dean’s left with his breath knocked out of him as if someone had punched him in the stomach. When his breath comes back, he holds it for a good five seconds before he can make himself breathe.

He almost, almost lies. Because he’s not supposed to be able to read. According to the paperwork, he can’t. He’s not a skilled slave, he’s not trained in any area where it would be helpful. He’d been taught off the books, on the floors of dirty motel rooms by a teacher who barely brushed four feet, only bothering to learn at all because he wanted to be able to help said teacher with his homework.

It’s not that he’s not allowed to know. There’s no rule saying he can’t. It’s just that it’s his, it’s his secret which no one else in the world knows. No one except Sam.

It’s the only thing he’s managed to keep. His name is theirs, his words are theirs, he’s not so dumb that he believes he isn’t brainwashed enough that his thoughts aren’t theirs too. His body is sure as hell theirs.

He’s not really sure why he doesn’t lie. It’s not because he’s too scared or feels like he can’t. He’s hid it long enough that he knows he can. It’s not because Cas has been nice to him and he feels some special connection either.

If he’s honest, the main reason is as simple and as dumb as the fact that he’s pretty sure he knows where Cas’s question is leading, and the idea that Cas might buy him a book is enough for him to give everything up.

So after a few awkward seconds, Dean says yes.

Unaware of the turmoil inside Dean’s head, Cas moves on.

“Do you want a book, then?”

“I- I don’t need a book.” Dean says. He has to force the words out of his mouth.

He clearly wasn’t very convincing, however, since Cas quickly asks, in a much gentler tone, “Do you want a book, though?”

Dean’s ability to lie disappears. “Yes, Mr. Cas. Please.”

“What book would you like?”

“I-I don’t know, Mr. Cas.”

“Well, what kind of books do you like? I could give you some suggestions.”

Shit. He should have lied. He obviously doesn’t know enough about books to deserve one.

Humiliation laces his voice when he speaks again. “I haven’t read a lot of books, Sir.”

Or any.

He’s never had the time. He used to borrow whatever Sam was reading, but there was always too much to do to ever really sit down, and the books would have to be returned to the library after 2 weeks. He never got to the end. After Sam, he barely ever got near books, especially not without his master nearby. He’d read a few articles in magazines and maybe read a few pages in a novel when no one was looking, but besides that there had been nothing. Besides, with how little practice he got, he’s now an incredibly slow reader. He’s functional, perhaps, but probably at the level most 4th graders are at.

“Well,” Cas keeps trying, and Dean feels bad for bringing this up at all. “I mean- do you like fiction? Or would you prefer non-fiction?”

“I don’t need a book, Mr. Cas.” Dean repeats, and he doesn’t need to force it this time. Who is he kidding anyway? What would he even do with a book? He’s to stupid to read it.

But apparently, once Cas has an idea he doesn’t let it go.

“No, no, we’ll figure it out.” He insists. In the search bar of the site, he types in best selling books of all time.

A list, with pictures of the covers, pops up.

“Does anything look interesting?” He says. Reluctantly, Dean leans over to look at the list, expecting it all to mean nothing. He’s proven wrong so quickly that he blurts out the book title in surprise, fifth on the list and something he was halfway through reading.

“Harry Potter.” He says in shock.

“We can get Harry Potter if you want.” Cas says.

Dean does want. He’d liked it, he remembers, and Sam had loved it, rambling about it all day and night until Dean agreed to read it just to shut him up. It had gotten sent back before Dean was even half way through, but he remembers liking it a lot.

Maybe he should be embarrassed, since Sam was nine years old at that point and had read it in about two days. He’d always been a good reader, but Dean is 23 now. It’s probably ridiculous for him to be reading a book so young.

He wants it so badly he decides not to care.

“Yes please, Mr. Cas.” He says.

Instead of finding the link though, Cas goes back to the search bar, and types in Harry Potter softcover box set.

Dean has no idea what that means, but whatever Cas clicks on after that doesn’t look like a book. It just looks like a colorful box.

“So.” Cas says. “This is how I know what I’m buying.”

He scrolls down, does something with his keyboard, and all of a sudden the computer is speaking. It’s reading out the description, out loud, which is something he had no idea a computer could do.

“That’s so cool!” Dean says, words rushing out of his mouth in excitement. “Mr. Cas, that’s awesome!”

Cas smiles. “I’m glad you think so.”

“I do! That’s really. Wow. It’s-” He stops, and then all of a sudden words are bursting out of his mouth so fast they seem to trip over each other as they come.

“I thought it was really cool, that thing you did with the bread yesterday. I mean, how you scraped a knife over it to see if it was done. I just. I thought it was really clever. Sir.”

He ducks his head as he finishes, realizing that he hasn’t been given permission to speak and he’s not even making any sense and Cas is probably regretting agreeing to buy him a book and is about to slap him. Fuck.

Cas doesn’t do that though, and when Dean glances up to peer at him through his lashes, he’s kind of pink, but looks immensely pleased.

“I. Well. Thank you, Dean.” He mumbles.

Dean ducks his head again, still embarrassed at his behavior.

“Yessir.” He says, not knowing what else to do.

Cas rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Um. Anyway. We’ll just buy it then.”

Cas scrolls back up, and goes to check out. The voice reads off the things Cas needs to fill in, and Cas does so. It’s only when they get to the bottom that Dean catches sight of the price.

$52.09

He feels like he’s having a heart attack.

He notices, then, that the item name doesn’t just say “Harry Potter”, but also “Books 1-7.”

Seven books.

“Mr. Cas.” Dean says anxiously. “Sir, that’s not one book. It’s seven.”

“I know that, Dean.”

Dean inhales deeply, heart attack feeling still not going away.

“Sir, it costs over 50 dollars.”

Cas just nods. “I know. It’s ok. They’ll last you a long time.” And then he clicks go, just like that, and he’s 50 dollars poorer.

Dean feels dizzy all of a sudden, and he just gives up, sitting down on the floor cross legged.

“Dean?” He hears Cas ask, but he can’t bring himself to answer him.

$52.09

He’d cost the same amount of money.

He doesn’t know what to do.

“Dean, are you alright?”

“Yes, Mr. Cas.” Dean forces himself to answer. “It’s just a lot of money is all.”

His voice sounds weird, kind of strangled. Huh.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“I don’t know.” He says.

“Can you get up?”

“No.” He answers without thinking. Then he realizes that was probably an order in disguise, and tries to pull himself up. He’s feels weirdly lightheaded though, and just ends up back on the ground.

“It’s ok.” He hears Cas say, and then Cas is in front of him, sitting but not touching him, which is good because if he tried to touch him right now Dean feels like he might hit him.

“I cost the same amount of money.” Dean tells Cas. This is important for some reason, though he’s not really sure why.

“Oh.” Cas says, and that’s all he says, but the word is heavy with something thick and empty. Dean agrees.

They sit there doing nothing for about ten minutes while Dean tries to put his brain back in his body, and when he finally does he feels stupid.

“Sorry.” He mumbles.

“It’s alright.” Cas answers. “Can you get up now?”

“Yes.” Dean says, and he does, and so does Cas, and that’s it. Cas leaves it alone, and Dean is grateful.

Chapter Text

Cas calls a cab the next morning to drive them into town. It arrives at around 9AM, and they pile into the car, Dean wearing more of Cas’s borrowed clothes.

The drive is silent and long, with Dean staring at his knees the whole time and trying not to show how scared he is. It’s a testament to his fear that he isn’t even a little excited to get outside after years of being trapped indoors. He’d be happy to stay in Cas’s house forever if it meant avoiding this.

The cab drops them off directly outside the office, and as they get out of the car, Dean has to resist the urge to run right then and there.

It wouldn’t do any good though, so when Cas takes his arm he leads them inside obediently.

The waiting room is deceptively calm looking, white and clean, with patients sitting around on chairs, quietly reading magazines. The tranquil environment is a sharp contrast to the pounding in Dean’s chest.

“We need to check in at the front desk.” Cas says next to him. Dean nodes jerkily, knowing that Cas can’t see it but unable to make his throat work. He brings Cas up to the said desk, where a bored looking woman is sitting behind it. She looks at Dean suspiciously as they approach, and after guiding Cas in front of her, finds himself half hiding behind the man, ducking his head.

“Hello.” He hears Cas say. “My name is Castiel Novak. I have an appointment scheduled for 11AM for my slave.”

Dean, still staring at the floor, can none the less feel the shock in the woman’s pause.

“For your slave?” He hears her say incredulously. It sounds accusatory, and sure enough, when he glances up, her sceptic eyes are trained on him. He cringes, letting his eyes drop down again.

He feels like he’s going to be sick.

From far away, he hears voices keep talking.

“I talked to Dr. Singer on the phone about it yesterday. He agreed to see Dean.”

“You’re aware this won’t be covered by your insurance?”

“I am.”

After that, several minutes are spent with Cas verbally answering the woman’s questions as she fills out the paperwork for him. When finally finishes, she tells Cas to have a seat and that a nurse will be there to call them in in a minute.

Cas takes Dean’s arm again then, and Dean almost jumps two feet in the air. Cas frowns, but before he can comment, Dean quickly moves, leading him over to the seating area and pushing him into a chair.

The moment Cas is seated, Dean kneels besides him, relief filling him at the familiarity of the position. It is a small comfort, but Dean clings to it like a drowning man, and he feels himself marginally relax.

That is, until he hears Cas’s voice above him, who apparently no longer has to ask when Dean is on the floor.

“You don’t have to kneel, Dean.” His master says, and Dean’s heart sinks. “Come sit up here.”

Dean freezes, shutting his eyes tight. Jesus, he can’t deal with this right now, not when he’s already on the verge of having a mental breakdown. He can’t deal with Cas’s weird equaltarian shit. Not now, not in public.

But that’s an order. That’s a direct order, and protesting a direct order is so far against his instincts he blanches at even the thought of saying “no”. But sitting on a chair, like he’s a person, and around other free people too- He can’t.

Unable argue and unable to obey, all he can do is lean towards Cas and press his face into the man’s thigh, clinging to his ankle like a baby. Shuddering, he shakes his head the tiniest bit, hoping against hope that Cas will understand.

Up till now, he’s been able to keep his terror under control, at least to the extent that he could keep a man who can’t see unaware. Now though, trembling pathetically at his feet, Cas has to know how afraid he is. Shame washes over him at the thought, both at how dependent he is and how much of a burden he must be to Cas.

A few terrifying seconds pass, with Dean tensed and waiting, sure that Cas is going to shove him away any moment. But after a minute that feels like eternity, all the man does is lean over and kiss the top of Dean’s head.

Relief floods through him, as well as something pink and warm that he can’t quite name. He clutches the soft fabric around Cas’s ankle tighter, so grateful.

They are still sat like that, with Cas in a chair and Dean pressed into his side, when a nurse finally calls them back a few minutes later.

“Castiel Novak?” Dean hears, and his heart rate speeds up like crazy. He feels his master move to get up, and he follows, linking his trembling arm with the other man’s and praying that he doesn’t notice the shaking.

Blankly, he follows the red-headed nurse down the hall, leading Cas along, unable to hear anything but the rush of his own blood and the soft tap-tap of Cas’s cane in front of them.

At last, they are brought into a small, brightly lit room, stocked with a long counter, some cabinets, various contraptions that Dean can only partially identify, and a long, soft looking table that distant memory tells him is where the examination happens.

The nurse turns to them and smiles. Terrifyingly, she seems to be smiling not at Cas but at him.

“You must be Dean, right?” She says, and his heart leaps in his chest. He flinches away from her grin on instinct.

It certainly isn’t on instinct, though, that he moves closer into Cas. But he has no time to ponder that realization, as the peppy nurse is still looking at him expectantly.

He nods then, and a quiet “Yes Ma’am” leaves his mouth.

“Oh please, call me Charlie.” The woman says, gesturing at her name tag, and Dean nods, knowing full well that’s not gonna happen.

“We can just get Castiel here seated…” She points to a chair in the corner of the room, and Dean, taking her cue, leads his master over to the it. He has to physically pull himself away from the man once he’s seated, wanting nothing more than to stay clung to him like a starfish.

Stop it. He tells himself. It doesn’t matter if you’re scared, he doesn’t want you hanging on to him. Suck it up.

He does, moving away from Cas and turning towards this unknown woman.

“Alright.” She says, picking up a clipboard and pen up from the counter. “First thing’s first, we need to check your height and weight. If you could just take off your shoes and step over here, please?” She is pointing at the opposite wall, which has lines going up it that mark each hight. He pulls off his borrowed sneakers and lines up against the marks obediently.

“I’m gonna need you to lift your head up, dude.” He hears, and realizes he has bowed his head without even noticing. Flushing, he forces his head up.

A second later she has marked his height, and he is allowed to step away. He drops his head again almost immediately.

“6’2”, not bad.” Charlie says, writing the number down on her paper. “Now for the weight. Just step up on this, please.” She gestures to a tall machine that is unlike any scale Dean has ever seen. Nervously, he steps up onto the thing.

Charlie messes around with some moveable parts at the top, and after a minute, apparently finds the information she needs.

Whatever it is, it apparently does not make her happy, as her smile drops away into a frown, and she scribbles something on her sheet.

“You can step down now.” She says, and her voice is a lot colder than before.

Flinching, Dean quickly does as he’s told, wondering what he’s done wrong now and whether he’s going to be punished for it.

Instead of slapping or punching him though, the nurse rounds on Cas, her voice as full of fire as her hair.

“What the hell have you been feeding him?” She snaps, and Cas jumps a bit in his seat. “I mean, I could tell he was underweight from just looking at him, but this is ridiculous. No one his height should weigh 125 pounds!”

Cas pales, and his eyes widen a bit. “125 pounds?” He echoes, and shakes his head. “I- I didn’t know.”

“What the hell did you think would happen if you starve him? His BMI is 16! His body can’t handle that, no one’s can. He’s your responsibility, you’re supposed to be taking care of him.”

The woman’s voice has been getting louder and louder, and Dean can’t help the terror he feels at the shouting, even if it’s not directed at him. At this point, Dean wants nothing more to crawl under the table and hide.

From what he can tell, it looks like Cas feels the same way. He’s shrunk down in his seat, and physically recoils at Charlie’s last worlds. He doesn’t tell her to shut up, or get angry, or even defend himself at all. He’s just sitting there taking it, looking horribly guilty and like he might cry.

That hurts, a lot more than Dean expects it to. Because Cas has nothing to be guilty about. He’s been nothing but good to Dean.

The woman is still yelling, but suddenly all he can think about is Sam, with John looming over him, drunk and angry and in a rage. And all the times he’d diverted that rage onto himself, and how, no matter the consequences, he’s never once regretted it.

“Ma’am.” He breaks in tentatively.

She barrels on.

“I know you may not like to hear it, but he’s human, and his body will react the same way anyone else’s will. In other words, without proper nutrition, it will collapse.”

“Ma’am.” He says again. It’s a lot louder this time.

The room goes quiet, and all of a sudden Dean is fighting the urge to hide again, as shocked attention flies to him.

Instead, he hugs himself and tries to look as small as possible, but forces himself to speak.

“Mr. Cas has had me for two days, Ma’am.” He swallows harshly, staring at his feet. “He’s fed me three times a day and hasn’t hurt me at all.”

There is a long silence after he speaks, finally broken by Charlie’s small “Oh.”

He glances up, only to see that the nurse is flushed bright pink.

“Well.” She says awkwardly. “In that case… just make sure he eats enough in the future, alright?”

Cas nods earnestly.

“Good.” She clears her throat. “Good talk. I’ll go get the doctor.” And with that, she rushes out of the room.

The room once again falls back into silence, and Dean looks everywhere but at Cas. He feels like an idiot. What was he thinking, interrupting a free woman like that, practically shouting at her? As if Cas wasn’t perfectly capable of dealing with her himself? He wonders if Cas is regretting taking him in, now that he’s proved how untrained he is.

He stares down at his hands miserably, once again afraid.

“Dean.” He hears his master say, and he cringes.

“Yessir?” He mumbles obediently.

“Thank you.”

Dean’s eyes shoot up, and he stares at Cas in disbelief. The same warm feeling he’d felt when Cas had kissed him earlier rushes through his veins, so strong this time that his eyes start to sting. It’s a few moments before he thinks that he should probably try to answer, but before he can stutter out some reply, the door opens and the doctor walks in.

The warm feeling vanishes, and is replaced with cold terror.

The man who comes in is big, bigger than Cas, bigger than him, not so much in height but in sheer power. Charlie had been tiny, and even in his weakened state Dean had known he could take her, if he really needed to.

He can’t fight this man. This man could snap his arm like a twig, and could probably pin his whole body down without breaking sweat.

Whatever this man is going to do with him, there’s no stopping it.

“Hello.” The man says gruffly, leaning against the counter. “I’m Bobby Singer. You’re Dean I assume?”

Dean forces himself to give a tiny nod.

The doctor turns to where Cas is seated.

“And you must be Mr. Novak.”

“I am.”

“Right. When we talked yesterday, you said you were bringing Dean in because of wounds on his back, two broken fingers, a possible broken rib and anal tearing. Has anything changed since then?”

“I don’t believe so.” Answers Cas. “Dean?”

Dean looks at Cas in panic, then down at the floor. A few seconds pass before he is prompted again, by Bobby this time, in a suddenly much gentler tone.

“Are you hurt anywhere else, kid?” He asks.

Dean forces himself to shake his head “no”.

“That’s good.” The doctor says kindly, before turning his attention back to Cas.

“Over the phone you said you’d gotten him recently.” He says, gesturing towards the “him” in question. “How long ago was that, exactly?”

“Two days, now.” Says Cas.

“And did all these injuries come from before he was…” Bobby hesitates for a moment. “Under your care?” He says carefully.

“Of course.” Cas says forcefully.

Bobby hums. “That true?” He checks, directing his words at Dean.

Dean nods at his feet, wishing the man would stop asking him questions.

“And have you had any sexual encounters with each other in this time?”

“No!”

Dean jumps at the loudness of Cas’s voice, head jerking up towards the noise.

“I wouldn’t do that to him.” His master continues vehemently.

Bobby raises his eyebrows at Dean in question, and Dean flushes, dropping his head again in embarrassment.

“Mr. Cas hasn’t touched me, Sir.”

He’s too ashamed to lift his head again, knowing what the doctor must be thinking and knowing that he’s right.

God, how useless can he get, that he can’t even do his one job. That he can’t even get Cas to fuck him, that he’s so uninterested in Dean that he has to shout about it. It hadn’t seemed so bad in private, but now that there’s someone else to judge him for his failure he realizes how pathetic he is.

“Mr. Cas?” He hears Bobby ask. He sounds slightly amused.

“I asked him to call me Cas, but Dean isn’t quite comfortable with that yet.”

Dean curls into himself even more. He’s such a fucking screw-up.

The doctor hums again. “Well. Here’s how it’s gonna go. Dean, I’m gonna need you to take your shirt off, and then I’m gonna check your heart rate and breathing. Then I’ll check out that rib and your back. Sound good?”

Dean doesn’t respond, unsure if he’s even supposed to, but strips off his shirt obediently and holds it loosely in his hands, uncertain.

His grip gets a lot tighter, though, when the doctor reaches for it, and he pulls his arms up and away from the man’s hands, clutching the cloth too his chest.

He glares at the doctor suspiciously. He doesn’t know what the man wants with the thing, but the shirt belongs to Cas, who was nice enough to lend it to him. He’s not gonna let this man take Cas’s stuff.

“I was just gonna put it over on the counter.” The doctor says calmly. “You’ll get it back, I promise.”

Dean’s grip doesn’t loosen, but his eyes flicker away from Bobby and towards Cas.

Bobby sighs.

“Novak, tell the kid it’s ok to give me the damn shirt.”

Cas blinks, having been unaware of the drama playing out in front of him. “Oh! Yes, Dean, it’s ok.”

Dean relaxes instantly, reaching out to offer the doctor the shirt, relieved. Bobby takes it and tosses it on the counter behind him, just like he said.

“The bandages have to come off too, though whoever did them did a damn good job of it.”

Dean peels off the bloodied cloth, handing the doctor the strips much more easily since he knows Cas won’t want them back. Bobby moves to dump them in the trash, then goes to open a drawer. Panic starts to rise up in Dean, before he sees that instead of pulling out a knife, Bobby pulls out a long rubbery thing with a metal circle at the end. Nervously, Dean watches as Bobby puts the ends in his ears like earphones, and picks up the circle with his hand. Fear grips him as Bobby approaches, metal outstretched, and he backs up the few steps he can before he bumps into the examination table.

Bobby pauses.

“Relax, Dean, this is just so I can hear your heart.” Bobby says.

Dean eyes the thing warily. “Is it gonna electrify me?” He says quietly.

It doesn’t look like any taser he’s seen before, but he can’t imagine why else there’s metal on the end.

Bobby’s eyebrows jump up in shock at Dean’s words, before his face relaxes into a kind but sad expression.

“It’s not gonna do anything to you, boy. It’s a stethoscope, it helps me listen, it don’t do nothing else.”

Dean glances over at Cas, who’s looking concerned, but giving no clue as to whether the doctor is telling the truth.

It’s gonna happen either way. He thinks. Don’t make this harder on yourself.

Pursing his lips, he nods. “I’ll be good.” He says, eyes still trained on Cas. They jump back to the metal thing, though, as it approaches his heart, and Dean tenses.

Nothing happens.

It’s kind of cold, but otherwise not painful at all, and Dean’s shoulders sink, relaxing.

In front of him, Bobby is frowning as he listens.

“Damn kid, you’re heart’s racing like a jackrabbit.” He says, and sighs. “I’m gonna go ahead and chalk that up to fear though. Otherwise, it all sounds good.”

He moves the metal over to the left, above Dean’s nipple.

“Breath in real deep now.” He says, and Dean tries to, but a sharp pain in his ribcage stops him before he brings in much air.

A soft noise of pain jumps out of him before he can stop it, and his hand flies up involuntarily to grab his side.

Bobby’s brow furrows, and he straightens up, pulling the stethoscope out of his ears.

“That don’t sound too good.” He says, hanging the stethoscope around his neck. “That’s the rib, I’m guessing?” He asks, and Dean nods.

Bobby huffs. “You better hop up on the table then, and I’ll take a look.”

Dean does so, sitting forward with his legs dangling off the table.

“I’m gonna need you to sit up a whole lot straighter than that.” Bobby says, and only then does Dean even realized he’s hunched over, it’s become such a natural position.

He straightens his back and looks forward, and Bobby presses around his torso firmly but clinically, barely skimming over the area where the pain is as to not cause any more. Dean keeps expecting him to start groping him or at least pinch or play with his nipples, because even if he does intend to heal Dean, there’s no harm in having a little fun. It never happens though, and after a few minutes the man pulls away, leaving Dean un-fondled.

“Yep, it’s broken all right. It feels like you’ve had several ribs broken before though, am I right?”

Dean nods. “Yes, Sir.”

Bobby sighs.

“Well, luckily everything seems to have healed well enough on it’s own. There ain’t much to do about broken ribs except to try and keep the pain down, so I’ll write you a prescription for some stronger pain meds. Otherwise, it should heal on it’s own in four to six weeks.”

He turns around towards Cas. “Novak.” He says.

Cas perks up. “Yes?” He asks.

“If his rib still bothers him in six weeks, you bring him back here, you hear me?”

Cas nods. “Of course.”

Bobby nods. “Good.” He says, and turns back to Dean. “Lemme check out that hand of yours now, boy.”

Dean offers out his left hand, and Bobby takes it in his own, peering at the makeshift splint over his broken fingers.

“Not bad.” He says, but none the less spends the next few minutes re-wrapping the fingers against a metal stick.

“That can come off in about four or five weeks.” He tells Dean when he’s done, and then, “Lean forward, boy, lemme see your back.”

Dean does as he’s told, leaning over so his head touches his knees. The skin stretches painfully, but he’s had so much worse that the sting barely registers.

From above him, Dean hears a sharp intake of breath.

“Jesus.” Bobby mutters. “What the hell, kid?”

Dean cringes, hearing the undercurrent of revision in the man’s tone.

“I’m sorry.” He says softly, and he can feel both Bobby’s and Cas’s eyes snap to him at his words. He clutches at his own knees.

“You ain’t got nothing to be sorry for, boy.” Bobby says.

Dean shakes his head a bit. “I deserved it.” He mumbles into his jeans.

“Dean, no.” He hears Cas’s voice say, and peaks his head up a bit when he hears Cas stand up. He watches as Cas hesitantly closes the few steps between them, cane in one hand while the other stays outstretched.

“No one ever has the right to hurt you.” He says, and Dean blushes, turning his head away from Cas’s and back into his knees.

“I pissed myself.” He says bluntly, clutching his hands tighter in the fabric of his pants. “They wouldn’t let me- They wouldn’t unchain me and-” He cuts himself off, shaking his head.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Cas insists. “You don’t deserve what has happened to you.”

It’s one of the nicest things anybody’s ever said to him, and he almost starts crying right there. He chokes it down though, determined not to make any more of a fool of himself than he already has.

On his other side, he feels Bobby tap his shoulder. “You can sit up, kid. I’m done.”

So Dean straightens up, still red, and stares down at his feet, internally hoping that Cas doesn’t move away from where he’s now stood next to Dean.

“Does he need stitches?” Cas asks, and Bobby pauses.

“Stitches would’ve been great.” He says. “Unfortunately, it’s too late. The healing process is too far along. I can give you a prescription for a cream that will help with the scarring, but otherwise just keeping it clean and wrapping it up like you’ve been doing is important.”

“We’ll make sure to keep doing that.” Cas says, and Bobby nods.

“Good.” He says. He makes an apologetic expression then, and shrugs. “Sorry about this, but at this point I’m gonna have to ask you to step outside, Novak. The rest of the examination is gonna be pretty private.”

Dean feels the blood drain out of his face so fast that he gets dizzy.

It’s happening. Shit, shit, it’s happening.

A choked noise makes it’s way out of Dean’s throat, and he throws himself off the table and drops to Cas’s feet.

“Dean!” Cas says in alarm.

“Master, please.” He begs. “Please.”

Cas crouches down, and Dean takes the opportunity to burrow himself into the man, crumpling his body and hiding his face in his master’s chest.

“Dean, what’s going on?” Cas asks.

He can’t answer. He’s so fucking scared, all he can do is stare, and pray that whatever’s about to happen to him at least happens quickly. He knows better than to hope it wont hurt.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbles in terror.

He can’t stop shaking. He realizes, now, how ridiculous it is to think that Cas brought him here for no reason. No one would spend so much money on a slave without having some alternative reason for it, and no doctor would allow a slave into their building unless they planned to do something horrible.

He just wished he knew what they were going to do to him.

“Fuck.” He hears Bobby say, but he sounds weirdly far away and disconnected.

“I’m sorry.” Cas answers, and his voice is much more real, deep and near and rumbling in his chest. “He’s just scared.”

Scared. Yes. Yes, he’s scared, he’s so scared he can barely think above the panic.

Cas had said they weren't going to take his balls, he remembers, but he had no reason to tell the truth. If he really didn’t want Dean as a sex slave, castration would be the most logical answer. There would be no chance of Dean getting distracted by his own pleasure, and he’d be more focused on his work.

Or maybe they were going to cut his whole dick off. He’d seen that more than once.

The other options he could think of were almost worse. He’d once met a girl who’d had her feet amputated, because she’d tried to run away.

But he hadn’t tried to run away, so Cas wouldn’t do that to him. Right?

Fuck, he’s so afraid.

He feels himself start to cry, and Cas’s arms come up to circle around him. It feels so good that he can’t bring himself to move away at all, and instead his own arms come up to clutch at Cas’s shirt.

He holds no hope that he can avoid whatever is about to happen to him, but, pathetically, he doesn’t want to be alone when it takes place. He wants Cas to stay, even if he doesn’t do anything to protect him.

“Dean, nothing’s going to happen. What do you think is going to happen?”

Dean shudders at Cas’s voice, feeling the vibrations from Cas’s chest against his skin.

“I don’t know.” He shudders against Cas’s body. “I don’t know. Please don’t leave, I’m scared.”

Sometimes, he knows, they like to blind pleasure slaves, especially the ones who try to run, because they don’t need to see for their masters to be able to fuck them. But he never tried to run, and Cas needs him to be able to see for both of them, so it’s probably not that.

Maybe they’re going to cut out his tongue. A lot of mouthy slaves get their tongues cut out, and god is he mouthy. He’s managed to avoid it so far just because his past masters liked what he did with the muscle when he sucked them off so much, but Cas is so uninterested in him… it would be no wonder if he wants Dean to shut up.

Once, he met a kid who’d been pumped so full of hormones that they made him grow breasts. They’d squeeze them until the milk came out, and make Dean and the others lick it off him.

“I want to go home.”

The words come out softly and without conscious thought. He’s not even sure what home he’s talking about.

“We will.” Cas tells him. “Soon, I promise. As soon as we finish up here, we can go home.”

“Novak.” He hears Bobby say from somewhere above them. “I’m pretty sure I know what’s going on, but I gotta be able to talk to the kid. I need you to help me get him up here.”

Help getting him up where? Dean wants to scream, but his throat won’t work, nothing about him will work.

It doesn’t matter though, because he answers his own question.

He needs help holding you down.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

He shivers, but knows better than to try and run, instead going limp in Cas’s arms. He resolves not to fight, to take it quietly for as long as he can bear the pain. He’ll be good, as much as he can be, and then Cas will be proud of him. Cas will be proud of him, and he won’t have to punish him any more, and he’ll take him him home and let him sleep on the bed and he’ll be so proud that he’ll touch Dean in that nice, soft way of his until he falls asleep.

He tells himself this as he feels Cas shift around him, and he shuts his eyes, sure he’s going to be manhandled and slammed into some humiliating position so they can cut into him more easily.

Instead, he feels himself scooped up off the ground and placed, sitting up, on the examination table.

When he opens his eyes, Cas is sitting next to him, and he’s holding Dean’s hand.

Dean clutches it like a lifeline as the doctor steps in front of him.

“Alright, kid, I don’t know exactly what’s going on in that head of yours.” He says. “But I’ve got an idea. You gotta know, whatever horror show is running through your head right now is not gonna happen.”

Dean stares uncomprehendingly with still wet cheeks.

“I’m sorry I scared you by asking Mr. Novak to leave. He can stay if you want him to.”

Dean’s heart gives a giant leap at that, and he nods desperately.

“Then he stays.” The doctor says simply. “I’m guessing you wanna know what’s gonna happen next, huh?”

Again, Dean nods, terror rushing through him. He squeezes Cas’s hand so hard he probably loses circulation.

“First, I’m gonna ask you some questions about your sexual history. Then I’m going to need to examine your genitals and anal region, which I promise will be as quick as possible. Then I’m gonna need to draw some blood, so we can check for STI’s.” He pauses, and looks at Dean kindly. “That’s all. You’re free to go after that.”

Dean breathes in a very controlled breath, trying to stomp down on the hope bubbling up inside him.

“You don’t need to lie to me, Sir. I’ll be good, I promise.”

Bobby sighs. “Boy, I ain’t lying.”

“He’s telling the truth, Dean.” Cas says besides him. Dean feels his thumb rub back and forth along Dean’s hand, and Dean relaxes just a fraction. His other hand comes up and finds Dean’s face, wiping away the tears that still cling to his lashes and freckles. The slave stares, wide-eyed, at the other man, who then leans forward to kiss Dean on the forehead. Again.

Dean thaws almost immediately. “Ok.” He mumbles, and grips Cas’s hand tighter.

Chapter Text

“Time for 20 questions.” Bobby says, picking up a clipboard from the counter. Cas is still seated next to Dean on the examination table, so Bobby sits down in the chair Cas has left empty.

He looks down at the paper and clicks open a pen, and Dean feels something curdle inside him.

He doesn’t want to do this. He doesn’t want to spread his whole life out on the table for anyone to poke and pick at, he doesn’t want to explain how dirty he is, how used, he doesn’t want to talk about this.

What he wants, though, is irrelevant. He learned that a long time ago. So tells himself to suck it up and be happy he’s not having his dick sawed off.

“I’m just gonna go down the whole list here, so if I ask something obvious, just tell me the truth and we can keep going.” Bobby says, and Dean nods at him.

“Alright.” Bobby begins. “Are you currently sexually active?”

“Yessir.”

“When was your last sexual encounter?”

“Two days ago, Sir.”

Bobby looks up sharply. “I thought you said Novak hasn’t touched you?” He demands. He sounds angry, and Dean flinches at the tone.

“It wasn’t Mr. Cas, Sir, it was some of the men running the auction. I didn’t lie, Sir, I promise.”

Bobby visibly relaxes. “Oh. Calm down, kid I’m not mad at you.” He says, and writes something down on his paper.

Dean exhales. He hates this. He hates talking about this. He’s still shaking from the scare he’d had with Cas almost leaving, and he just wants to go.

“How many sexual partners have you had in the past year?” Bobby asks, and Dean wants to sink into the floor.

Well. There were three at the auction. Before that, he’d been owned only by Master Alastair this year, but he’d shared him with his friends. A lot. And there were those slaves who liked to play around with him when they brought him food in the basement. And there were the slaves that Alastair liked to watch him fuck and suck and… goddamn it.

“Forty, maybe? I’m sorry, Sir, I’m not sure.”

He doesn’t want Cas to hear this. He’s being fucking selfish, he knows, because Cas deserves to know what he really is. That he doesn’t deserve a bed or a room or books or to eat at the table instead of on the floor like a dog. That he doesn’t deserve Cas, with his kind words and kind eyes and kind hands, that haven’t hit him even once. And he’d known that already, of course he had, but he hadn’t been strong enough to push the man away by his own will.

It’s good that he’s hearing this now. Dean thinks. Because you never would have told him yourself.

And he wouldn’t have, the fucking pathetic liar he is.

“And how often in these encounters have you used protection.”

Have you used protection. Ha. Like it’s his fucking choice.

“Never, Sir.”

He stares at his knees like they are the most interesting thing in the world, hyper aware of Cas sitting next to him.

He’d thought he’d come to peace with what he is. He’d thought that he’d accepted it. And he had, sort of, the same way a worm hiding in the dirt has no reason to be ashamed of itself compared to the mud.

Now, though, everything’s being dragged out into the bright light of the world everyone else gets to live in, and he can see sharply how much he doesn’t belong in it. It makes him feel small enough to really be an worm, frying on the pavement, burning to death because it can’t handle the sun. It’s awful.

“What were the genders of these partners?” The doctor is saying in front of him.

“Um.” Dean mumbles. “Most of them were guys. There were, like, six girls.”

“Like” six girls. As if he doesn’t know.

Two were Alistair’s friends. Ruby and Abbadon, terrifying women who had him eat them out as their nails dug into his scalp. They would laugh at him over his head as he tried to pleasure both of them at the same time, and beat him when he couldn’t get hard to fuck them.

There was the middle-aged slave woman who brought him food and “bathed” him (sprayed him down with a hose, water so cold his lips would turn blue). She liked to stuff her fingers in his hole and squeeze his dick, and wouldn’t give him his food unless he called her mommy and begged all pretty, both for his food and for her pussy.

Then there was Cassie. She belonged to one of Alistair’s friends, and they usually didn’t even have to drug him so he’d get hard when they wanted him with her. Sometimes she would cry though, and that always made him cry, and his dick would get soft, and then they’d both get in trouble.

And there was Lisa. Lisa belonged to Abbadon, and Dean had liked her a lot. She was pretty, and nice, and sometimes she would talk to him when their masters were distracted. He never really got to talk to anyone, so it meant a lot to him.

He also got her pregnant. She knew it was his, because he was the only boy they’d had fuck her in months.

She was sure it was going to be a boy, and she told Dean she was going to name it Ben.

A few weeks later her Mistress caught on and stomped on her stomach until she bled.

“Dean?” He hears, and he blinks, shaking himself back to the present.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I wasn’t listening.” He says. Anywhere else, shit like that would have gotten him whipped. But all Bobby does is repeat the question.

“I said, have you ever been diagnosed with an STI?”

“I’ve never been tested, Sir.” He answers. Bobby sighs, but continues.

“How long have you been sexually active?”

It takes Dean an embarrassingly long time to do the math, having never been taught formally.

“Nineteen years, I think.” He says hesitantly, after a good 10 seconds pass.

He hears Cas gasp besides him, and would turn to him if not for Bobby also snapping his head up in shock.

“How the hell old are you?” Bobby barks, and Dean cringes.

“I’m sorry.” He says. “Twenty three I think. Maybe twenty four, so it might be twenty years. I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Hush, Dean.” Cas says, and takes Dean’s hand in his own again. His voice sounds shaky, but not nearly as loud as Bobby’s, which Dean likes. “Bobby’s not angry at you. We’re just upset that you were so young.”

Ducking his head down, Dean talks down to their intertwined fingers.

“It wasn’t like now.” He says quietly. “I wasn’t a registered pleasure slave ’til I was 18. It was just sometimes. Like, once every couple days. Mostly I was there to be a house slave.”

He looks up at Cas mournfully. “I’m sorry.” He says again.

Cas shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.” He tells him, and Dean has no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but Cas is still holding his hand so he figures it doesn’t really matter.

“We’re done with the questions, kid.” Bobby says, and Dean looks back towards him. He’s placing the clipboard back down on the counter and snapping on rubber gloves. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that I’m gonna have to take a look at your junk now. You still want Novak in here?” He asks, and Dean nods desperately.

“That’s fine.” Bobby says. “I’m gonna keep this as quick and easy as possible. In all likelihood, I won’t even have to touch you, if you’re willing to do all the grabbing and moving yourself.”

“Yes please.” Dean says, starting to feel sick again.

“Good. This is gonna feel awkward, but it’ll be quick, I promise. I need you to bend over the table.”

Dean stands up, unzipping his- Cas’s- jeans and pushing them down his legs, and keeps his eyes to the ground as he does the same to the boxers. Stepping out of both, he leans over so his chest is pressed against the table. He positions himself as close to Cas as he can, who is still sitting on said table.

This shouldn’t feel weird. He’s gone most of the last five years without clothes, and spent a damn good portion of it in this exact position. He shouldn’t feel any more vulnerable that he’s used to feeling, but he does.

Why does he feel so defenseless? It’s not like this is new. Even if the doctor decides to whip out his dick and fuck him, it’s not like it hasn’t happened million times before. He should’t be so upset, he shouldn’t feel so afraid.

But he is afraid, the thought of another yet cock forcing it’s way into him sending his heart rate into overdrive. He starts to panic, trying to crane his head to see what’s happening, though he knows from experience it’s futile. He hates not knowing what’s happening though, it’s why he’s so afraid of the drugs that make him pass out, and he lets out an involuntary noise of terror.

Before he can even start to regret it, though, Cas’s hand is in his hair, stroking softly, and he loses his train of thought. Breath catching in his throat, he focuses on the feel of Cas’s fingers, and immediately starts to calm down. He turns his head toward Cas, and stares up at him until the doctor is done.

“Jesus, kid.” He sighs, before finally telling him to stand up.

Dean does so, relieved to be out of the humiliating position but mourning the loss of Cas’s hand.

“I’m gonna get you a prescription for a stool softener. I’m also gonna give you some antibiotics, to avoid infection.” Bobby says. He’s turned back to the counter and is writing something down on the clipboard. “You need to take them every morning at roughly the same time, and don’t take them on an empty stomach. Got it, boy?”

“Yes, Sir.” Dean says.

Bobby turns back to still-naked Dean, and suddenly pales. “Holy shit.” He breathes.

Dean turns bright red, knowing what he’s looking at and feeling ashamed.

“What’s wrong?” Say Cas, sounding alarmed. Dean doesn’t blame him. So far, Bobby has managed to keep professionally calm about everything, occasionally sounding upset but never rattled.

“His dick is black and blue.” The doctor says bluntly, and Dean flinches.

He hugs himself, half because he feels like hiding and half for something to do with his hands. He wants very badly to cover himself, but it isn’t his place. If free people want to stare at his dick, they will. He should be grateful they’re not adding to the bruises.

“What the hell happened?” Bobby asks.

“Well, you usually bruise when someone hits you hard enough.” Dean snaps, and then pales. His hand flies up from where it had been curled around his torso to clap against his mouth.

Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. He shouldn’t have said that. Why can’t he ever keep his fucking mouth shut?

“M’sorry.” He mumbles through his fingers. He hopes they don’t change their minds about cutting out his tongue.

Bobby doesn’t look mad though. Oddly enough, he looks almost apologetic.

“You’re right, boy.” He says. “That was a damn stupid question.”

Well. Dean doesn’t know what he expected, but it definitely wasn’t that.

None the less, he drops his hand.

“Does it hurt when you piss?” Bobby asks.

Dean hunches his shoulders up and looks down. “Yeah.” He says quietly.

“Is there any blood?”

“Usually, Sir.”

Dean is still looking down, but none the less hears the frown in Bobby’s voice.

“Usually? What do you mean, usually?”

Frustration, mixed with exhaustion, stabs at Dean’s chest.

He just wants people to stop poking at him like he’s a dead frog they want to dissect.

“I mean usually. I mean I bleed when I piss right now, and I bleed when I piss most of the time, but sometimes I don’t if no one tries to rip my dick off that week.”

Both hands fly up now, hiding his entire face this time.

“Fuck.” He whispers.

“Dean.” He hears his master say behind him.

There’s something else they can do, he knows, where they take your voice without taking your tongue. They cut your vocal cords or something. He’s never met anyone who’d had it done on them though, only heard about it through his master’s threats when he talked back or was caught speaking to another slave. It’s a surgery, and surgeries are expensive, and no one ever cared enough to spend the money.

Cas doesn’t seem all that rich. Then again, the man has a house and is able to afford to take a slave to the doctor, and as far as Dean can tell he doesn’t have a job.

Dean’s hands come up to clutch his hair.

“I’m sorry.” He begs. “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

“How long have you been bruised like this?” Bobby asks, and Dean immediately goes back on his word.

“I don’t know. Years. I don’t know. I’m a pleasure slave, everything always hurts, that’s just how it is. Please can I put my clothes back on?”

“Damn it, boy, I need to make sure your alright.”

“Dr. Singer-” Cas breaks in, but Dean cuts him off.

“I’m fine. Please. Everything works. I can get hard, I can cum, I can piss. It stops bleeding if no one hurts me for a while.”

“I won’t touch you, kid, you can do it yourself-”

“No! I’m not allowed to touch myself there. I’m not allowed.”

“What the hell?”

“My cock doesn’t belong to me, it belongs to my master. I can’t touch it. Please let me put my clothes back on. Mr. Cas, please.”

“Dr. Singer!” Cas shouts, and Dean slams his mouth shut, flinching away from him. He freezes then, heart pounding.

“Dean is an adult.” Cas continues, no longer shouting but still a lot louder and angrier than Dean has heard him so far. “He has the right to refuse medical treatment if he so wishes.”

No, that’s wrong. Dean does not have the right to refuse medical treatment. He’s a slave, and he doesn’t have the right to refuse anything. He’s been beaten every time he tried resisting anything in the past, and if either the doctor or Cas decided to slit his throat for his behavior, no one would blink an eye.

But Bobby seems to cave then, face crumpling. “Of course he does.” He says.

Dean blinks at him, unsure of what’s happening.

Bobby huffs. “Boy, put your pants on.” He says gruffly, and turns away. It takes a moment for Dean to come un-paralyzed, but when he does he obeys quickly, shocked but relieved.

He doesn’t really know what just happened. He hasn’t reacted that way to anything in years. When he was very little, he would scream and fight and beg every time, fear overtaking the knowledge that he couldn’t get away. He learned to control himself as he got older, knowing it was easier that way.

When he’d been sold as a pleasure slave, those instincts had come back for a while, as he was introduced to things so terrifying and painful he’d never even dreamed of them. He knew better at that point, but he couldn’t help it when he saw their spiked whips and knives or when they dragged out some horrible machine. They liked it when he begged, liked to laugh at his fear, but it never stopped anything from happening. So after about a year his body learned again that it’s better to just lie down and take it.

He’s never, not even as a child, gone into hysterics over just being looked at.

And his breakdowns have never ever gotten anyone to stop anything.

And yet here he is, clothed.

“Dean, are you dressed?” Cas asks.

“Yessir.” Dean answers, still working through his own bewilderment and fear.

Cas smiles kindly in his direction. “Come here.” He says, and pats next to him. He doesn’t sound angry any more, which is a relief, but Dean still has to drag himself over, nervous.

He hops up onto the table, and once seated, Cas turns to him.

“Are you alright?” He asks quietly, and Dean looks away, embarrassed.

He should say yes. He’s acted pathetic enough already, and he is alright. No one’s touching him, no one’s beating him, and he got what he wanted for the first time in his life. He should say yes.

Instead, he says, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

He stares down at where his hands lay limply in his lap. He feels lost.

“Nothing is wrong with you.” Cas tells him, and Dean would laugh if doing so wouldn’t get him killed. He can’t laugh, though, so he focuses on not crying.

“I should be used to this by now.” He says miserably.

“No, you shouldn’t be.” Cas answers. “I’m glad you’re not.”

He sounds grave, and Dean can tell he really believes the words he’s saying. It makes Dean want to believe them too.

He looks over to the man. “Aren’t you mad at me?” He asks, and Cas shakes his head.

“Of course not.” He says. “I’m proud of you.”

Dean’s brain sort of short circuits then. He understands all those words separately, but together they make no sense.

No one has ever been proud of him, not ever. Not even Sam. Sam loved him, and maybe even admired him, no matter how misguided that love and admiration was. But no one has ever been proud of him.

Dean shakes his head.

“Why- I’m just. I’m not. Why would you…”

“You stood up for yourself.” Cas says. “That was very brave.”

His heart aches with how much he wants Cas’s words to be true. He would hardly call his frantic begging “standing up for himself”, but he can’t think of a reason Cas would say these things if he didn’t believe them himself.

He used to be brave. Well, he used to believe he was brave. He’d stopped deluding himself years ago, but he could never quite forget how it felt to believe there was something good in him, to have an identity that went beyond being used.

He knows Cas is wrong. But God, he wishes he wasn’t.

Bobby suddenly appears in front of them again, and Dean looks up towards the doctor. He’s holding what looks like a syringe in his right hand, and Dean flings himself backwards on reflex, slamming his back against the wall and bringing his knees up to his chest.

Feeling the slave jerk away, Cas jumps. “Dean?” He asks.

“Sorry, sorry.” Dean murmurs. “Don’t drug me, please. You can look at my penis, you can touch it. I’m sorry.”

He starts to unbutton his pants, trying to tug them down his bent legs.

“Whoa, kid, slow down.” The doctor says. The man reaches forward to tug his hand away, and Dean scrambles like he’s trying to push himself through the wall until he realizes the doctor is holding the syringe back at a safe distance.

“Alright, do you remember what I told you was gonna happen before you leave?” Bobby says, dropping his wrist.

Dean tries to think, but can’t tear his eyes or his thoughts away from the syringe sitting dangerously in the man’s hand.

“I’m sorry, I can’t remember.” Dean says. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s ok, kid.” The doctor soothes. “I said I would ask you about your sexual history and examine your private areas, which we did, and then I said I would need to get a blood sample. Do you remember that?”

Dean does, now that the doctor says it.

“Yes.” He says. “You can do it, you don’t need to drug me for it, I’ll hold still.”

Cas, who has turned to angle himself towards Dean, asks, “Have you ever had your blood drawn before?”

“No.” Dean answers.

“Ok.” Bobby says. “That’s ok. See, this syringe is how we draw the blood out.” He says, holding it up. “There’s no drugs involved. It’s empty, see?” He holds the thing out, and Dean flinches away. The doctor keeps it offered out though, not trying to jerk it into Dean’s neck, so after a moment Dean scoots himself forward to peer at it.

It certainly looks empty, and Dean can’t imagine how they could hide anything in what looks like clear glass. It sets his nerves on edge though, and he can’t help but feel like there’s something he’s missing.

And Cas had called him brave. Ha.

“Can’t you just cut me, Sir? Do you have to use the syringe?”

Bobby sighs. “Boy-”

“You could draw my blood first.” Cas interrupts. “So Dean sees it’s safe?”

Bobby’s eyebrows jump up in approval. “Good idea.” He says.

“What?” Dean asks, but before the word is even fully out of his mouth, Bobby has grabbed Cas’s arm and shoved his sleeve up, and has jabbed the needle into the underside of his elbow.

As the syringe fills with blood, Dean’s eyes fill with shock, and he jerks away from Cas in horror.

“Sir.” He gasps, but Cas just smiles calmly, and a moment later the tube is filled and taken away, and Cas’s sleeve is pulled back down.

Dean stares at him with his heart pounding for a good half minute before recognizing that Cas doesn’t seem to be anywhere near passing out. He comes unstuck then, crawling forward until he is seated again next to the man.

“Are you ok?” Dean asks tentatively, looking over the man in concern. “You don’t feel dizzy or anything?”

“No, Dean, I’m fine.” Cas says. “There wasn’t anything in it, really.”

“What about your arm?” Dean continues. “Is your arm ok, Sir?”

“I- What? Yes, of course, it was just a pin prick.”

Dean ignores him, and reaches over to grab the man’s arm. He picks it up, bringing close to his face for inspection.

“You’re bleeding.” He announces, upset, and turns towards Bobby, who has done who-knows-what with Cas’s blood, but is pulling another empty syringe out of a drawer.

“Do you have a band-aid, Sir?” Dean asks, and Bobby rolls his eyes as Cas protests besides him.

“Will you let me draw your blood now?” Bobby counters, ignoring Cas.

“Yes, Sir, I will.” Dean promises, and Bobby grunts, rolling his eyes again, but none the less brings over a band-aid along with the second syringe. Dean takes it and unwraps it, pulling Cas’s arm in front of him and placing it carefully over the dot of blood.

Dean stares down at his work for a moment before dropping Cas’s arm, blushing. Cas takes his arm back slowly, but Dean can see out of the corner of his eye that he’s smiling.

“Thank you, Dean.” He says, and Dean blushes even more.

“Oh, boy.” He hears Bobby grumble, and turns towards the doctor.

“Sir?” He asks.

“Nothing, nothing.” Bobby answers. “Alright, Florence Nightingale, gimme your arm.” He says, and Dean does so without hesitation this time. It’s over in a minute, and Bobby moves away, but Dean stays pink the whole time.

After that, Bobby re-wraps his chest with gauze, telling Cas to change it and clean his back every two to three days.

“I’d be worried about how you’re gonna manage that if I hadn’t seen the bandaging the kid came in with. You’re good at taking care of him.” He says, and the words seem to hit Cas hard.

“I’m trying.” Cas says.

“I know.” Bobby answers. Dean gets the distinct feeling there is a different conversation going on here than the one he understands.

Bobby tells them not to leave for another fifteen minutes so the blood loss doesn’t make them woozy, and that he’ll call about the test results. Cas says “Thank you”, so Dean does too, and then the doctor leaves, and only then does Dean realize it’s over.

Dean lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

It’s over. It’s over and he still has all his parts attached, he hasn’t been drugged, and he’s no more beaten than when he came in.

He’s ok.

He feels ashamed, then, not just at how afraid he was but at how surely he believed he was going to be maimed. After Cas promised he wouldn’t let that happen. After days of being treated with nothing but kindness.

Guilt twists inside him, and he glances over at the man, who stays oblivious to Dean’s staring.

Cas is good. Cas is so good, he doesn’t hurt Dean even when he can, even when he should. He gives him food and a bed and soft touches, and he promised to protect Dean and he did. And Dean is so disgustingly broken that he can’t even appreciate his goodness, he’s so ungrateful, he’s so bad.

“I’m sorry.” Dean whispers, and it sounds tiny, echoing around the empty room before disappearing.

Cas frowns. “What for?” He asks. A dry sob throws it’s way through Dean’s body.

“I should have trusted you.” He mumbles. “You said you weren’t gonna let them hurt me and you didn’t. I shouldn’t have been afraid.”

The confusion on Cas’s face shatters apart into sadness.

“No, Dean.” He breathes, and a hand comes up to meet Dean’s shoulder. He can’t help but lean into it. “You did wonderfully. You were so brave.”

Dean hangs his head. “M’not brave.” He says. “Was scared.”

“And you got through it anyway.” Cas says. “That’s incredibly brave. To be afraid and get through it anyway.”

“Because I had to!” Dean insists, whipping his head up. “I had no choice! Dealing with what you’re scared of isn’t brave if you’re being forced!” He knows he’s not talking about the doctor any more. He ducks his head again.

There’s a pause, and then Cas’s hand slides from his shoulder and moves down his arm, finding Dean’s hand and cupping it in his own. Dean stares down, hesitantly interlocking their fingers, before looking back up at Cas.

“No one forced you to survive.” Cas says, and Dean breaks, letting himself fall against the other man and pushing his fear of punishment to the side. Cas hugs him back, and Dean sighs, his eyelashes brushing against the bare skin of Cas’s neck.

Before Cas, he can barely remember ever being touched in a way that didn’t hurt or wasn’t sexual. Sam hugged him a lot when he was little, but even that became rarer and rarer as they grew older.

That was ok by him. He’s never liked being touched, not even by the very few people he’s trusted. As for his masters, he felt sick even when they just patted his head or his arm.

It’s different with Cas. He loves it when Cas touches him. His hands never feel painful, and they never wander down to grope him and make him feel dirty. When Cas touches him, it’s like he forgets that that’s ever been his life at all.

“You did so well today.” Cas says.

“I tried to be good.” Dean mumbles, and that, at least, is the truth. He had tried.

“You were.” Cas says. “You were good, Dean.” His hand comes up and starts to pet Dean’s hair, and it feels so nice he almost starts to purr.

He’s absolutely does not agree with Cas’s assessment of his behavior, but figures Cas must really believe it, if he’s rewarding him right now with his touching.

He knows how obvious he’s been, pushing himself into Cas whenever he’s afraid and leaning into his hand when it’s offered. Usually he never reveals what makes him happy to his masters, afraid of those things being taken away.

He can’t find it in him to care now though. Maybe it’s stupid of him, but if it leads to Cas rewarding him like this, he’s glad the man has figured it out.

“Are you still proud of me?” Dean asks quietly.

“Yes.” Cas says immediately, and Dean holds him tighter. He smiles into the man’s neck, unable to control his happiness.

He did something right. He did something right. He can’t believe it, with how pathetic he was the whole time, but apparently it had been enough for Cas.

He was enough.

He’s never been enough before. He’s always tried so hard to please everyone, but it was never enough. There was always more to do, or something wrong with him.

He’d tried so hard to please Cas, now, he really had. He’d been so scared, and he kept fucking up, but he really had been trying. And for once it wasn’t even out of fear. He’d just wanted Cas to be pleased with him.

And Cas isn’t pleased with him, Cas is proud of him, which is a million times better.

“Do you want to go home?” Cas asks him, still petting. “I know this has been exhausting. We can go shopping tomorrow.”

He kind of does want to go home. He’s tired, yes, but mostly he’s just so happy and he doesn’t want to ruin it.

Cabs cost money, though, and he doesn’t want to waste any more of Cas’s than he already has.

He wants to be good for Cas. He wants to always be good for Cas, and then Cas will keep him always. And for the first time, he thinks maybe he can be good.

“I’m ok, Mr. Cas.” He tells the man.

“Are you sure?” Cas asks, and Dean smiles.

“I’m sure.”

Chapter Text

The cab is already waiting for them when they leave the doctor’s office, and Dean pulls the door out for Cas, guiding the man inside easily. He follows, seating himself next to his master and pulling the door shut behind them.

His gaze lingers out the window for a moment while he hears Cas give the driver the address, staring curiously at the palm trees he sees lining the street.

He’s never seen a palm tree in real life before. Wherever they are, it’s far away from anywhere else he’s ever been.

He hears a clinking noise on his left, and rips his gaze away from the now moving view outside to turn towards it.

Cas is scowling in frustration, and there’s a moment where Dean’s heart leaps into his throat out of fear. Immediately his mind flips through things he could have done wrong.

Is he supposed to be kneeling on the ground? Unless they kept him in the trunk, most of his other masters wanted him on the floor so they could have him suck them off.

But Cas himself had pushed him (gently) onto a seat that morning, when he’d been too out of his mind with fear to question it, so Dean had assumed it was ok now.

Stupid. He berates himself. You should never assume. Assuming gets you beat.

But another second passes, and Cas doesn’t lash out at him. Dean notices then that though his eyes seem to be looking towards Dean, the object of his annoyance is below him, where Cas is trying and failing to connect the two ends of his seatbelt buckle.

Dean relaxes, but then hesitates, biting his lip in consideration.

He shouldn’t. He’s not allowed to act on his own thoughts, he’s too stupid. He’s not supposed to take initiative, he’s supposed to do as he’s told. If Cas needs his help he will say so.

Except something in Dean knows that’s not true. That something is not a reason that actually makes sense, or even a fully formed thought, but a hazy feeling that accents what comes to mind when he thinks of Cas. The small house in the mountains, piles upon piles of white, dotted books, frozen food and burnt grilled cheese, odd words that no one uses any more. There is an undercurrent to the man’s isolation and quiet demeanor that Dean doesn’t really understand, but none the less is present enough for Dean to know that Cas is not someone who asks for help. Not even from a slave.

Tentatively, Dean starts to reach out, but stops halfway.

Why do you even care? Dean thinks. He should be keeping his head down and focusing on not getting hurt, not worrying over whether some free man can buckle his fucking seatbelt. What if Cas gets mad at him? Maybe he needs help, but maybe he’ll be mad that Dean has the audacity to presume.

He probably shouldn’t. The fact that he’s even thinking about it should have alarm bells ringing in his mind. He would never think of trying to help any of his former masters without being explicitly ordered, not only for fear of punishment but because he just wouldn’t care if they were struggling.

Cas shouldn’t be any different. Yes, the man has been kind to him, but he is still Dean’s master and he can still have him killed without a second thought.

But Cas is different. Not only in how Dean instinctively knows he wouldn’t do that, but in how much it does matter to him if the man needs help.

His decision is made for him a moment later when out of the corner of his eye, he notices the cab driver watching Cas’s struggle in the mirror. He’s fucking smirking.

A burst of fury surges through Dean’s blood, pushing his hesitance aside, and all of a sudden he couldn’t care less about past masters and what he should or shouldn’t do. He closes the few inches left between his and Cas’s hands, and tugs the metal from his masters grip. Quickly buckling it in, he uses all his willpower to keep his eyes glaring downwards and not defiantly at the driver.

Cas stills besides him, and Dean goes stiff. So Cas is mad at him. That answers that.

Oddly, Dean’s anger doesn’t dissolve into cold fear, even as he waits for the slap. His eyes continue to drill holes in the floor as he seethes, unable to find it in him to regret his unwanted help. He doesn’t care if Cas hits him. The driver was laughing at a blind man, and Dean made him stop. His master might not strike him as hard if he knew that, but Dean has seen how easily he gets embarrassed, especially about his disability, and even in front of a slave. Dean doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so he keeps his mouth shut and waits for the blow.

But the thing that breaks the silence is not Dean’s whimper as he’s smacked, but Cas’s low voice, sounding small.

“Thank you, Dean.” He says.

Still angry, still afraid, but now also shocked, grateful and warm, Dean can’t decide what to feel anymore. The mix of emotions makes it hard to think, and it takes a few beats too long for Dean to figure out how to answer.

Cas, in all his awkwardness, doesn’t seem to know that.

“‘Course, Mr. Cas.” Dean says at last. It feels empty.

The rest of the drive is spent in a silence that may or may not be tense. Dean can’t tell.

They arrive about twenty minutes later, pulling into the parking lot of a huge building. The meter on the cab’s dashboard totals out to $13.50, and Dean watches in interest as Cas pulls out his wallet, thumbing through different divisions in which the bills are organized and separated. It takes him a moment, but he soon finds and pulls out a twenty, handing it over to the driver.

Dean is moving to open the door when he sees the driver handing back Cas’s change, and he stops.

That asshole. Dean thinks, and the anger that had quieted down to a simmer flares back up again. He isn’t the best at math, but he knows there should be more money than three one’s and a few coins.

“That’s not the correct change, Sir.” He snaps.

That happens sometimes, where words come out of Dean’s mouth without him meaning them too, but this is the first time in a long time that he hasn’t immediately regretted them.

Cas stops, turning his head towards Dean, then back at the other man. There’s a pause, where the driver glares bloody murder at Dean and Dean finds that he couldn’t give two shits.

“My mistake.” The driver grunts at last, and takes the money back. He recounts, and hands over what Dean can see is the correct amount.

He helps Cas out of the cab then, and it speeds off the moment they shut the door. Dean glares at it until it’s out of sight.

Next to him, Cas sighs, and Dean looks over to him.

“I’m sorry if I was out of line, Sir.” He says carefully, but Cas shakes his head.

“Not at all.” The man answers. “It was very good of you to speak up for me.”

Dean can’t help the happy tingling feeling he feels at the word. Good. He was good for Cas. A smile tugs at his lips that he can’t quite suppress.

“I just…don’t go out very much.” Cas continues, frowning. “It’s always stressful to be reminded how the rest of the world works.”

And just like that, Dean’s tentative happiness drains away and is replaced by guilt.

This is his fault, he realizes. He’s the reason they’re even out at all. He’s the one dragging Cas out of his comfort zone and into situations where he’s made vulnerable. Stomping down on the slight pride that had come from successfully helping Cas, he slumps. He doesn’t get to feel proud of fixing a problem that he caused.

The guilt follows him all the way inside, making his insides squirm. Now in a public place, he feels smaller than ever, like everyone around knows what he is and where he belongs. It definitely seems like that’s the case. Dean knows logically that there’s nothing physical or visible that marks him as disgusting, but nevertheless he feels the judgmental eyes of the shoppers crawling along his skin.

It’s not just his paranoia either. When he gathers the courage to glance up, he sees people staring at him, distaste clear in their expressions. It’s not everyone, but it’s enough.

He suddenly feels even more shame slam down on him, shame at how he’s standing here in Cas’s clothes like he’s a person, shame at how he’s somehow deceived Cas into believing he deserves kindness, that he’s swindled the man into spending money on him, that he’s tricked him into believing he’s more than just a hole. Even though he promised never to trick anyone like that again. Even though he hadn’t meant to break that promise and isn’t sure how he has.

Dean flinches miserably, and drops his eyes, not wanting to see the customer’s stares. How do they know? They shouldn’t be able to see through his disguise by just looking at him. Honestly, they shouldn’t even be able to tell that he’s a slave at all, as Cas has allowed him out without a collar. They might be able to deduce that fact from his attitude and the way he holds himself, but that should still take some sort of actual interaction. And anyway, that would have them ignoring him, not staring in disgust. No, somehow Dean has reached a level of revulsion that shouldn’t even be possible, where people just know instinctually that he’s wrong.

You shouldn’t be here. He thinks as they pause in the mouth of the department store. You should be hanging off someone’s spit-covered dick, being fucked bloody in the dark.

“I’m ready when you are, Dean.” Cas says besides him, and Dean jolts, remembering he’s supposed to be leading Cas around.

They make it about four steps before Dean realizes he has no idea where he’s going.

“I… What are you looking for, Mr. Cas?” He asks.

“We’re here to get whatever you need, Dean.”

Dean tightens his grip on Cas’s arm. What the hell is that supposed to mean? Does that mean Cas isn’t even going to tell him where to go? He’s known this was going to be hard, but he hadn’t been prepared for Cas to just shove him out into the world and expect him to know what to do.

Oh god, this is a test, isn’t it. This is a test to see if Dean is capable of being what Cas needs and he’s already failing it.

Dean bites his lip, looking around the enormous store in terror.

“I don’t understand.” He whispers. “I don’t. I don’t need anything, Mr. Cas.”

Cas frowns. “Don’t be silly, Dean, of course you need things.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’ll take what my master gives me and I’ll be grateful for it.” He murmurs, repeating the words that have been drilled into his head. “You’ve already given me so much. I don’t need anything else.”

“You need clothes.” Cas says, sounding oddly pained. “You need things to wear.”

“You mean like lingerie and stuff?” Dean asks.

Cas blushes, and turns his head away, and Dean immediately feels bad.

God, what the hell is wrong with him. Not everything is about sex, he fucking knows that, but it’s been all he’s known for so long that the thought of anything else has become more frightening than rape.

He doesn’t belong here. Outside, he means. In the world. Maybe he did a long time ago, but whatever fragile ego he’d held then had shattered apart a long time ago.

“We should go home, Sir.” Dean says quietly. He keeps his head bowed, partially out of respect but mostly to keep from getting overwhelmed by all the choices presented in the store. “You shouldn’t waste your money on me.”

“It’s not a waste.” Cas insists. “You need your own clothes.”

“I won’t if you just keep me in your bedroom.”

Arms still linked, Dean feels Cas stiffen, and panics.

“I’m good, Sir, really good. I know your kind of weird about sex, but you’d like it, Sir. I can make you happy, I promise.”

“Dean.”

“I’d be real good, I wouldn’t fight. Not ever.”

“You don’t want that.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Dean says automatically. Then the words register. “And yes I do. You’re nice to me, you wouldn’t make it hurt on purpose.”

Cas’s face pinches, and he sighs. “Dammit, Dean.”

There’s no anger in his voice, just exhaustion, and it makes Dean feel even worse.

“I’m not going to keep you locked in my house like a thing.” He insists. “You’re a person. I’m going to treat you like one. I don’t know why this upsets you.”

Dean does look up then, only at Cas, who’s face is now painted with a mix of sadness and confusion. He looks lost, and it hurts to realize that that’s his doing. It hurts a whole lot more than it should.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly, unsure exactly what he’s apologizing for but meaning it all the same. That’s beginning to become quite a common occurrence here. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

Cas’s face softens. “I know you’re not.” He says. “It’s ok.”

“I’ll do anything you want.” Dean adds miserably. “But I can’t…I need you to tell me what to do. Please don’t be mad.”

“I’m not. I understand.” Cas responds, and Dean looks at him hopefully. He does look like he understands, face morphing from incomprehension into sympathy.

He doesn’t look mad. Or disgusted even. Dean knows he’s not what Cas needed, but maybe he’s going to keep him anyway.

“It’s just…so much. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Cas says again. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have expected to do both the doctor and shopping in one day to begin with.”

Dean stares at Cas blankly. “Sir?” He asks.

“It’s alright that you’re overwhelmed.” Cas tells him. “I know you’re not used to being given choices. I’m asking too much of you. We’ll find someone to help us, don’t worry.”

Hope rapidly draining, Dean’s shoulders slump. Oh.

His master doesn’t understand. Of course he doesn’t. How could he?

Cas thinks they’re talking about the store. They were, maybe, at first, but that’s not where the real problem lies. No, the prospect of clothing shopping does not sound easy at all, but he could deal with that alone if he knew what his place would be afterwards. It’s not that Dean can’t handle the shopping trip. It’s that he can’t handle the implications of why he’s going to need clothing.

“Yes, Sir.” Dean says anyway. Like he always does. Never No, Sir. Or I don’t understand, Sir. Or Please please please can we go home I’m scared, Sir.

He says Yes, Sir. Like the well trained little slut he is.

“I mean it, Dean.” Cas says, oblivious to the turmoil going on in Dean’s mind. “I know everything seems too big and frightening right now, but it will get better. I promise.”

Dean knows that Cas isn’t talking about what he wants the man to be talking about. He knows they’re not thinking about the same thing.

But he can’t help it, he clings to the words anyway, can feel himself wrapping them in importance and tucking them away carefully. Not because he really believes in their truth, but because he’s drowning, and a drowning man will grasp at straws if that’s all there is in reach.

* * *

They find a sales associate. Or, Dean finds a sales associate, and then sort of pushes Cas in front of the women before hiding from her behind him.

“Excuse me.” Cas says, and the women pauses from where she’d been hanging up dresses, looking over to them. Her eyes flicker to Dean for only an instant, long enough to recognize his posture and behavior as that of a slave, before her eyes glide past him, unseeing.

Gaze moving to consider Cas, she looks the man up and down critically, gaze catching on his backwards tie and where his shirt is again buttoned up wrong. Visibly, she rolls her eyes.

“Um.” Cas continues, oblivious. “We were planning on buying Dean here a new wardrobe.” He says, gesturing to where he can feel Dean standing behind him. “And we were hoping you may be able to help us?”

The woman doesn’t move, obviously unimpressed.

“Well it’s not like I work here or anything.” She says sarcastically.

Cas blinks at her uncertainly.

“Oh.” He says, confused. “You don’t work here? I’m sorry, I thought…”

The woman, who’s name tag reads “Becky”, stares at him in irritation, but makes no effort to clear Cas up.

Swallowing down the resentment building in his throat, Dean steps forward.

“She does work here, Cas.” He whispers. “She was just being sarcastic.”

The same oddly intense embarrassment Dean had seen glimpses of suddenly flickers across the man’s face, before he hides it beneath an uncomfortably still mask.

“Right.” He says. “Of course.”

Dean keeps his head bowed, but clutches at Cas’s elbow tightly.

It’s not like he hadn’t noticed his master’s awkwardness. The man is literally a hermit, and so obviously terrible at human interaction that it’s not very hard to see why. It goes far beyond his blindness, but the disability compounded on top of his odd personality certainly doesn’t help.

It’s not his fault though, and there are so many things in the world worse than being a little strange. So he can’t see. So he seems to only be able to speak in technical English. So he’s implied that he doesn’t leave his house for months on end.

It’s becoming increasingly clear to Dean why that is.

“Well,” Cas is saying besides him. “We thought you may be able to give us some suggestions on where to start? Maybe some recommendations for the basics?”

“What, you want me to describe everything in the entire store to you?” Becky retorts, and Dean breaks.

“No.” He says, speaking to the stranger for the first time. Both Becky and Cas look to him in surprise, and he struggles to keep the waver out of his voice as he keeps going. “We’re fine. We don’t need your help, Ma’am.”

Dean gets more enjoyment out of the bewilderment on Becky’s face than he probably should, considering Cas is looking at him with the same expression. It’s different though. He knows Cas is just getting whiplash from Dean’s change of attitude, not being smacked in the face with the realization that he even has the capability of speaking.

The shock fades, and Becky looks back to Cas, clearly expecting the man to administer some sort of punishment for Dean’s interruption.

But Cas just frowns, looking concerned. “Are you sure, Dean?” He asks. “I’m sure this lady would be happy to help us.”

That’s a lie, and they all know it, but the fact that Cas would be willing to deal with this bitch just to make him more comfortable is so incredibly nice Dean almost wants to cry.

“It’s fine, Mr. Cas.” Dean assures softly. “I can do it.”

He means it too. He doesn’t want to do it. The idea of having real clothes at all still scares him, much less picking those clothes out himself. But he’d rather force himself through today than have Cas have to interact with Becky any more than he already has. Dean’s made Cas’s day hard enough already, he can at least suck it up and pick out his own fucking pants.

Cas seems to understand this, or at least understand that Dean means what he says, because he turns his head back towards Becky and directs his next words at her.

“Never mind, then.” He says. “Thank you for your time, but we’re ok.”

Becky stares at them weirdly for a moment, then rolls her eyes again.

“Whatever.” She says, and leaves, half-done dress organization left unfinished.

Cas looks to Dean then. “What was that about?” He asks, and Dean drops his head, suddenly nervous.

“I…She was rude to you, Mr. Cas.”

Shit, is he in trouble? That was probably disrespectful, jumping into their conversation like that…Dean has always been a bad judge of what other people consider insolence. Frankly, he doesn’t really care if he disrespected Becky, but maybe he had embarrassed Cas with his bad behavior. He hadn’t meant to do that.

But Cas doesn’t look upset with him. Rather, there seems to be some amusement underlying the man’s otherwise flat expression. It had made Dean nervous, at first, how stoic Cas seems to be, but he’s beginning to learn that his master’s almost-constant frown doesn’t mean he is unhappy. It’s just his face, and Dean knows this well enough now to see the hidden smile.

“I appreciate you defending my honor, Dean, but I could have managed her.” He says kindly. “I’ve dealt with people far more abusive. It doesn’t bother me anymore.”

Well it should. Dean thinks, and he surprises himself with the vehemence of the thought.

He’d been too scared during the doctor’s visit to think straight, but now that he’s able to notice things beyond his own fear, he’s starting to sense a pattern in the way Cas interacts with the world. It isn’t one he likes.

The pattern continues not a half-hour later, after almost thirty stressful minutes spent with Cas coaxing Dean into making his own clothing choices. They have finally finished with pants and shirts and underwear, and have moved to look around the shoe department. Cas turns too quickly, and ends up knocking a bunch of sneakers off the shelf. He immediately crouches down to try and pick them up, and Dean is about to follow, when he hears laughter behind him.

Dean’s up and turned around before the thought even reaches his brain.

“Is something funny?” He bites. The laughter cuts off immediately, and Dean feels such a vindictive rush of satisfaction at the look of shock on the man’s face that it takes him a moment to realize he recognizes said face.

The man is definitely one of the people who’d been staring when they entered the store.

It makes Dean feel a little better to know the guy is such an asshole in general, so maybe his opinion shouldn’t mean too much. He wonders if maybe all those people were just assholes in general, the kind of people who’d laugh at a blind man.

Then the realization hits Dean like a baseball bat. Or maybe a train is a better comparison.

Oh.

Oh fuck. They were. They were those kinds of people.

No one had been staring at him. They’d been staring at Cas.

Cas, who, unlike Dean, is covered in physical signs that he’s…well, kind of a mess. It makes Dean feel bad just to think it, but he knows it’s the truth. With his backwards tie and his shirt buttoned up wrong for the third time in as many days, his unshaven stubble that doesn’t hide the cuts underneath it, the messy, badly cut hair that Dean only now realizes he must awkwardly do himself. Add the cane and the weird, wide-eyed slave obviously meant to help him around, and they’ve got themselves quite a picture.

The anger and indignation he feels then comes from somewhere very deep inside him, rupturing out of his already cracked heart and widening the fissures. The whole muscle throbs with pain, lacing his hot rage with something achingly sad.

All of this takes less than a second, a second that would usually have Dean flinching from the expected retaliation of his rash words. But instead of cowering away from his own bravery, his outrage makes him recklessly bold, and he glares the man down, staring him straight in the eye until he leaves in a huff.

He turns back around then to a red-faced Cas, who is still trying to pick up what he dropped without knowing where it all fell. The sadness starts to bleed as Dean falls to his knees to help, and continues to do so until it has overwhelmed the anger. It upsets him more than is probably rational, but it’s disconcerting in a way that leaves Dean winded.

Because he knows how it feels to be vulnerable. It’s not a nice feeling.

It’s none of your business. He tells himself. It’s not like you can do anything about it anyway.

The thought falls from his brain and sizzles through his heart like acid. Dean’s known horrors that have reduced him to begging and crying and kissing his master’s feet in the shredded hope that they might take pity on his sorry self. But somehow, he’s never felt more helpless than he does in that moment.

Even so, he unconsciously tucks himself closer to the man after that. Dean doesn’t notice. Cas does.

Chapter Text

Dean avoids looking in the mirror while trying the clothes on. He doesn’t like seeing his scars, and he doesn’t particularly want to see his thin, broken body. It’s disgusting, honestly, and he’s never had any understanding of how anyone could get enjoyment out of it. So no, Dean feels no need to study his damaged reflection.

But it’s not really why he avoids the thing so studiously. He already knows how molted his skin is, and what a “BMI of sixteen”, as Charlie had said, looks like. If he’s honest, he’s not afraid of being disappointed, he’s afraid of being pleased.

He hasn’t worn clothes like these in years. Five years, in fact. The last time he’d been allowed to wear any kind of real, non-sexual clothing was before he was sold, back when he’d been with Sam. And even those hadn’t been new. They’d been hand-me-downs, or grabbed from goodwill, but they’d been clothes nonetheless, and he’d never thought to be ungrateful. They hadn’t been something he’d taken for granted.

But they also hadn’t been a luxury. They were a necessity, like food and sleep. Yeah, he didn’t always have quite enough, and yeah he’d been thankful for what he did get, but he’d still always assumed that he’d have some. Of course he would have clothes, there was no way to do his job without them, and what was he if he couldn’t do his job?

Not much, he’s learned. Practically nothing. A slut, a tool for someone else’s pleasure, a sex toy.

And sex toys don’t need clothes. So, when that’s what he became, he hadn’t had them.

Until now. Until Cas.

He’d put up as much as a fight as he could without getting himself killed, but Cas had insisted. You need clothes, he’d said. You need shoes, you need pants, you need shirts, you need underwear, even though it all just adds more layers to what belongs to his master, covered or not.

But every time he’d tried to explain this to Cas, he’d gotten upset. So Dean had had no choice but to go along with whatever this is.

He’s kind of ashamed of how easy it had been to pick out what he wanted. After all that with Becky too. But once he’d caught sight of the flannels and jeans, the choices hadn’t seemed so overwhelming any more. He’d just picked out what he used to wear, when he had clothes.

He’s starting to regret that now, though he has no idea what he would have chosen otherwise. But in his haste not to make any more of a fuss than he already had, he’d broken one of the biggest rules that had helped him survive.

Don’t think about before. Don’t get near anything that will make you think about before.

Because he knows what he’ll see if he turns to look in the mirror. He’ll see Dean, the kid he used to be, or at least who he used to believe he was. The brother, the protector, the person. And Dean thinks that might finally make him snap.

Because god, Cas is killing him. He’s killing him with all this bullshit, with the clothes and the conversations and the lack of abuse. It’s too fucking much, and Dean is teetering on the edge of believing it. And he can’t do that. The pain of unlearning humanity, and being slowly revealed as what he really is, had been torture, not just in the physical sense. He won’t survive it a second time, it’ll kill him. If he forgets the only thing he’s learned in the past five years, he won’t be able to handle remembering again.

And he will remember, sooner or later, but probably sooner. Because Cas isn’t buying him nice, real clothes so he can have panic attacks in the changing room. He’s buying Dean clothes because he’s going to be expected to be outside enough to warrant a new wardrobe. Cas wants to buy him real clothes because he wants Dean to be a real person, which is something he knows he can’t do.

It’s not that he doesn’t want too. He wants it so badly he aches just imagining it. Being Cas’s helper instead of his fucktoy. Spending his days taking care of him, leading him where he needs to go and making sure he’s safe. Left unmolested, unbeaten, being punished only when he deserves it rather than whenever anyone feels like hitting him. He wouldn’t be thrown away when his master got bored of him, and he wouldn’t be shot through his worthless brain when his body isn’t pretty any more. It would be ok for him to get old, because he would have a job again, a real job, one where he really mattered beyond making someone’s dick feel good.

But that’s why he can’t do it. Having a job like that would mean that he mattered, and as attractive as that seems, it would also mean that it mattered when he inevitably screwed up. Before, it didn’t make a difference that he could never do anything right, because all that meant was that some sadist’s orgasm wasn’t as good. But Cas is different. Cas is good and kind, and taking care of Cas is important.

Taking care of Sam was important too. It was the most important thing in the world, and Dean had ruined it.

He can’t do that again. Why can’t Cas understand that?

All of a sudden he’s angry. Furious. He hates Cas with an intensity he’s never known. Fucking Cas with his stupid quiet house and his stupid pretty eyes and his stupid kindness, forcing Dean into wanting things he knows he doesn’t deserve but can’t help aching for. It’s not fair. He can’t just leave well enough alone, can he? He can’t just leave Dean to his comfortable horror, he has to come and drag him out of hell, dumping him back into a world he had almost managed to forget about.

It’s not kindness to pull someone out of hell when they don’t belong on earth anymore. It’s just dangling something he can never have in front of him, and just making him feel disgusting on top of destroyed. He doesn’t understand anything anymore, except getting beat and fucked, and all any of this is doing is rubbing that in his face.

The anger fades as quickly as it came, and leaves Dean empty.

It’s not Cas’s fault he’s so broken.

Dimly, he remembers what Cas had said to him earlier.

You’re a person. I’m going to treat you like one. I don’t know why this upsets you.

Turning around at last, Dean finally lets himself take in his reflection.

He doesn’t see a person. He sees the beaten shadow that he is.

Because you’re asking me to lead you through a world that I don’t understand.

Suddenly unable to look at the mirror for an entirely different reason than before, he drops his gaze to the ground, pulling the flannel shirt over his head. Holding it loosely in his hands, he stares down at it, dejected.

He has no choice. He never does. Cas is going to make him try and be a person whether he wants to or not, and when Dean breaks all over again he’s going to drag the sweet man down with him.

I want to go home. The thought comes out of nowhere, and disappears into the same, but it wracks his body with want nonetheless. It’s not the first time he’s had the thought that day, but it’s sharp enough this time that he knows for certain he’s not thinking of Cas’s house. He’s thinking of Sam.

He’s probably thought about Sam more times in the past few days than he has in the past few years, discounting the first few weeks where the kid was all he could think about at all. It’s dangerous, he knows that, each memory acting like a battering ram against a paper-thin wall holding back a flood.

He can’t help it though. He’s being given so much time now, time where his mind isn’t overtaken by fear or pain. That’s all that’s kept the wall up in the past, and he’s been lying to himself if he ever thought it was his own willpower. It wasn’t. It was just that the sharp stab of survival had kept his mind occupied.

Then he hears a click, and the soft creak of a door opening. And any and all thoughts fly out of his head.

His eyes snap up. They land on the mirror. Dean feels his gut drop out of his body.

The man standing silhouetted in the doorway is not his master, but nor it is someone he doesn’t know at all. It’s the man who’d laughed at Cas, who Dean had disrespected, and from the hungry look on his face Dean knows he’s come to punish him in a very familiar way.

Dean’s brain short circuits, the serial-killer like situation and the well-understood expression on the man’s face acting like some sort of override inside him. For a moment, Dean feels nothing but pure fear.

Then the fear shutters away into a horrible resignation.

Dean stays completely still as the man steps inside and closes the door behind him. He sweeps his eyes over the slave’s body obviously, before their eyes lock in the mirror. Dean looks down quickly.

“You know.” The intruder says conversationally. “I didn’t even realize you were a slave until I overheard you talking to your master a few minutes ago. Imagine my surprise that the little bitch who’d been so rude to me had the gall to be so impolite, considering his position.”

Dean doesn’t react beyond the tightening of his fists in the red flannel.

Breathe. He tells himself. Just breathe. It will be over soon enough, and then you can leave.

There are hands on his bare shoulders then, and Dean tries not to tense. It hurts more if he’s tense.

“Of course, that’s probably because he has a master who doesn’t know how to keep him in his place. That much was obvious just from how you spoke to him.”

The hands move down to his chest, finding his nipples and pinching them through the thin bandages around his chest.

“I feel bad for the guy.” The man continues. “It must be hard to deal with something so undisciplined.”

The use of the word “thing” does not go unnoticed.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have a problem. Maybe I should give him some pointers.”

The hands on his chest suddenly yank back hard, pulling Dean along with them, and Dean finds himself pinned against the man’s body.

“First of all.” He’s saying, as Dean fails at not tensing up. “You wouldn’t be allowed to speak, period. There are much better uses for that pretty mouth of yours.”

Three fingers are suddenly pressed against said mouth, and Dean opens obediently, and sucks like a good boy as the fingers pump in and out of him.

The man groans, and ruts his crotch against Dean’s ass. Dean concentrates on not making a sound.

“You sure as hell wouldn’t be prancing around back talking free people like you did me.” He grunts into Dean’s ear, breath hot against his cheek. “You pulled a stunt like that, I’d have you over my knee in a second, right there in the store. Pants down, bare ass up. I’d spank you till you fucking bled, till you were crying and begging and screaming, squirming all over my lap. Ugh.”

The man groans as he ruts again.

“Then I’d take you home and rape you raw.”

Dean can’t help the terrified whimper that escapes his throat. Jerking suddenly, he rips his head away from the man’s fingers and tries to twist out of the man’s grasp, but stops quickly when the man groans, hardening against Dean’s ass at the friction.

Dean lets out a choked sob.

“Sir, please.” He tries, and his voice is barely audible even in the tiny box of a room. “My master wouldn’t want you to touch me.”

The man growls, and the arm still around his torso tightens painfully. His other hand, still wet with Dean’s spit, crawls down his stomach and under his pants, squeezing Dean’s already-bruised dick painfully.

Dean’s vision goes white, and he sucks in air sharply through his teeth, doing everything he can not to scream.

“Your master.” The man says, thrusting against Dean’s ass once again. “Is the one who sent me in here.”

“You’re lying.” Dean says immediately.

“I’m not.” The man says back. “He said he wanted me to teach his little slut a lesson, but couldn’t bring himself to do it himself. Guy’s too soft.”

Dean’s eyes flicker back up to the mirror, and he catches his own gaze. His wide, frightened eyes stare back at him, and for a moment that’s all he sees. Then the rest of the image comes into focus. His pale face, his slack body, the way he’s trapped against the man behind him. His eyes drop to where the man’s hand disappears into his pants, and he finds himself unable to rip his gaze away from the outline of the fist cupping his cock possessively.

“I…That’s not true. You’re lying.” He says again. He can hear the doubt in his own voice.

“It’s the truth.” The man purrs, and starts to rub Dean over his underwear. “Guess he just got fed up.”

Dean keeps staring at his gripped crotch in the mirror, watching himself be molested, unable to do anything about it.

This is his life. This is the truth. This is what he really is, no matter what costume he tries to cover himself with.

Jesus Christ.

The reality before him starts to blur as tears prick at his eyes.

“I…” He whispers, defeated. “Is it ‘cause he changed his mind about locking me up?”

The man grins. “Sure is, sweetheart.”

Dean lets the shirt he’d been clutching so tightly fall out of his hands at last, going limp with terror.

He should be relieved. He should be relieved, and he should be glad. This is what he wanted. Cas finally understands what Dean has been trying to tell him, and he should be thankful that his master has sent this man to put him back in his place before he completely forgets.

He isn’t glad.

He’s afraid.

“Jesus, you’re pretty.” The man hisses, and his hand leaves Dean’s dick, spit-wet fingers coming up to yank Dean’s hair until his head is tilted back painfully. “So fucking pretty. Maybe I’ll buy you off the guy. How much did he buy you for anyway? A used up whore like you can’t be that much.”

Dean shudders in the molester’s grip, going white at the thought of being taken away from Cas.

“Please don’t.” He whispers, voice thin as smoke. Because he could, Dean knows he could. Cas has made it quite clear that he is not interested in Dean’s body, and has no use for him in that area. He doesn’t want him like that, and he’d probably be glad to get rid of him.

But Dean is so scared of that happening. He doesn’t want to belong to this man, he doesn’t want to belong to anyone except Cas. He’d do anything to make Cas want him in return, to be allowed to stay with the man, even without the room or the food or the books. Even if Cas keeps him locked in the closet, he wants so badly to stay in the only place he’d ever been not constantly afraid. But all Cas wants from him are things he can’t do.

Dean’s ass is smacked then, hard enough that it makes a loud clap even over the cloth.

“When I ask you a question, you fucking answer it, you goddamn dirty slut. Is that understood?”

Dean yelps, before nodding desperately, as much as he can with the man’s tight fist in his hair.

“Good. I’ll ask again.” The man snarls. “How much did your used-up hole cost, cunt?”

Dropping his gaze as far as he can with his head yanked backed, Dean has to force his throat to work.

“Fifty-five dollars, Sir.” His voice sounds as weak as he is.

Dean starts to cry as the man starts to laugh, tears finally overflowing in his eyes, spurred on by his shame.

“Wow.” The man snickers. “I wasn’t expecting the price to be that low. I wonder if he’d give you to me for less than twenty.”

The grip on Dean’s hair disappears, only to reappear a moment later on his neck, pushing downward. Dean goes pliantly, sinking to his knees with practiced ease, and turning himself without being prompted so his mouth is level with the bulge in the man’s pants.

His hair is pulled again, jerking him so his lips press against the hardness. Dean makes no move to fight.

He’s going to be good. He’s going to be a good boy, and he’s going to please this stranger like his master wants, and then his master will be pleased as well, pleased with him. And then he’ll tell him he’s good and pet him like this man never would, and he’ll be so happy with Dean that maybe he won’t sell him. Maybe he’ll keep Dean, and this day will end with his skin bright pink because Cas kissed his forehead again, and not because he’s been spanked until his skin broke, before having a dick shoved inside him.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Dean opens his mouth submissively, and the man rocks against his face. Docile, Dean mouths at the man’s length through his pants, tongue poking out and wetting the cloth. He’s just starting to bite the zipper to pull it down, when all of a sudden the door flings open.

Dean tries to wrench himself away from the man as he’s suddenly blinded by light, but the hands in his hair don’t let him leave. Pulled even tighter against the man’s crotch, all Dean can manage is to twist his head towards the door, though his cheek stays crushed against the hard heat.

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest when he manages to look up enough to see the person who opened the door.

“Dean?” His master says. He sounds concerned, and wary. “Are you alright? I heard you yell.”

The grip in his hair tightens in warning, but it takes Dean a few seconds of incomprehension to catch up.

Oh god.

The man was lying. Cas has no idea what’s going on.

Silhouetted and nearly glowing from the light from outside, Dean stares at the figure in the doorway with a frightening desperation. A fresh wave of tears floods Dean’s eyes, and relief that reaches far beyond his physical safety overwhelms him.

Cas looks like an angel.

But the man’s hands don’t loosen, in fact pulling so painfully Dean feels like it’s ripping his scalp off. The message is clear.

Don’t say a fucking word.

And maybe he shouldn’t. The man isn’t really doing anything wrong, and will probably hurt him if he disobeys. And honestly, just knowing that he can leave with his master afterwards, that he doesn’t want to get rid of him, takes away so much of the fear that he almost feels dizzy.

But.

It’s just the blur from the tears, and the fact that his eyes haven’t adjusted, on top of the relief so strong that it makes him feel lightheaded…

But Cas really looks like an angel.

Dean remembers his thoughts from before. That it’s not kindness to drag someone out of hell when that’s the only place they belong.

But Cas is under no obligation to be kind to him. If he wants Dean out of hell, then Dean has no business staying there.

“Master, please help me.” He begs.

The reaction is instantaneous, as Cas simultaneously hears the distress in Dean’s voice and locates it as coming from the ground. Dean watches as Cas adds that to the noises that had drawn him over to begin with, and realizes what is going on.

Rather than looking heartbroken or horrified, as Dean has learned to expect, Cas suddenly looks terrifyingly furious, and Dean shies away, instinctively trying to crawl deeper into the dark.

Cas doesn’t let him, surging towards the sound of Dean’s voice and grabbing his arm, hauling him forcefully out into the light. Dean cries out as he’s yanked painfully from the molester’s grip, but as he stumbles out of the room, he feels like he can breath again.

As soon as he’s standing, Dean throws himself into Cas, hugging the man close. Cas lets him, the arm not holding his cane wrapping around Dean tightly. Dean doesn’t know why it feels so different to the way the molester had pinned him, but he doesn’t think there are two more opposite feelings in the world.

“What the hell is going on?” Cas yells, and Dean flinches again, never having head Cas raise his voice like that. Nevertheless, he flinches into Cas rather than away from him.

Distantly, he hears the man answer, something about wanting to buy him, but Dean doesn’t even listen, now sure of the fact that it’s not going to happen.

He’s so stupid. God, he’s so stupid. Of course the man had been lying, he should have known that. It feels so obvious now, standing in the light with Cas letting him pathetically shake in his arms.

But it hadn’t seemed obvious then. It had been too dark and too cramped and too hot, and there'd been a stranger’s hand fondling his junk. He’d been scared. He’s still scared, but at least now he can feel his heart beating too fast instead of not beating at all.

Cas and the other man are still shouting around him, but Dean is focused on not throwing up. He’d had so many worse things done to him, this probably shouldn’t make him sick to his stomach. But it’s just hit Dean that this didn’t have to happen. The man who’d groped him isn’t his master, and his master is now screaming over his head about how not on board with this attack he is.

The nausea gets worse as he thinks about how easily he gave in, how he just stood there, even before he was told the obvious lie of Cas’s approval. He could have stopped this. A long time ago, he would have. He could have bolted, or at least screamed for Cas, and there wouldn’t have been any punishment.

But he didn’t. He just took it like a bitch.

He was bad. Fuck, he was really bad. He’d let that man put his hands all over him, when it’s Cas who he belongs to. He let himself be touched without permission.

Is Cas going to be mad at him? He hadn’t meant to be bad. He’d been trying to be good, that’s why he hadn’t fought, because he’d thought that’s what Cas wanted. But he was clearly wrong, and it’s his own fucking fault for being so stupid.

“I don’t have to take this shit from some cripple!”

The violent word and Cas’s even more violent flinch breaks through Dean’s haze of fright.

“Don’t call him that.” Dean growls without thinking, and he turns his head towards the man as he speaks. The man ignores him, like they always do.

Unless they want something from him, that is, and obviously this man does, for though his words go unacknowledged, “ignores” may not be the right word.

The man leaps forward, and a painful, pressing hand is wrapped around Dean’s shoulder.

Suddenly he isn’t standing in Cas’s arms anymore, he’s being dragged backwards, terror overtaking him as he realizes what’s happening.

Cas can’t see. Once they aren’t physically touching each other, Cas has no way on his own to be sure of Dean’s location. This man can haul him away easily, and Cas won’t be able to follow.

He’s stealing me. He thinks.

But even as the thought materializes, it is overtaken a split second later when the man shoves Cas hard enough that he falls over.

The fear disappears.

And Dean is gone, ceases to exist entirely, and is replaced by pure, white anger.

Or maybe it’s the other way around, maybe it’s not Dean disappearing but Dean finally coming back to life, the old Dean, the one he’d been scared to see in the mirror.

Because it’s not a boiling rage that bubbles over, or a seething red heat that erupts all at once. It feels cold, the anger. It feels familiar. It feels like he knows what he’s doing.

The thing-that-is-not-this-Dean wrenches his arms out of the man’s grip, slamming his shoe down on the attacker’s foot. Spinning around so quickly he almost gives himself whiplash, his fist flies out, slamming into the guy’s jaw so hard he’s sure to have bruises on his knuckles. They’ll be more than worth it, though, as the impact throws the man backwards and down, his head smacking against the floor with a loud CRACK as he falls.

“You don’t get to touch me!” Not-Dean roars, towering over the attacker. “I don’t belong to you!”

His words rain down like shards of glass, chest heaving with the others pushing to get out. He bites them down, knowing he’s lost the ability to string words together and fearful that he might just end up screaming.

It is, of course, at this opportune moment that help finally arrives, in the form of a short asian kid who’s wearing the same uniform Becky had had on. He skitters around the corner and into the isle of changing stalls, looking alarmed, and the expression only grows as he takes in the scene before him.

“What the fuck’s happening over here?” He yelps, and all of a sudden Dean is back. This Dean, the now-Dean, the one who let some guy molest him and is now going to have to deal with the repercussions of punching that guy in the face.

All the strength of his anger leaves him, and he’s left feeling like he can barely stand.

Dean stares at the kid, speechless. There’s nothing he can say to defend himself. He did everything the young man is thinking he did.

Below him, the molester starts to sit up, gobsmacked look disappearing, face turning red and spiteful.

“This slave just hit me!” He rages, standing up and pointing to the slave in question. Dean takes a step away from him. “It’s rabid. Someone needs to call the police to come put the thing down!”

That’s when the terror should come, he knows. That’s his cue to fall to his knees and start crying again, sniveling and moaning in fear.

Instead he just feels blank.

“Don’t!” Dean hears from behind him, and he jumps, turing to see Cas looking panicked. He’s sitting up, but still on the floor.

If I die, Dean realizes bizarrely, Cas won’t be able to get home.

“Dean did nothing wrong!” Cas continues to shout. “That man just pushed me over and tried to steal him from me, and that’s after sexually assaulting him in the changing stall!”

The molester laughs vindictively. “He’s a slave, and you left him alone. It was practically an invitation.”

He’s right. That’s what almost anyone would tell him. But instead of regurgitating the man’s exact words like Dean’s expecting, the employee’s face hardens.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He says. He looks angry, and for a moment Dean thinks that it’s directed at him. But no one in their right mind would call him “Sir”, and anyway the kid isn’t looking at him, but at the man who attacked him.

Dean looks between the two in confusion, before they settle back on the young man in tentative shock.

He’s not the only one who’s surprised, evidently, as the molester’s face gets significantly redder.

“You can’t be serious.”

The kid glares at him evenly. “As a funeral.”

“I- this- this brat attacked me.” The man sputters.

“Do I need to call security?” The kid says flatly.

The man glowers, nostrils flaring like a bull, but the kid doesn’t flinch.

“No.” The man says eventually.

“Great. I’ll walk you out.” The boy turns towards Dean, who looks away nervously. “You two come out whenever you’re ready. I’ll ring you up free of charge.” He hears.

They leave then, the employee escorting the man, and it’s like Dean’s entire body comes unlocked. He spins on his heel and rushes over to Cas, picking up his cane before going to kneel in front of him on the ground. He holds the cane out with two hands like an offering.

Cas reaches out towards him, and Dean presses the cane into his outstretched palm.

“Mr. Cas, are you ok?” He whispers. He doesn’t know why he’s whispering, but he feels like he should.

“I’m fine.” Cas says emphatically. “It’s you I’m worried about. Jesus, what did he do to you?”

Dean whimpers at the question, but answers promptly anyway. It’s his master’s right to know.

“He was grinding on me and he touched me over my underwear and he played with my nipples and he made me lick him through his pants. I’m so sorry, Sir.”

“Oh God.” Cas mumbles, looking sick. Dean blanches.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I let him touch your property.”

Cas shakes his head violently. “No, no, Dean, you did nothing wrong.”

Dean hugs himself, shuddering. “You’re not mad at me?” He asks quietly.

“Never.”

“Even though I hit him?”

“He deserved it. He deserved a lot worse for hurting you.”

He stares at Cas uncomprehendingly, curling in tighter on himself.

“I was just mad that he pushed you.” He admits. “Are you sure you’re ok?”

Cas nods, but it doesn’t slow Dean’s racing heart, or stop him from wanting to reach out and touch the man to make sure he isn’t broken.

He just can’t stop seeing him fall, how even in that fraction of a moment Dean could clearly see the shock on his face before it had morphed into alarm, because he hadn’t known what was about to happen, because he hadn’t seen the man coming.

Dean licks his lips. “If you’re not gonna punish me, can I sleep on the way home?” He asks.

“Of course, Dean.” Cas answers.

Of course. Like it’s obvious. Like he doesn’t even know why Dean bothered to ask.

Dean blinks, and nods. He feels strange, disassociated from his own feelings. He can recognize his emotions (fear, confusion, lingering anger), but sort of distantly, like they aren’t entirely his own. He feels another dull spike of unattached misery at the thought that maybe they’ve managed to take this from him too, just like they’ve taken his body and mind. That maybe it’s going to be like this forever, like he’s watching someone else feel, the same way he’s watched someone else’s body be raped and someone else’s thoughts crack. Like he isn’t really part of the process and has no autonomy over it.

He wonders what the hell is even left of him to watch this other person fall apart.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up to the sound of something shattering.

He’s awake immediately, more than used to being woken up abruptly, but doesn’t move from where he lay curled up in bed. Unsure of what he heard or if he should do something, he lies still, sharp eyes open in the darkness, listening for another sound.

He’s rewarded a moment later, when he hears the low rumble of Cas’s unmistakable voice curse sharply.

Dean is up and out of bed instantly, rushing over to the door and warily turning the handle. The door clicks open quietly, confirming that Dean really isn’t locked in, even at night. Alarm still pricking at his skin, Dean files the implications of that away to deal with later, hurrying to the end of the hall and pattering down the stairs.

The house is pitch black at night, with no lights on anywhere to indicate where Cas is. Even during the day the rooms are underlit, for though there are light switches on the walls, Cas never turns them on. Dean is pretty sure the man doesn’t even remember they’re there, as the one time Dean had dared to flip them on out of curiosity, the bulbs hadn’t reacted. It suggested something very sad that Dean hadn’t wanted to think about, but all the same had left him with an aching loneliness in his chest.

The feeling comes back all of a sudden, once Dean’s eyes adjust and he catches sight of Cas in the kitchen to his right. Dimly lit by only the dull light of the moon, he stands, looking small, in his t-shirt and boxers, surrounded by what is clearly the remains of a cup of tea. His face is a mix of frustration and pain, and Dean’s breath catches in his throat when he sees the blood mixing in with the liquid around Cas’s feet.

“Don’t move!” Dean blurts, and Cas’s head whips towards him. “Don’t move. Hold on.”

Dean dashes over to the man and bends down, fully intending to clean up the ceramic shards with his hands in his haste to get them away from Cas, but the man reaches out to catch him before he can drop to his knees, hauling him back up.

“Don’t hurt yourself!” He gasps, and Dean nods obediently. Stupid. Whether or not his hands get ripped up isn’t his call, it’s his master’s.

Moving around Cas, he reaches behind the sink and grabs the paper towels, before turning back and crouching down to clean up the mess. He wipes away the pieces carefully, making sure not to leave any little ones that could splinter into someone’s skin, quietly murmuring “Don’t move” and “Stay still” as he towels away the blood that has dripped onto the floor. Thankfully it’s not that much.

Dean dumps the soggy paper towel in the trash when he’s finished, before hurrying back over to Cas. He ducks under Cas’s arm and reaches his own around the man’s torso, pulling the man so that he leans his weight on the slave.

“Dean-” Cas starts to protest, but Dean ignores him.

“Don’t put any pressure on that foot, there’s still glass in it.” He says sternly, leaving no room for debate. Cas looks embarrassed, but nods, giving in.

Together they hop into the living room, where Dean pushes Cas softly but firmly onto the couch.

“Stay here.” He says. “I’m going to get the first aid kit.”

Cas stops him, reaching his hand out. He misses the body in front of him, but Dean stays anyway, taking the outstretched hand in his own.

“Dean, this isn’t necessary.” Cas argues. “Go back to bed. I can deal with this myself.”

Dean purses his lips, upset. He should listen. He should be a good boy and listen. Cas says he can deal with this himself, it’s not his place to argue.

He can’t force himself to go, though. He’s gonna get in trouble, but he can’t just leave the man bleeding alone in the dark.

“There’s glass in your foot.” Dean says quietly. He’s stating the obvious, but he can’t bring himself to oppose his master outright.

“I can pull it out on my own.” Cas insists. “It’s nothing. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Dean takes a deep breath, steadying himself for what he’s about to do, before shaking his head.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr. Cas. It’s my job to take care of you. I’ll be right back.”

Disobeying orders blatantly, he’s back as soon as he’s grabbed the box from Cas’s upstairs bedroom, and he kneels down with it in front of where Cas is seated. For now, at least, he’s left unpunished.

Picking up the man’s foot, he inspects the sole, where Cas had clearly stepped in the mess while trying to deal with it on his own. There are still several small pieces of glass lodged in the skin, and Dean winces in sympathy.

He wonders how long Cas would have stood there, or how much he would have let himself bleed, before he yelled for Dean to help him. He wonders what he would have done a few nights ago, when there was no one here at all. The thought makes the loneliness in his chest grow, as he thinks of Cas having to deal with the mess all on his own, bloody and bleeding in the empty, dark house with lights that don’t even turn on any more.

Dean lets go of Cas’s foot carefully, opening the first aid kit in his lap.

“You should have called for me.” He mumbles, pulling out the tweezers.

Above him, Cas sighs. “I didn’t want to wake you up.” He says. “I’m still unhappy I did.”

“I don’t mind.” Dean insists. “I don’t mind helping you.”

“I don’t need any help.” Cas says.

Dean doesn’t say anything to that, but looks up at the man quietly from where he kneels on the floor. The position is a familiar one, but the sight in front of him isn’t. He isn’t normally allowed to look up from the ground at all, and if his head isn’t bowed it’s always been because there’s a cock in his mouth. He’s used to gazing up at his masters in fear as he chokes, and from his perspective below them they’ve always looked larger than life. They looked like gods.

Cas doesn’t look like a god. He looks like a man. He looks sad and uncomfortable and half asleep, hunched over and embarrassed. He looks lost.

It should probably scare him. It should probably make him feel even more helpless and disoriented, the fact that the man that he’s supposed to follow unquestioningly doesn’t seem to know where he’s going. It had, before.

It doesn’t any more, the blood acting as some sort of trigger, making the situation too real and urgent for Dean to overthink what he’s doing. Just like when he’d punched the man in the store, a strange, adrenaline induced calm washes over him. He’s good at this. He knows what to do. He is, for once, in control of the situation.

“It’s not that bad.” He tells Cas as he picks his foot back up. That’s step one, to reassure. Whether it was him or Sam bleeding, or a different problem entirely, the kid always panicked so easily, and Dean learned early on to start off by letting him know the world wasn’t ending. “There’s just a couple of glass pieces stuck in your foot, not a big deal though.”

Next, explain what you’re doing. It’s never fun to not know whats going to happen to your own body, Dean knows that from personal experience. And Cas is blind, Dean reminds himself, so he has to be extra careful to tell him what’s going on. He can’t see it himself.

“I’m gonna use the tweezers to pull them out now. It’ll hurt, but it’ll be fast.”

Dean pinches the biggest shard with the tweezers, extracting it gently but quickly. His hands are steady, practiced in making the process both as painless but as speedy as possible. The anticipation is the worst part anyway, and Sam used to get hysterical if Dean didn’t just do it before he could freak. It’s better to just get it over with, like ripping off a band-aid.

Cas hisses above him.

“I know. Just a couple more.” Dean soothes.

It’s the truth, and after a few more minutes, all the glass has been removed.

“It’s all out. I’m gonna disinfect the cuts with Neosporin. It might sting, but the worst part’s already over.”

He wipes the skin down, before pulling out the gauze from the kit and using it to bandage Cas’s foot.

“All done.” He says, sitting back on his heels. “Feel better?”

“I…Yes.” Cas answers. His voice is quiet, embarrassed. There is reluctance tinting his admission. “Thank you.”

“Sure, Mr. Cas.” Dean tells him, standing up. “Can I help you back to your room?”

Cas’s head stays down. “No thank you.” He mumbles. “I think I’m going to stay out here for a while.”

“Sir?”

“Please, Dean, go back to bed. You need to sleep”

Facing the man, Dean reaches out and grabs Cas’s hands, trying to tug him gently to his feet.

“So do you.”

Cas doesn’t budge.

“I can get back myself.”

“But you’re hurt.”

“I’m not an invalid, Dean! I can get myself around my own house!” He snaps.

Dean flinches, drawing his hands away from Cas’s and to his own chest, stumbling several steps backwards on instinct. His eyes jump to Cas’s own nervously. Violence always starts in the eyes, bursting out from the irises like an exploding star before the body gives any indication. He’s rarely been able to use this to his advantage, as eye contact has always been seen as disrespectful and has made the oncoming punishment even worse. Cas can’t see though, so Dean lets himself look.

But the anger never comes. Instead, after several seconds, Cas shuts his eyes tightly and looks away, hanging his head.

“I’m sorry.” The man mumbles. “I…I’m sorry.”

Dean stares at the other man, confused and nervous.

“Mr. Cas?” He tries warily.

Cas’s shoulders slump, and his whole body suddenly seems to collapse in on itself. He looks tired, but not the kind that comes with wandering around your house at four in the morning. It’s a defeated sort of weary, like he just broke the whole world because he couldn’t hold up it’s weight anymore.

Dean feels all of a sudden like he’s done something terrible.

Tripping back over to the man, Dean drops again to his knees in front of him.

“Sir, please, what’s wrong?”

Cas just shakes his head, hiding his face in his hands. Dean reaches up to try to tug Cas’s arms away, but they stay locked in place.

Giving up, Dean runs his own hand through his hair anxiously.

“Do you wanna hit me?” He offers timidly. “I’ll stay still.”

He means it to. He kind of wants the man to hit him, if it’ll make him stop looking so upset. It always seemed to make his other masters happier.

This is clearly not the case with Cas however, who’s whole body jerks.

“No, Dean.” He croaks. “I’m not going to hit you.”

Dean feels a pang of guilt so strong it hurts. Nervously, he places his palms on Cas’s knees, pushing them apart. He crawls in-between the man’s legs and starts to nuzzle his cock through his thin boxers.

Cas yelps, jerking backwards, and Dean is quickly pushed away. It makes Cas drop his hands though, so Dean doesn’t count it as a total loss. Undeterred, Dean shuffles back immediately, planting his hands on the ground and kissing the man’s length through the cloth.

But Cas shoves him away again, slamming his legs shut firmly, and Dean watches in dismay as he caves, curling into himself and clutching at his hair.

“Please, Mr. Cas.” Dean begs. “Please let me try. I can make you feel good, I can make you happy, please.”

Cas shakes his head.

“I’m sorry, Dean.” He mumbles. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I didn’t mean to wake you up at all.”

Dean doesn’t know what to do. He’s already suggested that Cas hit him, and the man won’t accept Dean’s body. He doesn’t know how else to respond. The only ways he’s ever seemed to put other people in a better mood are to let himself be beaten so they can release their tension, or by pleasuring them with his mouth or ass. But neither of those things are working now, and he’s run out of ideas.

“Dammit.” Cas mutters. “I didn’t mean for you to see me like this.”

Dean stares up in confusion.

“Like what, Sir?” He asks. “Sad?”

The slight vulnerable surprise on Cas’s face lets Dean know that that isn’t what Cas meant, but that he’s hit upon something important anyway.

Hesitantly, he leans forward, slowly moving to rest his head on Cas’s knee. Cas tenses, but doesn’t kick him away, so he keeps it there, shifting so his chin is against the man’s leg and Dean can look up and see him.

“I get sad too, Mr. Cas.” Dean admits softly. It’s a stupid thing to say, he knows that, because no one cares what he feels. But the confession works it’s way out of him before he can stop it, and he can’t deny that it feels nice to say out loud. Especially when Cas doesn’t scoff at him, but instead unfurls a bit.

“I get sad a lot, actually.” He continues. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about it. I understand.”

“You’ve been through terrible things.” The man says intently. “You have every right to be sad.”

Dean shrugs.

“I don’t think you gotta earn the right to be sad, Mr. Cas. I think you just are, sometimes.” At least, he hopes that’s how it works. Because if Dean knows one thing for sure it’s that he doesn’t have the right to anything, but he doesn’t think he could stop his emotions even if he tried.

Cas doesn’t answer him, just sighs and sinks deeper into the couch cushions. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Dean’s pretty sure he’s blushing.

His eyes fall on Cas’s hands, which now lay limp in his lap. For no real reason other than guilt and desperation, he reaches out and takes the right one in his own. Cas doesn’t react at all, and Dean tries to convince himself that that’s a good sign.

Pulling the hand towards his face, Dean ghosts his lips over the man’s skin, pressing gentle kisses to his knuckles over the next few minutes.

It doesn’t fix everything, but it seems to help somewhat, and though Cas still looks too sad, he uncurls some more.

Encouraged, Dean moves his mouth up a few inches to dot against the back of his master’s wrist, and soon gains the courage to climb up besides the man on the couch.

Unsure if Cas will still let him close after he was bad, he nudges at the man hesitantly, but his master accepts him easily, letting Dean lean into his side and wrapping his arms around the slave loosely.

Pleased Cas isn’t too mad at him and pleased he’s doing something right, Dean tucks his legs up under him as he goes to plant his lips along Cas’s collarbone. The man lets him, and relaxes some more. Sensing his calm, Dean tentatively lets his tongue peek out, but Cas goes rigid where the slave is wound around him before he can even start to suck. Dean keeps his pecks closed and light and dry after that, and Cas loosens again.

Ok, so Cas likes kisses, just not on his cock. That’s ok, because Dean likes kissing him, just not on his cock. He doesn’t really understand why Cas seems happy to touch him as long as that touch isn’t sexual, as it was the other way around with all his other masters. He’d thought that maybe Cas was just disgusted by him, which he would understand, but he wouldn’t be letting this happen if that were the case.

His heart leaps at the thought, and even through his distress, Dean can’t help the contentment that is unfurling inside him. He’s never been allowed to touch someone like this before, because he wanted to. And that’s why he’s doing this, really, because Cas doesn’t seem too upset anymore, yet Dean is still brushing his lips up the man’s neck and along his jaw. He doesn’t know why this is so nice, as he’s not touching any erogenous zones, or giving anyone hickeys. It feels good anyway, despite the lack of sex hormones.

Half of it, he thinks as he starts to kiss Cas’s cheeks, is just the freedom of it, and the elation at being allowed to do this without also getting a hand shoved down his pants. He’s never touched anyone like this before, and he doesn’t really know what’s going on. This isn’t sex, nor is it foreplay. There’s nothing sexual in Dean’s touch, he’s been very careful about that, lest he breaks whatever spell this is and Cas sends him away. But this also isn’t the purely comforting touch that Cas has given him. He’s happy that Cas has calmed down, but there is another, more selfish feeling inside him, a happiness for his own sake. It’s been about ten minutes now, and Cas still hasn’t thrown him off or started groping him, and Dean realizes with a jolt that he wasn’t even nervous about either of those things happening.

Dean feels very warm all of a sudden, and notices that his heart is beating kind of fast. The slave pulls slightly away, staring from under his lashes at the other man.

He’s attractive, Dean realizes with some surprise. It might be ridiculous for most people to only notice this after several days, but looks fall pretty low on the list of Dean’s priorities with a new master. Being raped sucks just as much whether the person is ugly or good-looking, and it’s a lot more important to worry about not getting killed. But now that he’s almost sure that Cas isn’t going to murder him, he has the luxury of thinking about these things.

And Cas really is handsome. His face is angular and strong, with a well defined jawline and nice lips. His hair is dark and messy, but thick, and his body is lithe but sturdy. He’s young, too, which is new. He’s never had a master his own age before.

But his eyes, Dean realizes, can only be described as beautiful. Even in the dark, they are startlingly intense, framed by black, thick lashes that cling to each other. The irises are blue, but not the light sort of color you usually see on someone blind. No, you could never tell Cas couldn’t see just from looking at his eyes. They are a blue so deep it almost looks inhuman, and though always unfocused, they none the less feel sharp.

Dean is stupidly glad Cas doesn’t wear sunglasses.

Tearing his eyes away from the other man’s, Dean drops his gaze, and is surprised to find that he’s blushing like a virgin. Even leaning away, much of their bodies are still pressed together, and his skin is hot and flushed in all the places they touch. He feels shy.

Which is stupid. There’s no reason for him to feel shy. He’s totally clothed, and Cas isn’t even touching him. Not that he ever feels shy anyway when he’s fucked. Shame, yes. Shyness, never. It’s a very different feeling, bordering on pleasant, in some strange way. He feels nervous for no reason, but the feeling isn’t rooted in fear like it usually is.

Dean wants. He doesn’t know what he wants, but he wants something, and he wants it badly. A deep heat is pooling low in his gut, and it’s so unexpected that it takes him a minute to realize what it is.

When he does, he ends up stupidly staring down at his own crotch in surprise. Sure enough, he can see the beginning of an erection through the cloth.

Confusion, which certainly isn’t totally void of alarm, overwhelms the slight arousal. His whole life revolves around sex, yet this has never happened to him before. He’s gotten hard, sure, but there haven’t been too many times when that hasn’t been aided by drugs. When it has been natural, they had to work at it for usually close to an hour to get anything substantial, rubbing his balls and pressing his prostrate until his body overcame his fear. He’s never gotten hard from just…kissing someone else's cheek.

“Mr. Cas?” He says shakily. He sounds as disoriented as he feels, and the other man obviously picks up on that, frowning and sitting up straight. Dean jerks his hips back nervously, scared of his master feeling his arousal.

“Yes, Dean?” Cas says, and Dean realizes then that he has no idea what he wants to say. He has no idea what he wants to do, either. Part of him wants to run away, bolt back up the stairs and hide under the bed, maybe even use that lock he’s been too afraid to even touch. Another part of him wants to just cry, let himself just break down in Cas’s arms and damn the consequences. And part of him wants…

Well, he’s not actually sure what that part of him wants. It’s not sex, he knows that. Sex scares him, as resigned to it as he is, and that hasn’t changed. But he doesn’t want to stop whatever this is either.

Barely three inches in front of his face, Cas is still blinking at him seriously, with those crazy blue eyes of his.

Cas is so nice. And he really is so pretty.

All of Dean’s unfocused, swinging want is suddenly channeled right in front of him. He surges forward, slamming his mouth against Cas’s.

He doesn’t kiss his lips any differently than he kissed the man anywhere else. It is soft and still, dry and closed. The thought of tongues and open lips teeters too close to the edge of something Dean isn’t ready for.

It lasts maybe a quarter of a second. For all Dean’s confusion, that’s all the time it takes Cas to understand what’s happening, and he pulls his head away quickly.

“Dean!” He barks, and the word acts like a rock thrown at a sheet of glass.

Dean flinches, immediately both afraid and mortified, his half-erection disappearing instantly.

What the hell was that. What the hell was that.

Doused in fear as flammable as gasoline, Dean pushes himself out of Cas’s arms before the man can do it for him. He skitters backwards on the couch, curling into a tight ball when he reaches the end. He’d love to go farther. He’d love to jump off the couch, run out of the room, run out of the door, and maybe keep on running forever. Running so far that they’d never catch him, never be able to hurt him any more. But he can’t run that fast, so he stays on the fucking couch.

He peers over his knees at his master, wishing he’d gone to hide under his bed. He’s ruined everything. Now Cas is probably going to beat him.

Or, fuck…Dean starts to tremble as he realizes how this must look. He’d been rubbing himself all over the man like a desperate slut, and unlike his other advances, Cas hadn’t rejected him. Of course, unlike his other advances, he hadn’t meant this as an advance. He’d just been…well, he doesn’t know what he’d been doing. He hadn’t been trying to seduce though.

But then he’d gone and kissed the man on the mouth. He might as well have put a neon sign saying “FUCK ME” above his head.

God, they were right, they were all right. He’s a fucking whore. He’d been seducing Cas without even realizing it, and judging by how the man hadn’t refused him, it had worked. Even if he hadn’t meant it to.

It’s his own fault if Cas fucks him now. And when had that stopped being his goal? When had he finally stopped lying to himself and admitted that he’s afraid?

He doesn’t know, but evidently at some point he had, so when Cas starts to move towards Dean’s side of the couch, he freaks.

“I was lying!” He shouts. It comes out a lot louder than Dean means it to, and he cringes from the volume of his own voice. It makes Cas stop coming towards him though, seeming to freeze him in his tracks, so Dean rambles on. “I was lying. At the store, and before that too. I don’t want you to fuck me, I don’t.”

His bounding heart seems to echo the last word, pulsing don’t don’t don’t don’t out from its core and into his bloodstream. Cas still isn’t moving towards him, which is good, but in the dark Dean can’t really make out his face, and it’s all to easy to see hunger in the shadows. For the first time, the man seems menacing.

Jesus Christ, he doesn’t want this to happen.

“I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I keep trying to blow you, sorry kissed you. I won’t do it again.”

Dean’s chest is heaving, and he’s shaking. He feels like a such coward, and is acting as if this would be the first time he gets fucked. He deserves this. He was asking for it, kissing Cas all over, getting hard. Practically begging for it. Hell, he was literally begging for it earlier today in the store, and now he’s trying to take it back. It doesn’t work like that.

He can’t help but try anyway.

“I don’t want you to lock me up. I hate being locked up. Please don’t.” Dean breathes harshly. “I was so happy you let me look out the window in the cab today. Except when they move me from a car to a building, I haven’t been outside in five years. I don’t want you to fuck me, I want you to take me outside.”

Cas starts to move again, starts to speak, but he barely gets half a syllable out before Dean loses his goddamn mind.

“Don’t!” He screams, hiding his head in his knees, like that will do anything to stop whatever’s going to happen. “I can’t, I can’t.”

He can’t handle this anymore. He just fucking can’t. It doesn’t matter how much worse he’s had it or what he should be able to deal with by now. He’s going to die if he has to exist like this any more. He’s reached the end of his rope. He’s done.

Dean claws at the upholstery beneath him, digging his nails into it so tightly he’s probably ruining it.

“You promised I was safe here. I want to be safe here. Please, you promised.”

Please understand. He begs internally. Cas has to understand, he has to. Dean can’t do it anymore, not even one more time. Cas has to understand that, or Dean’s gonna snap.

Eyes wide and almost rabid, Dean’s stare stays locked on his master fearfully, waiting for him to make his move, waiting for something, anything, to happen.

He waits and waits for Cas to hurt him.

But Cas doesn’t hurt him.

He just cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries and cries.

Chapter Text

Cas isn’t drinking his tea, and it’s making Dean nervous. He’s stopped crying, finally. Well, mostly. He isn’t heaving any more at least, though there are still a few silent tears streaming down his cheeks.

He’d cried for what seemed like forever, violent sobs that had wracked his body and made it seem like he might shake apart. It was that, more than anything, that had spurred Dean into shuffling back towards the other end of the couch and pulling the man into his chest, wrapping his arms around him in what felt like a cheap imitation of the comfort Cas had given him earlier. It seemed to be the right decision though, as Cas had all but melted into his grasp, holding him so tight that Dean could feel the skin on his back indenting under the man’s fingers.

There’d been a fragile need in that pressure, like Cas was trying subconsciously to meld their two bodies together, and it had made Dean wonder if maybe the reason Cas is so quick to hold him is because he’s as lonely for touch as Dean is.

He feels stupid, and guilty. He’d gotten so scared for no reason at all, he sees that now. Any malicious intent he’d seen in Cas had really just been the projection of his own messed up expectations, and he’d become frightened of his own broken reflection staring back at him.

Dean knows, in a disassociated sort of way, that his life has been really shitty. Theoretically, he understands that not everyone is like his past masters, that not everyone looks at someone who can’t fight back and immediately wants to take advantage. It’s just really hard to remember that sometimes, especially in the dark, hours after being molested and almost stolen from the only kindness he’s ever known, and moments after kissing that kindness for reasons he doesn’t understand himself.

But now he’d gone and made Cas cry, and Dean’s starting to realize he needs to get his shit together.

It had taken him longer than it probably should have to understand, that Cas wasn’t crying because Dean had done something wrong but because the man thought he had. That Cas thought it was his fault that Dean was so freaked.

The idea was just so absurd, that anyone would give a shit what Dean felt or how their actions affected him, that it had taken Cas apologizing upwards of twenty times before Dean had gotten the message.

“You’re so thin.” He’d choked, face wet against Dean’s neck and arms wrapped tight around his skinny torso. “You’re so thin and I didn’t even know.”

Dean had said sorry, because he hadn’t known what else to do, but that had just made the tears fall even faster, soaking through the collar of the nice new pajama shirt Cas had bought for him.

He still hadn’t understood, not really, not until Cas had mumbled, so quietly Dean isn’t sure he was supposed to have heard, “I didn’t even know. I didn’t even know he was hurting you.”

And then it had started to dawn on him, slowly at first, Cas’s outburst about being an invalid starting to make all too much sense.

It had taken a long time for the thought to even form, and a lot longer for Dean to accept it as what might be the truth, just because it seemed so bizarre. He’d kept quiet in the meantime, letting Cas cry himself out against his body, brain whirring but not creating anything that could make enough sense to say out loud.

Eventually Cas had quieted down, and Dean, still feeling the pulse of his own thoughts too strongly to actually think, had reverted to autopilot. He’d pulled away from Cas and told him to stay put while he made him some more tea, and was already in the kitchen pouring the hot water into the mug when he’d realized.

That his body had gone into autopilot, yes, but not the one that had him on his knees pawing at someone’s genitals. This was the one that hadn’t been automatic in years, the one that had him taking care of people even when he couldn’t take care of himself.

He’d thought those patterns were broken, that those gears were covered in cobwebs and rusted stuck. That those instinctual pathways in his brain had died a long time ago.

But habit’s a hard thing to break. Harder, apparently, than even will or pride or sanity.

So he’d finished making the tea, and come back over to the couch, pushing the warm cup into Cas’s hands firmly. And now he’s perched across from the man, sitting on the coffee table, staring intently with rising apprehension as his master doesn’t drink.

“Do you want sugar or something, Mr. Cas?” Dean asks quietly, hunching over and leaning his arms on his knees. He speaks slowly, feeling the fragile tension in the air and worried his voice might set Cas off again.

It doesn’t. The man just shakes his head, seeming to stare down at the tea Dean knows he can’t see. He doesn’t seem to register Dean’s subtle nudge to drink it, but of course he doesn’t. Subtlety is almost always lost on Cas.

It’s honestly a testament to the man’s kindness that Dean feels confident enough to clarify what he means without hiding his intention under the offer to serve.

“You should drink it, Sir.” He murmurs. “Your body needs water, you cried so much out.”

Cas cringes, face going red, and Dean cringes too, thinking that maybe his master is not the only one who could use a lesson in subtlety.

“Sorry.” Dean says. “But it’s what you came down for, right?”

Wrong.

Or did you come down because you couldn’t sleep? Because what happened today shook you up more than it shook me up?

But he doesn’t say these things, doesn’t call the man out on something neither of them want to deal with, and Cas accepts the offer for what it is.

He drinks.

And Dean stares. Awkwardly, anxiously, keeping his eyes locked on the man like he thinks the tea is going to magically and visibly make Cas feel better. It does nothing of the sort, and Dean just ends up watching the few tears that are still coming make their way down Cas’s cheek.

His agitation rises and rises until he can’t take it anymore, and he opens what he knows is the Pandora’s box for both of them just to relieve the pressure.

“Is this about what happened today?” He blurts. Cas pauses, blinking twice before pulling the cup away from his lips. Curling into himself, he holds the drink with both hands in his lap, frowning down at it.

Bingo, Dean thinks, but the thought is too resigned and miserable to fit the word.

“Is this…” He starts, and he can’t help the anger that colors his voice. “Is this because that guy called you a cripple?”

Cas’s face crumbles, and Dean is about to backpedal when the man finally speaks.

“No.” He rasps, voice raw from the tears. “This isn’t about what he called me, Dean, this is about what happened. To you.”

Dean twists his hands together in his lap, confused and more than a little uneasy.

“I thought you said you weren’t mad at me.”

“I’m not!” Cas insists, and his eyes are getting wetter instead of dryer, and shit this was a bad idea. “Never, Dean, not at you.”

Dean looks away from the man in exhaustion. “Then why are you still crying? Why did you start crying? I don’t understand.”

It’s at once both the truth and a lie, because he thinks maybe he does understand, more than he’d like to admit, but at the same time nothing in the world is making sense anymore and he doesn’t know how to orient himself again.

“Dean.” Cas sighs, and he says the name sadly but with so much care, like it’s something light and beautiful that he’s afraid of breaking. It’s awful, not just because it’s so wrong but because it’s making Dean want again for things that he can’t have.

“You got hurt because of me.” Cas says, and there’s so much guilt in his voice that it hits Dean like a punch to the gut.

Everything clicks into place very painfully, like a bone being set without anesthetic.

Cas feels bad. The incident had disturbed him not just because it made him feel helpless, but because it made him feel helpless in relation to Dean. Like Dean had been wronged somehow, and he feels responsible for what happened. Like he thinks he has some obligation towards the slave.

The concept is so foreign that it almost makes Dean cry too. People don’t care about him. People don’t feel guilt over him, certainly. None of them even hold a candle to Cas, but he’s had masters who were nicer than others. But in all his experience, in the rare case that anyone took pity on him, it’s still always been understood that any kindness he receives is more than he deserves. He is to be grateful, however his masters see it fit to treat him. He doesn’t get to be angry or bitter or resentful. They own him, he’s not entitled to anything.

And now it’s Dean who’s feeling guilty, knowing he made Cas cry just because the man is too nice and doesn’t understand how worthless Dean is.

“Don’t be sad, Mr. Cas. Not over me, please.” He begs. “I’m a pleasure slave, it’s what I’m for. It’s ok.”

“It’s not ok!” Cas says, and the way his voice breaks in the middle is maybe the saddest thing Dean’s ever heard in his life. “It’s not ok, you know it’s not ok. You were screaming at me a few minutes ago that you don’t want me to touch you, and I won’t, but you were telling me because you know that it matters.”

Dean ducks his head, embarrassed by his behavior. He feels shame creeping up his spine as he listens to Cas, humiliated by what he’d said. How he’d spoken like it makes a difference what he wants. And yet, even now he can feel his heart rate pick up at even the thought of another possessive hand grabbing at his body, and he knows the only thing keeping him from panicking again is Cas’s promise to leave him alone.

Cas is wrong. It doesn’t matter what he wants, he’d only been reduced to that useless defense because he didn’t actually have any other reasons. He’d known that his consent is inconsequential, but he’d been desperate. He can’t do it anymore. The gentle treatment he’s received over the last couple of days has broken him for good, despite his best efforts to remember that it’s not going to last.

Because he’d given in at some point, and against all logic, he’d started to believe in Cas’s kindness. That was obvious enough by the fact that some part of him had thought that Cas would care that he doesn’t want to be fucked.

He thinks maybe what he’d been so scared of really is that he trusts Cas. Kissing the man had just forced him to realize it, and he’d only freaked out because he knew if that trust turned out to be misplaced he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

“I was just scared.” He says at last, realizing he’s been quiet for way too long. “Just scared, Sir. Wasn’t making any sense.”

“You were making perfect sense.” Cas says, and Dean has the horrible urge to mock him. To make fun of his odd personality, to use his misunderstanding of normal situations to ridicule his supposed comprehension of Dean’s gibberish.

The compulsion disappears almost immediately, leaving Dean just feeling bad.

“But I made you cry.” He protests half-heartedly. He should be more insistent, he knows, he shouldn’t be giving in so easily to Cas’s attractive words. But he can’t force himself to really argue, for once not out of fear but just because he likes what Cas is saying.

He doesn’t believe the man, not really. Nonetheless, it’s nice just to hear him speak, and knowing none of it is true doesn’t stop his mind from being lulled into a false sense of calm. It’s dangerously addicting, but part of Dean knows he’s already too far gone for it to matter if he really puts up a fight now.

“You didn’t make me cry.” Cas says, and Dean falls again into the trap of letting himself listen. “I was upset with myself, not with you.”

It sounds like nails on a chalkboard, the wrongness of the words scraping against his diamond-rare trust.

“What? Why?” He can’t help but ask.

Cas hunches over his tea like he’s trying to absorb it’s warmth.

“Because I frightened you. Again.” He says miserably. “Because I made you feel obligated to please me sexually without realizing it. Because I haven’t been feeding you well enough. Because I should have been paying closer attention to you today, and I should have known better than to leave you alone to fend for yourself.”

His breath hitches, and he stops, knuckles turning white around his cooling, still mostly un-drunken mug of tea.

Dean sucks in a very deep breath through his mouth, like he’s trying to bring enough air into his chest to press down on and deflate the hope he can feel growing.

“God, Dean.” Cas mumbles. “I know I have no right to be upset in comparison to the trauma you suffered today, but it disturbed me greatly how easily he could have kidnapped you.”

Dean’s mind, following Cas’s sentence, has to pause when he hears “kidnapped” instead of stolen. It’s wrong, not just from Dean’s point of view but technically and legally as well, but he doesn’t correct the man. He doesn’t lie to himself and pretend it’s because he’s afraid.

“Well, don’t worry, Sir. I didn’t let him.” He says after a few seconds. “As long as you want me here, I will be. I’m fine.”

“But I can’t know that for sure!” Cas cries. “Anything could be happening to you, and I wouldn’t know. Because I can’t see if you’re hurt, and because I don’t understand when anyone says anything that isn’t exactly what they mean. Which you never do, because you don’t trust me. You won’t tell me if you’re hungry or cold or if you’re in pain or if you’re afraid, you won’t even tell me if you’re being molested five feet away from me. And it’s my own fault, because all I do is scare you.”

He breathes in deeply, and the air seems to rattle as it enters his body.

“I’m so sorry, Dean.” Cas mumbles. “After everything you’ve been through, you don’t deserve to end up with someone like me.”

And yes, that’s true, someone as wonderful as Cas is far more than what something as broken as Dean deserves. Yet the dejected lilt of the man’s voice and the self-conscious curl of his shoulders makes it hard to believe that that’s that’s what he means.

“Someone like what?” Dean asks warily.

“Someone…” Cas trails off, and shame covers him head to toe.

“Someone who can’t take proper care of you.” He says at last.

His voice is raw and shredded, and it hurts to listen to. Or maybe it’s not his voice that’s the problem but what he’s saying, because he’s doing that thing again where he doesn’t make any sense but sounds like he thinks Dean is following.

“You take real good care of me, Sir.” Dean says honestly. “No one’s ever been so nice to me in my whole life.”

Cas just shakes his head.

“I haven’t been feeding you enough.” He mutters. “You need to be eating real food, not cereal and canned soup.”

“I eat all the same stuff you eat, Mr. Cas.” Dean points out. He can’t remember ever being fed so well. He eats three times a day now, like a free person. Like Cas.

But Cas seems determined to hate himself. “Well, I don’t eat well. Or enough. You shouldn’t have to eat what I eat. You shouldn’t have to live like I live, just because you’re stuck with me.”

He glares down at his tea, and takes one hand away from the cup to run it over his face.

“I haven’t even left my house in six months. After all the time you’ve spent locked away, you don’t deserve to be cooped up like that.”

“You let me look out the window, though, in the car. Usually they put me in the trunk.”

Cas jerks sharply in horror, then hisses as the tea spills over the rim of the cup and onto his hands.

“Shit.” Dean curses, and lurches forward, taking the cup from the man and shoving it quickly onto the coffee table. He turns back around and quickly takes Cas’s hands in his own, pulling them towards his face to look at them.

The skin is slightly pink, but Cas starts to pull back before he can get a good look.

“I’m fine.” He says, but Dean tightens his grip. “Dean, let go, I’m fine.”

Dean’s fingers twitch, but don’t move. “You’re hurt.” He whispers.

“I’m fine.” Cas snaps, and yanks his hands out of Dean’s grasp. Dean flinches, but Cas doesn’t use his freedom to hit, just pulls his arms up tight against his chest.

He doesn’t do anything after that, and Dean shifts uncomfortably where he stands, unsure of what to do with himself. Cas’s eyes are pointed forward, and he seems to be staring intently at Dean, and it makes him feel like he’s being examined even though he knows Cas can’t see him.

“They kept you in the trunk?” Cas says at last, breaking the silence. He sounds scared.

Dean slumps, and crosses his arms over his chest. Considering the man before him for a moment, Dean slowly moves to sit besides him on the couch. Cas doesn’t shove him away or hit him for being on the furniture like anyone else would have, so Dean relaxes after a few seconds, sinking into the cushions and drawing his legs up and tucking them under him.

“Sometimes.” He answers quietly. “Or they had me on the ground to suck them off.”

Cas shuts his eyes tightly in distress.

“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Cas.” Dean says miserably. “Just a fucking whore. Deserved it.”

Cas’s eyes snap open.

“Don’t talk about yourself that way.” He orders. And it is an order, one of the few the man has given, Dean can tell from the tone of voice.

“It’s never your fault if someone touches you without your consent.”

His words sound strong, no louder than anything else he’s said but somehow so much more unmovable.

Dean shifts, turning towards Cas so he can really look at the man. He stares, wanting to argue but finding himself unable.

“Never?” He ends up asking, feeling like the ground has disappeared from under his feet.

“Never.” Cas repeats. Dean bites his lip.

“What if you tease them?” He challenges. He has to force the words out of his mouth, and ducks his head as they come, anger giving way quickly to shame. Face red and pinched, Dean stares at his pajama bottoms.

“I never mean too.” He says, sounding smaller than he would like. “But they always say…so I guess I do, on accident.”

“Never.” Cas says again.

Dean’s eyes flicker back up in confusion and what might be the beginning of panic.

“Well…” He tries desperately. “What if I was bad? What if I’m being punished?”

“Never, Dean.” Cas insists. “It’s never your fault, not ever.”

Frustration choking his chest, Dean turns away from Cas entirely, glaring at the other end of the couch.

“Why can’t you ever make any sense?” Dean snaps, but when he glances back, the confused embarrassment on Cas’s face fast replaces the resentment with guilt.

“I’m sorry. It’s not your fault I’m stupid.” He says quickly.

“You’re not stupid.” Cas says back. Dean doesn’t answer, instead scooting himself closer to the other man. They still aren’t touching, but they’re close enough now that he can feel his master’s body heat.

He wants to touch him again. He wants to lean into Cas’s side and wrap himself around his body like before, but he’s scared he’s screwed that up for good. And anyway, a dirty freak like him doesn’t deserve to touch someone as nice as Cas, and even if the man doesn’t agree right now, he probably would if he understood.

Right?

Dean doesn’t even know anymore. He’s spouting all this nonsense about it not being Dean’s fault…

“I got hard.” He blurts. He clenches his own hands together tightly to stop himself from reaching out to the other man. “When I kissed you. That’s why I freaked.”

It’s hard to see in the dark, but Dean is pretty sure Cas is blushing.

“O-oh.” He stutters.

“So I wanted it. I guess.” He stares at the ground in shame. “I just…I thought I didn’t. But I was wrong.”

“That’s not how it works, Dean.” Cas says gently, but Dean already knew that, really. It doesn’t make it any less frightening to hear out loud.

“I’ve never gotten hard on accident before.” He admits. “I didn’t know I could. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“You didn’t give me permission.”

Cas is definitely blushing now. It’s kind of adorable, Dean thinks, how embarrassed he gets about sex. He’s been seeped in it so long he’s almost forgotten that it can make some people uncomfortable to speak about it so bluntly. It’s refreshing.

“You…don’t need my permission, Dean.” Cas tells him, awkwardly but earnestly. “It’s your body.”

If he hadn’t seen first hand how little Cas understands sarcasm, Dean would think he’s being made fun of. As it is, it’s a sweet sentiment, but the cold reality stops any of Cas’s warmth from reaching him.

“No it’s not.” He says flatly, truth ringing sharply in his ears. “It’s yours. I belong to you. You can do what you want with it.”

He feels bad when guilt immediately bleeds into Cas’s expression, but it doesn’t change that he’s right and they both know it.

“Dean…” Cas starts. “There’s something you should know.”

Dean’s eyes snap to Cas’s face. His heart almost stops just from the tone of voice Cas uses.

“I can’t…I can’t free you. It’s not that I don’t want to.” He rushes to say. “It’s that it’s technically not my call. It was Gabe who bought you, so he’s the one who holds your papers. I’ve spoken to him about it, but for now at least he’s refusing.”

Cas grimaces. “I’m sorry.” He says, but reeling with shock, the words don’t mean anything to Dean.

He stares at his master, feeling chills blanket his entire body.

“You want to send me away?” He says weakly.

Cas’s eyebrows snap up in surprise. Whatever reaction he was expecting, Dean had obviously failed to deliver.

“What? No!” He yelps. “No, that’s not what I meant, Dean. You can stay here for as long as you wish.”

“I want to stay here forever.” Dean says without thinking, then immediately ducks his head in humiliated horror.

There’s a long silence after that, and Dean is just beginning to think he’s scared Cas off for real this time when the man finally responds.

“You don’t mean that.” He mutters.

The slave looks at the other man in bewilderment.

“Yes I do.”

Because he does, even if it’s in his best interest to lie at this point. He just can’t, the truth of it is too all consuming for him to pretend otherwise.

But his master apparently can’t see Dean’s unshakable brick-wall hope in the same way.

“Then you don’t know what you’re saying.” The man says, unhappily but surely. “This…I…This is a horrible situation for you to try to recover in. You’ve just been so mistreated you can’t recognize it.”

Dean bristles at the insinuation. “I’m not so broken that I can’t recognize kindness when I see it.” He snaps.

It’s only as the statement leaves his mouth that he realizes it’s true. He hadn’t been sure before, but he knows now. He’s still human enough to recognize humanity. He isn’t that far gone.

“I don’t mean to insinuate you’re inadequate in any way.” Cas continues, and seriously, why does he talk like that? “But I’m extremely unfit to be the provider for another person. I pretend otherwise, but I can barely take care of myself.”

That’s not even close to true, Dean thinks. Sure, he has trouble with some stuff- he can’t cook so well, he forgets where he puts things a lot, he’s not exactly what you would call a “people person”… but for the most part the man gets along just fine. Most of his issues, Dean is starting to realize, stem much more from his insecurities and his subsequent defensiveness than any direct disability. Vaguely, Dean wonders what had given Cas such a low opinion of himself.

Before Dean can voice any of this, though, Cas is barreling on.

“I never meant to make you feel like you had to leave by looking into freeing you, Dean. It’s just that if you had any legitimate frame of reference, you would greatly resent being stuck here with me.”

Frustration bites at his shrunken stomach.

“That isn’t true, Mr. Cas.” Dean insists. “I know I’m dumb, and I don’t know much, but I know my own emotions at least. I know I feel safe here.”

Cas smiles wryly. There’s no happiness in it.

Dean realizes too late that, considering his outburst not thirty minutes ago, he’s not making much of a case for himself here.

“Well.” He huffs, struggling to put what he feels into words. “I feel like I could be, at least.”

That seems to be the right thing to say, judging by how Cas’s expression melts into vulnerable hope. It’s a childish look, like he’s a kid seeking approval, but somehow it doesn’t look out of place on the other man’s face.

Belatedly, Dean begins to understand the implications of what Cas had said minutes ago- about how he’s aware that he doesn’t eat well, and he’s frustrated by his bad social skills, and that he’s embarrassed by how long he’s spent inside. Dean had noticed his master’s hermit-like tendencies, but, like the idiot he is, hadn’t picked up on the fact that Cas is anything but content.

Clearly he was wrong.

“You shouldn’t have to live like I live, just because you’re stuck with me.”

It’s the first time Cas has admitted he’s unhappy with his strange and isolated life.

The realization touches something very deep inside him, a cold and lonely place so buried under the rubble of his own brokenness that he hadn’t even realized it was still alive.

He needs you. Dean realizes.

It hurts to understand.

He feels like he’s being gutted like a fish, ripped open, organs spilling out. Like everything that he’d thought was safe inside him is being yanked painfully outside.

But that’s just it isn’t it? Pain is the final recognition of one’s animation, life’s last recourse in reminding you that you aren’t a thing, aren’t an inanimate object, but a real living being, whether you want to be or not.

“Mr. Cas.” Dean whispers, looking at the other man seriously. “Do you remember what my face felt like when I first came here?”

Across from him, Cas frowns. “What?” He asks. “What does that have to do with-”

He cuts himself off as Dean lurches forward, grabbing his hand.

“Please, Sir.” He begs. “Do you remember? How swollen and bruised up I was?”

Cas blinks in surprise, mouth slightly open. His hand twitches slightly in Dean’s grasp, like he wants to curl his fingers around Dean’s but isn’t sure if he should.

“I…yes.” He admits finally. “I remember.”

Dean bites his lip nervously, but keeps his eyes locked on Cas’s unseeing ones as he lifts Cas’s hand up and places it over his own cheek. Cas inhales slightly at the contact, but but doesn’t rip away, so Dean releases his wrist. As he hoped, the hand stays put, and after a few seconds starts to move across his still-tender skin. Just like the fist day though, Cas keeps his touch so light it doesn’t hurt at all.

“Do you feel how much better it is already?” Dean mumbles as Cas’s fingers brush across his features. They’ve moved from his cheekbones to his eyes, and are now sweeping down the bridge of his nose.

“Yes.” Cas mumbles, and his thumbs moves down to skim over Dean’s slightly parted lips.

Dean’s breath hitches with something that is definitely not fear, but Cas seems to snap out of whatever trance he’d fallen into and tries to pull his hand away.

Dean catches it before it can get very far, bringing it back up to cup his jaw.

“I’ve fucked up a lot since getting here, Mr. Cas.” He says, leaning into the man’s hand. “You could’ve slapped me around a whole bunch by now. But you haven’t hit me at all.” He smiles very slightly. “So the bruises are getting better. Not just on my face, but all over my whole body. I hurt less than I have in years.”

Cas’s face is still and unreadable, but he doesn’t look angry, so Dean keeps going.

Hesitantly, he draws the man’s hand away from his face, laying his palm on his clothed stomach. Once again, Cas doesn’t pull away, so Dean presses it firmly into his skin.

“Does that feel empty?” He asks.

Cas blinks at him uncomprehendingly, struggling to keep up with what’s going on. “Sorry?”

“Does that feel empty?” Dean repeats. “Do you feel how much pressure I need to push down? Do you feel how my stomach curves out instead of in?”

“I…yes.” Cas admits.

“That’s cause it’s not empty.” Dean says softly. “Because you feed me. You think it felt like this three days ago?”

Cas doesn’t say anything, but Dean doesn’t really expect him to.

“It didn’t.” Dean confesses. “I was hungry. I’d been hungry for so long I’d forgotten how it feels to be full.”

Cas’s face isn’t so hard to understand any more, his brow drawn in but mouth slack. Upset.

“I’m not hungry right now.” Dean assures him. “You feed me enough, Mr. Cas. I don’t care if it’s cereal or instant stuff. I used to sneak food out of the trash when my master wasn’t looking. I’ve eaten dog food because I was so hungry.”

The pinched look on Cas’s face only increases, so Dean cuts himself off, realizing he’s not helping.

“Look, nevermind. It’s ok now. Just…” Dean pushes Cas’s hand into his stomach one last time. “You feel that I’m not hungry, right?”

Cas presses his lips together, clearly unhappy, but nods.

Dean nods back. “Good. You take good care of me Cas, I mean it.”

He moves Cas’s hand up then to his chest, placing sideways over the lower half of his ribcage. Slowly, he draws in as deep a breath as he can manage, before the sharp pain stops him. It isn’t a full-on gasp, but his lungs are full enough.

“Do you feel that?” He says, exhaling. “Do you feel me breathing?”

Cas blinks in confusion. “Yes?”

“It’s not shallow, right? Or rattling? It’s normal, deep?”

The man nods, and Dean nods back.

“Right. Well, before I was bought, I could barely breath at all, cause of my rib. For days, I felt like I was drowning. There were these constant black spots in my vision, that’s how little air I was getting.”

“Dean.” Cas gasps. He sounds horrified, so Dean rushes to continue.

“It’s not like that now. Cause of you. Cause of the pain meds you keep giving me, and cause you’ve let me rest so much, and cause you haven’t beat me or thrown shit at me or shoved me over or nothing.”

Dean again takes as deep of a breath as he can without hurting himself.

“I’m healing. I can breath because of you.”

Cas doesn’t respond, seemingly still reeling with Dean’s confessions. Dean only hopes he’s helping in some way.

Using his free hand, Dean reaches up to his pajama shirt and starts to pop open the blue buttons. It’s only after Dean reaches the button under Cas’s fingers that the man realizes what he’s doing, and his face turns wary.

“Dean-” He starts, but the slave is undeterred.

“It’s ok, Mr. Cas.” Dean promises, and again moves Cas’s hand, this time pressing the man’s open palm to the bare skin under his collar bone on the left.

Cas’s mouth pops open, and he blinks his tired, red-rimmed eyes in surprise.

“What can you feel?” Dean asks.

“Your heart.” Cas whispers back.

“How fast is it going?”

There is a long, long silence, in which Cas does nothing, and Dean does nothing too, except think very suddenly that it must be so lonely to be a good person.

And then Cas stops doing nothing and says, “It isn’t going fast at all.” And Dean looks at him like he hung the moon in the sky.

“Am I scared right now, Cas?”

The name is not an accident. It’s very deliberate, and his voice shakes as he says it. His heartbeat stays steady though, so Cas is being truthful when he says, “No.”

The surprise comes through in his master’s voice, but there is no anger or offense accompanying it, and no lighting shoots down from the sky to strike Dean dead, and Dean feels brave for the first time in a long time.

Lacing his fingers lightly between Cas’s, he pulls their hands away and lowers them to rest on the couch, but doesn’t let go.

“You can wake me up, you know.” Dean offers hesitantly. “If you get sad again, at night. It’s what I’m here for.”

Cas smiles, a real one this time, and it makes the awakening thing in Dean’s chest glow stronger.

“That’s very kind of you Dean,” The man says. “But I wouldn’t want to bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Dean says honestly. “I don’t mind. It’s what I’m here for. I could make you tea, and we could talk if you want. Or we could just sit here until you’re not sad any more. I mean…”

Dean trails off, unsure if he’s overstepping. He’s presuming a lot, volunteering his companionship as if it has any value, and assuming Cas would need his consent to begin with.

“If you want, I guess.” He finishes lamely. “I know I’m not very good company.”

Next to him, Cas frowns. Dean knows he’s said something wrong from the way Cas’s hand squeezes around his own, but strangely, it feels like comfort rather than a warning.

“I beg to differ.” Cas argues. “I think you’re very good company.”

Dean’s insides squirm, but it isn’t an unpleasant feeling.

“Well.” Dean mumbles, trying to keep from sounding too pleased. “Either way. You can. You…you wouldn’t beat me if I fell asleep, would you, C-Cas?”

Cas’s grip around his hand tightens to the point that it’s almost painful, but relaxes quickly when Dean’s muscles tense. And then Dean is the one with the too-tight grip, because his master tries to pull his hand away in apology, but Dean doesn’t let him.

“No, I wouldn't.” Cas breathes.

“And I can keep all my clothes on?”

“Of course.” Cas says quietly in response.

It would scare Dean, how much he believes the man, if he hadn’t decided he’s done being afraid of not being afraid.

“Then I want you to. I want you come get me. I don’t want you to be alone any more.”

Cas doesn’t answer him, but it isn’t an outright no, so Dean figures he’ll take what he can get.

“Can I help you back to your room now?” He tries instead.

This time, Cas agrees.

Chapter Text

Cas doesn’t wake up until 11:54 the next day. Dean knows because the stove, which he is standing in front of, displays the time above the burners, and his eyes flicker to it as he hears a door creak open from upstairs.

Dean’s fist clenches around the spatula he’s holding. He’d woken up at seven, far more accustomed to randomly being awoken in the middle of the night than Cas is, and had spent the next three hours wandering around the house nervously and full of indecision. He’d come into the kitchen with the intention to make breakfast four separate times, twice barely making it into the room before walking back out. The third time, he’d gotten all the way to opening the refrigerator before he got scared, and the fourth had seen him going so far as to pull out the ingredients he needed, before second guessing himself and putting everything back.

Finally, at around ten, Dean had managed to suck it up enough to actually start. There hadn’t been too many options, as Cas doesn’t have much in his refrigerator, but Dean had found eggs and cheese and enough other mismatched items that he could throw together an omelet.

The lack of choice is actually somewhat reassuring. If Cas had had a fully stocked kitchen, Dean probably wouldn’t have known what to do with any of it, and would have felt overwhelmed. But Dean is an expert and making meals from limited sources, and it makes him feel a bit better, once he’s started, to have a direct objective in mind.

Dean sings to himself while he works, songs from old bands that were familiar a long time ago, songs he hasn’t heard in years but remembers perfectly anyway. It’s an old tactic, one he’s used since he was a child, though only ever when he was sure he was alone. The melodies would give his mind something to focus on besides the pain or terror that wouldn’t leave no matter how much time seemed to pass, and now he uses it to distract himself from the doubts that crawl up his skin and suck at his uncertainly like it’s blood. It’s effective enough that he doesn’t end up panicking again halfway through and aborting the whole project, but it doesn’t stop him from freezing still, spatula half raised, as he hears Cas coming out of his room.

Dean listens to him pattering down the hallway and down the stairs, and tries to fight the sudden urge to fall to his knees. His voice cuts off sharply, and all his misgivings come flooding back in.

This had seemed like a good idea before. He’d wanted…he’d wanted to show Cas he could be useful, had wanted to make the man happy. But now that Cas is awake, Dean feels like maybe he’s done something wrong.

The footsteps stop, and Dean knows Cas has reached the entrance to the kitchen.

“Dean?” He hears Cas say, sounding curious.

Dean breathes, and forces himself to turn around.

Immediately upon seeing the other man, Dean starts to relax. Cas is wearing the same boxers and T-shirt from the night before, and leaning against the archway, letting it support most of his weight. His hair is sticking up in every direction, and he’s clearly not entirely awake yet. He’s blinking heavily, and frowning like he isn’t quite sure why he’s awake but is personally offended by the whole situation.

A smile tugs at the corner of Dean’s mouth, but he forces it down, reminding himself that he still might be in trouble.

He bites his lip nervously. “G’morning, Si-. Uh. Cas.”

Cas rubs a hand over his face, squinting.

“Why are you up so early?” He asks. He sounds grumpy, but mostly just confused, so Dean doesn’t take it as the accusation it could be.

“It’s noon, Cas.” He responds, amused.

The frown on Cas’s face deepens. “Oh,” he states anticlimactically, then stumbles over to the kitchen table, yanking out a chair and dropping into it. He crosses his arms on the table and buries his face in them.

“You ok?” Dean asks.

“I just woke up.” He mumbles, as if that wasn’t explicitly obvious.

“I figured.” Dean responds, helpless to the growing fondness he feels in his chest. He hesitates for only a moment, then says, “I made you breakfast.”

Cas perks up instantly, lifting his face. “Is there coffee?” He asks.

Dean smiles, and doesn’t try to stop himself this time. “Yes.” He says, and brings it from the small coffee maker on the counter over to Cas.

“You’re truly wonderful, Dean. You’re an angel.” The man says as Dean presses the cup into his hands, and Dean tries and fails not to blush.

“Ok, Romeo.” He mutters, stepping back as Cas takes the coffee. “Focus on waking up before you start waxing poetic.”

The mouthy retort is out before he can think better of it, and his eyes snap to his master sharply. But all Cas does in response is groan.

The next twenty or so minutes are quiet, with Dean finishing the omelet as Cas sips his drink, blinking himself awake excruciatingly slowly. Dean plates the food when it’s done and grabs a fork from the drawer, placing it in front of his master and moving to sit in the seat besides him.

“You should eat, too, Cas.” Dean suggests softly after some time passes in silence.

“Mmhmm?” Cas mumbles blearily.

“You should eat.” The slave repeats, heart pounding at the act of giving his master an order. “You didn’t eat much yesterday…I can make you something else if you don’t like omelets?”

His words become increasingly less sure as he goes on, until they have melted from a command to a question.

Cas squints, and Dean can almost see the loading symbol pinwheeling over his head as he processes what the slave had said.

“You…made eggs?” He says eventually.

“Yeah.” Dean answers quietly, unsure if Cas is pleased or not. “I. I can do better next time. I can make something better. I just didn’t know…Um. There wasn’t a lot in the fridge.”

Cas frowns, and Dean’s heart starts to sink.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast, Dean.” Cas says.

Dean laces his fingers together nervously, wondering what Cas even means. Is he angry? Can Dean ask if he’s angry? The man hasn’t hurt him for asking questions so far, so he figures it’s probably safe.

“Am I in trouble?” Dean says quickly.

Cas’s eyebrows raise, and he sits up slightly in his seat, suddenly looking more alert. “No, not at all. I just…don’t want you to feel like you have to serve me.”

I do have to serve you, Dean thinks, and almost says so, but stops himself at the last second. Because as true as it is, that’s the reason a thing would give, and Dean is trying to remember how to be a person. It’s what Cas needs him to be, and so it’s what he will do his best to become.

“I…like cooking.” Dean tries instead. “I. I would be happy if you let me cook for you, Sir. Cas.”

He isn’t lying. He does like to cook, and he does want the chance to make sure Cas eats better. The words feel awkward in his mouth anyway, and become frightening the moment they’re spoken. He isn’t used to stating what he wants, or saying anything that starts with “I” that doesn’t end with “am sorry.”

The risk pays off though, as Cas brightens at his words.

“You like to cook?” The man asks, clinging to the admission.

Dean glances at Cas nervously, waiting for the regret of letting a part of himself become visible to come flooding in, but the feeling never comes.

“Mhhm.” He confirms quietly.

Then Cas smiles at him, and all his doubt disappears.

“You can cook whenever you’d like, Dean.”

“All the time?”

“If that suits you.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to smile, feeling like something inside him has slotted into place. It shouldn’t mean so much, that he’s allowed to cook their meals from now on, but cooking is one of the few things he’s good at besides sex, and one of the few things he has nothing but good memories connected to. It’s not so much about the activity itself anyway. It’s about how he’s just been given access to a way to take care of someone, in a way he feels secure doing. It’s like being given part of his humanity back.

More than that, it’s the fact that this isn’t something he’s been ordered to do, but that he asked for and was given. Sure, Cas still had to allow it, but the fact that he played any part at all in gaining something that he wants makes a ravenous pride surge up in him.

“Here.” Dean says, grabbing the fork and cutting a piece of off the eggs. “Try it.”

He holds the food up to Cas’s lips, and the man bites it off.

He makes a noise of pleasure as he swallows, and Dean feels happiness burst through him.

“This is fantastic!” Cas blurts in surprise.

Dean ducks his head, but can’t help how pleased he sounds when he answers, “It’s just an omelet.”

“And yet it’s the best thing I’ve had in months.” Cas says.

“Maybe you’ve just been eating too much soup.” Dean mumbles back. He speaks very quietly, but is smiling as he says it.

Cas laughs lightly, and it’s like the sun coming out.

“Maybe you’re right.” He muses. “Or maybe you’re just very talented. Where did you learn to cook like that?”

“I used to cook all the time for my brother.” Dean answers lightly.

He doesn’t even notice what he’s said until Cas’s startled voice breaks in with, “You have a brother?”

Dean’s heart stutters in his chest at the word coming from someone else's mouth.

Brother.

He stares at Cas, wide eyed. He hadn’t realized. He hadn’t noticed that it had slipped out.

Besides himself, no one but Sam had ever said that out loud. For a moment, it almost feels like validation, before it is ripped away into a horrible loneliness.

“No.” He says shortly. “I don’t.”

He drops his eyes, hunching back over into the familiar position that his happiness had freed him of.

Stupid.

He can’t afford to forget. He can’t afford to be happy.

Guilt kicks at his stomach. Forget afford. He doesn’t deserve to be happy. Not without Sam.

“Dean?” He hears Cas say.

“I don’t have a brother.” Dean reiterates. He means for it to come out strongly, but instead his voice sounds strange, kind of strangled and dead.

Belatedly, Dean recognizes the confusion coloring Cas’s tone, and realizes he isn’t making any sense. He should explain, probably, but explaining would mean talking about it.

For a moment he almost wants to, can imagine unloading the thoughts that have plagued him for years into the gentle atmosphere that follows Cas wherever he goes. But he shuts that idea down quickly. Cas is his master. He doesn’t care about Dean’s problems, and would probably just tell him to stop acting like such a bitch.

“Would you like more coffee, Sir?” Dean says instead.

There is a pause, and for a moment Dean thinks Cas is going to push it, and Dean thinks he might scream. By some miracle though, for once in his life Cas seems to pick up on what Dean is trying to communicate without saying, and goes with it.

“No thank you, Dean. I’m alright. Would you like some?”

Dean looks at Cas in surprise. “I’ve never had any.” He answers, grateful that the conversation is moving on.

“Here.” Cas says, gliding his mostly drunken cup across the table. “Try some. If you like it we can make you a cup.”

Dean stares at Cas, feeling something inside him melt, and feeling all the unkind thoughts he’d had about the man drain away. Such a simple gesture shouldn’t break his heart, but it does.

He raises the cup to his lips slowly, keeping his eyes locked on the other man the whole time.

His gaze only flinches away when the liquid pours down his throat, causing him to cough and sputter in surprise at the sharpness of the drink. From the way he’d watched freemen guzzle it down his whole life, he certainly expected coffee to be a lot less bitter.

“That’s terrible.” He says. He speaks, as so often is the case around Cas, without thinking, without worrying what punishment he’ll face for insulting something his master is so clearly fond of.

Before he can start to panic though, Cas laughs.

“Sorry.” He giggles. “I forgot that it can often be an acquired taste. I suppose you should just stick to your omelet.”

Dean jerks in shock.

“I didn’t!” He yelps, and Cas stills. Dean barely notices, rambling on. “I made the food for you, Cas. I wouldn’t presume- I wouldn’t steal your food. Especially not when you feed me so much already.”

Cas’s mirth is gone, Dean sees, and Dean knows it’s his fault somehow. He can’t think of how to fix it though, not over his horror that Cas would think such a thing of him. Dean knows he’s untrained and mouthy, but he’s not that bad. He didn’t think Cas thought he was.

It must be because of this morning. Cas hadn’t seemed mad that Dean had taken the initiative to make him food, but he must have done something wrong for Cas to think he would be so disrespectful.

“I’m good, Cas. Or, I want to be. I want to be good for you. I wouldn’t…I…”

“Dean.” Cas cuts in. “Dean, it’s ok. Making food for yourself isn’t bad. It’s good. I want you to take care of yourself.”

“I-What?” Dean asks.

Cas reaches out across the table, offering his hand. Dean takes it gratefully, squeezing it tight.

“You need to eat, Dean. I’m happy you want to cook, and we can share this today, but you always need to make enough for yourself, alright?”

“But it’s your food.”

“And yours.” Cas answers. “You made, it after all.”

Dean trembles, trying to swallow his confusion. It doesn’t work. He’s so exhausted, not physically but mentally, the effort of trying to rearrange his world view beating into him. Combined, the two feelings bleed into nothing but defeat.

“I’m sorry.” He says softly.

“It’s alright.”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.” Cas answers kindly. “I’m proud of you.”

Dean’s heart clenches. He holds Cas’s hand tighter.

“Hey.” Cas says, brightening. “Why don’t we eat outside?”

Dean starts, and lifts his head from where it had been ducked down.

“Like…on the grass?” He clarifies

“Well, yes.” Cas says, still hopefully but lightly veiled now by nervousness. “You said last night you would like to go outside…”

“Yes.” Dean says, very quietly but very quickly. “Yes, please.”

* * *

Stepping outside doesn’t feel like stepping off a cliff, even though Dean feels like maybe it should. With how fast his heart is pounding, you’d think it would feel at least that dramatic. It doesn’t though, at least not in the moment he crosses the threshold of the back door.

This isn’t literally the first time he’s been outside in five years. He’s been sold five times in that span after all, and had to be dragged out one door and shoved through another in order for them to get rid of him. Yesterday, too, he’d had a few moments outdoors, as they went from car to doctor to car to store. Granted, he’d been too afraid to notice half those moments, but they’d happened all the same.

Eating breakfast with Cas is the first time in five years that he’s spent any considerable length of time outside, though. And he tries to appreciate it, tries to feel some sort of joy or freedom. Instead all he can focus on is how quiet it is as they eat.

It isn’t an awkward silence exactly, exactly, but feels slightly off, like an optical illusion in the moment before you see the trick. He should feel content, he knows he should. It’s quiet, but the nice kind, vibrating with the white noise of the outdoors and being punctuated intermittently by the tinkering of metal meeting ceramic. The sun beats down on his back and neck in a way he hadn’t realized he’d missed, and when he reaches up to brush his hair out of his face, it’s warm in the way that only summer can make it.

But it isn’t summer.

It’s May. Isn’t it? He’s pretty sure it’s still May. There are no picture filled calendars in a blind man’s house, and he doesn’t know how to judge this new and foreign landscape to mark the changing of the seasons.

And it is foreign. The sky is bigger and emptier than he’s ever seen it, and the sun is so bright it seems to reflect off even the yellow dirt beneath him, causing him to squint even when he looks down.

When he tries to look up, he manages it for only a moment before he has to turn away. His eyes take a moment to readjust, and even then the odd afterimage of the sun bounces around in his vision for a few quiet minutes before it fades.

Whatever month it is, it’s bright and hot enough that he can physically feel his skin burning.

I’m going to freckle. He realizes vaguely.

That’s strange. He hasn’t had freckles in years. They’d faded pretty quickly once he was sold, and he hadn’t seen the sun enough after that for them to come back.

A frightening thought occurs to him. That maybe there is nothing different about this environment, but that he’s just been inside so long he’s forgotten what the world is like.

The dread of that being the case pushes out the question that has been on his lips for days.

“Where are we?” He asks quietly. He waits for the frustration that he cared enough to ask to come, but if it does, Dean doesn’t notice. It’s drowned by his curiosity.

Cas pauses mid-chew, and blinks thrice before finishing and swallowing. He puts his fork down on the now empty plate.

“You don’t know?” He replies.

“No.” Dean says simply. Partly because he doesn’t think elaboration is required, and partly because Cas’s eyelashes are so long the sun throws their shadows onto the man’s cheeks.

He looks even prettier in the sun than he had in the dark. It makes Dean want to get around to fixing those broken lights in the house.

“San Jose.” The man answers him.

“Oh.” Says Dean. Then, “Is that in California?”

Cas nods, and then Dean finds out why his subconscious needed to know so badly where he is.

A dull fear flashes in his chest. That’s…too far. Too far away.

From what? He asks the fear.

From Sam. The fear answers.

Oh.

Then the realization that that doesn’t even make sense, because he doesn’t even know where Sam is, bites at him viciously.

Something inside him crumbles.

He’s never felt like this. Like just because he’s in a new place everything is all wrong. That had been his entire life, ever since he was four. They’d shuffled around the country, from motel to motel to motel, but he’d never felt like it mattered. Because Sam had been his constant, had been the home he’d put his heart into. Everything else had been superficial.

But he’s been without Sam for a while. This isn’t anything new. He’d been sold five years ago now, and though nowhere he’d been since then had been pleasant, he hadn’t felt the way he does now, like everything is unsettled and wrong.

Those places had been prison, though. They’d been terrible, he never felt like they should feel anything but.

Being with Cas isn’t terrible at all. And he’s stopped forcing himself to look at this place like a prison and started to think of it as a home. Which makes it impossible to ignore the missing part.

“He wasn’t my brother.” Dean says out of the blue. “Not technically.”

Cas’s head tilts when Dean starts speaking, and Dean watches as the lost look on his face bleeds into one of surprise as he catches up to what Dean is talking about. Clearly, he hadn’t expected Dean to volunteer anymore information on this subject. Dean himself isn’t sure why he does, but the words keep coming from no where, bypassing the permission of his brain, feeling like they’re being pulled by a string, out of his gut and up his throat.

“I guess he was my master.” He continues, but it feels wrong, the emotions associated with Sam so different than the ones connected to his masters.

“Your master?” Cas asks, sounding appropriately confused. Dean shakes his head.

“Maybe? I don’t know, I never thought about it. He didn’t own me, his dad did.”

“Oh.” Cas says, nodding in understanding. “You were with a family.”

Dean looks down at his hands, unsure of why he’s still speaking but unable to make himself stop.

“Not much of one.” He shrugs. “It was just the three of us. John bought me when his wife died to look after his kid, Sam, who was still a baby.”

“How old were you?”

“Four.”

Cas frowns. “Why would he have a toddler look after a baby?” He wonders.

Dean looks down, picking absently at the dry and stringy grass. It’s something he’s wondered about often enough himself.

“I was cheap, I guess. Untrained kids are always cheap, and he didn’t have a lot of money.”

He rips a particularly long piece out of the ground, and spins it between his fingers, contemplating if he should say what he wants to say next. It will upset Cas, but he already knows, really. Dean told him in the doctors office.

“He liked to fuck me too, so I guess he thought I was pretty.”

Cas stiffens besides him, just as Dean thought he would.

“This is the man who…raped you as a child.” He spits.

Dean flinches, and drops the grass.

“It’s not like you think.” He insists. His voice is shaky, and he can tell he sounds desperate. He can’t help it though, he has to make Cas understand. “It didn’t even happen that often. It wasn’t. That wasn’t my job. I was more than that, it, it didn’t even matter.”

“Of course it mattered.” Cas interjects, sounding horrified.

“You don’t get it!” Dean snaps, pushing himself away from the other man. “That’s not why he bought me, it’s not. He bought me for Sam, he didn’t buy me to fuck me. That’s not why he bought me!”

Tears are pricking at his eyes with the same sharpness that anger is pricking at his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s so mad, or why he’s getting so defensive. He knows Cas doesn’t understand, that he’s not trying to be cruel, but it’s not why John bought him. It couldn’t be.

“I’m not completely crazy.” He mutters. “I know what he did to me was shitty. But it’s not…it was different. That’s not why he bought me.”

Cas is staring at him with a mix of wariness and concern, and Dean feels his cheeks heat up with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” He says shakily. “I’m fine. Just…he bought me to look after Sam, ok? He did.”

Cas frowns. When he speaks, he speaks tentatively, like he isn’t sure if he’s going to set Dean off again.

“That doesn’t make sense, Dean. You were barely more than a baby yourself.”

The tears behind Dean’s eyes grow stronger, never having thought of it like that. He’d never gotten to be a child, could never afford to be. As far back as he could remember, he’d had as much responsibility as an adult, and he’d never been allowed to be innocent.

“I…know.” Dean lies, ignoring the fact that that had never even occurred to him before. “But John was smart, he knew what he was doing.”

“Then why have a four-year-old take care of an infant?”

Dean stares very intently at a spot just right of Cas’s knee.

“I think he wanted me to care.” He states.

Glancing up, he sees that Cas is doing that confused squint-thing again, so he elaborates.

“He wasn’t home a lot. He’d leave for weeks at a time. Someone older would have run as soon as they had the chance, but I never even thought about it.”

“Because you were too little.”

“No.” Dean says. Then, “Well, yeah. But only at first. I could have easily when I got older. He trained me to know how to take care of myself.”

He breaths in shakily, resting his palms on his knees. “But only so I could take care of Sam. I was so little when he bought me, I don’t even remember anything before Sam. He wanted that. He needed someone who wouldn’t run away when he wasn’t there, and who’d look after the kid without punishment hanging over their head. He wanted someone who wouldn't take care of Sam cause they were told, but cause they loved him.”

Dean stares at the ground, feeling hollow.

“It worked.” He chokes.

Something in him splinters horribly, and he knows what’s going to happen the second before it does.

It hits him like a title wave then, loss wracking his body, as the tears finally overflow from his eyes and start to roll down his cheeks.

It’s like the day he was sold all over again, the horrible unending ache tearing up his insides, the absence screaming like a gaping wound.

This is why he hadn’t let himself think about the kid in so long, this is why he hadn’t allowed himself to be anything more than a fucktoy. Because it fucking hurts.

This is how it feels to miss Sam. He remembers now. He doesn’t know how he’d ever forgotten.

Maybe he hadn’t. He doesn’t feel like he’s remembering anything. He thinks maybe he’s felt like this for five years straight, and had just been blatantly denying that he’s dying because he didn’t know what else to do.

“I loved him.” He says brokenly. “I still love him. Is that bad?”

And all of a sudden Cas is there, tucking Dean into his chest the way Dean had feared he’d lost for good when he’d kissed the man.

“No.” Cas assures him. “No, of course not. It’s good, Dean, that despite everything you’ve been through you love so strongly. It’s wonderful.”

“S’not.” Dean shudders. “Not wonderful. Just hurts.”

“We can look for him.” Cas says. “Could try to contact him.”

Dean jerks, pushing away from Cas’s chest.

“No!” He breathes, horrified. “No, Cas, please, no.”

He can’t see me like this I don’t know where he is or if he’s safe I don’t want to know I can’t deal with it what if he hates me what if he grew up and changed his mind and thinks John was right what if he’s still angry at me what if he’s unsafe or unhappy or dead no fuck fuck he can’t see me like this I wasn’t like this he can’t see me like this.

“Ok.” Cas soothes, clearly not keeping up with what’s going on inside Dean’s mind. “We don’t have to, Dean. It’s up to you.”

“Please, no. No.”

“We won’t Dean. Never mind, I’m sorry. We won’t.”

The saddest relief he’s ever felt floods through his veins, and he collapses back against Cas, resting his ear against the man’s collar bone and listening to the drumbeat of his heart.

Something beats in Dean’s chest too, but it isn’t his heart. That’s still wherever Sam is.

Chapter Text

Dean throws himself into his work with almost a manic passion after that, euphoric with the power to do a job that doesn’t involve him stripping naked. It feels good. It feels fucking great, actually. It’s not nearly as hard as he had thought it would be, remembering how to do this, how to take care of someone. It had been his life, after all, until he was eighteen.

And if unlocking that part of himself hurts like hell, well that was only to be expected. He was never really going to be able to become a person again without remembering Sam.

But it’s ok. It’s fine. He can do this. He just needs to keep himself occupied.

He just needs to prove to Cas that he’s worth keeping.

The man seems happy to let him cook all their meals, even ordering more ingredients online for Dean to work with. Dean, for his part, puts enough effort into the food that one would think it were being served to the Emperor of Rome, not a blind hermit used to living on Hot Pockets and Cambell’s soup.

So sue him. He wants to do this right. It’s been a long time since he’s been expected to be anything but a sex toy, and last time he’d tried…

Well. He’d locked this part of himself away for a reason. And yes, he’d re-opened it himself, and yes, it feels incredible. But.

Hope didn’t come out of Pandora’s box without a whole lot of horror either.

Underneath everything now, there’s the fear. There was always fear, of course, but this is different. Before, it was a constant coil in his gut, waiting to spring at any sudden move or angry word. It was pure terror, the kind of primal panic you’re only supposed to feel when something huge is chasing you, but constant. It was exhausting, and Dean can’t deny the almost dizzying relief he feels now that it’s gone.

In it’s place, though, something far less animal and far more human has settled in. It’s another kind of fear, not panic but dread. A dead sort of fright that underlies everything he does, waiting, waiting, waiting for him to screw it all up. It’s a fear of failure that never could exist in a puppet, but only in Pinocchio terrified of turning back.

So he overcompensates a bit, sure. It’s not like it hurts anybody. After all, he gets to eat the food too, since Cas maintained the order for him to always make enough for both of them. He makes the food perfect, and then Cas is happy with him, and he knows he’s done something right. There’s nothing wrong with that.

He likes being useful. He never feels safer then when he knows he is needed.

He tries to explain as much to Cas when he takes over the dishwashing too, though he’s not sure his point really gets through, as the man still offers after every meal. Dean always shuffles him out of the room before he can get to insistent, though. Dishwashing isn’t as fun as cooking, but the rote monotony of it has always held a certain calming appeal. It’s simple but necessary, and embalms him in the feeling of usefulness without a feeling of anxiety about screwing up.

Of course, that feeling doesn’t last very long, as there are only ever two dishes to clean. That’s ok though, because Dean finds other things to do.

He does the laundry, and makes both the beds, and sets the table, and cleans up after Cas.

Work becomes his sanctuary from the fear.

As long as he’s working, he’s useful. As long as he’s useful, he matters. And then Cas will see how helpful he is and how good he is and won’t change his mind about what Dean’s good for. Dean just has to focus on not screwing up.

Of course, it would probably help if Cas gave him any idea what he’s supposed to be doing, instead of just looking vaguely worried and telling him mildly that he doesn’t have to do anything.

Dean doesn’t know what that is even supposed to mean. If he’s not working, all he’s doing is sitting around looking pretty, and Dean’s done being a doll. At least, he wants to be. And he’s pretty sure that’s what Cas wants too, so that can’t be what the man means. Can it? No, Cas doesn’t want that from him, he would be beating Dean down if that weren’t the case. Cas doesn’t want that from him, he has to believe that. Dean’s just too stupid to understand what the man means.

He decides that Cas must be trying to tell him that he’s doing something wrong. He doesn’t know what though. Dean just wishes the man would be more clear about what he wants his slave to do.

But no. It’s Dean’s own fault if he can’t understand.

So though he doesn’t know exactly what he’s fucking up, each comment only solidifies his resolve to work harder.

He cleans the house, top to bottom, careful to get behind every couch and bookcase. He goes all out, organizing and vacuuming and bleaching and scrubbing the floor, putting all his weight into it.

By the end of the day, he aches all over, and his knees and hands are sore. It feels good though, the raw sort of pain fueling his satisfaction, making him feel pure in a way he hasn’t for a long time. The work feels like salt water against an open wound, stinging at first but cleaning the infection out. He collapses on his bed that night exhausted but happy, falling asleep instantly.

The feeling doesn’t last though, and when he wakes up the next day he feels even more anxiety ridden than the night before. Cooking breakfast calms him temporarily, and so does doing the dishes, but afterwards he’s left wandering through the house, looking for something else to do.

He can see out the window that it’s beautiful out, and for a moment he aches. He hasn’t been outside since he and Cas had breakfast together days ago, though the man has suggested more than once that he go out again. Briefly, his mind flickers towards the idea of asking Cas if he can go enjoy the backyard, but he shrinks from the thought after only a moment.

He doesn’t want Cas to think he’s lazy, or shirking his work. He needs to prove that he can be good.

No, there is always more work to be done. Dean just needs to find it.

He does the laundry again, even though he’d done it only three days ago. It’s better than doing nothing. At least it will show Cas that he’s staying busy.

The books Cas bought for him arrive on Tuesday, exactly a week and four days after he’d been given to the man.

Cas presents them to him happily, but all Dean feels is guilt.

He isn’t here to read storied about wizards. He’s here to work.

He can’t believe he tricked his master into buying such expensive, useless things just for his pleasure. Well, he’s better now. He can be better. He can work off the money. He just has to…

Try harder.

It becomes his mantra, his motto, try harder, try harder. Whenever he can’t find more work to do, when he wants to rest. Try harder.

Try harder to do more, cost less, be better. He doesn’t know what Cas wants from him now, but he has to try harder to figure it out, unless he wants Cas to get rid of him like John got rid of him. Because he wasn’t enough. Because, as hard as he tries, he isn’t a person, he’s just a thing, a sex toy, it’s what he was always meant to be and always will end up being, Cas will see it soon too, he will, he…

No. No. He can do this. He can do this, can be what Cas needs. He just has to try harder.

A disproportional amount of relief floods him when he remembers the broken lights, immediately followed by anger at himself for not remembering sooner. He’d become so used to living a dimly lit life that he’d forgotten about them.

Not that he would be turning them on. No, Cas doesn’t need them, and Dean sure as hell isn’t going to ramp up the man’s bill and cost him more than he already has.

Still, it would be helpful if he fixed them, right? For his master’s guests.

That don’t exist.

It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He can be helpful, Cas will be pleased.

He spends all day replacing dead bulbs and fixing broken sockets, and is still working on a particularly stubborn one in the living room when Cas wanders in.

“Dean?” He asks.

Dean stops what he’s doing immediately, standing to attention.

“Yes, Cas?”

Cas tilts his head towards the sound of his voice, looking concerned. He’d looked like that all day, since Dean had asked where the toolbox was. It had made Dean even more nervous, and he’d concentrated even harder on the task at hand.

“I appreciate what you’re doing,” Cas continues. “But it’s almost midnight. Perhaps you should start getting ready for bed?”

Dean blinks, only then noticing that the man is already in his pajamas. Glancing out the window, he sees that the sun has long fled from the sky. He hadn’t noticed.

“I…” Dean answers apprehensively. “I should finish this.”

Cas purses his lips, and his brow draws together.

“You’ve been working all day.” He says unhappily. “I told you it makes no difference to me whether the lights work.”

Dean curls into himself. Cas isn’t pleased. He’d been trying to please Cas, but he isn’t pleased at all.

Try harder.

“I just need to finish this.” He says again. “Please, I. I can finish it quick. I know I’ve taken too long, but I can finish this real fast.”

Cas makes a face of bewilderment, running his right hand through his hair once before dropping it.

“The problem isn’t that you’re taking too long, Dean. The problem is that if you keep going at this pace you’re going to work yourself to death.”

Dean flinches from his words, hearing the frustration in Cas’s voice but not much else. All that really sticks in his mind is that there’s a problem, and Dean is the cause of it.

Dean is the problem.

“Please, Dean, stop.” Cas says, voice a mix of gentle and firm. “Go to sleep.”

Dean slumps, defeated. “Yessir.” He says.

And he tries, at least. He lies down in his bed and tries to shut his brain off, but despite being wiped out from working all day, sleep doesn’t come for him. The feeling of satisfaction and refuge he at first got from working is gone entirely, and in it’s place is a restlessness that won’t let his tired body sleep. He just can’t stop thinking about the half finished light downstairs, can’t stop thinking about Cas coming downstairs in the morning and realizing how useless Dean really is. He knows it’s not going to happen (at least he thinks it’s not), because Cas already knows it wasn’t complete and was the one who sent Dean to bed to begin with. The thought won’t leave his mind though, and he more than once gets out of bed with the intention to sneak downstairs and finish.

He can’t though, he’s not allowed. His master ordered him to stop, ordered him to bed, and he wants to cry with frustration, because he knows if he could just finish fixing that one light, he’d be able to finally shut his eyes.

The clock next to his bed show the hours slowly ticking by, and finally at 5AM he gives in. It’s still pitch black out, but he figures enough of the world is awake for it to count as morning. And Cas never told him he can’t get up early.

He tiptoes downstairs and finishes the light before the sun is finished rising. His unease finally dissipates, and allows the drowsiness to come rushing in. He’s asleep on the couch before he knows it.

That’s where he wakes up three hours later to a pale Cas hovering over him and shaking his arm.

Eyes shooting open, Dean switch-blades up in horror.

Shit shit shit. Shit. Cas wasn’t supposed to know he came down here, he disobeyed, what time is it even, he’s supposed to have made breakfast, fuck he fucked up Cas is going to be so angry he’s going to beat him he’s going to get rid of him…

“Dean.” The man breathes, hands still on the slave’s shoulders. “You scared me! I was calling for you and you didn’t answer. What are you doing down here?”

Dean stares up at Cas, wide-eyed, trying to center himself under the feeling of Cas’s steady hands.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he can say, not just because he’s afraid but because what is he doing down here? What is he doing? He doesn’t even know himself.

Disoriented, he makes a half hearted attempt to stand up, but Cas pushes him lightly back down.

“Dean?” The man questions hesitantly.

Dean’s eyes drop away from Cas’s and to the floor. Heart rate slowing from it’s jack-rabbit speed, he blinks heavily, still only half awake.

“I had to finish it.” Dean whispers, and he can hear the confusion in his own voice. But no, that’s not right, knowing he had to finish it is all he’s really sure of at this point. He tries again, voice louder and more insistent this time.

“I had to finish it.” He says again, and there is a desperate edge to his words. He knows how this looks, knows he was bad, but if he can just get Cas to understand, he won’t be angry. He’ll keep Dean and be proud of him, because he was so useful.

Eyes shutting of their own accord, Dean leans his loose body forwards and rests his head on Cas’s shoulder. “I had to finish it. I’m sorry.”

“Hush, Dean.” Cas says above him. He sounds worried, Dean notes, but the thought is barely processed before it’s pushed aside by the man’s next words. “Go back to sleep.”

Dean snaps his eyes open and jerks away from the other man. “No.” He states. “No, I’m fine.”

“Dean-” Cas starts, and god, Dean is so sick of hearing that stupid concern. As if he hasn’t been through so much worse than a rough night of sleep.

“I’m fine.” He says again, harshly. Standing up, he stalks past Cas and into the kitchen, leaving the other man sitting on the coffee table, blinking in shock.

Dean slinks around full of guilt, shame and fear for the rest of the day, embarrassed not just at how Cas had caught him oversleeping but how he’d snapped at his master afterwards. He tries to go about his day normally, fixing the rest of the lights and cooking meals, but he’s horribly on edge, waiting for Cas to punish him, for the man to finally snap start beating him, or even worse, to throw him away.

Neither of those things happen though. In fact, Cas is just as polite to him as always, and it confuses Dean as much as it upsets him. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Dean was bad, Cas should punish him. How else can he get better? How else can he prove to Cas how sorry he is?

It’s while Dean is cooking dinner that night that it occurs to him how much extra money Cas must spend to keep him fed. It’s ridiculous, he realizes, for the man to spend so much on feeding a slave the same kind and amount of food the master eats.

Dean has cost Cas so much money already. And he doesn’t deserve treats like food after how he behaved today.

He only makes one serving that night. When Cas asks what he’s eating, Dean tells the man he’s not hungry.

Cas pauses warily. “I…think we should split this, Dean.” He says.

“M’not hungry.” Dean says again.

The man drops it for now. Dean tells himself he can have some cereal tomorrow, if he’s good.

As it turns out, he isn’t. His fear and guilt have shot through the roof, and he finds himself needing to do something useful like a junkie needing a fix. He does the laundry again, lugging the very light basket down to the basement. He dumps the tiny load in the wash, the timer setting for 35 minutes. There’s nothing else to do now but wait, so slides down the side of the machine, curling up in a ball against it. He stares at his knees and tries not to think.

On some level he knows something is wrong. He’s doing laundry for two people for the third time this week, at 1AM nonetheless. He knows if he weren’t scared of waking Cas up he would be looking for something else to do while he waits. But every time he stops for even a minute he feels the fear creeping up on him, feels it anyway even when he is busy, but when he stops it increases until he feels like he’s exploding, falling apart in every direction without any structure to hold him together.

He wants to believe he can do this, wants to believe he can be a person again, but he doesn’t remember how. All he can do is try to mimic what he remembers, but he’s doing even that all wrong. It’s a miracle, Dean knows, that Cas hasn’t thrown him out yet.

He falls asleep against the shaking washing machine, only to be awoken minutes later when it beeps, signaling that it’s done. He moves the clothes into the dryer then, and falls asleep again, awakening again an hour later when it too finishes it’s cycle.

He spends the next hour and a half trying to fold the very small amount of clothes without falling asleep on them, with debatable success. When at last he finishes the work, he finally passes out for good right there on the floor.

When Cas finds him in the morning, he’s so disturbed he has to sit down.

“You never said I had to sleep in the bed.” Dean protests. “You said I was allowed, but you didn’t say I had too.”

Cas doesn’t answer him, so Dean doesn’t let himself eat even the tiniest nibble while he prepares Cas’s breakfast.

Cas won’t eat if Dean won’t eat, so the french toast he makes ends up in the trash.

Lunch goes the same way.

Dinner is where Cas finally puts his foot down.

“Eat.” He orders. He’s sitting forwards in his chair, holding a forked bite of chicken out towards where Dean is seated across from him.

Dean scowls at the food in front of him, hovering in front of what he’s sure Cas believes are his lips but is closer really to the bridge of his nose. His stomach growls, but he forces himself to ignore it.

“Not hungry.” He says shortly.

“Dean, eat it.” Cas growls back. Dean flinches from the anger in his tone, but clenches his jaw.

“No.”

Cas snaps backwards, slamming his fork down on his plate in frustration. He freezes, muscles completely taut, and Dean has to force himself to stay put and not bolt. Running will only make everything worse.

But then the man slumps, and his face morphs into one of helplessness.

“Dean.” He begs. “Please, why are you doing this to yourself?”

Dean stares very carefully at the table in front of him, refusing to pick his eyes up from their chosen spot. If he looks up he might catch sight of the food, and if he sees it again he’s scared he might make a dive for it.

The fact that Cas wouldn’t stop him, is in fact actively trying to get him to eat, only makes this all the harder.

“I’m being better.” Dean says softly. “I haven’t been good since I got here. But I’m being good now. I am. You just can’t see it yet.”

“Starving yourself is your definition of being good?”

Dean huffs angrily. “I’m not starving myself. It’s punishment.”

“Punishment for what?”

“For being bad!” Dean cries, eyes flying to Cas’s face at last. “For disobeying, for back talking. I’m bad, ok? I’m bad and I won’t get good enough for you unless I do this!”

Elbows resting on the table, Cas drops his head into his hands, fingers pressing against his forehead. Guilt shoots through Dean, knowing he’s the one who upset Cas so much, but it only strengthens his conviction to see his punishment through.

“When are you planning on eating again.” Cas asks flatly.

“Tomorrow.” Dean answers. “If I’m good.”

“If you’re good?”

“If I’m good.”

Cas seems to need a few seconds to process this, but once he does he shakes his head.

“No.” He states, back to being firm. “No, I won't allow it.”

“You’ll have to hold me down to get food in me. And even then I’ll just throw it up.”

Cas sighs. “I’m not going to hold you down, Dean.”

“Then can I go? Because I’m sure as hell not gonna eat.”

“No you may not go, and you will eat.”

“I won’t.”

“Goddamn it Dean!” Cas barks. “You’re body isn’t strong enough for this! Not eating for this long is dangerous.”

“Then punish me yourself!” Dean snaps back.

Cas stops, taken aback.

“What?”

Dean sits forward, glaring. “You want me to eat? Then man up and punish me yourself so I don’t have to keep doing it.”

Prove to me that you want me. That you care about me at all. That you will help me get better and be what you need, and that you’re invested in keeping me.

Dean stands up sharply, striding quickly over to the drawers under the counter. He slams them open violently enough that they rattle until he find what he needs.

Storming over to Cas, he yanks up the man’s arm, shoving the wooden spoon into his hand roughly.

“Here.” He snarls. “You can hit me with this. Hurts like a bitch, I should know. You want me over your lap or over the table?”

Cas doesn’t answer, shell shocked. For a moment he doesn’t move at all, before slowly turning the spoon around in his hand. Dean stares at it as he moves it, jaw jutted out and eyes glowering but terrified all the same. He shudders, thinking that the man is getting a feel for the weapon so he will know how to do the most damage. It’s only when Cas suddenly stiffens, breath hitching, that Dean realizes he’d only been trying to figure out what it is.

All the same, it’s still gonna hurt.

“Well?” He challenges, after the silence gets to much to bare.

“I’m not going to hit you, Dean.” Is Cas’s barely there response.

Faster than Cas could even finish saying his name, Dean has ripped the spoon out of the man’s hand and slammed it against the table so hard that it snaps in half, section not clutched in his fist splintering off and ricocheting across the room.

The noise is tremendous, quick as lightning but sounding like thunder. Cas jumps in his seat.

“Fuck you.” Dean spits, and then he does bolt, all the way into the next room. Then he stops, and tries not to scream.

He’s so mad he’s shaking, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion and lack of food. Either way, he feels like he’s going to collapse.

Fuck. He’s never acted like that before in his life, not ever. What the fuck. What the fuck.

He’s fucked everything up now, all of it. If Cas doesn’t even want to beat him after that outburst, then it’s hopeless, isn’t it? He’s hopeless. So useless and stupid and broken that he’s not worth trying to fix, even to Cas.

Behind him, he hears Cas getting up, hears the scrape of the chair. Hears Cas padding in his direction and freezes still when the man enters the living room with him. Turning his head away, Dean tries to focus on anything but Cas standing behind him, and his eyes catch on a small stain on the near-left corner of the glass coffee table.

How had he missed that last time he’d cleaned? Fucking useless.

He glares at the stain, refusing to turn around and face Cas. For a moment Dean thinks Cas is going to try to speak to him, but he soon feels the man walk past him, turning to go up the stairs and undoubtedly to his room.

Dean doesn’t relax even marginally once the man is gone. He stays frozen, staring at the stain with an increasing self-hate.

Useless useless useless.

The stain starts to blur as his eyes get wet, but he blinks very rapidly until his sight is back to normal.

I should clean it. He thinks. I should do that. I can do that.

And that’s the point. He knows it’s stupid, he knows it doesn’t matter. But he can do that.

He can’t undo what happened in the kitchen, can’t be what Cas needs, can’t rewind the shit that’s made him forget how to be a person, can’t fix what happened with Sam…

But he can clean the fucking stain.

So he does.

Or, he tries to. He grabs a rag and a bucket of bleach-laced water and tries to scrub the thing off, but it’s a lot fucking harder then he expected.

Frowning, he peers at the blot. It’s about the size of the flat of his thumb, and sort of dark brownish. It’s hard to see exactly in the fading light, but it’s probably coffee.

His focus shifts, and suddenly he is staring at his own reflection in the glass. Feeling a sudden surge of anger, he scowls and rubs at the stain harder, growling at it’s persistence.

Whatever it is, it’s all dried up and hard now, and wont come off. If he hadn’t been so careless a few days ago, it probably would have washed off much easier.

Spitting on his thumb, he rubs the digit over the spot, eventually scraping at it with his nail. A bit of the center starts to flake off, but most of it stays put.

Leaning forward, Dean narrows his eyes at the mark. It’s not coffee, like he thought. Coffee wouldn’t be so hard to get off. He blinks in confusion when he realizes the look of the stain is far more familiar than it should be.

Blood.

Dean jerks backwards in horror, heart rate suddenly picking up and making itself known.

What the fuck? Who’s fucking blood is that?

Is it his? Oh shit, shit, of course it’s his, he was bleeding all over the place when he first came here, from his back, from his ass…

Fuck, he’d been so careful. He’d been trying so hard not to bleed on any of Cas’s nice things.

Useless useless useless.

He thought he’d managed not to…he’d been…sure of it actually.

The realization hits Dean so suddenly that he has to shut his eyes against the dizziness as the blood drains from his face.

Oh, no no no no. It’s not his blood. It’s Cas’s. It’s Cas’s, from when he’d cut his foot, when he’d gotten hurt, because Dean hadn’t been protecting him. He’s supposed to protect Cas, and instead he’d let the man get hurt, and god no wonder he doesn’t want Dean. He’s terrible at this, how could he have ever thought this would be different from Sam?

Dean surges forward again, starring at the bloodstain wildly.

No. It’s ok. He can fix this, he can. It doesn’t have to be like what happened with Sam. He just has to clean this up, and Cas will forgive him. It can be like it never happened. All of it. Cas getting hurt, and Sam too, and then he can remember how to be a person again without going crazy with fear and guilt.

He just has to clean this up.

It’s dark now, the sun long gone. He doesn’t know what time it is, but it doesn’t matter. The whole world is draped in black, except the blood, that looks redder and redder every second. Jesus, how had he ever thought it was brown? It’s as red as if someone new had just started to bleed.

He scrubs franticly.

Time ticks by, but Dean feels like the night has been dropped in molasses. He doesn’t know how long he stays there, completely single minded, scrubbing at the blood that won’t disappear. He starts to hear things after a few hours, flinching from the sound of his own breathing, convinced that someone’s behind him, coming to grab him, take him, rape him…

He keeps scraping at the stain. If he can just make it clean before they get to him, it will be ok.

He makes tiny, tiny dots of progress, working away the center of the stain and then the edges. Eventually it’s all flat, and he can run his finger over the area without feeling a single thing.

But he can still see it. The shadow of the stain is still there, a faded, faint ring that condemns him as much as the rest of it had.

And it won’t. Fucking. Disappear.

There’s nothing he can do, nothing to scrape off or force loose. It’s just a discoloration you would barely be able to see in the light, much less the dark. But Dean can see it. He can see it far clearer than anything else.

All there is to do is wipe desperately over and over the mark, making no progress but unable to quit all the same.

He wants to scream in frustration, but he can’t do that, he can’t wake Cas up, so he shoves his fingers in his mouth and bites, hard. His eyes slam shut and his other hand clenches, and he shakes as an animalistic noise works it’s way out of his throat.

He doesn’t know how long he sits like that, taut and trembling. Perhaps a few seconds, perhaps ten minutes. Either way, he slumps against the table in exhaustion when he’s done, cheek resting on the cool glass.

His body continues to shake slightly as he tries to calm his heartbeat. Taking a deep breath that rattles in his chest, he forces his eyes open

Immediately, he is greeted with the sight of the stain only an inch away from his face.

He starts to cry in despair, silent sobs convulsing his limp body like an angry child would shake a doll.

He wants to go to sleep. He wants to go to sleep, but he can’t. Not until it’s clean. He has to make it clean.

If he can make it clean, it will be ok. He can go to sleep, and Cas won’t be angry at him for letting him get hurt, and Sam won’t be angry at him for being a coward, for failing him, for abandoning him before he ever knew if the kid was safe. It will be ok, and Sam will forgive him, and Cas will keep him. Cas will love him.

He just has to make it clean first.

Weakly, Dean pulls himself back upright. He picks up the rag he’d dropped and starts to scrub again, throwing all his remaining strength into it.

His eyesight blurs from the silent tears still falling, and he can’t see the stain any more. He doesn’t stop though, doesn’t let himself. He knows it’s still there, it is, it is, he can feel it.

He doesn’t notice when it starts to get light again, nor when the sun breaks over the mountains and basks the room in orange. He doesn’t notice when his arms start to tremble non-stop instead of just intermittently, or when the blood from his bitten fingers stills and stops dripping into the rag.

He only notices anything changing when sturdy hands suddenly cover his own, holding them still.

Dean jolts, snapping his head up in shock. Cas is crouched in front of him, alarm written across his face. Dean’s heart sinks.

He didn’t finish in time. He didn’t finish, and now Cas will know how useless he is.

Horror stricken, Dean wrenches his hands out of his master’s and immediately dives back in, trying to push past Cas and continue his work.

The man finds his hands again easily and once again holds them firmly.

“No, please.” Dean begs. “Please. I have to clean it. It’s dirty.”

“What the hell are you doing, Dean? Have you been here all night?” Cas asks.

“Yes. I couldn’t get it clean. I can’t get it clean. I’m so sorry, Master. Cas. Master.”

“What are you talking about? Get what clean?”

Dean’s eyes dance away from the other man’s face and skips like a rock from his hands to the glass to the floor.

He can’t see the stain any more. But it’s there. It is, he knows it.

“I…”

He tries again to pull his hands out from Cas’s, but the man doesn’t let him.

“Get what clean, Dean?” He repeats.

“Th-the blood.” Dean stutters. “Your blood. It’s there, it’s still there on the coffee table. I’m so sorry, Sir.”

“Dean calm down. Dean. You’re shaking. Calm down, look at me. Look at me.”

Dean does, somewhat wildly, but it happens.

“You’re telling me there’s a bloodstain on the coffee table.”

Dean nods franticly. “Yes. It’s your blood, Sir, I’m sorry. Please don’t get rid of me. Please let me clean it.”

“Dean, whatever’s there, it doesn’t matter. You need to calm down.”

“No, I need to make it go away. It’s still there, please, I need to make it go away.”

“What you need is to go to sleep.”

“I can’t sleep!” Dean yells, throwing himself away from Cas. It forces the other man to lurch forwards and almost land on top of him, since he still won’t let go of the slave’s hands. “Don’t you understand? I can’t sleep! Nothing’s clean, nothing’s done. I can’t sleep unless it’s done.”

“Dean, Jesus Christ, what are you talking about. Dean! Look at me! What are you talking about?”

Dean blinks wetly up at the other man.

“Please let me clean it.” He pleads. “I have to make it go away.”

Please please please please please please please please please please please.

“Shit.” Cas says, and suddenly the hands around his wrists are on his back, arms wrapped around his torso, and it’s not until he’s being dragged backwards that he realizes he’s speaking out loud.

Even then he can’t stop though, not when they stop moving or when Cas disappears from around him or when the man strides back over to the table and picks up the ceramic vase sitting upon it.

He only stops at the sound and sight of an entire sheet of glass shattering, as Cas slams the vase into the table’s center.

Everything goes very, very still. Dean’s hand flies up to his mouth in shock.

“There.” The man says. “It’s gone.”

Cas turns back to him. Dean gapes, gaze jumping uncertainly between the man to the shattered glass more than once before settling on the fragmented mess.

The piece of furniture it once was has ceased to exist, and all that’s left is a useless frame and a pile of splintered crystal that glints in the sunlight.

“You broke your table.” Dean says stupidly.

Cas sighs, and his tense shoulders drop. He takes a step away from the glass and slowly kneels down, careful to lightly feel the ground for any shards before sitting cross-legged on the ground.

“It doesn’t matter, Dean.” He says quietly, and he sound so sincere that Dean can barely stand it.

“It cost money.”

“I don’t care.”

“It cost more than me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.” Dean says, very quietly. He ducks his head. “It. It does matter.”

Cas pauses, going still for a moment before leaning forward.

“Dean…”

“That table cost more than me. Why did you break it?”

Cas frowns, but speaks softly. “Because it was upsetting you, Dean.”

“But it cost…if I was being too loud why didn’t you just break me?”

Cas sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly surging forward. It scares Dean, the sudden movement lurching through his worn-out haze, and he flinches, whole body convulsing. He can’t help the frightened noise that jumps out of his throat.

Cas stops in his tracks at the noise, freezing for just a moment before settling back on his heels.

“Listen to me.” He says gravely, and Dean does. “You are a person, Dean. You’re worth more than any object ever could be.”

Dean shakes his head, unable to deal with what Cas is saying but unwilling to make him stop. Unaware, Cas keeps talking.

“The table doesn’t matter Dean. You matter, though. Your health matters. Your stability. I don’t know how to make you understand that.”

Dean stops, looking up at Cas openly, flooded all at once with feelings he’s to drained to sort through. Reaching up, he wipes away the wetness from his eyes, and he can suddenly see everything in sharp focus.

He can see Cas’s earnest eyes, and the tired lines underneath them. He can see the bright day beginning outside, leaking into the house and turning everything a sun-dyed pink. He can see the remains of the coffee table, glass underneath the skeleton no longer glimmering like something otherworldly but just looking like glass.

He can’t see the stain.

It’s gone. Cas killed it.

He looks back over to Cas with the same helpless desperation he’d felt all night.

“I don’t know what to do.” He confesses, and he says it like it’s something horrible.

He says it like it’s something you should whisper in the dark at 2 AM, not underneath the bright scrutiny of the morning sun. The sun doesn’t seem to mind, though, so he keeps going.

“M’ just trying to be good. But.”

His voice is shredded, like he’d been screaming at the top of his lungs for hours.

Hesitantly, he inches forwards towards the other man. He pauses, but Cas keeps his face and body open, so Dean closes the last few feet between them, coming up to kneel so close to Cas that their legs touch.

He whimpers, and Cas’s hands come up and find his own once again. They feel warm.

“But?” Cas prompts, and Dean gives up.

“I don’t know what you need me to be.” He admits. “I don’t know how…please tell me what to do. Please tell me what you need me to do.”

“What I need you to do,” Cas says solemnly. “Is take care of yourself. The rest can come later.”

Dean blinks at Cas slowly, the intensity of the statement too much for his sleep-deprived brain. He looks away, overwhelmed.

As if he knows what Dean is doing, Cas squeezes his hands, and Dean looks back up.

“Do you understand?” The man says.

“Will you hit me if I say no?” Dean whispers, because he wants to understand, vaguely realizes somewhere that Cas is finally telling him what he needs, but he’s not making any sense again and Dean is just too tired to try to figure it out.

“Of course not.”

So Dean almost says no, opens his mouth to, but something in Cas’s eyes stops him.

“I don’t know.” He says instead.

“That’s ok.” Cas says immediately. “We’ll work on it.”

Dean nods, even though he has very little idea of what Cas is talking about, but the stain is gone because Cas killed it so it’s all ok now, but with the adrenalin gone too Dean feels like he’s going to fall over.

“I’m tired.” Dean says truthfully, and loosely lets himself fall against the man in front of him, tucking his face into the man’s neck.

“I’m sure you are.” He hears.

He hums contentedly in response as Cas’s strong arms wrap around his back.

He’s held for only a moment before he’s suddenly lifted into the air, carried bridal-style.

“Bed, now.” Cas says simply.

“K.” Is all Dean manages to answer, keeping his arms wrapped around the other man’s chest and leaning his head against his shoulder. Exhausted and limp, he lets himself shut his eyes, blindly trusting the man to take care of him in a way he’s never trusted anyone before.

He’s asleep before they reach the top of the stairs.

Chapter Text

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

It’s the first thing he says to Cas the next day. Or, it’s the first thing he says to Cas’s lap, at least, having gone to his knees and buried his face in the man’s legs as soon as he could be found.

Cas, in his endless kindness, hadn’t kicked him away, but had just gently begun to pet him, and let him kneel in silence for the long minutes until he found his voice.

“Nothing is wrong with you.” Cas replies, and even through his emptiness Dean feels a faint pulse of irritation.

“Please stop saying that. We both know it’s not true.”

Cas’s fingers pause in there journey though his hair. Dean hears his upper body shift as he sits slightly forward, and is rocked a bit as the man’s legs are jostled by his movement, though he clearly attempts to keep his lower half as still as possible for Dean’s sake. A thread of fondness leaks into Dean’s hollow body.

“I’m not giving you platitudes, Dean, I’m being serious. This is completely normal given what you’ve been through.”

Dean looks up at Cas skeptically. “Goin’ crazy is normal?”

“You’re not going crazy. You’re attempting to cope with decades of abuse. It would be far more concerning if you were acting perfectly fine.”

Dean stares up at Cas, uncertain, looking for some sort of resolution in the man’s eyes. He doesn’t find it, or maybe he does but it isn’t one he’s ready to accept. So he drops his gaze without reaching any sort of conclusion and turns his face again so his cheek is resting on his master’s knee and his face is cradled in his own arms.

Cas starts to run his fingers again through the hair on the back of Dean’s neck, and it feels so nice that for a second Dean almost melts.

Then a sharp sense of shame cracks through him.

God, what is he doing? What has he become? He never used to be like this, would never have willingly sat at his master’s feet, begging for his touch like a dog. He would have found the very idea repulsive, humiliating, would have scoffed at anyone who did so voluntarily.

He cringes at the thought of his past self seeing him like this, broken beyond belief, crawling with his tail between his legs back to his master after having some sort of mental breakdown. He never would have behaved like this, never would have had too, because he never would have gotten to the point where he screwed up so badly and couldn’t even do his job.

It’s not that he’s never had to behave like this before. No, he had, of course he had, but it had been completely forced, with the threat of being beaten bloody hanging over his head. Over the past five years he’s been made to behave like a prized pet many times, but it had always left him feeling like he was going to throw up. He’d never wanted it before. He’d hated those masters, and knew the whole time he was being favored that they would just as quickly turn around and torture him.

Cas doesn’t hurt him. But that’s all the more reason that this is pathetic. He isn’t being forced, so it’s just his own weakness now. He shouldn’t need some sort of fondness from Cas to do his goddamn job. He shouldn’t be acting like he was made to when he was a toy, he should be acting the way he was taught to the last time he was a person.

John had never expected him to act like this, would have whipped him if he’d ever shown a hint of this sort of behavior, had in fact. If Dean thought he felt ashamed at the thought of his past self seeing him now, it’s nothing to the thought of John discovering him like this.

Just the idea makes him want to sink into the floor and hide, and then even that fills him with mortification, because that’s the sort of behavior a coward would exhibit, and John didn’t train him to be a coward.

John trained him to be a soldier, and treated him like one too. He was gruff and cold with Dean, barking orders and expecting them to get done without him needing an overseer. He expected Dean to be able to to do his job without being micromanaged, sure as hell never would have tolerated his pitiful collapse from last night. No, John expected him to be efficient and useful, would have been disgusted by Dean’s inability to perform, scornful of the way he practically begs for Cas’s attention, would have been revolted by the emotional wreck he’s become.

Dean has gone stiff against Cas’s legs, wracked with shame. He should move. He should move, and stop letting Cas pet him so nicely, he doesn’t deserve it, should be ashamed of himself for wanting it. But he doesn’t. He can’t. Because, as terrible as it is, he’s lying to himself, isn’t he? He’s convincing himself that this is something he’s become, that something over the past few years has broken him from the ideal soldier he used to be. But that’s not quite true, and as far as he’s fallen, he’s always believed that the greatest act of cowardice is to hide from oneself.

This isn’t something he’s become.

He’d always craved gentleness, had always been so easily manipulated by affection. And he’d always hated himself for it, because it meant he was weak. That’s what John trained him to think anyway. To yearn for kindness is to be vulnerable, and to be vulnerable is to be useless. No, he’d had one job, and that was to be a protector. To wish someone would protect him, to even acknowledge there was anything he needed protection from, that was called cowardice and would be subsequently punished. A coward couldn’t protect Sam.

Cowards, he learned, also couldn’t take it up the ass without crying or take a simple whipping without screaming. They couldn’t do a hundred pushups in a row by the age of ten or shoot a gun perfectly by the age of seven. Cowards couldn’t suck off the motel manager when John was gone and rent was late, they couldn’t ignore the fear of being put down if the grocer caught a slave stealing, they couldn’t deal with having their arm broken when they stood between their master’s drunken rage and their master’s terrified son.

Dean could do all these things, so he wasn’t a coward.

Well, he almost wasn’t. The one thing he could never quite get the hang of was wishing these things would stop happening. That someone would stop them from happening, or at least comfort him after they did.

John called it pathetic, tried to beat it out of him, but he capitalized on it all the same. Dean was unshakably loyal to him, desperate to please, pushing himself to the point of collapse for the hope of just a nod or grunt of approval.

It’s only now, being showered with affection just because he asked for it, that Dean begins to wonder if John knew what he was doing.

The man had raped him, beaten him and used him throughout Dean’s entire childhood and adolescence, and yet he had never hated the man at all. He’d gotten angry, sure, but he turned it all inwards, forcing all the frustration and disgust on himself. His life was hard because he wasn’t good enough, not because John was hurting him.

All he’d ever wanted from John was for the man to give some indication that he was pleased with Dean, and to show his slave some kind of warmth.

He never really did. Once and a while he’d get close, but only ever right after he’d fucked Dean, and if he was really drunk.

Usually John would just throw Dean out of the bed when he was done with him, and usually his drinking just made him rougher and angrier.

Every once and a while though, he’d get sad.

“You look just like her.” He’d whisper, and he’d pet Dean’s naked body softly, stroking his hands down the boy’s sides and running his hand through his hair. He’d call Dean beautiful and rub the slave’s cock, and when he was little nothing happened but once he went through puberty John would keep fondling him until he got hard.

John usually started calling Dean “Mary” once he was inside the boy, but it wouldn’t hurt as much as usual and sometimes John even let him cum, so Dean didn’t really mind. He already knew who the man was seeing when he got like that.

Afterwards John would kiss him, and he’d pet him some more and touch his face and tell him he was pretty. Once, when Dean was fourteen, he’d said “I love you.” And Dean had known that it wasn’t meant for him, but he’d wanted it to be so badly that he’d allowed himself to pretend. He’d said it back, and had hoped, as he always pathetically did, that when John woke up in the morning and realized he’d made Dean sleep in his bed with him, he wouldn’t throw the boy to the ground and beat the shit out of him for the crime of not being Mary.

He had, of course. He always did.

Nevertheless, those incidents always made Dean wonder what kind of woman Mary must have been, to turn John into something soft. Dean thinks she must have been kind. He liked to believe she would have been kind to him, if she were alive.

Dean had asked about her once, when he was eight, and John had beaten him so badly he’d never mentioned her out loud again. He collected scraps of her though, every time John reminisced, every time he waxed poetic about her while fucking Dean silly. He studied the few photos of her they had, staring at her gentle green eyes and compassionate smile until he found proof that she would have been good to him. He idolized her, and kept everything he learned of her close to his heart.

Sometimes, Dean liked to dream about what it would be like if she were around. When he was bleeding, or starving, or when he started to wonder what would happen to him when Sam grew up and didn’t need him any more. He imagined that she would take care of him.

Within the privacy of his own mind, Dean pretended that she was his mother as well as Sam’s.

His own mother hadn’t wanted him more than anyone else did. He’d been born on a breeding farm to a girl who’d had nine children already, each one ripped away and sold the moment someone showed interest. She’d nursed him because she was ordered to, and they slept in the same bed until he was sold, but otherwise she’d ignored him. He couldn’t resent her, really. He wouldn’t want to get attached to a child who’d be taken away either.

He’d had it happen. He knows how it breaks you.

But he’d been broken long before he’d been sold away from Sam, even if he’d never realized it until now. He’d thought because he could obey, because he was useful, that that made him strong.

But even in his most desperate moments, he’d never dreamed of escape, of freedom, of having his own life. Even his softest fantasies had only been of someone else taking care of him, of being allowed to seek comfort in someone else's arms.

“I don’t know how to take care of myself.” He admits softly, warm breath on the cloth covering Cas’s thighs. He doesn’t look up as he speaks, too ashamed.

“I’ve never had to before. I’ve taken care of other people, but I’ve always had someone controlling me.”

Cas goes still.

“I don’t want to control you, Dean.”

Dean clenches his eyes shut.

Please.

“I need to know what you expect of me.” He begs.

He can feel Cas sitting up straighter above him, knows he’s upsetting the man, but he doesn’t know what to do.

“I don’t expect anything of you.” Cas insists.

Dean’s eyes slam open, and he shoves himself away from Cas violently.

“Then why am I here?” He demands, looking up at the other man in despair. “If you don’t want anything from me, it means you don’t want me.”

“That is far from the truth.” Cas nearly whispers. “I care for you greatly, Dean. I’m not going to send you away. You don’t have to earn your keep to stay here.”

The emptiness he’d felt earlier is quickly draining despite Dean’s attempts to hold on to it. It’s far better then the same stress from last night he can feel pouring back in.

Suddenly as fragile as the glass Cas had shattered, Dean shudders.

“You don’t understand.” He pleads. “You want me to be a person, to take care of myself, but I can’t. Taking care of someone else is the closest I’ve ever gotten. If I stop, I’ll fall right back into being a thing.”

He rubs his hand over his face.

“You’ve taken such good care of me.” He says. “I’m fed and I’m warm and I’m not in pain ever, and I appreciate that so much. But I don’t want to be a doll anymore. Not even a cherished one.”

Please understand.

Because he’s not sure how much sense he’s making, but it’s the closest he can get to describing how he feels.

He is more than happy to serve Cas in any way he needs or wants, but he can’t be the man’s pet and remember how to be a person too. He needs a purpose, needs to be allowed to do the job that’s always defined his humanity. And he knows he’s doing it wrong, knows he fucked it all up, but if Cas would only help him, would only tell him how to keep his master happy and make him glad Dean was given to him, then Dean knows he would stop feeling like his very atoms are falling apart.

Please please please understand.

Cas breathes in. Breathes out. Pinches his lips together.

“I think.” He states. “We need some rules.”

And Dean can breathe again.

* * *

Rule number one is to tell Cas when he’s hurt. Cas speaks it, and Dean writes it carefully down on the piece of paper he’d fetched at the man’s order. They’ve moved to the kitchen, and Dean hunches over the table as he writes. He hasn’t used a pen or pencil in years, and it takes him a painfully long time to write out the short words. The letters come out shaky and too big, childish, and his cheeks heat up as the silence stretches on longer and longer as he works.

“Done.” He mumbles at last. It’s taken him nearly a full minute to write out the few letters, along with the number “1”, but Cas doesn’t say anything or even act like he’s noticed.

“I’m not just talking about if someone else is hurting you.” He says. “That also means if you’ve hurt yourself, on accident or even on purpose. I won’t yell at you for it.”

“Ok.” Dean mumbles, overwhelmed.

“This doesn’t just apply to pain, either.” Cas continues. “I mean any sort of discomfort that’s bothering you. If you’re cold, or hungry, or you feel sick, or if something is scaring you. Actually, we better make that another rule. Tell me when you’re scared.”

“I’m always scared, Cas.” Dean admits.

Cas pauses, and blinks. “Are you scared right now?” He asks. And it’s so naive that Dean doesn’t want to ruin it, ruin him, but that was a direct question so he has no choice.

“Not as scared as I used to be, but yes.”

“Of what?”

“Of you.” Dean says bluntly, and Cas flinches, and the slave immediately feels bad.

“It’s not your fault.” He rushes to say. “It’s not…you’re so nice to me, the fact that you even care if I’m scared of you is…but you own me, Sir. I’d be an idiot to forget that. You could do anything to me, and…”

He clearly isn’t helping, as Cas has drawn further and further in on himself the longer Dean goes on.

“I’m sorry.” Dean begs. Fucking hell, he hates upsetting Cas so much. “I’ll write it down. I’m sorry.”

He does write it down, “Tell Cas when you are scared,” right under “Tell Cas when you are hurt,” and god Cas is so good to him, why can’t he stop upsetting the man.

“I wrote it.” Dean says tentatively once he has.

Cas nods softly, and takes a deep breath. “I-yes. Good.” He stutters, clearly trying to pull himself together. “I’m not mad that you’re scared of me Dean, I understand. I want you to tell me though if I do something that frightens you in particular.”

“Yessir. Cas.”

“And I want you to tell me if someone else scares you, or if we’re in an environment that makes you nervous, or if you have a nightmare, or even if it’s your own train of thought that has made you feel afraid. Anything. Anytime you feel particularly scared, I want you to tell me.”

Dean fidgets nervously. “I get scared of a lot of dumb shit, Cas. It’s not always stuff you can fix. Sometimes I even get so freaked about just being on a bed without getting fucked that I have to sleep under it instead.”

“See, I’m glad you told me that.” Cas says. “Because now I know to get you a mat and some extra blankets.”

Dean stares at Cas, first in surprise but then quickly in analyzation, scrutinizing the man’s face for any hint of a lie.

“I’m scared you’ll stop feeding me.” Dean tests, eyes narrowed, waiting to see how Cas reacts. “That’s part of the reason I stopped eating. I’m scared if I get to used to it I won’t be able to handle being starved again.”

Heartbreak flickers over Cas’s face for only a moment before he schools it back into neutral, clearly not as taken aback this time by what could be construed as an insult.

He stands up suddenly, and Dean cowers, thinking that Cas has decided to take offense this time and is going to put Dean in his place.

Idiot. He thinks. Shouldn’t have pushed your luck.

But Cas doesn’t come towards him to grab him as Dean had feared. Instead, Dean watches warily as the man walks over to the cabinet, feeling around for the handle and pulling the door open once he’s found it. He grabs a box of cereal, two cans of soup and some beef jerky, and kicks the cabinet closed since both hands are now occupied. He then moves back to where he’d been sitting, dumping the food on the table before sitting back down.

Dean stares at the items with an uncertainty that’s tinged with fear. Is he going to be forced to eat all of this at once to remind him to be grateful?

“Sir?” He asks timidly.

“This is for you.” Cas says. “When we’re done here, I want you to take all this and hide it somewhere. I am never going to withhold food from you, Dean, but if it makes you feel safer to have rations I can’t take away from you, then I want you to have that.”

Dean stares at the Cas in disbelief, before sweeping the food in one great motion from the table to clutch it all close to his chest.

“Thank you.” He gasps. “Sir- Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“Of course, Dean.” Cas says calmly. Like he doesn’t understand the gravity of what he’s just done, the weight he’s just lifted off Dean’s shoulders.

But of course he doesn’t. How could he.

The next rule is on that same subject, to always make enough food for two people when he cooks. Dean has to put the food he is holding back down in order to write, and is surprised by how easily he trusts that it won’t be snatched away the moment it’s out of his grasp.

He’s right in believing that. Because Cas is just that good.

He feels small all of a sudden. Not good enough.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” He says quietly when he’s finished writing.

“For what?” Cas asks innocently.

“Disobeying.” Dean replies. “This was already a rule, and I didn’t listen.”

Cas furrows his brow. He seems to consider something for a moment, before leaning in, solemn eyes staring intently at Dean’s left ear.

“I’m not angry.” Cas tells him softly, and Dean already knew that by his own lack of bruises, yet it he feels something in him un-knot anyway, so maybe he wasn’t as convinced of this as he thought.

“But Dean.” Cas continues, and an odd, uncomfortable expression flashes across the man’s face, before it settles back into the regular stoicism. “You can’t-and this is another rule-You aren’t allowed to punish yourself. Ever.”

Dean picks up the pen again and scribbles the words down intently, too embarrassed to look up.

“Yessir.” He mutters, trying to dodge the sudden onslaught of memories from last night.

The way he’d taken his punishment into his own hands and gone against direct orders to eat, the way he’d demanded Cas beat him, how he’d reacted when the man had refused.

All unforgivable breaches of behavior.

He really wishes he could be better.

Across the table, Cas is still talking.

“That isn’t…that isn’t your call to make. You have to trust me. If I say you don’t deserve to be punished, then you don’t.”

His voice sounds odd and forced, like he isn’t used to sounding authoritative and isn’t sure if he’s doing it right. It doesn’t matter though, as his words hit Dean hard anyway.

He’d…never thought of it that way.

He’s so used to being punished for reasons he’s never told or doesn’t understand that he’d just accepted eventually that he’s too stupid to get it, but that just because he doesn’t believe he should be punished that that doesn’t mean he’s right. He’s just a dumb bitch, not a real person like his maters, if they say he deserves to be beaten then he does.

He’d never been in the situation where it was reversed, where he believed he should be punished but his master doesn’t. But…It’s the same isn’t it? Cas is right, his punishments aren’t his call.

He’s always been told to trust his master, that they know best, and he’s always tried to do that, knowing that with all his stupidity and worthlessness it had to be the truth. But trusting them had never worked out in his favor before, had always lead to more pain. And he’d accepted it for what it was, because that’s what the definition of trust is. To believe someone else's judgement over your own, even if you don’t like it.

But now Cas is telling him that he doesn’t deserve to be punished, even when everything Dean’s ever learned is saying he should be. It doesn’t make any sense to Dean, but the way he’s treated never does.

Cas is his master. If he wants to treat Dean kindly, then Dean should do the best he can to accept it in the same way he would try to accept any torture. Right?

Dean stares at Cas uncertainly.

Cas is smart. Smarter then Dean by a lot. If he says Dean doesn’t deserve to be punished, then maybe he doesn’t.

“Yessir.” Dean says finally. It feels empty and anticlimactic, completely void of the thoughts and feelings that had lead up to the words, but it’s all Dean has, so it has to suffice for now.

“Good.” Cas answers, and the strictness is gone from his voice. He just sounds warm.

“We’re almost done.” The man continues. “This is the last rule for now.”

Dean looks at him earnestly, pen in hand.

“No sex.” Cas says simply, then waits as Dean slowly pens the five letters.

“Do you understand the rule?” He asks when Dean is finished, despite the simplicity of the statement. And Dean is grateful, because he’s not entirely sure he does.

He glances at the paper nervously, like the words might suddenly jump off the page and bite him.

“Means I’m not s’posed to let no one fuck me.”

“Not just that.” Cas tells him. “It means no sexual contact of any kind. It means if someone tries to touch you inappropriately in any way, I want you to fight as hard as you can and yell for me.”

Dean nods seriously. “Don’t let no one but you touch me for sex. Got it.”

“The rule applies to me too.” Cas says. Dean stiffens, looking at him in horror.

“I’d never fight you.” He gasps.

“You will never have to.” Cas promises. “I’m just explaining that I have no more right to touch you inappropriately than anyone else.”

Dean doesn’t answer him. He knows it’s not what Cas means, but “no more right than anyone else” isn’t saying much. Pretty much everyone in the world has the right to at least grope him, and it’s only because of Cas’s rule that Dean would have the right to stop them. Beyond that, it’s stupid to say the rule applies to his master as well, because even if that’s so, it’s his master’s rule and he can change it at any time.

All the same, Dean likes this rule a lot. He mostly believes that Cas won’t change his mind about fucking him, and now that he has permission to fight off anyone else…

Dean’s a damn good fighter. He hasn’t been allowed to used the skill for a long time, but now that he is, he’s looking at a pretty good chance that he’ll never have to have sex again.

The thought makes his heart soar, and he can’t help the grin that unwinds on his face.

“I can do this.” He says. “I’m a real good fighter, Cas.”

Cas smiles. “I know you are. But I won’t be angry at you if you can’t, or if you get scared and freeze. You have full permission to try, but it’s not your fault if you can’t.”

“That won’t happen.” Dean says confidently. “I can get away.”

And he can, he knows he can. He’s done it many times, back before he was sold. John trained him ruthlessly, and he used those skills not just to defend Sam but to defend himself as well when he had too.

“I’m glad you feel that way.” Cas states. “However, you need to yell for me as well. I believe that you can defend yourself, but I don’t want you to have to. If you’re ever in a situation where someone touches you or speaks to you in a way that you feel uncomfortable or threatened, you need to let me know.”

Cas leans forward in his seat across from Dean, and reaches his hand out across the table. Dean takes it.

“I can’t see if your being hurt, Dean, but I have the power to protect you as long as you tell me when it’s needed.”

Dean, who’d been looking at Cas’s face, suddenly feels like he can’t any more and drops his eyes to their intertwined hands. For a moment he wants to argue, feels John breathing down his shoulder, wants to insist that he doesn’t need protection, that Cas shouldn’t have to waste the energy, that he can defend himself and if he can’t then it’s his own fault if he gets hurt.

But he can’t, be cause it’s a rule, and Dean is so grateful for it. He should argue and tell Cas he can deal with his problems himself, but he isn’t allowed and he’s never been more relived to be in his life. Because he doesn’t have to feel ashamed then, has no choice in being protected, and thank god, thank god, finally. This is what he’d been waiting for, this whole time, through his breakdown, since Gabe brought him here, since he was a child, for years and years and years, his whole fucking life. For someone to not only show him kindness but force him to accept it, for someone to take as much responsibility for him as he takes for them, to allow him his own autonomy but not throw him into situations he doesn’t know how to get out of himself.

Dean blinks, overwhelmed, staring at the entire list.

1. Tell Cas when you are hurt.
2. Tell Cas when you are scared.
3. Always cook for two people.
4. Do not punish yourself.
5. No sex.

He drags his eyes from the paper to the man sitting across from him, feeling something inside him beginning to unfurl.

This is all he’s ever wanted. To care for someone and be cared for in return.

A feeling of liberation thrumming through his blood, Dean is able to finally nod.

“I understand.” He whispers. “Thank you, Cas.”

He means it, too.

Cas smiles at him then, and even though the man can’t see it, Dean smiles back.

A door in his heart clicks open, and a million bright and strange things pour out.

Chapter Text

If Dean thought that would be the last he heard of his breakdown, he was wrong.

By the end of the day, Cas has called Dr. Singer, been redirected to Charlie, been redirected again to a woman named Ellen, and then again to some sort of “therapist” named Benny.

Cas starts with Dr. Singer because he doesn’t know who else to call, which he tells the doctor at the beginning of their conversation. Dean is glad for it, because nothing bad has happened to him at the doctor’s office, so he can maybe believe that nothing bad will happen to him again if Cas is taking him back there.

No such luck though, as Dr. Singer gives Cas the number of the nurse they’ve seen, Charlie, as apparently she would be able to “help” better than he could.

Charlie, it turns out, is apparently some sort of huge “anti-slavery” activist, which Dean didn’t know was a thing until Cas mentions it in-between phone calls. It’s clear that, from the way Cas says it, he’s expecting Dean to know what he’s referencing, so he nods dutifully even as his mind races.

There are anti-slavery activists? There are people who don’t agree with slavery, not slaves or freed slaves but freeborn people? This is news to him. Well, he’s begun to think that maybe Cas thinks that way, but he’s come to accept that Cas just seems to be the exception to any and all rules Dean had thought he’d known. But the idea that there may be other freeborn people who hold that opinion, that apparently there is some sort of movement? Why would they care? Why would they want to stop a system they benefit from?

As Cas narrates the phone calls he makes, telling Dean what’s going on in between speaking to whoever’s on the other line, he continues to casually blow craters in the slave’s world without even noticing.

Charlie gives Cas the work number of this “Ellen” woman, who apparently is the director of some sort of slave-rights center. Or something. Dean is very unsure. He’s curious enough that he almost asks Cas for clarification, but something stops him. At first he assumes it’s fear, and he’s not sure how to react when he realizes it’s not. He’s not afraid of asking Cas questions (and wow, when did that happen), he’s embarrassed.

He’s embarrassed, because as far as he can tell this is yet another thing that he’s supposed to know about but doesn’t; yet another thing he’s supposed to have a base knowledge about that just isn’t there.

So he doesn’t ask, just tries to pick up as much as he can by listening in on the conversation, hoping he can skate by on his guesses. Thankfully, Dean is sitting on the couch near Cas, close enough to hear both sides of the conversation, even if Ellen’s half is somewhat muffled. Cas and Ellen talk for a long time. He keeps hearing words like “resources” and “education” and “health care.” As far as he can tell, Cas is speaking to the director of what might be something like a community center for freed slaves, but is also some sort of abolitionist activism group.

At one point, when they are talking about some legal reforms the center had been involved in that Dean hadn’t known about, he notices that he’s shaking for some reason. He doesn’t know why. He manages to force himself to stop after a few minutes.

When Cas is finally transferred over to Benny, all Dean’s whirring thoughts about the things he’s just learned are shoved to the back of his head, as he remembers why Cas is on the phone to begin with.

As Cas speaks to Benny, Dean tries very hard not to be scared. If he were scared, he’d have to tell Cas, because of the rule. He doesn’t want to tell Cas. He wants to be good and obedient and do what Cas wants. He wants to want to see Benny, because Cas wants him to.

But in reality, he doesn’t know what to think of this “therapist” development. He knows what a therapist is, but he’s never heard of a slave going to see one before. Lots of slaves go nuts, but as far as he knows slaves who get too crazy just get put down.

Briefly Dean entertains the idea that maybe “therapist” is Cas’s nice way to say trainer. He resolves that if that’s the case, he will be grateful Cas cares about him enough to hire someone to make him better. But after talking with the man for a few minutes, Cas turns to where he’s sitting on the couch and hands Dean the phone.

Benny doesn’t sound like a trainer. He sounds nice. Dean doesn’t say much, but the therapist seems to sense what he’s too nervous and embarrassed to ask, and reassures him that all he’s going to do with Dean is talk to him.

He could be lying, of course. But Cas hasn’t hit him yet. Maybe he wouldn’t let anyone else hit him either.

It’s this thought that calms him enough that he doesn’t have to tell Cas he’s afraid.

Still, he’s nervous.

He’s nervous the whole week, and when the day of the appointment comes it’s almost a relief, if just to get it over with.

“If you hate it, we don’t have to come back. It’s up to you.” Cas promises as they get in the cab.

That’s a lie, albeit one he’s pretty sure Cas isn’t aware he’s telling. Nothing ever is up to him, not really. It’s always his master’s choice at the end of the day. Dean knows that, even if Cas doesn’t.

Technically, Cas had given him a choice about going to begin with, had told him when he was presented with the idea that he wouldn’t be forced if he said no. But it had been clear what the man had wanted Dean to say, so that’s what he’d said. And Cas had been glad, so Dean tries now to be glad too.

The building they arrive at is a lot bigger than what Dean thought it would be. The words “The Harvelle Community Center” hang above the large double doors, and Dean sounds out the words softly to himself as they walk towards the entrance. It takes him almost until they are directly under the sign to make out all the words, but at least his frustration is something to distract him from his nerves.

Inside, a pretty lady sitting behind a desk directs them upstairs, and Dean leads them down the hall until he finds the office with the number the lady told him.

“We’re here.” Dean says. “The door’s closed though.”

“We may be a bit early.” Cas muses, and then unwinds his arm from Dean’s to touch his braille wristwatch.

The man makes a humming noise. “No, it’s 2:02. We’re on time. Maybe we should knock.”

Dean does so.

Moments later, the door swings open, revealing a huge bear of a man.

Dean immediately flinches on instinct, and draws himself closer to Cas.

Jesus Christ, does everyone Cas drag me to have to be the size of a bulldozer?

“Hullo!” He hears Benny rumble, but he keeps his eyes lowered. “You two must be Castiel and Dean.”

“We are.” Cas answers. “And you’re Mr. Lafitte, I assume?”

“Please, call me Benny.”

His voice sounds as kind as it had sounded over the phone, friendly with a southern drawl. Dean tries to use it as a reason to look up, but he can’t.

“If it’s alright with both of you,” He hears the man continue. “I would actually like to talk with you both separately, Cas first, then you, Dean.”

Dean stiffens. He wishes Cas hadn’t unwound his arm so he’d have an excuse to cling on to the man.

“You want to talk to me alone, Sir?” He asks the floor.

“If that’s alright with you.” Benny repeats gently.

No. No that is not alright with him. Not at all.

Ok, now he’s scared.

He can feel Benny looking at him expectantly, and knows Cas is waiting for his response too. He has to answer.

“I…” He stutters.

He doesn’t want to be a bother. Benny has a plan, he shouldn’t have to rearrange it for a slave. And Cas doesn’t want to have to babysit him again. He should just suck it up. He should, he knows he should.

But he’s not allowed. He’s not allowed to suck it up, he’s not allowed to lie. He’s afraid, and he’s not allowed to pretend he’s not.

Relief crashes over him.

“I don’t want to be left alone with you.” He gasps. “I’m sorry.”

His heart stops in his chest the moment the words leave his lips.

It’s ok. He tries to tell himself. You were being good, you were following the rules. It’s ok.

Nonetheless, he looks to Cas for reassurance.

He doesn’t look angry, which is good. Of course, that’s no guarantee Dean’s going to be listened to. But at least he won’t be punished for doing what he was supposed to.

“That’s alright.” He hears Benny say, and he looks from Cas over to the man at last. Immediately he wishes he had to begin with. The man is intimidatingly strong, it’s true, but his face is so open and easy to read that right away Dean begins to calm down.

“I’m sure Cas is perfectly fine with sitting in with us. Cas?”

“Of course I am.” Cas agrees.

Dean relaxes, feeling both grateful and stupid. He nods shyly in acknowledgment and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“Thank you.” He mumbles.

“Not a problem.” Benny tells him. “How do you feel about Cas coming in here for a little while? You can sit right outside the door if you want, but there’s a library right over there if you get bored.” He points to a room across the hallway, a few doors down.

Dean shifts nervously.

“I. I can do that.” He says quietly. And he can. He’s not scared of being left alone, he knows he can defend himself. He just doesn’t like the idea of being trapped in a room with someone his master wants him to behave for, when he has no real way of knowing what that behavior might entail.

“Alright then.” Benny nods. “Dean, I’ll send Cas to come find you when we’re done. Sound good?”

“Yessir.”

“I’ll see you soon, Dean.” Cas says, and then Benny leads him inside, and the door shuts.

Dean stands awkwardly where he is for a few seconds, unsure. He’d honestly rather just kneel outside the room until he’s called inside, but Benny’s suggestion of the library might have been an order, and Dean doesn’t want to upset him by not obeying.

He shuffles over to the door Benny pointed at, and opens it just a crack, peaking in.

It’s a library, just as he was told, quiet and carpeted blue.

There are shelves upon shelves of books, far more than Dean has ever been around before in his life. He used to pick Sam up from the library all the time, but has never been allowed inside one himself.

Among the bookcases, tables and desks are scattered, with a small handful of people reading or studying at a few.

Dean pauses. He hadn’t considered the fact that there would be other people in here.

He peers in warily. Are they slaves like him? Or freed slaves? He doesn’t really understand what this place is or what it does, just knows that they let slaves see therapists and allow them in the library.

Dragging himself in tensely he shuts the door behind him. He moves a few feet to the right so as not to block the door, but doesn’t move any farther than that.

He blinks out at the library apprehensively before looking down at the carpet.

Now what?

Is he allowed to touch the books? Probably, if he was allowed in the library. But what would be the point? He can barely read anyway. He usually has to sound out words that are longer than four letters, and he doesn’t want to bother anyone. Maybe he could whisper…no, he’d probably still bug someone.

Less than a full minute passes before he resigns himself to staying in the corner until Cas comes to fetch him, but he’s still debating whether or not he should kneel when he sees someone looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

He looks up uneasily, then quickly does a double take.

It’s the kid from the mall. The asian kid who’d taken his side against the man who’d molested him, who’d let them have all their stuff for free.

He’s smiling at Dean. When he sees Dean is looking at him, he gives a little wave.

Dean continues to stare.

The young man continues to smile at him, and makes a waving motion with his hand that very clearly means “come here.”

Biting his lip, Dean hesitates. The kid was nice to him in the store. That doesn’t mean he’ll be nice now though. Anyway, he isn’t even sure he’s actually allowed to talk to other people when Cas isn’t around.

He should probably just stay where he is, he decides.

He ignores his own decision and moves over to the table, curiosity getting the better of him.

The kid pulls out the chair next to him, and Dean sits down.

“Hi.” The kid says. He speaks quietly, but the room is filled with enough white noise of paper flipping and chairs scrapping that it’s lost to anyone but Dean.

“Hi.” Dean says back. He almost smiles. Then his eyes widen, and he hurriedly tacks a “Sir” at the end.

Either the kid doesn’t notice his error or doesn’t care, because he continues without missing a beat.

“You don’t have to call me ‘Sir.’ I’m Kevin.” He states, and shoves his hand out.

Dean takes it warily, confused by the gesture of equality.

“Ok, Kevin.” He agrees, shaking Kevin’s hand once before dropping it.

The young man keeps staring at him expectantly, and Dean feels his anxiety rise as he tries to figure out what the guy wants. Is he waiting for Dean to thank him for helping him at the store? That’s fine, as long as the thank you doesn’t involve taking his clothes off.

But just as he opens his mouth, the kid speaks again.

“You have a name I can call you?”

Oh! Dean feels his face heat up.

He’s very unused to introducing himself. Usually people have already been told it or they don’t care.

“Shit, sorry, I’m Dean.” He blurts.

Kevin laughs lightly.

“Hey, Dean. What brings you to the Harvelle Center?”

Dean frowns at the young man before him. What should he say? Well, I’m so unused to being treated as a human being that I freaked out, stopped eating or sleeping, screamed at my master then had a complete mental breakdown. And Cas should have gotten rid of me a while ago but he’s an angel so instead he brought me here cause I can’t sort out my own crazy.

Yeah, no. That’s not gonna go over so well.

“I…My master brought me here to see a therapist.” He says quietly, and cringes.

Please don’t ask what made him decided that. Please don’t ask why he isn’t throwing me away.

Kevin doesn’t, just says, “Oh? Do you know who?”

Dean blinks, first down at the table, then up at the other man, considering.

He’s barely old enough to be called a man to be honest, seems to have just barely passed that line between childhood and adulthood, could easily be mistaken for a boy in different lighting.

Sam’s age. His constant melancholy reminds him. He allows the sadness to pulse through him for a moment before he refocuses on the present.

“Benny Lattife or Lafette or something.” He answers Kevin.

Kevin’s face lights up.

“Oh, awesome, that’s who I see too! He’s really cool, you’ll like him.”

Dean stares uncomprehendingly.

…What?

“You see Benny?” He asks stupidly.

Kevin nods.

Benny works for whatever weird slave-rights center this is. He sees slaves, like Dean. Does that mean…

“You’re a slave?” Dean asks, very hesitantly. If he’s wrong he’s just insulted Kevin horribly.

“No.” Kevin says, and Dean’s gut sinks in fear. “I was though.” He continues, then pulls the collar of his shirt down to reveal the standard pentagram tattoo all slaves are given before they are sold, beneath his left collar bone. Dean has the same tattoo in the same place, the only difference being that the star in Kevin’s has been filled in, signifying that he’s been freed.

Dean knows this because it’s something everyone knows, but he’s never seen the tattoo edited in that manner before. As far as he knows, he’s never met a freed slave before.

It’s hard to get freed, they make it hard on purpose. Your master first has to be willing to free you, which almost never happens. Even then that’s not enough. You have to take an exam, then, to prove that you will be able to function in society and won’t just be a drain on the economy. It’s fairly basic by free people’s standards. You have to be able to read and write English easily, and be able to do basic addition, subtraction multiplication and division. That’s pretty much it, but for slaves who were never given the chance to learn, it’s another huge hurdle. Dean certainly couldn’t pass it.

“Wow.” Dean says. “So you must be really good at reading and math and stuff.”

He’s stating the obvious, but he knows better to pry into another slave’s history, even if it worked out in the end.

“I hope so.” Kevin smiles. “I’m applying to college soon, so I better be.”

Dean’s eyebrows jump up. Being freed was already a nearly unattainable goal for a slave. But college?

“Holy shit.” He breathes. “You some sort of genius or something?”

Kevin straightens, clearly pleased.

“I’m just lucky I had an education.” He says diplomatically, but he’s not fooling anyone. He’s preening.

Seeing the kids well-deserved pride warms something in Dean, and he can’t help the upwards tug of his lips.

“That’s really cool Kevin.” He says honestly. “I can barely even read.”

Kevin’s smile dims, and as Dean watches it fade so does his own. The mood is suddenly somber, and Dean could have hit himself.

He’d been trying to convey how impressed he is, not turn everything into a pity-party about his own depressing life.

“You can’t read?” Kevin asks. There’s no condemnation in his voice, just sadness, but Dean feels embarrassment curdle in his stomach anyway, begging him to fold in on himself and disappear.

“I…” Dean stutters, suddenly feeling caught. “I can kind of read. I know the alphabet. And I can recognize a lot of little words.”

It feels like a weak defense, in the face of Kevin’s college applications.

The kid nods slowly. “What about math?” He asks, and Dean suddenly wonders how long it will be until Cas comes for him.

Dean bites his lip and looks down. There’s an expectant pause before Dean finally forces words out of his mouth.

“I count.” He confesses at last. The sentence holds a lot more meaning than it’s definition, like an iceberg under the water. The implications of his words won’t be lost on someone as smart as Kevin, but all the same it’s all he can make himself say.

A strange mix of shame and frustration pinches at his stomach.

He doesn’t want Kevin to pity him. He wants Kevin to like him. He hasn’t ever had a real friend before.

No one ever seems to like him, though. Pity is the closest thing he’s ever gotten to sympathy.

He might hate it even more than the cruelty and disgust.

Dean studiously gazes downwards at his jeans, waiting for the sickly-sweet judgment, the sugar-coated dehumanization.

That’s not what happens.

“I could tutor you, if you want.” Dean hears instead.

He looks up in surprise.

“What?” He croaks.

Kevin crosses his arms on the table and leans in.

“I could tutor you.” He repeats. “I don’t have much time, between studying and working part-time, but I volunteer here every Monday. I could try and come in another day though, if that doesn’t work for you.”

Dean blinks at the young man, first in confusion, then in shock.

Is he serious?

No one had ever offered to teach Dean anything, except Sam. No one ever thought he was worth teaching, worth anything more than his tight ass and pretty mouth. No one ever thought he was smart enough to learn anyway, not even he himself. It would be like trying to teach a dog algebra. Everyone knew that.

Dean swallows heavily, and looks away from the kid.

“Are you making fun of me?” He asks quietly.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if the answer is yes. Can’t tell if he’d scream at the kid or cry for the millionth time this week. Neither of those responses are good ones. Quickly, he estimates how fast he could run back into the hallway if he needs to.

He needn't have bothered.

“Of course not!” Kevin yelps. He sounds more than a little upset, and Dean subtly scoots his chair back a bit. Former slave or not, Kevin is free and Dean has upset him, and he’d really rather not go into Benny’s office with a red handprint on his cheek. That would be a terrible first impression. The man would probably think Dean was a disobedient little brat, misbehaving left and right.

Not that he wouldn’t be right. But. Well. Dean would rather stave off that realization for as long as possible.

Besides him, Kevin keeps talking, thankfully not sounding angry.

“Of course not, Dean. I just think you’re a cool guy, and that it sucks no one ever taught you.”

Dean starts to get anxious in the way he always does when he’s not sure of exactly what he’s supposed to do, especially when he knows what he wants to do, but not if it’s allowed.

“I don’t have any money.” He warns softly, but Kevin shakes his head.

“It’s cool, dude. Volunteer, remember?”

Dean’s nervousness rises. He’s digging his nails into the palms of his hands almost hard enough to make them bleed before he realizes what he’s doing and forces himself to stop. There are little crescent moon indents left behind on his skin.

He can’t do that. He’s not certain if it counts as punishing himself, but he’s pretty sure that Cas would be unhappy about it either way.

“I would have to ask my master.” Dean says, and tries not to feel like he’s hiding behind his answer. It’s true, isn’t it? He does have to ask.

“You don’t think he’ll let you?” Kevin assumes, and Dean can hear the disapproval in his voice. He knows what Kevin is thinking about Cas now, and that won’t do.

“I didn’t say that.” He responds.

“So you think he will?”

Dean chokes.

“I didn’t say that either.”

“Damn. I thought since he brought you to see Benny he might be ok. He seemed alright in the store. But I guess you can’t exactly own a person and not be an asshole.”

Scowling, Dean stiffens.

“Cas isn’t an asshole.”

Kevin looks at him skeptically.

“He’s keeping you against your will.” He states. As if it’s just a fact. As if he knows anything.

“No he’s not.” Dean growls.

“Then why doesn’t he free you?”

“Because his brother bought me for him and won't give him the papers for some reason. And thank god for that, because I don’t want to be free.”

Kevin’s eyebrows fly up to his hairline. Dean blushes, hard, but refuses to break eye contact.

He hadn’t meant to say that. But it’s out now, and it’s the truth, so there’s no point in pretending the words didn’t slip out.

“You don’t want to be free?” Kevin repeats incredulously.

Dean purses his lips, trying not to feel ashamed under Kevin’s incomprehension. Of course he doesn’t understand, he’s a smart, functioning kid, he probably spent his whole life fighting to get out of whatever prison he was stuck in and prove his potential.

It’s different for Dean. Dean doesn’t have anything going for him, doesn’t have the slightest idea how to operate in society without someone telling him what to do.

It is something to be ashamed about, really. But that doesn’t mean he’s going to admit it.

“No.” He answers Kevin stubbornly.

“Why?”

Dean lurches backwards in his seat, eyes flashing.

“Because not everyone has their shit together enough to go to college, Kevin. Some of us are too fucked up for freedom, believe it or not.”

Even as he’s speaking he knows he’s going to regret it as soon as he’s done, and he’s right.

Flinching harshly from his own anger, he curls into himself, trying to make himself smaller and less of a target. Eyes wide, he stares blankly at the empty space in front of him.

Well. He thinks. That was nice while it lasted.

Shit. Now what’s going to happen? Is Kevin going to hit him? He’d rather the kid hit him than tell Cas what happened. Not because he thinks Cas will hurt him, the man is too kind and probably won’t, but Dean doesn’t want him to know how he misbehaved. He wants Cas to keep being proud of him, even if he knows that the man really shouldn’t be.

“Sorry.” He says quickly, not because he thinks it will fix anything, but because he is. Kevin didn’t deserve to be yelled at. He was just trying to be nice.

And this would be why revolted pity is the closest Dean has ever gotten to friendship. Because he can’t have a half-hour conversation without screwing it up somehow.

Just as he’s gearing up to throw some really good insults at himself, Kevin interrupts his thoughts.

“It’s alright.” He assures. “I shouldn’t have pried.”

One look over at the young man reveals that he very much wants to keep prying, but is trying very hard not to.

Slowly, Dean relaxes, realizing that maybe he hadn’t fucked up as badly as he’d thought. Maybe he hadn’t insulted Kevin, maybe he’d just piqued his curiosity.

That’s fair, Dean supposes, after the way he’d just reacted. He can deal with curiosity. It’s better than having scared the kid off for good.

And the young man’s expression certainly seems more interested than angry, though he’s clearly attempting to pretend like that’s not the case.

The terrible poker face sends a dull jolt of amusement through him, even under all the other turmoil.

“I know you don’t get it, Kevin.” Dean tells him. “You shouldn’t. You’ve got a lot going for you. It would be terrible to waste all that potential in slavery, and you knew that.”

Dean frowns, contemplating a way to put this so that Kevin would understand it, that it doesn’t end up just sounding like a big angsty whine-fest.

“It’s different for me.” He says. “Cas takes real good care of me, and I’m lucky. Cause I can’t take care of myself, even if I wish I could.”

It’s clear to Dean that Kevin still doesn’t really understand, and Dean is glad for it, because it means wherever he’d come from, it was at least somewhere safe enough that he’d never met someone as broken as Dean before. And he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him feel even more shattered, but all the same, he’s relieved.

“Cas is nice to you, though? He doesn’t hit you?”

Dean tries not to show his thoughts on his face. Because no, Cas doesn’t, or hasn’t at least, but it’s very clear very fast to Dean that he and Kevin are not even close to being on the same page. Because even if Cas hit him every day, Dean would characterize him as a lot better than nice. The amount of pain it would take for Dean to even hesitate at calling the man “nice”, it’s slowly dawning on him, would probably scare Kevin out of his wits.

Dean will admit that he doesn’t know very much about the standards of the world, or whats considered normal versus what’s considered not. His ignorance, he can acknowledge, applies to pretty much everything, even slavery, despite the fact that he lives within that system. Nevertheless, the past five years have been spent almost entirely indoors, and most of his interactions with other slaves occurred when he was dragged to sadistic sex parties. He has enough self-awareness to acknowledge that this has probably caused somewhat of a bias in how he perceives standard treatment of slaves.

However, he’d lived what he’d thought was a far more standard life before that, and he’d thought he’d had a fair frame of reference. He’d seen lots of slaves in his time traveling with John and Sam, seen how they were treated, dismissed, harassed. He’d always assumed their obedience was hard earned through pain, same as his. And he’s still sure it was. But he’s starting to wonder now if maybe the pain that he’s always considers standard may not be.

He knows for a fact that it certainly isn’t uncommon or illegal to beat a slave. But, though he’d never consciously thought about it before, up until a minute ago he’d been pretty sure there wasn’t a slave in all of America that wasn’t slapped around almost constantly. The idea of even talking about whether or not your master hit you, using that as a standard for kindness instead of whether or not they killed for fun…

It’s been clear throughout their entire conversation that Kevin has been at least comparatively sheltered. And he’s pretty sure that still holds true. But he’s wondering for the first time who’s treatment has been more abnormal, his or Kevin’s.

“He’s very nice.” Dean answers at last. “He doesn’t hit me. He-”

Dean cuts himself off. He’d been going to say “He feeds me,” but now he thinks that Kevin might have already taken that for granted, and pointing it out might disturb him.

Dean doesn’t want to scare the kid any more than he already has. He knows there are people who see someone naive and resent them, resent their privilege, resent their ignorance of that privilege, but Dean has never been one of those people. The only urge he’s ever felt towards innocence is to protect it.

He feels it now, looking at the concern on Kevin’s face, and wondering how it is that the kid can still believe he can afford to care about someone he met less than an hour ago.

“He’s nice.” He repeats, somewhat lamely. He doesn’t know how to elaborate without stumbling into something disturbing. He doesn’t know what that means to other people anymore. Not even another slave, apparently.

He’d known that he’d been having communication issues with Cas, and that their inability to understand one another is mostly why Cas brought him here at all. He’d assumed, though, that these issues stemmed from the fact that Cas is a free man, a kind free man who is too gentle to see the world as it really is.

The fact that he’s running into the same problem now with another slave is a huge wake up call. If he can’t even begin to grasp what would be shocking to Kevin, then how far gone is he, really?

More than ever, Dean suddenly feels horribly isolated. He’d always been distantly aware that his life has been abnormally shitty, but it’s only recently that he’s begun to truly notice how wrecked he is in comparison to the rest of the world. He had never much thought about it, because he hadn’t ever suspected it would be something he’d ever have to worry about again. But against all odds, Cas came along and dragged him out of hell, dumping him back in the real world. And he’s grateful for it. But it doesn’t change how surreal everyday experiences are to him, and how out of place he is in them.

Sometimes it feels like he’s living in a different dimension. It’s like he’s operating on a completely different plane of existence, with a completely separate set of assumptions about the laws of physics and nature and humanity, and nobody but him seems to realize it. And he tries, he tries to contact the people living in the third dimension while he’s living in the fourth, but he’s using his own shapes and sounds and methods that they couldn’t possibly understand, and they’re using their own that don’t translate right to his dimension either, and everyone’s just going back and forth, trying to translate coded messages that nobody has the right key for.

Every conversation he has turns into a minefield. Not only does he not know where the bombs are, he doesn’t even notice when he’s set them off until somebody else gets blown away.

He looks at Kevin’s still-worried face, and his heart sinks in despair. Is he ever going to even come close to fitting back into this world he’s beginning to think he was never actually a part of? Or is he too broken, and has been all along?

Kevin points behind him.

“Your master’s here.” He says quietly. Dean hadn’t noticed the excitement that had bled through all of his words until it’s gone. A dull pang of guilt hits him.

“Oh.” He says, looking back to where the kid is pointing. Sure enough, Cas is standing in the doorway, looking unsure.

“I have to go.” Dean apologizes. “It was nice meeting you though, Kevin.”

And it was, from his side. Though he doubts Kevin can say the same.

He stands up to leave, but a hand on his forearm stops him.

“Hold on.” Kevin says as Dean turns back to him. He watches curiously as the kid picks up a pen and scribbles something down in his notebook, and takes the page after Kevin rips it out and hands it to him.

He blinks down at the string of numbers written in tiny, neat handwriting.

“My phone number.” Kevin clarifies. “For the tutoring, if Cas says you can.”

Dean looks from the paper to the young man.

He doubts very much that he’s going to call, doesn’t want to bother Cas with asking and doesn’t want to terrify Kevin with his presence, but the gesture warms something within him anyway, alleviates some of the guilt. He folds the paper up and tucks it into his back pocket carefully.

“Thank you, Kevin.” He says honestly. It’s not a yes, and Kevin’s smart enough to know that, but he doesn’t press, just nods in acknowledgment.

“Good luck with your college applications.” Dean tells him.

“Good luck with Benny.” Kevin says back. “He’s a cool guy, don’t worry.”

“I’ll try not to.” Dean says ruefully, then steps away from the desk and pushes the chair in. He waves a bit, and that’s the end of their conversation, and Dean walks away from Kevin and towards Cas.

But even if he’s never going to use what’s on it, he can feel the crumpled paper in his pocket crinkle as he steps, and it makes him feel like maybe he’s not quite as alone as he’d feared.

Chapter Text

It comes as as much of a surprise to Dean as it does to anyone else when he announces that he’s changed his mind, and that he’s ok going in to see Benny alone. But though his own words catch him off guard, he finds as soon as they’re spoken that they’re true.

It’s not, of course, so much that he’s “changed his mind” or his fear or any part of him, but that he now has a reference, Kevin’s assurance still ringing in the back of his head. And maybe he shouldn’t trust the kid, he really hadn’t known him for more than an hour, but what reason would he have to lie?

“Are you sure, Dean?” Cas asks gently, hovering warily over the slave. It’s clear that he’s more than a little confused by Dean’s abrupt change in attitude, and that not understanding is making him nervous. “It’s not a problem if you want me to stay.”

“No, this is good.” Benny interjects from where he’s leaning against the doorway of his office. He’s studying Dean with an unintimidating expression, but it’s obvious to Dean that he’s also somewhat puzzled. He doesn’t seem to be concerned about it though, unlike Cas.

“It’s much better if I can talk to Dean alone.” Benny continues. “As long as he feels safe, that is.”

It takes Dean a beat too long to realize that was a question, and both Benny and Cas are waiting for a response.

He tenses under all the attention, and looks down.

“I…” He hesitates. Does he feel safe? No, not really, he can answer that question immediately. But then, he never really feels all the way safe, does he? The question to ask is, does he feel safe enough? Does he feel safe enough that he isn’t breaking a rule by telling Cas he’s ok?

Kevin said Benny was nice. Well, ok, he used the word “cool,” but he’s pretty sure that’s what he meant.

But will Benny treat Dean the same as he treats Kevin? After all, Kevin is free, even if he was a slave in the past…

“Are you gonna go far, Cas?” He asks the man timidly. It’s a request wrapped up in a question, but asking directly if Cas will inconvenience himself so Dean feels better makes the slave feel sick to his stomach. He feels angry and weak for asking at all.

He had to though, or else he would have been lying by saying he feels safe.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Cas says bluntly. “I’d be sitting outside this door whether you wanted me here or not.”

Immediately some of Dean’s tension eases, at both the confirmation and at Cas’s second comment. If it’s Cas’s decision to wait outside, then Dean doesn’t have to feel guilty about it, right?

“Then I’m fine.” Dean says, and he’s about two thirds of the way to meaning it, which he figures is enough to satisfy Cas’s rule.

That quickly drops to about one third by the time he’s sitting on the couch opposite to Benny, door shut and separating him from Cas.

It’s too late now, though. Dean’s just gonna power through.

Anyway, feeling even a third of fine is worlds better than how he’s used to feeling, so he really should be able to drag his eyes off the ground, shouldn’t he?

The answer is yes, he should be able to, especially when Benny asks him if he can try to look up. He’s always been able to follow orders a lot worse than this when feeling a lot more terrified, so he doesn’t know why his muscles aren’t responding to his brain now.

But they aren’t. So all Dean manages is a small shake of his head, telling Benny that no, he can’t look up.

Which is pathetic. And not actually a choice he’s allowed to say no to, he knows that, knows that just because Benny phrased it as a question doesn’t mean it wasn’t a command. He knows that, and is sure that any second now he’s going to hear Benny get up, feel his huge hand ripping at his hair, forcing his eyes upwards.

There’s a beat of silence, and Dean waits.

“Did you change your mind?” He hears instead of the man getting up to grab him. “Do you want me to call Cas in? It’s ok if you do, you’re not trapped in here now that you’ve come in alone.”

Dean blinks at the words, and it’s like the motion rips some of the invisible strings tying Dean’s eyes to the floor. His gaze still feels stuck down, but it no longer feels impossible to look up at the therapist.

That’s…nice of him. More than nice. He doesn’t have to offer that, now that he’s got Dean in here.

Did he change his mind? He’s not really sure why he even agreed to come in here alone to begin with. Kevin had said that Benny’s alright, but that statement seemed to suddenly hold a lot less weight the moment the office door had shut.

If he regrets coming in here alone, this is his chance. He’s being offered an escape rout. Maybe he should take it.

But somehow just the fact that he was offered an escape makes him suddenly feel less in need of one.

He can do this. He can calm down. Kevin likes Benny, and Dean likes Kevin, so that should at least mean Dean doesn’t have to be scared of Benny. And Cas is sitting literally right out side. It’s possible the man had been lying and won’t come to help him even if Dean yells, but in that case it wouldn’t make a difference whether the man is in the room or not, because Dean would be in for it either way.

He doesn’t believe that will happen. Cas will come for him if he calls.

“I’m ok, Sir.” Dean says very softly, still looking at his feet.

There’s another pause, this one filled with surprise.

The surprise takes a moment to register to Dean, but when it does, it makes something fierce rip through him, something rabidly glad.

The satisfaction of being more than someone expected rings like a bell through his body, waking up his dormant and ravaged pride, trembling at the effort of being needed.

“I’m fine.” He says, stronger. And then he is able to look up, look straight at Benny and make eye contact.

He catches the last instant of the surprise on the man’s face before it’s wiped away by a bright smile.

“There we go!” Benny says, and it should sound condescending, but the man sounds so genuinely happy Dean has looked up that it feeds the slave’s fragile pride instead of crushing it.

He smiles back at the therapist, relaxing.

Maybe this will be ok.

“So Dean.” Benny says, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t know how much you’ve been told, about me or about any of this. Have you ever gone to see a therapist before?”

Dean shakes his head “no,” wondering who Benny would ask such a thing. He has to know how uncommon this is, doesn’t he?

“Are you nervous?” The man asks, kindly pretending the answer isn’t painfully obvious.

Dean nods nonetheless, knowing it would be pointless to pretend otherwise.

Of course he’s nervous. He’s not downright terrified, which is better than he’d hoped, but he doubts there is anything Benny could do that would put him truly at ease.

“That’s alright.” The therapist assures him. “But I want you to know that this isn’t some sort of test. You’re not being evaluated or judged right now. We’re just talking.”

Dean doesn’t answer, finding that hard to believe. He doesn’t know what this whole “therapist” thing entails, and so far it’s been ok, but he doubts very much that Cas would be paying for him to just talk to somebody. How would having a conversation help him be good, be better?

So Dean doesn’t say anything, and Benny takes his silence as a prompt to elaborate. He looks at Dean seriously.

“You also need to know that nothing you say or do in this room will leave it. I’m not reporting anything that happens in here back to your master.”

That’s so ridiculous that Dean actually snorts.

He then immediately stills, and cringes.

Shit. He’s never been good at hiding his feelings, a dangerous defect in a slave. It’s nearly gotten him killed on more than one occasion, and more often than not had been the reason he was constantly covered in bruises.

He’d very much enjoyed the novel but blissful feeling of not being black and blue. He hopes he hasn’t fucked that up.

“You don’t believe me?” Benny asks.

Dean’s heart rate picks up, and he ducks his head again.

“I believe you, Sir.” He says quickly. It’s a horrible lie, flimsy and useless, but he’s hoping the show of submission might stave off the man’s anger.

But the placation turns out to be unnecessary.

“It’s ok that you don’t.” Benny tells him. “I understand it must be hard for you to believe. But it is the truth. I specialize in working with slaves and ex-slaves, and the Harvelle Center hired me because I’m good at what I do. Trust issues are very common among my patients, and I would be out of a job pretty quickly if I didn’t keep their information confidential.”

Dean blinks down at the floor in the wake of Benny’s speech, then up at the other man.

“But what if Cas asks you to tell him?”

It’s hard for him to get the words out, but once he does, he stares at Benny intently, needing to hear his answer. Benny, for his part, doesn’t give any indication that he finds Dean’s sudden desperation strange or unnerving.

“Tell him what?” He asks the slave calmly.

Shaking his head, Dean huffs.

“I. I don’t know. Anything. Would you tell him if he asked?”

“Do you think he will?”

“No. I don’t. I don’t know. But would you tell him?”

Benny frowns at him, contemplating. Dean fights the urge to hid from the man’s scrutiny, belatedly realizing he isn’t completely making sense.

“I wanted to talk to you alone for a reason.” Benny eventually states. “I wanted you to feel comfortable speaking freely, without feeling like you have to watch yourself because your master’s in the room.”

The man leans forward, and speaks earnestly.

“If I were going to tell Castiel what you say in here, that would sort of defeat the purpose of talking to you alone, wouldn’t it? I mean, I might be able to get something out of you once, but you’d figure out pretty quickly if I were reporting back to your master. Right?”

Right. That is right. Because Dean may not be very smart, but he knows how to tell when his master is unhappy with him.

“Yessir.” Dean agrees.

Benny nods back, peering at him gravely. Again, Dean feels antsy under the pensive stare.

“What’s this about, Dean?” The man asks gently. “Is there something you want to tell me? Nothing you say in here will get back to Castiel, I promise.”

What is this about? Dean himself doesn’t know why he’s so anxious about Benny telling Cas what he says. He has nothing but good things to say about the man.

And he reconizes the tone of voice Benny is using, recognizes the assumption that he’s being hurt and the attempt to coax him into feeling safe. Not that it’s a tone that has ever been used on him before. No, he recognizes it because it’s a voice he’s used himself countless times, persuading another boy in another life to admit that he’d been hurt, to show me Sam, c’mon, it’s ok, it’s not so bad, you know I can patch you right up, it’s fine, just stay in here for a little while, I’ll go calm him down.

The irony of the moment is not lost on him, that he’s finally being offered help the only time in his life he hasn’t needed it.

But that’s the self-perpetuating problem, isn’t it? Any offers of help can only be accessed at his master’s mercy, which immediately means he has to already be relatively safe to reach any sort of protection.

Which brings him back to the problem at hand, which is that he’s somehow already managed to convince Benny that Cas is abusing him.

Nothing could be further from the truth, and the thought that anyone would think badly of the man- especially because of Dean- makes a physical ache appear in the slave’s chest.

“Cas is very good to me, Sir.” Dean assures the therapist. But no, that’s not enough, not when Dean’s own qualifications for “good” set the bar so much lower than Cas has climbed.

“He’s more than good to me.” He insists, voice anxious as if there were someone arguing with him. “He’s like an angel. He never hits me, ever, and he feeds me more than enough, I’m never cold or dirty, and he took me to the doctor, Sir, and he stayed with me the whole time to make sure nothing bad happened. He’s so, so good, and I just wish-”

Dean cuts himself off, clenching his fist tightly in the fabric of his jeans.

He knows what Benny’s going to say before he says it, but the words make his stomach fill with dread all the same.

“Wish what, Dean?”

Right then, all Dean wishes is that he were brave enough to tell Benny to go fuck himself, or at least give a sullen shrug or an insolent “nothing”. But then, that desire is wrong, it’s the same defiant parasite that wars against what he really wants, so he stomps the urge down and obeys.

“I just wish I was better.” Dean mutters, feeling defeated. “Just wish I was better, for him. He’s so good to me, I just want to be good back.”

God, that’s all he wants, all he’s ever wanted really, to be good and pleasing and enough. He wants to be good enough. And he wants it more than ever now, more than he knew was possible, maybe because Cas deserves his loyalty more than anyone else he’s ever given it to, or maybe because being good enough feels so much closer to reality when Cas tells him he’s proud.

“Can you make me better, Sir?” Dean asks Benny helplessly. “That’s what you do, right? That’s why I’m here? Cas said you could help me get better.”

Dean keeps his muscles tense to stop them from shaking.

“I’ll do whatever you tell me to do. Whatever you do, I can take it, if it makes me good.”

“Slow down.” Benny interjects suddenly, and Dean freezes, eyes locked on the other man. “I told you on the phone, Dean, nothing is going to happen in here other than us talking.”

“But how is that gonna make me better? Talking ain’t gonna fix me!”

The words are soaked in his frustration, letting lose the anger and skepticism he’d thus far managed to keep somewhat in check.

He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t even bother flinching, just lets himself collapse backwards against the overstuffed couch, seething with exasperation and fear.

If Benny is angry with him, so be it. He’s too tired to try and cower away his punishment. Whatever will come will come.

Benny just tilts his head. Then, instead of hitting him, or even answering him in away that makes sense, he just says “Cas really cares about you, you know.”

Dean furrows his brow at the non-sequester.

“I…yes. He takes very good care of his property.” He agrees.

Benny shakes his head.

“No, that’s not what I said. Castiel’s session was just as confidential as yours, so I can’t go into specifics, but I can tell that you mean an awful lot to him.”

Dean’s breath feels caught in his throat. It doesn’t matter though, because he couldn’t imagine how to respond to that even if he could speak.

“He didn’t bring you here because you’re doing something wrong he wants fixed. He brought you here because he’s worried about you. Not your behavior. You.”

Benny doesn’t say anything after that, just looks across at the slave, and Dean knows he has to find a way to respond. He forces his voice to work, with questionable results.

“I don’t understand.” He croaks. And he doesn’t, really, but it’s more than just pure confusion that’s making him so shaky and pale.

“You mean a lot more to Cas than the work he can get out of you.” Benny says bluntly, and Dean looks anywhere but at the other man.

“Ten minutes ago you were ready to believe he’s torturing me.” Dean accuses. It’s somewhat irrelevant, and he knows it, but he doesn’t have the slightest clue how to handle or confront what Benny is saying. Avoidance is the only way he can think to respond.

“I’m always going to believe you if you tell me your being hurt, no mater how endearing your master seems.” The therapist tells him. “But it was you who defended him, and you who compared him to an angel, not me. I think it’s fair for me to tell you you’re important to him.”

Dean’s heart hurts.

Is that true? Is he important to Cas? Sure, the man had been superhumanly kind to him, but he hadn’t taken that to mean anything more than that Cas has a kind nature. He hadn’t dared.

He wants to be important to Cas. He wants it so badly it scares him, because he knows better than anyone that wanting something to be true doesn't mean it is.

“He told you that?” Dean asks Benny, timidly hopeful.

“He didn’t have to.” Benny says back.

Dean isn’t sure what to make of that answer. All he really understands is that no, Cas had not said what Benny had said, and Dean feels stupid for hoping.

He knows what he is, and he knows what he is to Cas. His master has given him enough already, he shouldn’t demand a place in his heart as well.

Never mind that the man has already taken over his.

Oh, he understands why Benny would think what he thinks, but the therapist doesn’t know Cas like Dean does. He doesn’t know how kindness palpably radiates from the man wherever he goes, doesn’t understand how gestures that would be signs of affection from most are just the way Cas is.

It had confused him too at first, but he understands better now. Cas is the gentlest person Dean has ever met, and he has no doubt that if the man were to ever come across a starving dog or injured bird, he would be as quick to take those in as he was to adopt Dean.

Dean knows he isn’t too bright, but he’s not as dumb as people think he is, and he understands better than Cas does why Gabe dumped a half-dead person in the world’s most compassionate man’s arms and disappeared.

Dean was broken, and still is, and fixing him gives Cas something to do.

It was very clever of Gabe, really, and Dean has to hand it to him. He would be worried too, if his odd and blind brother had essentially barricaded himself on the top of a mountain to waste away. So he’d found the most messed up, terrified slave he could and thrown him at his younger sibling, knowing that in all Cas’s sweetness he’d never let something so fragile fall, even if that meant having to jump out of the stagnant state he’d been in.

It’s not like Dean’s so wrapped up in his own self-pity that he can’t see that Cas does care about him, to an extent, but he cares about him in the generic way he cares about any trembling, flinching thing that crosses his path.

He doesn’t care about Dean. He doesn’t even know Dean. Dean barely even knows himself.

All the same, Dean doesn’t begrudge Cas his sympathetic heart. He’s not bitter that Cas would show the same care to any other broken thing brought into his lonely house. But it’s becoming clearer every day to Dean that Cas is becoming more and more important to him, not as his rescuer or provider or hero but as Cas, with all his strangeness and isolation and generic empathy.

Dean just wishes Cas could care for him in the same way, because of who he is rather than what he’s suffered. Though Dean is beginning to doubt he’s made of anything else.

He blinks down at the beige carpet, feeling sad and empty.

None of his thoughts come as sudden realizations, but it’s the first time he’s acknowledged them. He’d been ignoring them, but he’s known all these things for a while.

“Cas feels bad for me.” Dean says at last. “And he feels responsible for me. Maybe what happens to me is important to him, but that doesn’t mean I am.”

Benny tilts his head in confusion. “I’m not sure I follow, brother.”

Dean hugs himself, embarrassed and miserable.

“He pities me.” He mutters.

“And you don’t want him to?” Benny guesses.

“I want him to like me.” Dean’s voice breaks as he speaks. “But all I am is broken.”

He shudders at his own words, feeling more worthless than ever. How can he wish Cas would care for him and not just his scars when they’ve devoured who he ever was so completely? How can he want Cas to care for a person that isn’t there?

In front of him, Benny goes on.

“I don’t believe that.” The man says simply. “And I know for a fact that Cas doesn’t.”

Dean scoffs before he can stop himself.

Benny raises his eyebrows at him, and Dean shrinks away.

“I’m telling you the truth, Dean.” Benny says. “Cas talked a lot about you, and very little of what he said was about the abuse you’ve suffered, especially considering how much you did go through.”

Furrowing his brow and frowning, Dean shakes his head, confused. What the hell had Cas been talking about for so long then, if not all the ways his slave is a mess? What else is there even to say about him?

“All I ever do around him is cry and flinch and beg.” He states.

“And defend him.” Benny adds immediately. “And protect him. And guide him. And comfort him. And do things for him whether he asks you to or not.”

Each phrase hits him like a punch to the gut, and by the end of Benny’s tangent he’s left winded.

He stares, stunned.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that, even internally, has no idea how to process the (true! true!) words, doesn’t know how to fit them into thoughts that can exist along side his emotions.

“I. I’m not…”

He sinks lower into the couch.

There is no way he can handle this anymore, again. He’s already had to deal with the nails-on-chalkboard feeling of his mind forcibly changing his feelings so many times since he’s come into Cas’s hands.

It doesn’t matter how much better it feels afterwards, it’s so much. He can’t. He’s going to unravel.

He’s not brave enough to deal with the pain of ripping out his own backwards heart and shoving it back in again right side up.

“I don’t. Um.”

Fuck brave. Fuck pride. He avoids, avoids, avoids.

“I don’t want to talk about this any more.”

“Ok.” Benny says immediately.

So they don’t.

***

Cas is waiting for him outside when the time is up, just as he promised. Dean had believed he would stay near, as he said, but it still feels good to have his belief validated.

The rest of the session had been easier than Dean had expected. To his shock, Benny had accepted his abrupt uncooperativeness with ease, not getting angry or even asking for an explanation. He’d changed the subject right away, and they had spent the rest of the time talking about stupid, easy things, like what color his room is and all the different clothes Cas had bought for him. It was aimless chatter, and part of Dean had felt guilty for wasting Cas’s effort on something so pointless. But he’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“How did it go?” Cas asks as soon as they are back in the cab.

Dean leans over unthinkingly and buckles Cas’s seatbelt for him, before glancing down and wondering vaguely if he should bother doing his own.

“Good, I think.” Dean says, somewhat warily, fiddling with the buckle absently. “Benny’s really nice, but I’m not sure if he’s fixing my brain or whatever. We mostly just talked about stupid stuff.”

He decides to forget about the seatbelt and drops it, flopping back against his seat. He feels tired, despite the fact that they hadn’t really done much today. Maybe it’s the heat. Spring has been steadily dripping away into summer, taking any wind or rain with it. He’s starting to understand why cacti seem to be the only plants that thrive here.

“What do you mean?” Cas asks him, and, having not heard the clink of Dean’s own belt buckling, finds it with his hand and nudges the other man.

Dean takes it and buckles himself in obediently, trying not to think to hard about why he suddenly feels warm. The heat again, probably.

“Like, he just wanted me to tell him about the stuff that makes me happy.” He shrugs.

Cas frowns seriously.

“Those things aren’t stupid.” He states, with no room in his words for dissent.

Dean feels warmer.

“Can we turn on the air conditioning?” He asks suddenly.

“It’s already on.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Are you hot?” Cas asks earnestly. “We can roll down a window.”

The man is looking at him with real, ridiculous concern in his big blue eyes. It reminds Dean suddenly that he’d spent a solid minute or two rambling to Benny about how pretty they are.

If he gets much redder he’s going to give himself heat stroke in an air conditioned car.

“Um.” He mumbles. “Yes, please.”

“Alright.”

The glass comes down and the heavy air comes in.

The car goes quite for a while after that, the soft rumble of tire on cement and the general hum of the city filling in the blanks. It’s evening now, almost nine. Instinct tells him he should see stars, but the sun sets late in San Jose, especially in June. Instead, he can see darkness out of one window, but it bleeds into color on the other side of the sky, pink and purple streaks reaching out of the deep blue and concentrating into the glow of the setting sun. It looks so much closer than it is, looks like if they could only convince the cabbie to drive long enough, they could drive right into the light.

Dean wonders how that would feel. Would it burn? Probably. It burned that day in the garden with Cas, the first day he’d been out in years. It burns now, even in the evening with the light half gone, a slow burn different from the scorching heat of the day but cooking the city just the same.

Everything is different now. He has to remember that.

“So do you think you would be interested in seeing Benny again?” Cas asks after a long time. Dean had been staring out the window long enough to watch the sun go from a crescent to a red smudge on the horizon, bleeding out all over the city like a slit throat.

He blinks slowly.

The streak of light continues to bounce around his vision as he turns away from the window, blinding him to Cas’s face with a negative, flickering blue. He waits until it fades away, and he can see the eyes that will never be able to see him.

“I love you.” He says.

His heart breaks as he says it. It’s good though. It means there was something left of him to break. He’d rather that last piece of him be shattered by love than by hate.

He doesn’t even know in what way he means the words, only that they are true. He doesn’t know if there is any way they could be taken that isn’t true.

Cas stills in surprise. Dean doesn’t give him very long to process before he lurches forward, hugging the man close.

“Dean.” Cas whispers, then all of a sudden he is being held so tight he feels like Cas thinks he’s going to disappear.

He disappeared years and years ago though. All that’s left is a shell.

“I love you too.” The man says.

I know you do. Dean thinks, resigned. Because you’ll love anything in this world that needs to be loved.

Chapter Text

He wakes up in cold sweat, heart lurching in his chest before steadying into a too-fast drumroll. He sucks in a breath, his lungs swelling the way a tsunami does before crashing against the shore

He’s shaking. He tries to stop.

It doesn’t work, so he curls himself into his terror-soaked sheets and tries to keep the tears from leaking from his eyes.

That doesn’t really work either.

Dean has nightmares. A lot. They are repulsive things, memories he tries to repress during the day but that seep out of his mind at night, when there is no distraction left to plug the holes in his psyche. At night, he bleeds horror.

He’s gotten used to it. The most amazing thing about human beings, and at once the most foul, is that they have the incredible ability to adapt to almost anything. It’s not that terror ceases to be terror when you live and breath it. Pain is pain, constant or not, and we will scramble away from it involuntarily. But you learn to function with it anyway, when it’s constant. You learn to roll over and go back to sleep.

Not now though. This is the one nightmare that defeats Dean entirely, made more horrible by the fact that it’s half real.

Love is the one thing no one has ever been able to get used to, and so it’s love that fuels his worse nightmare.

Dean opens his eyes, staring blankly into the dark. His eyes slowly adjust to the dull light from the window, and the room starts to form shadows around him.

He’s had this nightmare before. He’d had it every few days for five years, until he came here. It was silly to think it may have disappeared for good. How could it, when he has to wake up to the truth?

It always starts the same, with John beating him. That in itself isn't so horrible, it’s the words that accompany the pain, the failure he feels in every blow.

“You piece of shit. You worthless piece of shit. You had one job! I should never have bought you.”

It would morph after that, or would seem to, sometimes changing scenes and sometimes just layering one horror on top of another, the way only dreams can do. In his nightmare, the next horror is Sam.

Sometimes he’d be dead, his mangled body appearing all of a sudden and tearing away Dean’s soul. Sometimes he’d be encouraging John, telling him to beat the bitch, show him his place. Sometimes he’d be crying, begging for John to stop, for Dean to help him, for any number of things, as long as Dean could never do anything about it but watch helplessly as he sobbed.

Sometimes he’d be indifferent, and that dug deeper than the encouragement. He’d stare at Dean blankly, unsaid words clear in every line of his body. I don’t need you anymore, Dean, so I don’t care about you either.

This time, it was the worst version. This time, it had really happened. Not then, not in that final attack from John, but for months and months leading up to it, as the sweet kid he’d grown up protecting got angrier and angrier, his fights with John bleeding over into fights with Dean, fights that got sharper and sharper because he never seemed to realize he’d won.

It all combined into one, never-ending moment in his dreams.

Fight back!

Why do you let him treat you like that?

I can’t keep defending you forever Dean!

What is wrong with you? Why won’t you stand up for yourself?

Stop defending him! Why do you always take his side?

Do something!

Coward!

Coward!

Coward!

Coward!

The last thing Sam had ever said to him rings in his ears, the boy’s furious, betrayed eyes haunting him.

Dean sits up all of a sudden, sweat-cool blankets falling away from his body and exposing him to the heavy, hot air. He runs his hand though his damp hair before letting it fall to the bed. Shuddering, he lets his head drop to his knees.

There’s no point in trying to fall asleep again. He never can, after this dream. He wonders what time it is, how long he will have to sit in the dark before the day begins, but can’t find the willpower to even lift his head to look at the clock.

Coward.

That word is never going to stop following him.

God, he misses Sam so much. The boy’s absence suddenly feels like a physical weight on his shoulders, the memory of his disapproval a shard of ice in his chest.

All of a sudden he can’t stand the weight of the air, muggy with his own sweat and threatening to suffocate him in his own fear. He throws off the sheets tangled around him and stumbles towards the window, pulling it open. The cool night air flows in, brushing over his skin and giving him relief.

It’s a cloudless night, and the bright speckles of the stars blink above him against the dark. Far below, he can see the distant lights of San Jose winking right back, mirroring the sky. The city is a lake, and the stars what the ground reflects.

Dean hugs himself. Everything suddenly feels so far away. In that moment, staring out at the desert mountains, unsure where the sky ends and the world begins, he can almost believe he’s the only living thing on the planet.

He misses Sam. That’s the only thing he’s really sure of any more.

He misses the steady sound of his breathing at night, misses his stupid floppy hair he never cut enough, misses his dorky excitement about every book he got his hands on, misses even the fighting.

God, the fighting.

There was so much of it. Towards the end, all they ever seemed to do was fight.

Of course, he hadn’t known then that those were the last years he’d ever spend with Sam. If he had, he might have tried harder to keep the peace.

Ha.

Dean snorts at his own thought.

Keep the peace. Yeah, right. All he ever tried to do was keep the peace. It never worked with John, and worked even less with Sam. As loathe as the boy always was to admit there was anything of his father in him, that part at least was undeniable. When Sam decided he was angry, he was more sure of it than even John.

And he was always so angry about something.

The way John treated Dean, the way John treated Sam. Thats how it started. It soon became just about anything.

Drinking, school, women's rights, rape, Mary, moving, second hand smoke, slavery, homophobia, college.

Sam was a fire, and John was the fuel.

Dean was everything that got burned.

Because of course, of course, it was Dean who had to deal with the fallout of Sam’s outbursts, Dean who got raped every time Sam called John a rapist. Sam’s reckless, righteous fury was more dangerous than John’s fists.

Still though, it was only ever the aftershocks of the fights that he had to deal with, right up until they were really tumbling towards the end. In the last year or so, Sam really started to seem like he was just spitting fire at anyone to get it out of his own heart.

Sam’s spirit was as big and blinding as the sun. Anger was a magnifying glass that focused it, and burned holes through anything it was pointed at.

Sam’s anger burned a hole through Dean, certainly.

When Dean got beaten, Sam yelled at him. When Dean got raped, Sam yelled at him. When Dean did anything, Sam yelled at him.

He was just so fucking mad all the time, mad at the world for abandoning them, mad at John for hurting them, mad at Dean for accepting the pain that dripped second hand onto his younger brother.

It was the talk of running away that always drove both of them up the wall. Those were the real blowouts. Sam started bringing it up about half way though being 13, and by the time he was 14 it was a fight they had at least once a week.

We can’t stay here, Dean. He’s going to kill you one day, and I’ll kill myself eventually. Please Dean. Please.

Fuck you! I don’t understand. Why won’t you even try? Fuck you!

But they couldn’t. Sam had never really understood that Dean is a slave, and would be executed if found running away. And Sam, well, he was naive, he didn’t know what could happen on the streets, how easy it is to illegally put a slave tattoo on a just-barely-teenage boy.

What really drove Dean nuts though was the way Sam always acted like he couldn’t take it, like he’d be willing to risk anything to get away, when it was Dean who was the one getting beaten and raped. It had made him furious, the audacity Sam had to act like he was suffering.

Dean had learned a lot from Cas, though, and from loving him. He understood now, in a way he didn’t then, how much worse pain can feel when it isn’t your own.

He knew that then too, felt it every time he couldn't stop Sam from being hurt, but it wasn’t until recently that he really grasped that Sam had loved him, the same way Dean had loved Sam.

Sam had always sort of known what was happening when John took Dean to the shower or his bedroom at night. There had been no way to hide it, practically, but Dean was very good at hiding it in other ways. By being quiet when it happened. By never speaking about it. By not limping. By smiling at Sam when John was done with him, and basically just acting like it was no big deal. So yes, Sam always knew, intellectually, but Dean had very painstakingly made it so he never really thought too hard about it.

Then a lot of things changed. Middle school hit, and so did talk about sex, both with classmates and teachers. Crude language among peers, and sex ed in the classroom. Notably, talk about stranger danger. Bad touches. Sam started to really understand what rape was, and what it actually meant to fuck a four year old. It all started to hit him.

It didn’t help that as Dean got older, John got rougher. It became harder and harder to not limp in the morning, and sometimes he couldn’t keep from crying out in pain at night.

In the past, Dean would come coldly back to the room he and Sam would inevitably be sharing, and pass out on the floor next to Sam’s sleeping form.

Now, Sam would be awake, staring at Dean with eyes that looked deader than his own.

Neither of them knew what to say. He’d never understood why Sam had to stare at him like that, why he had to stay awake until Dean was back.

He knows now though, wide awake in the middle of the night, hounded by the one dream he can’t ignore. Love is not something you can sleep through.

He wishes so much that he’d known that then. He would have appreciated it more. Instead he let Sam rage alone, and leaving him to eventually drop Dean from his heart.

He’d always known there would come a day when Sam didn’t need him any more. He just didn’t expect it to be that day.

John sold Dean because Sam left.

He ran away. Dean woke up and he was just gone.

At some point, “We have to leave” had become “I have to leave”, and Dean hadn’t noticed. Sam had begged Dean to come with him, and Dean hadn’t even considered it, not realizing the boy was going whether or not he came.

The wind is starting to feel cold, so Dean shuts the window. The quiet, distant noises from outside suddenly become muted.

He rests his forehead on the cool glass. It becomes blurred with his breath.

Dean wishes for the simplicity of pure separation. He wishes he’d just been dragged away from Sam against both of their wills, rather than the betrayal and guilt of refusing to come with him and then being left behind.

Sighing, he moves away from the window. There’s little worth in wishing to begin with, much less for things in the past.

He wonders if he’s allowed to leave his room at night, just because he wants to. He wonders what Cas would even do to him if he isn’t. Somehow, over the past few weeks, it’s become impossible for Dean to imagine Cas administering even the lightest of punishments.

Cas really isn’t going to hit him. The certainty settles onto him like dust from a finished storm.

The knowledge should be a relief, but instead Dean just feels fragile and confused.

Another muffled minute passes with Dean standing blankly in the dark before he decides he’s going to go crazy if he stays shut in here all night, so he silently patters out of his room.

He hesitates at the bottom of the stairs when he hears someone shuffling around.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” He asks as he enters the kitchen, flicking the now-working light on.

Cas pauses where he’s sat at the table, and seems to contemplate whether or not to take another sip of his tea. He decides not to, and sets it down lightly.

“Occasionally.” He states bluntly. “And I could ask you the same thing.”

“I had a nightmare.” The admission hangs heavily in the air for a moment, the room turning over the information in it’s hands, unsure of what to do with it.

Cas purses his lips and shifts.

“Do…you want to talk about it?” He asks awkwardly.

“No. Can I sit here?” Dean’s moved from the doorway to the table, and is tapping the chair next to Cas.

“Of course.” Cas nods, so Dean sits.

He slumps backwards in the chair, bringing his knees up to his chest. Pulling the hood of the navy blue hoodie he’s wearing over his head, he yanks on the drawstrings until his face is as hidden as it can get. He then withdraws his arms from the sleeves, wrapping them around his torso and leaving the sleeves to hang limply like loose ribbons.

He’s not cold. He knows he looks ridiculous. But he’s regretting turning on the lights, feels exposed under the glow. He feels the need to hide.

Peering out from his shell, Dean studies the other man.

He looks uncertain, unable to decide whether or not to keep drinking his tea now that Dean is here. Dean stays quiet though, so eventually Cas goes back to sipping the mug.

His eyes are so pretty and blue. Dean wants to sink into them and stay there, safe, forever. Dean wants to be close enough to see them, really see them, all the lines and colors, close enough that the man’s eyelashes brush against his face.

He wants to kiss him again.

But he doesn’t know how to separate kissing from sex, nor how to separate sex from pain. He doesn’t know how to separate what he wants from what he fears.

He loves Cas. He wants Cas to love him too. But he’s been loved before, and managed to fuck it up. Now it’s love that keeps him up at night.

He doesn’t know what keeps Cas up at night. He doesn’t know a lot about Cas.

What is it that’s haunting you? What drove here to hide?

In the softness of the silence, the words fall out of him easily.

“Why are you here, Cas?” He asks.

Cas blinks, looking startled at the noise. It occurs to Dean how many times that has happened, where Cas has looked surprised at the sound of Dean’s voice, even when he knew the slave was right there. Dean used to assume it was because he doesn’t speak unprompted very often. Now it feels more like Cas can never quite get used to the idea that he isn’t alone any more.

“I have chronic insomnia. Nothing is keeping me up. I just have a hard time falling asleep.”

That isn’t what Dean meant, and he considers letting it go. But all the energy he has to keep things inside him was spent fruitlessly fighting his nightmare.

“I mean here. In this house. On this mountain.”

The moment he says it, Dean worries he’s gone to far. It’s none of his business why Cas does what he does, and Dean knows how uncomfortable it is to be asked to display the skeletons in your closet. He puts his arms back through his sleeves just in case he has to use them to protect his face.

He knows Cas won’t hit him, even if he is angry, but instinct is hard to ignore.

Cas doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t even look uncomfortable.

“I moved here from Minnesota when I was 18, once I could access my trust fund.”

It is a pitifully inadequate explanation, but Cas doesn’t even seem to be aware he’s holding back. He doesn’t seem to understand what Dean is really wondering.

Why are you alone? What are you frightened of? Who are you who are you who are you?

Dean’s mouth is sour with all the things he can’t ask.

“That’s very far.” He says instead.

Cas shrugs. “My family was never particularly fond of me. Gabe visits occasionally.”

The words are honest and unconcerned. Lonely, but not traumatic. It’s not his family he’s running away from, though Dean’s heart suddenly hurts at the image that falls unbidden into his head: A much younger Cas, wandering alone in some huge mansion, with no one but his dog to look after him and give him affection.

Dean quickly moves on before the image can burrow too deep into him.

“No college?”

“I can’t imagine what I’d study.”

“Didn’t have a favorite subject?”

“I was homeschooled.” Cas says simply, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

He’s never had any friends, Dean realizes with a pang.

And only then does Dean finally get it, that Cas doesn’t have a tragic backstory, that he’s hiding up here because his life has always been this empty and he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.

He doesn’t know what he’d thought had happened. Had someone died? Had he been abused? Had some horrible accident made him blind?

This is worse, somehow. Not sadder, but far more hollow.

Nothing is keeping me up.

Dean’s life has been so full of horror and sadness. He hadn’t known that nothingness could plague you too.

Which is worse, he wonders? How terrible must it be to have nothing to dwell on. His mind flickers back to how he felt not half an hour ago, like he was the only living thing in the entire world. He imagines it must be like that, but always.

The thought scares him.

Dean notices dully that Cas has finished his tea. Getting up, he takes the cup from the other man and goes to wash it in the sink. He stares at it blankly, watching the way the running water follows the curve of the ceramic before dripping down into the drain.

“I want to see Benny again, if that’s ok.” Dean says out of the blue. He doesn’t turn around to see Cas’s reaction, but keeps staring diligently at the cup.

Neither of them had brought the subject up again after Dean had avoided answering earlier. It had felt too odd after what Dean had said.

He brings it up now though. He suddenly doesn’t care if the topic reminds Cas of what he said. He wants him to know it.

I love you.

“Of course, Dean.” Cas answers from behind him. He sounds pleased but surprised.

He probably thought Dean not answering the question meant no.

It’s sweet that he didn’t press him for a direct answer. It’s sweet that he listens to what Dean wants at all.

Dean shuts off the water, turning back around, mug in hands.

“Do you…” Dean trails off.

“Yes?” Cas prompts, as Dean knew he would.

He’d thought the sound of Cas’s encouraging voice would make the request easier to get out, but it doesn’t.

“Nevermind.” He mumbles, clutching the cup tightly and turning around again to put it away.

“Dean, what is it?” Cas coaxes. Dean places the mug in a cabinet, and shakes his head.

“Nevermind. M’sorry. I take up too much of your time already.”

He feels a touch against his arm and jumps, turning around. He hadn’t realized Cas had gotten up, but now he’s only inches away.

“You do not take up too much of my time.” Cas says firmly. “What is it that you are trying to ask.”

He says it like a statement rather than a question, and it’s that more than anything that allows Dean to get the question out.

“Can we go on Mondays?” He almost whispers. “Someone…offered to tutor me. In reading and math and shit.”

Cas’s eyebrows jump up, but he looks bright and pleased.

“Absolutely! That’s fantastic, Dean. I’m glad you want to learn.”

Dean smiles weakly.

He does want to learn, but that’s not what prompted him to ask. He’d been thinking the same thing as when he asked to see Benny again.

He’d just been thinking of how far away everything felt as he stared out his window, and how easy it is to forget about the rest of the world when you’re on this mountain. About how easy it is to forget that even you yourself are real.

He’d been thinking about how much harder it is to feel that way when your among other people. That the more time Cas spends outside this house, the less hollow it will be.

Even if it’s just chaperoning Dean’s stupid lessons and crazy sessions.

“Thanks, Cas.” He says, relived. Impulsively, he reaches up to touch Cas’s face.

I’m looking out for you. He thinks. I won’t fail you like I failed Sam.

The man’s skin is warm beneath his palm.

He wants to press his lips against the man’s cheekbone, wants to feel how soft his skin is against his mouth. He wants to press his lips to other places too, with softer skin, places he can’t think about without feeling his heart pick up. He doesn’t know if it’s from excitement or fear.

Suddenly, Dean blushes red, and drops his hand.

Cas blinks at him, unseeing.

“Dean?” Confusion tints his voice.

“Sorry.” Dean says quickly.

Fuck. He thinks. You’re so pretty.

He noticed how attractive the man is weeks ago, but lately it’s like some sort of magnet, drawing Dean in like a moth to a flame.

He has to get a hold of himself.

Thankfully, Cas lets Dean’s strange behavior drop.

“We should go back to bed. At least try to sleep.”

“I won’t be able to.”

“At least try.”

Dean shrugs. It doesn’t matter to him if he’s kept awake in the kitchen or the bedroom.

“Sure, Cas. I’ll try.”

That’s a lie. He doesn’t bother to try.

He sits on the floor, leaking memories, leaning against the bed, and he stares for a long long time at the wall. He knows with a weighted certainty that Cas is doing the same thing, except instead of being flooded in his past, he is dying of thirst.

Dean wishes he had the guts to go knock on Cas’s door, to demand that if they aren’t going to sleep they at least shouldn’t be alone. He thinks, between the two of them, they’d be able to drink without drowning.

But he doesn’t have the guts to do that, even if he believes Cas won’t beat him. He is learning there is a kind of paralyzing fear that doesn’t need a danger to grow from.

It’s a fear of the action more than the consequences. It’s a fear of yourself, or the things you would have to confront about yourself if you went through with what you’re afraid of.

Like, if he went to Cas’s room, lied down in his bed, he might have to admit that he really, really wants to have sex with Cas.

He’d have to deal with that and all it’s implications, about him, about his past, about how many times he’s dreamed of Cas fucking him and felt like he was going to be sick when he woke up.

He’d have to acknowledge how he hits his own cock over and over after these dreams until the hardness goes away, because the thought of jerking himself off sends such a feeling of terror through him, because it’s not allowed not allowed, even though he knows Cas wouldn’t hurt him, knows how fucked up his thoughts are.

He’d have to acknowledge the time that he just couldn’t take it, when he’d shoved his face in his pillow and clutched his hands in his hair because he’s not allowed to touch himself he’s not allowed, but his hips had moved of there own accord, humping the bed like a fucking dog until he came. He’d have to acknowledge the panic attack he’d silently shook through afterwards, how dirtydisgustingwrong he still feels, because how dare he dream of someone as beautiful of Cas touching something as warped as him.

He’d have to acknowledge the antibiotics he’s taking for his Chlamydia and Gonorrhea. He’d have to acknowledge that it’s not always Cas’s eyes that he’s mooning over. He’d have to admit that he doesn’t know if these feelings are normal or if they’ve been implanted in him by his abusers.

He’s not even close to ready to acknowledge or deal with any of this, so it’s a fear that comes from inside that keeps him locked on the floor.

Dean stares down at the carpet, picking fluff out of it before trying to poke it back in.

It was that kind of internal fear, he is slowly realizing, that kept him from leaving with Sam. There were real things to be afraid of, but that wasn’t what kept him back. He’d been far more afraid of the act of running away than of what would happen to them if they did.

There were things he was too scared to acknowledge then too. But Sam saw them, even if Dean refused to.

Dean wouldn’t run away from John simply because he didn’t want to leave John.

He’d loved that man, even if he shouldn’t have.

That was why Sam was so angry. It must have felt like betrayal.

But Dean always would have chosen Sam over John if he’d been aware he was being forced to choose. But he’d naively believed he wouldn’t have to if he tried hard enough, that he could keep them all together. Dean hadn’t seen how it was killing Sam.

Dean hadn’t seen how it was killing Dean.

Dean’s jaw clenches, and his fingers dig violently into the soft carpet he’s been playing with.

He’s so angry all of a sudden that it hurts, so angry at John for ruining his life, for turning him into this, for manipulating him into loving him and then throwing him away.

It was John it was John it was John more than anyone, more than Alistair or Azazel or Abbadon it was John who fucked him up like this, he was already broken when he was sold away, and that’s the first time he’s realized that.

And now he loves Cas and he wants Cas, Cas who is kind and sweet to him, and it feels all wrong because he felt it for John first, and Cas is so much better than John. John was crueler than anyone, because he forced Dean into loving him and made him feel like his love is something sick and corrupting, because how could he feel what he felt for someone so awful for someone like Cas?

His rage feels like the only emotion he still has that hasn’t been perverted.

He misses Sam and he loves Cas and he wants sex and he hates John because he loves John and he wants to scream and scream until the whole world is deaf with what they’ve taken from him.

Chapter Text

A few days later Dean steps into the shower and notices he has pubic hair.

Over the weeks that Dean has been with Cas he’s become increasingly lazy about shaving it, as it seemed less and less likely that he was going to be suddenly bent over and stripped. But it had taken until the rule “No Sex” was taped to the fridge that Dean had given the practice up entirely.

He’d never been allowed to have hair down there. He’d been forced to shave it ever since it started growing.

Dean looks down at himself curiously as he turns on the water.

Warmth hits him, soaking his hair and flowing in rivulets over his bare shoulders and down his back, muscles loosening as heat melts into his skin.

Showering has become one of his favorite parts of the day since he worked up the courage a week ago to ask if he’s allowed to use warm water. He’d started to suspect that maybe the habit of bathing in what felt like ice might be another one of those things he’d carried over from his past that Cas would be upset to know about.

He’d been right, and had been frantically informed that he can use all the time and hot water he wants.

He’s pretty sure that if he really used all the time and hot water he wants he would never get out, so he sets a limit at 20 minutes.

Still, it’s far more time than he needs, and he often stands for long, lingering minutes under the spray, feeling nothing but how warm and unafraid he is.

Being clean at all is a luxury he’d rarely had in the past. When he was bathed, he was usually just hosed down with freezing water, at least since he was sold. Before that, they were lucky if the crappy motels they stayed in had running water at all, much less heated water. Besides, he “showered” with John more often than not, which was really a code word for getting fucked while water ran over him.

Cas never comes to molest him while he’s bathing. Cas never molests him at all, but being able to be naked and not scared is an entirely new feeling to Dean, one he finds he enjoys immensely.

Dean enjoys it now, shutting his eyes and forgetting momentarily about the curiosity of his own natural body, unaltered for someone else's pleasure. He laces his fingers behind his neck and breathes, feeling the thrill of goosebumps over his skin as the heat seeps into his bones.

He shifts forward, leaning his forehead against the wet tiled wall. Opening his eyes, he sighs as he catches sight of his cock again.

Should I shave it? He wonders.

He stopped a while ago, but this is the first day his hair has stopped looking like stubble and started looking like it belongs on a grown man’s body.

He doesn’t know how he feels about that. Strange, to say the least. Uncomfortable.

To think that even this had been out of his control for so long.

The thought sends such a pang of misery through him that he straightens up, irritated with himself.

You are not going to get emotional about pubic hair. He tells himself. He’s sunk pretty low in his lifetime, but that’s too much, even for him.

Deciding to ignore it for now, he washes his hair quickly, before washing the rest of his body, trying to pretend he’s not avoiding his penis.

Finally it’s the only place left unwashed on his body, and he sighs again, forced to admit that of course he was avoiding his penis. Because he’s getting emotional about pubic hair.

Though to be honest he always avoids his penis, touching it as little as possible, even through a washcloth. He doesn’t like the way it sometimes twitches, despite his perfunctory movements. It scares him.

He washes it now the same way he always does, quickly and mechanically, trying not to pay too much attention to the way the cloth drags over his skin, how the soap makes it run smoothly.

And, as always, he avoids touching his hand to his dick like it’s going to burn him, careful his penis touches nothing but the washcloth as he runs it across the underside of the shaft.

He hesitates midway through the motion, distracted by the unfamiliar sight of suds caught in the newly-grown hair around his dick.

He feels strange again, and can’t even find it in himself to feel ridiculous.

Why is this so unfamiliar? It shouldn’t be so unfamiliar. This is his body. He shouldn’t feel like a stranger in his body.

He knows, has always known, that his body does not really belong to him. Cas knows that too, as unhappy as it makes him, but he seems to only understand it in a technical sense. Yes, Dean is his slave, but it’s not Cas’s consciousness that inhabits this freckled thing, so he believes it’s Dean’s body, whatever rights someone else may have over it.

Dean knows there is nothing technical about it, feels it now more than ever. This body belongs to whoever happens to own it at the moment. The fact that his mind is trapped in this skull is just an uncomfortable inconvenience.

He feels like an intruder, like just because he controls this puppet doesn’t mean he’s meant to be there.

This is wrong. He thinks suddenly, and pulls his hand away, dropping the washcloth. You shouldn’t be here.

The thought doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense, but it doesn’t change how he suddenly feels like some sort of demon possessing a form that isn’t theirs, like he needs to find a way to climb out of this skin.

This can’t be his body. He would…should….know his own body, right? If this was his body, he would know what it looked like, wouldn’t be shocked to see it unmodified to suit someone else's desires, he wouldn’t be so startled to see what a 23 year old man’s body is supposed to be.

If this were his body, he would know how it felt, what it liked, wouldn’t be confused and frightened when this hanging cock showed interest in something, because it wouldn’t be unexpected and so totally unexplored.

If this were his body, he wouldn’t have to cover his hand in a cloth to feel ok washing himself, wouldn’t have had to hump his sheets and still panic through an orgasm that didn’t belong to him, wouldn’t feel like he was doing something very viscerally wrong by touching the thing between his legs that he tries to avoid even thinking about.

This can’t be my body.

This can’t be my body.

This is my body.

It is. It is his body, even if he doesn’t know it at all.

Dean shoves the heels of his hands over his eyes and breathes.

It takes him a few minutes to screw his head back on even halfway, but when he does he feels angry.

This is ridiculous. This is ridiculous and fucking insane.

Of course this is his body. Of course…Of course this is his body.

This is his body, no matter what other people do to it. He belongs here, inside of it.

His hands come away from his face and he hugs himself, as if he can convince the spirit inside him it’s ok to be there through physical force.

Mine.

This is mine. I was here first.

There is a lump in his throat. He swallows it. He’s too pissed for tears.

He’s not angry at his past masters for raping him. Not yet.

He is angry that they dared to make him feel guilty for existing in a corpse they wanted to fuck.

I can’t stop you from forcing your way into my home, but I’m not going to evacuate just because you’ve invaded.

Dean turns the heat up, and focuses everything he has on letting the streaks of sensation that flow over his torso glue his soul to his skin.

The water almost burns, but it feels good. It feels real.

He takes a breath, looks down at his crotch again.

He touches his fingertips to the hair, and feels defiance bubble up from deep within his gut.

Rubbing the strands between his fingers, he peers at it confusedly. It feels coarse and wiry, much tougher than the hair on his head, and darker too. He faintly remembers being 12 or 13 in the same position, when his body had just started to change and his voice just started to drop, poking warily at the slight fur that had started to grow around his penis. John had ordered him to shave it a day or two later, grunting something about him getting to damn old and wishing Sam could learn to take care of himself, giving Dean much bigger worries. Nothing had had the chance to grow there since, at least until now.

There isn’t much of that memory not overshadowed by John’s threats, but he definitely remembers the hair being much softer and lighter. Of course, he was a child then. It still seems strange to have missed his body changing.

For no reason other than curiosity, he tangles his fingers into the stiff bush and tugs lightly.

The skin just above his dick is far more sensitive than he was expecting.

It doesn’t exactly feel bad, though.

Blushing, Dean creeps his fingers down hesitantly until the fingertips are resting against the base of his dick.

He resists the urge to flinch away from himself, and keeps his hand put.

He counts to 30. No bolt of lightning strikes him.

It’s ok. He reassures himself. Cas isn’t going to hit you, he doesn’t care, he wasn’t mad that time you got hard. This is yours and you’re allowed to touch.

He slides his fingers down slowly until they reach the tip of his shaft. Gently, he grasps his dick in his hand.

He stares down uncertainly.

Now what? He wonders.

He hadn’t thought this far ahead. He’d just wanted to prove that if everyone else in the world is allowed to touch his genitals, at least he should be able to too.

Well. He did that.

Should he just stop? He should stop. He did what he intended, touched his own fucking penis, it’s not like he ever intended to do anything else. It’s not like he intended to…to masturbate, that’s far too much, that’s far too frightening. Even if he knows technically he’s allowed to now, he’s never done that, so, so even if technically Cas has allowed him to, the thought of his master catching him…

Sends blood flowing into his cock.

Dean’s lips part in half shock, half arousal as the crippling fear he expects at the thought of his master walking in on him is yanked back by heat. He watches, flushing, as the length in his hand starts to grow.

And oh.

Oh.

If he thought the skin under his pubic hair is sensitive, that’s nothing compared to what’s hardening in his hand now.

The “what do I do now” feeling disappears. He knows what to do now. Or at least his body does.

Tentatively, experimentally, he rubs his thumb along his length.

His breath quickens.

He does it again. And again.

Suddenly bold, he moves his whole hand up and then down his cock.

Dean groans, turning so his back is against the wall, and tips his head back in pleasure.

This feels…this feels good. Really good.

He’s never really touched himself before, not like this, not for him. He’s orgasmed an incredibly few times in his life considering how much sex he’s had, but even when he did, any feelings of pleasure were so overwhelmed by terror that they became void.

He’d humped himself to completion not too long ago, but that had been a ruined, fear filled thing as well.

Even if his body had been stimulated before, he’d never before now felt safe enough for it to be called pleasure.

He hadn’t realized before now that you need to feel safe before you can feel true pleasure.

He hadn’t realized until now that he feels safe.

Dean closes his eyes, warm water still running over his front contradicting the coolness of the tiles against his back. He smiles.

With increasing confidence, Dean begins to pump his hand up and down in earnest. Without thinking about it, he reaches up with his other hand to pull and play with his nipples. He moans when he realizes what he’s doing.

His thoughts flicker back to what had set him off, the thought of Cas…of Cas coming in and seeing him like this.

Dean gasps, back arching as he gives his cock a particularly hard tug.

Cas isn’t going to come in, he’d locked the door, he knows he did but still, still the thought of it makes Dean’s heart pick up and his thoughts run wild.

What would Cas even do? Sweet, virginal Cas who’d almost certainly never touched a naked body that wasn’t his own.

Well he’d blush, that’s for sure, and god how far gone is Dean if even that has his toes curling. But god his blush is so pretty, and he blushes so so much, it drives Dean crazy. It drives him crazy because he wants, he needs to know how far down that blush goes. Does he blush all over, do his shoulder and chest become flushed? He wants to know so badly, and if Cas came in here right now he’s tear the man’s shirt off to find out.

And then…oh Christ, he’d pull Cas in here with him, shirt ripped open but otherwise still clothed, and he would kiss the man, kiss him so hard, kiss him all over, kiss his mouth and his neck and his nipples.

Dean pinches his own at the thought, and it makes him moan.

He’d never pinch Cas’s though, never hurt him at all. He’d make Cas feel so damn good. All the hell he’s gone through would be good for something at last.

He imagines going lower, kissing his way down Cas’s stomach until he was faced with the man’s crotch. He’d be bulging like crazy by then. He imagines nuzzling the clothed erection, mouthing against the man’s wet clothes. Cas’s hands would be in his hair, not petting softly like he always adores but pulling. It would hurt and Dean would fucking love it.

Dean moves down to rub his balls. He’s never touched himself their either. They feel heavy in his hand, but he feels fire shoot through his body as he fondles them.

Holy fucking shit, Cas would yank his hair and it would hurt. Dean would look up at him, naked and vulnerable…

Cas is soft and sweet and has never treated Dean with anything but gentleness.

The thought of him doing the opposite is suddenly the hottest thing Dean can imagine.

“Shit.” Dean hisses. “Shit.”

He twists his nipple as hard as he can, and the pain makes his hips jerk upwards. He moves his hand faster.

What if Cas got angry? What if, for once, he actually treated Dean roughly?

Punishment has always been a word that filled him with dread. Why the word now fills him with excitement is beyond him.

Dean pants, chest heaving at the thought of Cas jerking his head back, manhandling him like a doll until he was lying over the edge of the tub, ceramic cold against his chest, ass vulnerable in the air.

He bites the hand that isn’t on his cock.

Dean imagines Cas hitting him.

He imagines the man slapping him, spanking him over and over and over until his ass is hot and red, until Dean’s hips are jerking with every smack in desperation, half to get away and half to get off, trying to get enough friction against the ceramic to rub himself to completion.

Dean lets out a whine through the knuckles shoved between his teeth. He flicks his thumb over the tip of his cock and the whine becomes a groan.

He’s never felt so genuinely desperate, so strung out and truly overwhelmed with pleasure.

Taking his hand out of his mouth, he moves it behind him, dipping his fingers between the cheeks of his ass and rubbing at his hole with his middle finger.

He imagines Cas again, imagines the spanking stop, imagines himself limp and sobbing and so so hard, already wrecked, hips jerking erratically and hopelessly in search of release.

And Cas…completely ignoring his desperation, instead grabbing the oversensitive, pink globes of his ass and spreading them apart, exposing his twitching hole.

Dream Cas roughly shoves a finger in dream Dean’s ass.

Real Dean moans, and does the same.

Dream Cas continues to finger dream Dean open as real Dean pumps his finger in and out, pushing his dick into his hand before shoving his ass down on his digit.

“Beg.” Dream Cas demands.

“Please.” Real Dean whispers.

In his mind, Cas growls, and spanks him again, causing his hold body to convulse.

“You can do better than that.”

“Please.” Dean gasps out loud. “Please, Sir, I want your cock.”

“Better.” He hears Cas say, but he just continues to fingerfuck him.

“Please fuck me.” Dean whimpers. “Please, Sir, fuck me. Fill me. I’ll be good, I’ll be your good boy.”

“I know you will.” Dream Cas says. “You always are.”

He sounds, finally, exactly like the real Cas.

Dean shoves a second finger into his ass as he imagines Cas shoving in his dick. He hisses in pain, but doesn’t stop his fingers pumping in and out of his ass. It feels good somehow, the pain. When he imagines it coming from Cas, it somehow feels like pleasure.

He shoves his fingers in and out and in and out, all the while tugging relentlessly on his aching cock. He has to bite his lip to keep from moaning too loud, and imagines it’s Cas covering his mouth with his hand as he fucks Dean.

At last he feels it building, heat coiling in his stomach, far stronger than he’s ever felt it before.

He imagines Cas reaching around at last, grabbing Dean’s hardness and pumping it aggressively.

“Come for me, Dean.” Dream Cas says, and Dean does.

A wave of white washes over him, and Dean suddenly can’t breathe as his body is wracked with light.

It seems to go on forever, layer after layer crashing down on him as he shakes.

For a moment or a minute or a year, nothing exists except the light, melting his body from the inside out.

When it finally passes, Dean is on his knees.

He’s breathing hard.

Eyes wide, Dean stares at the bottom of the tub for a long time.

He realizes that at some point the water had started running cold.

What the fuck just happened.

His limbs feel like jelly.

His insides do too.

Dean tries to stand up, but collapses back down almost immediately. His legs can’t hold his weight anymore.

What. The fuck. Just happened.

Blinking, he watches as his semen gets washed down the drain.

Oh god.

He feels sick all of a sudden, horribly so, and he touches his forehead to the ground in an effort to let the nausea pass. It doesn’t work, and he’s retching before he knows it, bile and vomit choking out of him and following his semen oh my god what the fuck down the drain.

He doesn’t sit up when he’s done, but stays bowed and bent over, shivering as the icy water pours over him.

He chokes back a sob.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He hadn’t meant to do that, he hadn’t meant to masturbate, it had just felt so good, he hadn’t expected it to feel so good. He’d gotten carried away.

But god, what the fuck was he doing, what the actual fuck was he dreaming about? Why would he want those things? Hadn’t he had enough abuse?

Already, with the hormones gone, thinking about what he’d been thinking of moments ago sends terror through him.

I don’t want that. He thinks in a panic. I don’t want Cas to do that to me. I don’t want to be hit, I don’t want to be fucked.

But then why had he come imagining it? What was so twisted inside him that he got off on things he’d been tortured by?

They broke you. He thinks, and he knows it’s true. That’s the only explanation for why he would want the things he’s so afraid of. They’ve snapped him in half, and put him back together in the way they want him. And now he wants the things they want. And now he is just like them.

Horror grabs him hard.

He is just like them.

He is just like them, he’s sick and twisted and awful and he’s just like them because he’s dragging someone else into his fucked up wants too. How could he, how could he think of Cas like that, kind, naive Cas who would probably be terrified if he even knew the things Dean had gotten off to even existed.

For a second Dean is sure he is going to start crying. Instead, an aborted scream half makes it out of his throat, a horrid, ravaged sound that makes his own ears flinch.

He sits up suddenly.

And then Dean is blind with rage and misery, all towards himself, he hates himself and he hates his desires and he wants them gone.

He’s clawing at his dick before he knows what he’s doing, but doesn’t stop once he realizes, ripping at it like he’s trying to tear it off because he is. He wants it gone he wants it fucking gone he doesn’t want to want anymore because all he wants is more pain more pain and to corrupt everyone around him.

There are noises coming out of his mouth, noises an animal would make, not a scream nor a sob but something entirely inhuman and appropriate for what he’s become. Dean makes no effort to stop them.

He digs his nails into the soft skin of his shaft and scratches, as hard as he can, long red lines appearing behind the violence.

He screams again in pain, but keeps going, scraping and scratching until there is skin under his fingernails and blood running down the drain. Even when his penis is nothing but red he keeps going, rabidly clawing at himself anywhere he can reach, scratching at his arms and his chest and his face until there is nothing but blood.

This is not my body I do not belong in here I need to get out get out get out get out get out.

He claws the skin off his body, trying to allow his warped soul a way to escape.

But there is no way out. He is trapped in this unfamiliar body whether he likes it or not.

It’s only then that the despair hits him, his desperation running down the drain like the blood mixing with the flowing water.

He sobs, collapsing against the side of the tub in exhaustion. Shaking with cold and with tears, he stares at the red swirling beautifully below him.

He cries for a long time.

* * *

Eventually he pulls himself together. Robotically, he turns of the freezing water and gets out of the shower. He stands there, dripping blood and water, waiting to dry. He doesn’t want to stain Cas’s towels.

He doesn’t bother to put clothes on again once the liquids have stopped running off his body. Mechanically, he leaves the bathroom, and wanders through the house looking for Cas. He eventually finds the man in the backyard, sitting cross legged in the grass. As Dean walks over to him, he sees that Cas is reading a huge brail-dotted book.

Cas looks up as he hears Dean approach.

“Hello, Dean.” He says amiably.

Dean, feeling blank, doesn’t respond to the greeting. Instead, he kneels down in front of Cas and touches his forehead to the ground. He clasps his hands behind his back as if they were tied there, like he’s been trained to do when he’s in disgrace.

“I’m sorry, Master.” Dean whispers sadly. “I disobeyed you. Please punish me as you see fit.”

The open air stings the raw scratches that now cover his body.

Cas blinks for a moment, before shutting his book and putting it carefully aside.

“Dean?” He asks quietly.

Dean shudders at the sweet sound of his voice. With Cas in front of him, he feels, more than ever, small and revolting and wrong.

What is wrong with me? What am I? Am I even a human anymore, and was I ever?

“I broke rule number four.” Dean admits, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

He has such lenient rules to follow, and so few. It’s inexcusable that he can’t even manage to behave himself in the few ways Cas had asked.

Dean is staring directly into the dirt, so he feels more than he sees Cas’s hesitation.

“What…what rule is that?”

He can hear the nervousness in the other man’s voice, and equal parts guilt and confusion surge within him.

He doesn’t understand why Cas cares about him, but the man obviously does, and it hurts that Dean can’t stop scaring him.

“Do not punish yourself.” Dean recites dutifully, having memorized the rules backwards and forwards as soon as they were given.

Cas makes a strangled noise of alarm. Suddenly his hands are brushing over Dean’s bare and scarred back, searching and then finding his freckled shoulders, which he hauls Dean up by so he’s at least sitting up on his knees. Dean stays in the position Cas places him in, but keeps his arms behind his back and his head bowed.

“Are you alright? What did you do?” Cas says frantically. Dean steals a glance up from under his lashes. Cas’s unfocused eyes are wide.

“I scratched myself a lot. On my penis and arms and chest and face and legs.”

“Do you need to go to the doctor?” Cas asks immediately. His face is full of concern and kindness.

Dean thinks again of what he’d thought of in the shower, and feels despicable.

“No.” Dean mumbles, voice wavering as shame engulfs him. “They’re not deep. I just…”

“Show me.” Cas says, so Dean does, unclasping his hands to guide Cas’s to the bloody marks on his chest.

The openness of the skin makes even the light contact sting, but Cas touches him with such gentleness and care that Dean wants to run away.

He’d masturbated to the idea of this man manhandling him.

Dean jerks away suddenly, unable to deal with Cas’s softness.

“I. I’m sorry, Cas. I’m sorry, Master.”

He feels flushed in the heat of humiliation, warmer than the sun beating down on his back.

Cas is blinking at the sudden loss of Dean’s skin beneath his fingers.

“Dean?” He questions warily. There is a waver in his voice that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was and Dean just didn’t notice, too wrapped up in his own panic.

Selfish. Dean thinks angrily.

And he is, he knows it as soon as he looks back at Cas, noticing for the first time how wide his eyes are, and how pale his skin is.

He’s scaring the shit out of Cas.

Dean wants to die.

He’d heard the anxiety in Cas’s voice the moment the man had realized something was wrong, but it took Dean what, five full minutes to notice the extent to which Cas is freaked?

Selfish, selfish. Fucking brat. Whore. Never caring about anyone else but yourself, running back to your master with your tail between your legs because your brain broke in half again.

Now look what you’ve done.

He imagines how this must look from Cas’s end. This broken, traumatized, unstable slave appears suddenly, groveling and begging to be punished, saying he’s punished himself, and what the hell does that mean to Cas, he can’t even see what Dean’s done, he probably assumed he’d finally snapped and slit his wrists.

Bloody and naked, stupid and small, feeling like a pinned bug under a heating lamp beneath the bare light of day; Dean suddenly feels uglier than he ever has.

It’s such a tragedy that Cas cares for him. Otherwise he could just kill himself and be done with it.

Because nothing as shriveled as him should be allowed near someone as beautiful and clean as Cas.

Cas had been having a nice time out here until Dean had come and ruined his day. He’d been happily reading while Dean had been jerking off to perversions in the shower. And then because that wasn’t enough, Dean had had to come find him and ruin everything even more than he already had.

He feels so tired all of a sudden. He’d never appreciated, when he was a thing, how little his actions meant to other people. It was nice, in a way, to know you could never hurt anyone.

He misses it, and he lets himself miss it, and he lets himself hate himself for missing it too.

“I’m sorry, Cas.” He sighs. The words hold more weight without the layer of fear.

That’s gone now. All he feels now is revulsion and heartache.

How he wishes he could be clean.

Dean pushes himself forward again. He pauses, debating whether to take Cas’s limp and trembling hands in his own.

Instead he moves right towards Cas’s lower torso, laying his head on the man’s lap and wrapping his arms around his button-down-shirt covered middle.

Dean absently wonders if Cas owns anything but button downs, and if he’d buttoned it up wrong again today. He hadn’t noticed.

The rest of him is focused on shifting his body so all of him is as close as he can get to Cas. With his head pressed into the man’s stomach, he lays most of his chest across the Cas’s criss-crossed legs, ignoring the way his scratches protest at the rough feel of denim against them. He pulls the rest of his body as close as he can, so though the lower half of him is still laying in the grass, his knees touch Cas’s legs.

The scrapes on his chest and face ache at the movement, but the cool grass feels soft and soothing against his angry member.

Cas, who usually keeps his hands petting at Dean’s hair, finds his shoulders again, and drags his hands down the length of Dean’s arms. He then moves to the back of Dean’s neck, and from there runs his spread hands down the length of Dean’s ragged back.

It takes a moment for Dean to realize he’s checking for injuries, not trusting Dean to have told him the true extent. Warmth and shame battle inside him.

He doesn’t say anything though, but lets Cas touch him. And if he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine for a moment that it’s for a different purpose than checking for signs of attempted suicide, well…

Well. His dick may give a soft twitch, but the pain radiating from it reminds him of his place.

He’s placed his body so it’s as close as he can physically be to Cas, and this is as close as he’s ever going to be. He won’t let himself think of the ways two people can be even closer.

Cas’s hands stop as they reach the end of Dean’s back. The touch disappears, as Dean knew it would, but that doesn’t stop him from swallowing hard.

“You’re not wearing clothing.” Cas realizes.

“Was showering.” Dean says.

“Ah.” Cas says simply, and then Dean does feel a hand running pleasantly through his hair.

He remembers the first time he’d come to Cas without clothing, the first day he was here, when he’d assumed Cas was going to fuck him despite being torn and bleeding and about to faint. Cas had been so embarrassed, Dean remembers, and he smiles very slightly at the memory. Dean isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that the man is so much less flustered now.

“Dean.” Cas’s whisper breaks into his thoughts. “What happened?”

He speaks softly, as if to a spooked animal.

Dean stares at the grass.

It’s appropriate, Dean thinks miserably. That’s all he really is after all.

The resignation that usually comes with the sadness isn’t there. He doesn’t want to be an animal anymore, fiercely doesn’t want to be, spooked or not. He suddenly and uncharacteristically resents the sweetness with which Cas treats him with. He’d rather be a terrified human than a happy pet.

And then his emotions swing wildly again as the guilt once again hits him hard. It’s not Cas’s fault Dean feels the way he feels. It’s certainly not the man’s kindness that makes Dean feel the way he feels.

He hates how tentatively Cas treats him when he gets like this because he hates that he needs to be treated this way. Cas speaking to him like he is made of something sturdy may comfort his pride, but it will comfort nothing else. Being treated like he can handle himself won’t magically make him able to handle himself.

He doesn’t want Cas to treat him like he can handle himself. He wants to be able to handle himself.

He’s sick of breaking down like this. He’s sick of being broken. He’s sick of trying to fix himself too.

He wants to be clean, like Cas. He wants to be clean for Cas.

The wish is like a physical ache inside him, hurting more than his open wounds.

That fact that it’s unattainable should dull the desire. Instead it makes his heart throb ever more insistently, the way his stomach used to scream louder the more his brain knew he wasn’t getting fed.

“I’m so fucked up.” Dean mumbles against the cotton of Cas’s shirt.

It’s not an explanation. He doesn’t have one that he could possibly say out loud.

Cas doesn’t press.

“You’re healing.” He says instead.

Dean smiles grimly. It’s not a happy thing.

“I’m already healed, Cas.” He mutters back. “I just healed all wrong.”

Chapter Text

“What the hell is ‘Zan-Ex?”

“Xanax.” Benny replies. “It’s a drug. It’s used to treat anxiety.”

Dean freezes where he sits across from the therapist, mind snagging on the word “drug.”

“I don’t like drugs.” He says bluntly.

Benny considers him.

“‘Drug’ may have been the wrong word. It’s a medication.”

Dean feels panic grip his chest.

He knew this therapist thing was a bad idea.

“I don’t like drugs.” He says again. It’s the closest he’s allowed to get to a refusal.

Benny frowns at him for a minute. He seems more thoughtful than angry, but it scares Dean nonetheless.

“You’ve had bad experiences with drugs.” He concludes.

“No shit.” Dean snaps, and regrets it immediately.

This isn’t Cas he’s dealing with here. He can’t afford to feel safe.

If Benny decides he’s had enough of Dean’s shit, he’s fucked. Cas had offered, when they’d arrived, to sit right outside like last time. Dean had stupidly said he didn’t have to.

One glance at Benny’s powerful forearms makes him regret that decision immensely. He curls into himself protectively in case Benny gets angry.

The man seems as unruffled as ever, though, even in the face of Dean’s backtalk.

He just sighs wearily and shifts in his seat.

“Look, Dean, no one is going to put you on anything that you don’t consent to. But you have to recognize that what happened the other day isn’t normal.”

He gestures to the bandages that now once again cocoon Dean’s body, which Dean had been obligated to explain when he’d come in. Benny had already known, as Cas had called the therapist as soon as Dean had been bandaged, but for some reason Benny had wanted to hear it again. From “his perspective”, whatever that means to the man. All it means to Dean is that he had to shamefully explain once again what he’d done wrong, and how fucked up he is.

Benny had asked what had “triggered” his reaction. Dean had told him, stilted, embarrassed. Well, he had told Benny what he’d been doing. He hadn’t told the man who or what he’d been thinking about, of course. He’s thankful he hadn’t been asked to. Not because he thinks he might tell, but because he knows that pretty much no amount of yelling or punishment could make him.

Dean scowls at Benny’s wave towards his injuries.

“I know it’s not normal.” He mutters. He’s not that stupid. “I get it. I won’t do it again.”

“It’s not always something you can control.” Benny says at once. “I’m not saying you’re at fault, Dean. I’m just saying that you’ve now had more than one anxiety attack, both in which you’ve ended up hurting yourself, and that’s not something you can just sweep under the rug and ignore.”

Dean doesn’t know how to respond to that. He wants to say he doesn’t know what an anxiety attack is, but now he does, and he wants to say that he isn’t trying to sweep anything under the rug, but that’s exactly what he wants to do.

He bites his lip and looks away, uncomfortable.

“Why are you scared of drugs?” Benny asks, bluntly. Usually that’s something Dean would like about him, as he’s always been shit at mind games. Now, though, it doesn’t seem like such a great thing.

Discomfort is replaced by anger.

“Like you don’t know.” Dean snarls. He glowers, but the therapist stares back evenly.

“I want you to tell me.”

Dean drops his glare to the floor, teeth grinding together.

Why? Why does he have to keep repeating things everyone already knows? Why does everyone insist on dragging out his life from where he’s hidden it inside him, spreading it out and making him look at it? Benny, Dr. Singer, Cas, even Sam. Why did they have to make him face things he’s already suffered through, things they couldn’t have even survived the first time?

“Fine.” Dean relents. “Just put me on the drug. I don’t care.”

In that moment, he doesn’t.

Or, he does, but he’s less scared about facing the future than he is about facing the past.

I don’t want to talk about this.

He doesn’t want to think about it either. He wants to leave everything in the past where it belongs. He’s too fucking tired for this, too worn down to survive yet another battle.

He’d thought, in finding Cas, he might have found peace. The man is so gentle, and the house so far away from everything. He’d thought maybe they could stay up there, alone, away from the loudness of the world, and everything could just be soft forever.

But his own mind is betraying him, and he’s found he can’t escape the loudness because the loudness is in him.

He’s so, so tired.

“Dean.”

“Sir.”

Dean continues to refuse eye contact with the man. He knows what he’s going to say.

When he’d been about twelve and Sam about eight, Sam had gone through a phase where he’d loved scary stories. He’d read everything he could get his hands on, about vampires and zombies and ghosts.

That phase had ended once John had caught wind of it.

“What’s dead is dead.” He’d said, ripping the books apart with frightening strength. “What’s dead is done.”

Even then, Dean had known better.

Because Dean had known death, had known exhaustion so terrible it was nearly the same thing. He’d known limbs so heavy he thought they must have bones made of lead, and known the creeping dread of that lead seeping into your bloodstream and dripping towards your heart, feeling the death in your veins.

And he also knew how strong need can be, knew that there was hunger and thirst and longing so deep it could wake even the dead.

Zombies and vampires and ghosts were real, and they were all of them inside him.

What’s dead is not always done, not if parched or starving or haunted.

His own brain won’t let him rest in peace.

As he stares at the carpet, it seems to blur in front of him. A great gaping openness seems to unfold inside him, an emptiness that wants.

He longs more than ever to be left alone.

I want to go somewhere quiet.

The thought drops into his head softly, but it breaks his heart. His head doesn’t know what that even means, but the hollow yearning inside him does.

He’s been fighting his whole life, fighting to survive, fighting to protect, fighting for himself and for who he loved.

Deep down, he knows. He was never meant for fighting.

He doesn’t want to fight his demons too, doesn’t want to love anyone or himself.

He wants to be left alone, to go live on the moon or in the depths of the woods, where there is nothing but quiet and peace, where he never has to think or care or love ever again.

Silently but suddenly he understands Cas inside and out.

“I don’t care.” He says again, quieter. Defeated.

“If you want to get better,” Benny says, “You have to.”

That was it. That was the longing that turned him from a corpse to a ghost, no longer dead but not really alive.

No matter how exhausted he gets, he can never stop wanting. He can never just give up.

He can’t stop wanting to get better, wanting a home, wanting Sam back, wanting Cas entirely.

He remembers telling Cas he loves him, and remembers that Cas said it back. He believes him. He feels guilty.

Cas just wanted peace too, and instead got stuck with Dean, got stuck loving Dean.

There’s no such thing as peace.

“They drugged me.” Dean admits, a confession that surprises no one. “All the time. It. It was the worst… It was worse than anything. I don’t know why.”

He hugs his torso tightly. Some people say talking is supposed to make you feel better. Dean feels like he’s peeling off his skin with a knife.

“It. They. I couldn’t move sometimes. I couldn’t move my body. Or. I would see things that weren’t there. They weren’t real but I couldn’t tell. I didn’t know what was real, I could feel my heart going too fast, I thought I would die. Sometimes they gave me something that made me want it, I was just… so hot all over. I would beg and beg to be fucked. I didn’t. I couldn’t think straight or feel or…”

Benny’s face is solemn, but unjudgmental. Dean isn’t sure how much sense he’s making, but Benny doesn’t tell him to stop or slowdown.

“Sometimes they just made me go to sleep. I’d wake up and it would be over. It should have made it easier but that was the worst of all.”

“It doesn’t sound like that would be easier.” Benny says. “It sounds terrifying.”

Dean blinks.

“It was.” He says. His voice breaks.

It doesn’t feel good to say. It feels small.

They took everything from him. They took his life, his body, his pride, and he’s not stupid enough not to know that they took his mind as well. His emotions are all he has left. How he feels, even if he feels awful… that’s all that’s left he’s sure is him.

Drugs took that from him too, made him feel however they wanted him to feel. Losing that last bit of himself, becoming entirely a person they created… it was horrifying. It was the most awful thing they ever did.

Sometimes they didn’t even make him feel anything, they didn’t bother, just drugged him so he’d black out. Becoming just a body to fuck, inside and out, even temporarily, was worse than suffering through whatever they were doing to him. It forced him to acknowledge that if it wasn’t for the fact that his body would decay, they would be happier if he evacuated and left them to fuck a pretty corpse.

He doesn’t think he can let them take this from him again.

But he can’t get his brain under control either. And if he can’t get his brain under control, he’s going to end up as that corpse anyway.

“What is Xanax?” Dean asks in a small voice.

“It’s a pill. A medication, to help with panic and anxiety disorders.”

Dean bites his lip.

“You think I got one of those? A disorder?”

Benny’s eyes soften, and he looks at Dean sympathetically.

“I would say so, yes.”

Dean feels his gut twist. He feels sick.

Slaves don’t have the luxury of going crazy. You either hold it together, or you die. He’s seen what happens to slaves who crack, has seen it over and over throughout his short life.

They get shot. A bullet in the head and an unmarked hole in the ground.

No one wants to own a loose cannon.

Dean’s stomach churns like he’s falling from something very high up. If Cas were to ever sell him, he wouldn’t have even the slightest chance of being allowed to live.

But if Cas were to ever sell him, he doesn’t think he would want to.

“Fuck.” He begs. “Please don’t tell Cas.”

What if the man doesn’t want him anymore? He never even wanted Dean to begin with, it’s a miracle he wasn’t thrown out when they found out all the disgusting STD’s Dean was riddled with. Now there’s a bunch of shit wrong with his head too?

He’s supposed to be taking care of Cas, not the other way around.

Shame fills his heart. Why did he ever think he could do this? Why did he ever think he could be more than a toy?

“If we decided to put you on meds, I’ll have to tell him. He’s your guardian, legally.”

The padded word grates at him.

“He’s my master, legally.” Dean snaps. “He’s my master. He can do what he wants with me. Drug me or not, keep me or sell me. It’s up to him.”

His voice trips when he says “sell me.” Frustration beats at his chest, both at the reality of his words and his transparent fear.

“Cas is not going to sell you.” Benny says immediately, as Dean knew he would.

Dean scoffs. “Easy for you to say.”

Easy to dismiss uncertainty when you’re not the one facing it.

Benny stays infuriatingly calm.

“I know you’re scared.” He says. “You’re right, it was wrong of me to try and sugar coat your situation. Cas isn’t your guardian, he owns you. You don’t have the luxury of ignoring what that means.”

Dean blinks as the man seemingly pulls his thoughts from his head.

“But Dean,” He continues. “Cas is the one who brought you here, to see a mental health professional. He thought you needed help. He’s not going to get angry because we’ve put a name to the issue.”

“He could.” Dean mutters, knowing full well Benny is right.

Benny sighs.

“Dean, this isn’t a bad thing. This is progress. I know making it concrete is scary, but it means you can start getting better.”

Getting better.

The words fill him with exhaustion.

Dean wilts.

Benny is right, of course. He already knew that. Cas would never have taken him in to begin with if he was going to throw him out now.

Then why is it that putting a name to what’s wrong with him fills him with such misery?

Anxiety.

The name should find a common denominator in the shattered fragments of his bone and mind, should make the mess of his psyche seem more manageable.

It doesn’t.

Getting better. He’s been trying to do that this whole time.

“How long will it take to start working?” He asks.

“‘Bout a week.” Benny replies. “Give or take a few days. We’d start you on a low dosage, and up it later if you need. I’d ask you to give it a few weeks before deciding if you don’t want to stay on it, but if you hate no one will force you to keep taking it.”

“And, what, it’s supposed to help with this panic shit?”

Benny nods. “It should. It should help with general anxiety too, make you feel less afraid on a day to day basis.”

A lump forms in Dean’s throat at how much he wants that, and he struggles to swallow it down.

The idea of not being constantly frightened, of not spiralling into these attacks, of it being so easy to fix.

The fact that he knows it’s too good to be true doesn’t ease the ache in his chest. It almost seems to make it worse.

“I want to get better.” Dean admits quietly, a statement that seems to be taken by Benny as agreement rather than the hopeless fantasy that it is.

“This is the way to start.” The man says.

The way to start. Words that imply an end, instead of just the infinite struggle Dean just agreed to.

Dean stares down at where bandages cover his forearms, hiding the scratches and scabs from view. It’s a futile effort, as there is no hiding the raw marks that cover his face.

I’m going to be like this forever. He thinks, and knows in his heart it’s true.

He’s never really going to get better.

He is always going to be fucked up in some way, always going to be fighting to hold the shards of himself together.

Cas may believe differently, and Benny may believe differently, but Dean knows better.

There is no getting better. The fight’s not over until you’re underground.

* * *

He sees Cas before he sees Kevin, bent over a table with a little girl and a young woman, all who seem to be coloring.

Dean stares in confusion from his place in the door of the library, most especially at Cas, who despite being blind and half mute is somehow still both scribbling away and engaging in quiet conversation with a seven year old.

The young woman, though sitting next to the girl as well and also coloring, is not speaking.

He catches sight of Kevin waving a moment later, and moves to the the young man who is seated on the other side of the room.

“Hey.” He says, pulling out a chair next to the boy. “What’s going on over there?” He gestures to the odd ensemble.

“Hell if I know.” Kevin says as Dean sits. “That girl just came running in here a half hour ago, screaming her head off.”

The boy leans in, clearly eager to share whatever scene he’d just witnessed.

“She was totally freaking out! She started ripping books out of the shelves and throwing them for no reason. That lady ran in after her.” He points, rather obviously, to the blond woman. Thankfully she doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, doesn’t seem to mind.

“She works here.” Kevin informs him. “I’ve seen her around before. I think she’s a nurse.”

There’s a pause then, and Dean stops staring at the woman to look back over at Kevin. The young man is looking at him in anticipation, obviously proud to be able to provide this information and awaiting a response.

Dean realizes with a jolt that the boy had been waiting since the event to tell him what had happened, and was not just relaying the story because Dean had asked.

He feels oddly touched, even if it is just gossip. It had been a long time since anyone had wanted to talk to Dean.

“Why was the kid running, then?” Dean wonders.

Kevin shrugs. “No idea. But she was really upset. The lady couldn’t get her to calm down. But guess who did!”

Dean looks back over to where Cas is seated, on the other side of the room.

The answer is obvious, of course, and yet still confuses him enough to find it’s way out of Dean’s mouth as a question.

“Cas?”

Kevin nods excitedly. “I have no idea what he said to her, but it worked. She stopped crying, and he even got her to put the books back.”

“Wow.” Dean says, and means it.

He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised. He shouldn’t be. It’s not like Cas hasn’t already calmed him down a million and one times.

And then Dean feels ashamed of himself, for feeling so startled. Hadn’t Cas already proved over and over that he’s capable? He takes care of Dean just fine, and Dean is a mess of a person.

He’s underestimated the man, just like the rest of the world does, just like the man’s family does, just like Cas himself does. Dean should know better. Just because he’s blind and weird as fuck doesn’t mean he’s helpless.

He blinks at the image of Cas scribbling seriously, knowing the paper must hold nothing but random blobs and lines. Cas smiles slightly at something the girl says, and Dean’s heart melts.

“After that, they all left together, then came back like ten minutes later.” Kevin muses. “No idea what they were doing.”

“They were giving the girl a shot.” Dean says suddenly, eyes catching on a colorful band-aid on the girl’s upper arm.

And Cas knew how to deal with her panic because he’d already dealt with mine.

Dean isn’t sure how he feels at that realization. Embarrassed, certainly, but not as much as he would have expected. Mostly he just feels proud of Cas.

He nods in the girls direction for Kevin’s benefit, and the boy sees the band-aid a moment later.

“Huh.” He frowns. “That’s a lot of fuss over a pin-prick.”

Mostly he sounds confused, but he can’t completely keep the judgment out of his voice.

Dean understands. Free children have the luxury of crying at everything, but life is different as a slave. Even a well treated slave like Kevin would have been familiar with much worse pain by the girl’s age, and would have known better than to cry.

Dean doubts the girl has been well treated like Kevin.

“She’d been drugged.” Dean says flatly, without taking his gaze off the kid. Looking at her more closely now, he can see the splotchy redness of her face, indicating her tears.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Kevin stiffen. Dean realizes belatedly that the dead-certainty of his voice has revealed more about his own life than he would have liked.

To his credit, Kevin doesn’t react beyond a quiet “Oh.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Dean looks back at the boy. He’s gone a little pale, and isn’t making eye contact.

It occurs to Dean that he has not only managed to scare the younger man, but that the harshness of his voice had made it seem like he was mad at Kevin for judging her.

“It’s ok.” He tries, softening his tone. “She’s here now. Which means she’s probably free. Safe, at least, right?”

Kevin’s body loosens, but it seems more like defeat than relaxation.

“I guess.” He says glumly. “But not everyone here is free. You’re not. Sometimes people you’ve seen around will just disappear, because their masters change their minds.”

It’s a depressing point. Dean tries not to think about it happening to the little girl.

Kevin turns to look at him suddenly.

“What happened to your face?” He asks bluntly.

Dean blinks in surprise.

He’d forgotten about the scratches. They still hurt, but Dean had lived so much of his life in pain that he’s become used to letting it become background noise.

The wounds look horrific though, he’d seen in the mirror. Red and scabbing now, stretching from his eyes to his jaw to his forehead to his cheeks.

Yet not only had Kevin not brought them up until now, he hadn’t even reacted at all upon seeing Dean.

Dean thinks he may have overestimated the boy’s naiveté.

“I did it to myself.” He says.

Kevin’s look of incredulous doubt makes his heart pang.

No, Kevin is definitely not as naive as Dean had thought. Hoped.

“Really.” He assures. “I, uh. I had a ‘panic attack’ apparently. That’s what Benny says.”

He pulls the crumpled Xanax prescription he’d received from his pocket as proof.

Kevin leans over and examines it briefly before relief blooms on his face.

“Oh.” He says. “Good.”

Then he goes red, and stutters.

“I mean.” He blurts. “Not good, obviously. Um. I guess this isn’t any better.”

“Yes it is.” Dean, who has lived with people who liked to scratch up his face, says immediately.

Kevin stares at him for a moment.

“Yeah.” He agrees eventually. “It is.”

There is a solemn relief on his face.

Sometimes people you’ve seen around will just disappear, because their masters change their minds.

Dean remembers their conversation from the week before, and how nervous the boy was about Cas not allowing Dean to come back. Dean realizes suddenly that not only has Kevin been worried about him this entire conversation, but this entire week.

If Dean thought he was touched before…

He grins. Feeling uncharacteristically jubilant, he bumps the younger man with his shoulder.

“I’m fine, Kevin.” He says. “You worry too much.”

As if it is paranoid to worry about someone who has scratched all over their body.

Kevin smiles tentatively back anyway.

“Yeah.” He agrees. “I know I do. I’m on the same shit you are.”

He gestures to the Xanax prescription.

Dean laughs, and Kevin cracks a grin. He suspects this might be one of those things that would be more upsetting than funny to a normal person, but when you’re as fucked up as they are you have to take what you can get. And while it doesn’t exactly make him feel better that Kevin’s screwed up enough to laugh, he can’t help but feel less alone.

“Jeez, I’m sorry.” Kevin says then. “I’ve just been blabbing on. I’m supposed to be tutoring you!”

“I don’t mind.” Dean says, but Kevin isn’t having it.

“No, we’ve wasted enough time already. What do you want to start with?”

He pulls out a mess of folders and scattered papers from his backpack hanging on the chair.

“I printed some stuff out,” He continues, attempting to sort the pile into some sort of stack. “But I wasn’t really sure what to bring because I don’t know what you know. Did you want to start with math? Or science? Or reading? Do you know your reading level? And how much math can you do? Have you gotten to fractions? I brought some worksheets and tests so we can determine your skill level if you don’t know, but what we do is really up to you. Oh, shit.”

A stack of loose leaf slips from his hands and scatters across the table. Dean blinks as the boy re-stacks the paper, overwhelmed.

He glances back over to the odd group across the room. Cas has abandoned his drawing, and is now just listening patiently as the girl talks. The young woman is still there, but seems to have moved on to doing paperwork.

He bites his lip.

“There’s a book.” He starts hesitantly. “I started reading it years ago, but never got to finish it. It was pretty hard, but I could read it if I sounded out the words.”

Kevin nods at him expectantly, and he pushes down the embarrassment he feels at his illiteracy.

“Cas got it for me, so maybe I could practice at home. Harry Potter? I don’t know if they would have it here.”

“Oh hell yeah.” Kevin says immediately. “They’ll definitely have it here.”

* * *
They read for almost an hour before Kevin has to leave to go to work. By the end, they are only six pages in, but Kevin tells him he’s done well.

“If the only education you got was from an eight year old a decade ago, you’re either really really smart or you're reading my mind.”

He doesn’t believe the kid of course, but the compliment gets a blush out of him anyway.

After Kevin leaves, Dean moves warily over to the table Cas is at, somewhat worried that someone else’s presence will set the girl off again.

Instead she completely ignores him in favor of continuing to talk to Cas, breathlessly rambling about some princess movie that had come out while Dean had been trapped in a basement.

With Cas otherwise engaged, he sits somewhat nervously in a seat across from the trio. The blonde woman pauses in her work to smile up at Dean. She’s quite beautiful, all white teeth and bouncing gold curls. He feels painfully inadequate next to her, with his scratched face and scarred back, but awkwardly smiles back at her anyway.

Now that he’s closer, he realizes she’s even younger that Dean had thought, barely older than Kevin. A kid, really.

Not a nurse, then.

Or at least not a certified one. Dean doesn’t doubt in the slightest that the centre probably cannot afford a real doctor, and has to rely on a college aged volunteer.

“Claire.” She interjects the rambling child gently. “I think it’s about time for Mr. Novak to go. He has to take Dean home.”

The girl cuts herself off mid-sentence.

“Yes m’am.” She says immediately, and stands.

The obedience of the abused.

Her eyes land on Dean for only a moment before moving on. She doesn’t seem to even register the open wounds on his face.

She breaks his heart.

“Will you come back?” She asks Cas.

Cas nods. “Next week. I’ll see you then.”

“Claire.” The young woman says again. No more harshly, but the girl is by her side in an instant.

Dean wonders how scared she must have been to run and scream and throw.

He wonders how the hell Cas got her to open up so much.

Then he asks himself the same question.

“Thank you, again, so much for your help.” The young woman says, standing up from her seat. She stacks her papers together neatly and holds them to her chest. “You were really great with her.”

Cas smiles self-consciously. “I just listened.” He says.

There’s a pause, and the woman tilts her head in contemplation.

“Have you considered applying here as a counselor?”

Cas’s eyebrows jump up in shock. Dean’s heart stutters.

“Oh!” He yelps. “No, no. Not at all. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t be very good at that.”

Dean’s throat constricts. Yes you would.

“Besides.” He continues. “I would never be hired. I don’t have the credentials.”

The young woman looks amused. “I don’t either. I’m a pre-med sophomore at Stanford. This place is mostly run by volunteers. The counselors and psychiatrists are some of the only people who are payed, and not very much. But they’re always looking to hire more people who know what they’re doing.”

“Well I am certainly not one of them.” Cas says firmly.

The woman deflates.

“Well. If you ever change your mind.” She says. “And thank you for today, really. Claire really needed her immunizations.”

Cas relaxes obviously as she lets the topic go. “Anytime. It was lovely to meet you, Ms. Moore.”

The girl smiles another brilliant smile. “Please, call me Jess. And the pleasure was all mine.”

They leave then, with one last silent wave from Claire that goes unseen by it’s intended recipient.

With their departure, Dean and Cas are left alone in the library, the creek of the door swinging shut the only noise in the room at first.

Then Cas turns to him.

“Dean.” He says pleasantly. “How was your appointment? And your tutoring? I’m sorry I didn’t ask earlier, I didn’t want to upset Claire.”

“I got put on Xanex and I keep mixing up B’s and D’s. Why don’t you want to work here? You would be a great counselor.”

Dean watches as Cas’s face slips rapidly from a smile to startled to discomfort.

“I…” He starts. Dean waits a few seconds for him to continue, but the word is left floating.

“Cas, you’re good at this.” Dean charges on, with a bravery that would have been unthinkable a few months ago. “You deal with my shit all the time, and you always make me feel better. And Kevin told me how you calmed that girl down in only a few minutes. You got her to take her shot, didn’t you? Like you got me to get blood drawn, because you’re good at this.”

Cas’s jaw clenches, and he curls inward. It’s a familiar movement, and Dean hates seeing it on Cas. He’s not about to let this go, though.

“Dean.” Cas says, and it sounds like he’s pleading. “Just drop it.”

“Why?” He insists. “Why won’t you even try?”

“We live so far away.” Cas mutters. “I would have to call a cab every day…”

“I could drive you. I can drive, if you got a car I would take you. Anywhere you wanted to go, Cas.”

Now he’s the one who’s pleading.

“No.” Is all Cas says.

“Cas!”

“No.”

Dean stares at Cas, at a loss for what to say. Frustration bangs on his heart so strongly it nearly drowns out his understanding.

“So, what,” He snaps. “That’s you’re brilliant plan? You’re just gonna hide up on your fucking mountain until you die?”

“That is none of your concern.” Cas growls, so suddenly harsh that Dean flinches backwards in shock.

It’s suddenly so quiet you could hear a pin drop. All Dean actually hears is his startled heartbeat thumping in his chest.

The anger on Cas’s face quickly fades into regret at the silence, but instinct still tells Dean to cower.

That’s not what comes out of Dean’s mouth.

“Don’t talk to me like that.” He says, quietly but serious.

There’s a moment of silent surprise, his words clearly unexpected.

Then Cas’s shoulders slump, and the regret on his face becomes guilt.

“I’m sorry.” He says.

In the back of his mind, Dean wonders when the last time someone apologized to him because he demanded it. Had he ever had the confidence for that? Maybe years ago, and only with Sam, but even then he isn’t entirely sure.

More concretely, he decides he isn’t finished.

“It is my concern.” He tells Cas. “It became my concern when your brother dumped me at your door.”

Cas freezes. Dean keeps going.

“It became my concern when you became the person who owns me. Your life is my life, Cas, whether you like it or not.”

Biting his lip, Cas sinks down in his seat. “I’m sorry.” He says again. As if that helps at all.

Dean shakes his head. “You think I don’t know why your brother gave me to you? Do you even know yourself?”

Cas’s blank look gives him his answer even before the man opens his mouth.

“…My dog died?”

Dean throws himself back in his seat, covering his face with his hands.

It’s like Sam all over again.

He will never grasp the way privilege stops people from understanding what’s so obvious to him.

“Jesus Christ.” He mutters, before dropping his hands and sitting forward again.

“He brought me to you because I’m broken, and he knew you would want to fix me. I’m like one of those plants they make old people in nursing homes take care of so they don’t feel so pointless and live a little longer.”

He already knows he’s speaking too bluntly, that he’s already said things he’ll regrets and needs to reign it in. But Cas’s face isn’t changing or reacting at all, and he cracks.

“I’m you’re fucking therapy pet, Cas!” He hisses. “I’m a fucking toy for you to put back together, so you’ll have something to keep you occupied for a while.”

“Don’t call yourself that!” Cas interjects, jerking in his seat at the word. “Don’t say those things, Dean.”

“But they’re true!” Dean says forcefully, standing up from his seat. “It’s what I’m here for. It’s-Fuck, Cas, you don’t get it.”

Striding around to the other side, he perches on the table besides where Cas is seated, so he’s facing him.

Cas turns his head in his direction, but stares straight ahead towards Dean’s stomach, instead of angling his head up towards his face.

The room goes quiet again as Dean attempts to sort out his thoughts into what he’s really trying to say.

Cas’s voice appears before his does.

“Dean.” He says softly. “You aren’t some sort of…pet. I don’t see you like that. And maybe Gabe knew I wouldn’t turn you away because you were hurt, but that certainly isn’t the reason I love you.”

Dean ducks his head at the words. They never fail to send a jolt through him.

“And I do love you, Dean.” Cas keeps going. “Not because you are someone I can help, but because you have a beautiful soul.”

And, well, Dean hadn’t known how much he needed to hear that until it was said.

Cas reaches up his hand to the air, palm up. Dean takes it in his own.

Staring at their entwined hands on his lap, Dean sighs.

“When I was a kid, I thought I was happy.”

Still unsure of where he is going with this, but feeling words press up on his throat, he just lets them come.

“Cause I had Sam. And Sam…” His voice catches on the name. It still hurts so much to think about. “Sam meant everything to me.”

He doesn’t think it’s ever not going to hurt.

I’m never really going to get better.

Cas’s fingers curl tighter around his own. He lets their warmth ground him.

“I thought…I really thought, it doesn’t matter that I’m being raped, it doesn’t matter that I get beat, it doesn’t matter that we’re starving. Because I had Sam, and I loved him. And I thought that meant I must be happy.”

His voice is wavering, and he struggles to get it under control.

“I wasn’t happy.” He mutters, and the admission feels like a punch to the gut. “I was so, so sad. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that until now.”

But he has realized it, and now that he’s seen, he can never unsee. Now that he knows, he can never unknow.

He’d never once been happy. Not once, in his whole life.

The euphoria he’d felt on the rare occasion John was pleased with him hadn’t been joy, it had been relief.

The still something he felt watching cartoons with Sam on Saturday mornings had been longing, not contentedness.

“Love doesn’t solve your problems.” He says quietly. “Love doesn’t make reality go away. It doesn’t even make you happy, really. All it can do is make you care.”

It was the truth, miserable as it was. And he spoke it plainly, because the truth matters more than making people feel comfortable. He’d learned the hard way what denial gets you.

“I care, Dean.” Cas insists.

Dean almost believes him.

“Then why are you hiding?” He asks.

Cas sighs, hanging his head.

“I’m not hiding.” He claims. “I’m just…not as capable as either of us would like me to be.”

It’s the silliest thing he’s ever heard.

“You’re brilliant.” Dean says flatly. “You must know that.”

Cas pinches his lips together, unhappy. “That’s kind of you to say. But I’m not some sort of…autistic savant, or computer. I’m just me.”

Confusion and sadness mingle in Dean’s heart. Dean can see like an X-ray the skeleton of insecurities holding this man up.

“I know that.” He says gently. “You don’t have to be some sort of superhero to make up for being disabled. That doesn’t mean you’re, like, useless. It’s not one or the other you know.”

As soon as he speaks, he knows he’s said something right. He can’t see it in Cas’s eyes as much he can feel it in his own chest.

Cas’s face pinches into what looks to Dean for a moment like distress, before he realizes that Cas is trying to hold back tears.

Dean realizes he may have just stumbled on something Cas has needed to hear for a long time.

“I wanted to be a teacher.” The man says out of nowhere.

The admission carries all the weight of a whole lifetime someone else could have lived. It drops the echo of that world so tangibly into the room that Dean really feels like all the energy of an un-manifested universe has been converted into sorrow, and detonated.

There is nothing sadder than what could have been.

“You would have been a great teacher.” Dean mourns. There are no pretty, painful lies of maybe-one-day from him. Dean knows a corpse when he sees one. He doesn’t break Cas’s heart further by digging up an already deceased and buried dream and pretending the rotted thing still has a heartbeat.

Cas doesn’t agree, nor does he dissent. Just shrugs, and says, “I don’t know. I hated being homeschooled though. It was boring, and lonely. I liked the idea of a place where learning was made fun. I always wanted to be a part of that. I thought, if I couldn’t be there as a student, maybe I could teach.”

He licks his lips. “I realize now, of course, I would have most likely been bullied relentlessly, and that being blind would have made it difficult to excel in school, as I did in my classes at home.”

The words sound stiff, rehearsed. The fears of a man turned into a prayer. Cotton to stuff into the hole of never finding out.

“I don’t know.” Dean says. “You’re a pretty big nerd. You probably couldn’t get less than an A if you tried.”

Cas smiles slightly, dry and unhappy.

“Maybe.” He says quietly.

Maybe. A word so full of potential when used about the future. The emptiest of all when referring to the past.

“All my siblings went to college.” Cas says wistfully. “It wasn’t until I was applying that I was told I wasn’t going to follow. My parents didn’t think I could handle it. I…”

His voice shakes. “I had no other way to pay for it. And even trying would have meant being cut off from my parents' support. It’s so hard to get a job with a disability. I couldn’t afford to reject my inheritance. I would have been helpless without it.”

Cas seems to shrink with every word he speaks, talking faster and faster as he goes.

“Fuck.” He mutters, the explicative sounding awkward in his polished voice. “Of course I never even tried otherwise. All I do is sit in my house, mountain like a moat around a castle. You’re right, Dean, I’m a pathetic trust fund baby, I’ve never worked a day in my life, I don’t do anything, useless-”

“Hey!” Dean interrupts the words rushing out of Cas’s mouth. He jumps off the table, and pulls Cas up with him so they are standing in front of one and other. “That is not what I said. And that’s not fucking true.”

Cas makes a distressed noise. His eyes are red, but not like he’d been crying. Rather like he’d been trying not to for a very long time.

“It’s not!” Dean protests, and curses his bluntness. He doesn’t have the words to speak kindly the way Cas does, and is left stabbing crudely into wounds the more educated could do surgery on.

“Fuck, Cas.” He exhales. “That’s not what I…If it upsets you this much, I didn’t mean-If you don’t want to work here, then don’t. I just…” He ducks his head, then catches himself, and forces himself to look up at the other man.

“I just think you do want to work here. But you’re scared you won’t be able to.”

Cas turns his face away, but doesn’t speak.

“Is that right?” Dean prompts, going for the gentle tone Cas always uses on him.

The man frowns. “It doesn’t matter. You have enough to worry about on your own. You shouldn’t be worrying about me too.”

And fuck, that hits a nerve. Because isn’t that exactly how Dean has felt this whole time, hating himself for being a burden to the people he loves?

He thinks of Sam. He thinks of how many times he brushed off the boy's second-hand terror, how many times he told him to stop worrying, as if he could just turn it off.

How many times he let himself be hurt, hated himself, martyred himself. Thinking that, because he decided others shouldn't care about him, they wouldn't

“You can’t just tell me not to care about you.” He says. “I still do, whether you think I should or not.”

He pulls out the Xanax prescription again from where it was tucked into his pocket. Reaching out for Cas’s hand, he pushes the paper into the man’s palm.

“This is the prescription for a drug I’ve never heard of, that I don’t really believe in, that I agreed to take. Do you know how scared I am of drugs?”

“I’ve…picked up on it.” Cas says diplomatically. Dean would have laughed if he hadn’t been so distressed.

“Yeah, no shit. They scare the crap out of me. But I agreed to take them, because I’m trying. I’m trying to hold my fucked up brain together, and stay alive, because I love you.”

And then he does what he’s wanted to do for weeks, and kisses Cas.

It lasts a lot longer than half a second this time.

He kisses him long and hard and sad, and the sudden ocean-deep understanding of how much he has missed makes him feel like his heart is being ripped out.

Or, no.

It feels not like his heart is being ripped out, but more like it was ripped out a long time ago, and has suddenly been shoved back in, and it hurts.

When at last he pulls away, Cas is blinking in surprise. His hand floats up to his mouth, and his fingertips hesitantly graze his lips, as if he is expecting to find physical proof of what just happened.

“Cas.” Dean whispers. “You said I’m not just a pet to you.”

Cas lifts his head up, dropping his hand.

“You’re not.” He says earnestly.

“You said you love me.”

“I do.”

“Then don’t use me as another way to hide.”

Chapter Text

Being back at the doctor is embarrassing, to say the least. Dean has always hated feeling like a burden, and the amount of money he knows Cas is spending to take him here certainly doesn’t make him feel better. It had been bad enough the last time, and last time hadn’t really been his fault. This time though, his injuries are all his own doing.

It turns out the stupid scratches are worse than either he or Cas thought, at least according to Benny, who’d suggested to Cas that he might want to take Dean to get checked out. This seemed fairly ridiculous to Dean, who’d survived broken bones and concussions and internal bleeding without a doctor or any medical treatment at all. Having a professional look at fingernail scratches seemed somewhat pointless.

He’d told Cas as much, but his protests had gone unheard, and now he is sitting in the lobby, waiting to have his fucking boo-boos bandaged by Dr. Singer again.

Dean slumps farther down on the plastic seat he’s sitting on.

Ok, he’s pouting, and he knows it. But he hates the doctor’s to begin with, and is irritated that he has to come back for something so silly, something he had done to himself.

He realizes his leg is bouncing, and slings it around the leg of his chair to make it stop. The fidgeting isn’t helping his nervousness, just making it more obvious.

His glance slides to the right, where Cas is sitting calmly, fingers flying over whatever book he’s reading today. Dean sighs, and tries to concentrate on his own book.

A magic wand... this was what Harry had been really looking forward to.

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

Dean stumbles through the words slowly, fingers tracing along the lines and mouthing the syllables as they come.

Reading, he’s discovered, is exhausting, even when the story is interesting. At least, it’s exhausting when you’re as stupid as Dean is.

Dean huffs, eyes rising from the page to peek back over at Cas. The man is halfway through the book he’d started that morning.

He’d have gotten along great with Sam. The thought feels sad and far away. Another melancholy ache of what could have been.

It’s true though. The kid had gone through books like they were potato chips. And he’d always been a little awkward too, wouldn’t have been rude or weirded out when Cas said something strange…

Dean forces himself to look back down at his book, though he can’t force himself to keep reading it.

Those kinds of thoughts had been invading his head more and more, recently. He’s become resigned to the fact that he will never forget Sam, that memories will stab their way into his brain as long as he lives. But only in the past few days have they become so frequent that they are becoming nearly unbearable, the wall he’s built between his past and present tumbling down as thoughts of his brother suddenly start intertwining with thoughts of Cas.

Family. His heart tells him, and he knows it’s right.

Ever since he’d kissed Cas, a longing he hadn’t ever realized was inside him had become ravenous.

It’s easy to ignore hunger, until the first bite. It’s easy not to long for love, until you taste it.

Sam and Cas are his family, and he wants them close.

Since the moment in the library, his stupid heart has been screaming, thinking because it had been able to touch what it wanted that it could hold it too, if only Dean fought hard enough.

But Sam is gone, and Dean can never see him again. And Cas…

He doesn’t know where he stands with Cas any more. Cas doesn’t seem to know either.

Nothing else had happened since the kiss, at least nothing more than had already been happening, like holding hands and cuddling. Dean isn’t even sure he wants anything more to happen.

He likes kissing Cas. But kissing leads to sex, and sex leads to pain, and no amount of logic is going to make Dean believe otherwise.

But no amount of logic is going to stop his soul from yearning either.

“Novak?”

The name rings out, and frees Dean from his mind.

He is mildly surprised to see the same red-headed nurse as last time standing in the doorway. She waves at him. He waves back shyly.

Cas hasn’t reacted to his name being called, apparently too wrapped up in his book.

“Cas.” He says, nudging the other man. Cas starts. “That’s us.”

“Right.” The man says, snapping his book shut and standing up abruptly, flustered. Dean holds back a laugh.

Taking his arm, Dean leads them over to where the nurse is waiting.

“Geez, what happened to your face?” She says immediately. Dean blushes, and the hand not holding Cas reaches up to graze over the wounds instinctively. It had been a few days now, and he’d thought the scratches might’ve looked somewhat less terrifying by now. This had turned out not to be the case, as the blood red had started to scab over, making his face and body look even more ugly and mutilated.

“I. Uh. Scratched myself.” Dean mutters awkwardly, shifting in place. He wishes the nurse would at least move them into the office instead of interrogating him in the waiting room. No one is looking at them, but he feels exposed anyway.

“You scratched yourself?” The girl says in disbelief, peering at Cas suspiciously. Dean bristles.

“Yes.” He says sharply, suddenly a lot less self conscious. “I had a panic attack.”

He’s getting pretty sick of having to protect Cas from the assumptions of those who don’t know what they’re talking about. There are enough people judging Cas without those judging Cas in relation to Dean.

It’s convenient, he thinks, how everyone is suddenly so invested in defending his honor now that it doesn’t need defending.

Maybe that’s what everyone really wants. To only get up in arms about something when it will prove unwarranted. To soothe their righteous anger without ever having to actually do anything.

And what would this girl do, if Dean told her it was Cas who had hurt him? What would any of the people who seemed so concerned do? Nothing, that’s what. No one had ever done anything to help him when he needed it, and no one ever would.

Suddenly Dean wants to spit lies in her face, to pretend to need the help she is only pretending to offer. He wants to see that righteous anger rear its head, then fizzle out to nothing but useless guilt. And he wants to watch that guilt drown her, the way his has drowned him.

“Oh.” The nurse is saying in front of him. “I’m sorry. Have you seen someone about that?”

There is true concern in her face, as useless as a weight tied around her neck. Just as real as well, and Dean thinks she may have already drowned.

His anger drains, and he is left feeling empty and afraid of his own fury.

“Yeah.” He says. “They put me on Xanex.”

Good thing, too, he thinks, shaken by the abrupt rise and fall of his feelings.

“Well.” The nurse smiles, at last moving down the hallway and motioning for him and Cas to follow. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll get you fixed right up.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” Dean says obediently as they follow.

The girl glances back. “Didn’t I tell you last time to call me Charlie?” She says teasingly.

She may have. Dean has no idea. The last visit here is just a blur of paralyzing terror in Dean’s mind. He nods anyway, not wanting to make her mad.

“Yes, Charlie. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s rather good luck that we got you again, Charlie.” Cas speaks up for the first time. “I’m sure it makes Dean more comfortable to see a familiar face.”

Dean scowls, wanting to protest that he’s not a baby who needs someone to hold his hand. The last visit may throw some doubt on that statement, but he’s trying his best not to think about that.

He may have even voiced his thoughts, but it’s at this moment that they reach the room.

Charlie shoves the door open with her body, hands on her clipboard, and allows them to walk through before following them inside. The door falls shut behind her, and Dean leads Cas over to sit in the plastic seat against the wall.

“Well.” Charlie says, looking somewhat embarrassed. “It’s not luck, exactly. I asked for this shift when Bobby- Uh, Dr. Singer- mentioned you were coming in again. I, uh, wanted to see how you were doing.”

Dean blinks at her in surprise. She gives him a crooked smile. “I was kinda worried about you, dude. You were in pretty bad shape last time you were here.”

Dean feels his face go red, and feels shame settle sick and heavy in his stomach at the irrational surge of anger he’d just had at her.

“Thank you.” He blurts, not knowing how else to respond. He ducks his head. “I’m fine, Ma’am. Charlie. I’m…good. Cas takes good care of me.”

“I’m sure he does.” He hears her say. “But let’s check for ourselves.” He looks up again, and she is pointing at the scales.

Dean toes his shoes off, and steps up on the metal contraption.

Prattling on, she fiddles with the machine.

“I think we can skip height this time, very few people grow much more once they’re in their twenties. You better not, actually, or I’m gonna have to start wearing stilts.”

This coaxes a grin from him, and she beams back.

“You can get off now.” She says, and he does. She scribbles something on her sheet.

“148 pounds. Still a little under weight, but much better.”

He smiles again.

“Ok, let’s get your blood pressure.” She says, gestures for him to sit on the table. He hops up as she pulls out some sort of contraption. Coming over to the table, she wraps it around his upper arm and starts to squeeze something attached to it.

“I saw you were reading Harry Potter.” She says as the thing squeezes his arm.

“Uh, yeah. Trying to. M’ not very far in.”

“Who’s your favorite character, so far?”

Dean shrugs. “I like Harry.” He offers, feeling unoriginal.

Charlie squeals. “Yes! Harry is so underrated, don’t you think?”

He listens to Charlie ramble on about Harry Potter as she checks the rest of his vitals, mostly with very little understanding of what she’s talking about. That’s alright though. He has very few opinions on the matter himself, but is happy to be caught up in the girl’s contagious enthusiasm. By the time she leaves, he has her Facebook, Snapchat and Tumblr written on his arm. He doesn’t know what any of those things are, but lets her write them anyway.

The silence of the room once she is gone is startling.

“Wow.” Dean says, mostly to break it. This draws a laugh from Cas.

“I think you made a new friend.” He says.

Dean blinks down at his arm, marred with sharpie in-between red and scabbing cuts, skillfully weaving in and out of one another.

He hums uncommittedly, becoming uncomfortable.

Charlie is free. She couldn’t want to be his friend. Why would she, when she could be friends with so many real people?

It’s enough that Cas is kind to him and Kevin talks to him at all. He mustn’t get greedy. This is more than he deserves.

You’re not lonely. He tells himself firmly. Loneliness is a luxury only the privileged can afford.

His eyes glide over to Cas, and get stuck on his lips.

His heart beats feebly in his chest, like each beat is a hopeless attempt to break out of his ribcage to chase after what he wants, to run after Charlie or go look for Sam or just land safely in Cas’s lap.

What do you want from me? He asks his heart, but his heart doesn’t tell him, though he knows it has the answer.

Dean glances down at his arm again.

“What’s Face-book?” He asks, sounding the word out carefully. It’s the only one of the things written on his arm that he thinks he may have heard of before.

“It’s a social media platform.” Cas says simply, as if that means anything to Dean at all.

“What?”

“On the internet.” Cas explains. “People put their pictures up and post things about their life. It’s how people stay in contact, or so I’m told.”

“You don’t have one?”

“No.”

“But it’s popular.”

“Very. I am unusual in not having a Facebook.”

Dean glances down, tracing the letters on his skin with his other hand.

Sam probably has one.

His lungs seize.

His body has gone very cold. All this time…

Cas had offered to help Dean look for him. He hadn’t realized it was as easy as typing a name into a search bar.

He turns his head sharply towards Cas, gaze narrowing in on the iphone peaking from his front pocket like a sniper about to shoot.

But what if he still hates you?

What if he’s turned cruel?

What if he got hurt?

What if he’s still missing?

What if he’s dead?

A much sweeter question drops into his head, as quietly and clearly as if someone had leaned over and whispered it in his ear.

But what if he misses you too?

He shoves that thought as far away as he’s able to, which isn’t very far.

The doctor comes in then, allowing Dean to do what he’s always done, and forget his true worries in favor of worries of the moment.

“Damn.” Bobby says immediately upon seeing him. “You really did a number on yourself, didn’t you.”

“Um.” Dean says uncomfortably.

“Hello, Dr. Singer.” Cas says politely.

“They’re just fingernail scratches.” Dean protests, then freezes. “Sir.” He tacks on.

Dean waits for the anger, but the doctor just looks at him pensively. After a moment, the man moves towards him, and Dean shrinks back.

But all the doctor does is tap his chin, silently asking for Dean to tilt his head up. Dean does so, and Bobby furrows his brow as he examines the marks.

He steps away again, crossing his arms and huffing. “They ain’t ‘just scratches’ boy. No, they ain’t deep, but they’re wide and can get infected. Not to mention scar.”

Dean scowls. There they go again with the scarring bullshit.

“I’m already pretty damn scarred up, Sir.”

Is everyone blind like Cas? He’s got scars on every part of his body. They’re ugly, and he hates them, but they’re there all the same, and a few more aren’t gonna make much of a difference.

Even his face is already scarred, though not as badly as the rest of his body. His masters had preferred to keep at least that part of him somewhat intact, though he’s still got a handful of scratches from being backhanded and having things thrown at his head.

What’s a few more marks? He’s already ugly.

The way he sees it, this is all a bunch of fuss over nothing.

Bobby does not seem to agree, judging by the way he rolls his eyes.

“We know that, kid. But no point in adding to the collection if it’s avoidable. Take off your shirt.”

Dean does, revealing long red marks in varying stages of healing down his chest and across upper back, along with the continuation of the scratches on his arms that don’t end until the tops of his freckled shoulders.

Bobby’s eyes trail down these marks and land on his right forearm.

“I see Charlie got to you.” He says lightly, and Dean shrugs.

Bobby then proceeds to inspect the scratches on the top half of Dean’s body for signs of infection, of which there are none. He cleans and re-bandages the wounds, which had been unraveled that morning in preparation for the doctor’s probing.

Dean sits quietly and resentfully through it all, feeling coddled and embarrassed and stupid.

He should be able to take care of his own scrapes and bruises. He should be able to masturbate without giving himself his own scrapes and bruises.

He should be able to be alone in a room with a stranger without Cas, shouldn’t have to keep the man waiting like this, shouldn’t be so relieved every time he looks over at the man and sees that he’s still paying attention and hasn’t opened his book again.

He feels like such a baby.

One day, he thinks, you’ll be able to take care of yourself. One day, you’ll be able to stand on your own.

The thought, as soon as it is dropped into him, swings rapidly from a hope to a promise to something unknown and frightening as the implications of of the idea ripple through his psyche.

What the hell kind of thought is that?

What does that kind of thought even mean?

Because the image that had flashed briefly through his mind hadn’t been one of him being finally capable of doing his damn job, finally taking care of Cas the way he takes care of Dean.

No. He had wanted, as brightly but as briefly as lightening, to be free.

He blanches at the realization, eyes snapping back over to Cas as if to reassure himself the man is still there.

He is. That makes him feel better, but barely. The treacherous want had come from inside him, after all.

And what would you do with independence? He asks himself furiously.

For a moment he is scared, thinking there may be an answer.

But there isn’t, and he is validated.

To be free is to be alone. And what is he if he’s alone? A man without a drive, a thing without a purpose

He would be lost, and he would be nothing. He would die.

He breathes, inhaling and exhaling deeply in an attempt to calm himself.

Everything is fine. He’s still with Cas. His heart knows its place.

If it doesn’t, Dean will deal with it.

Dean wonders if maybe Benny has a pill for this too, to stop his heart from acting up along with his brain.

“Done. With the top half, at least.” Bobby says in front of him, and Dean snaps back to attention.

“Thank you, Sir.” He says automatically.

Bobby harumphs. “I’ll refill your prescription for the scar creme. Put it on the scratches twice a day, once in the morning and once at night, and you’ll be fine. I’ll get you something to prevent infection too.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“I have to examine your legs and your penis now. I let Mr. Novak stay last time because of the circumstances, but it was a break in protocol.”

He pauses, letting the words settle in. Dean bites his lip.

“I won’t leave if Dean is frightened.” Cas speaks up.

The statement, wholly earnest but painfully blunt, makes Dean turn red, blushing from his ears to his chest.

Gratitude and humiliation war within him, but eventually his embarrassment wins out.

“I’m ok, Cas.” He says. The words come out sort of strangled and stressed, and Dean clears his throat, trying again. “I can be on my own.”

He tries fill the phrase with his appreciation for the offer rather than the strain of sitting through Cas’s straightforward words. He’s not sure he succeeds, but Cas, as always, is too oblivious to notice anyway.

“Are you sure, Dean?” He says sincerely. “If you’re nervous, I don’t mind-”

“I’m not nervous.” Dean interrupts, cheeks pink. “I’ll be fine.”

There’s a pause.

“Well.” Cas says eventually. “If you’re sure.”

He stands, picking up his cane. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.”

Dean hums in acknowledgment.

And then Cas is gone, and Dean is scared.

He had known he would regret telling Cas to leave as he was saying it, but had done it anyway, pride overwhelming him. So here he sat now, alone and unsure, with a man he had no physical or social power to fight.

Dean sits, tense as a violin string and curled up like a flower bud, picking at a lose thread on his jeans nervously.

“Hey, kid.” Bobby says in front of him, voice soft like he’s talking to a newborn colt. It’s irritating, but, Dean thinks, not exactly uncalled for.

He nods quickly.

“Pants, right.” He blurts, and wriggles out of them, pulling his boxers down after, and crumpling both up into a ball that he places besides himself on the table.

“Damn.” Bobby says for the second time, and Dean cringes.

His hands are gentle and professional as he prods at Dean’s thighs, but still Dean shies away nervously. He isn’t used to being naked anymore, and feels vulnerable. He’s no longer apathetic to being touched in ways he doesn’t like.

Thankfully, the doctor doesn’t try to touch Dean’s genitals, just gestures and says, “Can you show me?”

Dean does, remembering the way he’d flipped his shit last time he’d been asked to touch his own body and trying to convince himself the doctor doesn’t remember, though he obviously does.

“Christ.” Bobby says tersely. “How the hell are you even walking, kid?”

The doctor steps away again, and Dean takes this as an indication that he’s done. Moving his hands away from his limp dick, he pulls his legs together and hunches over, hugging himself.

“Used to pain.” He says shortly. Bobby sighs.

“Put your clothes back on.”

Dean does, and Bobby talks.

“I’m gonna get you a numbing cream for your genitals on top of the other shit. Usually you want to be careful prescribing that stuff, cause it can cause people to be careless and end up reopening and irritating their injuries without realizing. Considering the circumstances though, I think you need it.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

He is thankful. Though most of the cuts don’t pain him unless he bumps into something, the scratches between his legs have been screaming at him every time he takes a step. It’s a torture he had learned how to handle years ago, but that doesn’t mean it’s not unpleasant.

Dean feels better once he’s dressed. Logically he knows that one layer of cloth over him can’t protect him, but he still feels less exposed.

Just as he thinks Bobby is going to call Cas back inside, the doctor turns to him suddenly and gives him a look so intense that Dean freezes in panic, mind flipping rapidly through all the things that may be about to go wrong like they’re in a trashy magazine.

“Listen, kid.” Bobby says quietly, suddenly conspiratory. “If he did this to you, I can help you.”

Of all the things he’d expected Bobby to say, that was not one of them.

Dean stares in confusion.

“Help me?” He repeats dumbly.

Bobby nods. His eyes flicker to the closed door, before he continues, speaking in a low and urgent voice.

“Canada. I know people.”

The shock slams into the fear like a car crash, one emotion unable to move out of the way before the next is there on top of it.

“Canada?” He hisses. His throat almost closes up just trying to say the forbidden word, a word that could get him killed if he says it too loudly.

He knows what Bobby is saying. He’s talking about freedom. He’s talking about escape.

Bobby gestures at him to lower his voice.

“I know people.” He repeats.

Dean’s eyes flicker down to the marker scribbled on his arm, three different ways to contact someone sympathetic. The innocent nature of the gesture falls away.

“Charlie.” Dean says, stunned.

“Not directly.” Bobby whispers. “But she’s got connections.”

Dean nods slowly as if he understands, before shaking his head suddenly.

“But.” He protests. “Cas told you on the phone. I had a panic attack. Didn’t he tell you?”

“He did. And I’m asking you if it’s the truth, and asking you if you want help.”

Dean’s heart is beating in his chest faster than a rain of bullets on a tin roof.

No one had ever offered to help him before.

Why, why, why had no one ever offered to help him before, back when he so desperately needed help? Why was kindness only being offered to him now, when he already has so much he doesn’t know what to do with it but give it away by the bucket?

He doesn’t know, but the realization that there may sometimes be steel backing up the sympathy of strangers shakes him to the core.

He’d resented Charlie for her guilt, but there had been action behind her words that he hadn’t seen. He’s always seen guilt as a ball and chain. But apparently some don’t let that ball and chain drown them, but pick it up by the end and swing it around so fast it becomes a weapon.

How, he doesn’t understand, but he wishes for the ability to give the moulding boulder inside of him momentum.

Something terrible happens then. The terrible thing is that he wants to say yes.

He doesn’t, of course, doesn’t even come close. It would be the stupidest decision he ever made, to leave his home and safety and someone he loves very much for something that terrifies him when he thinks about it.

There’s nothing for him in Canada. There’s nothing for him in freedom.

So of course he doesn’t say yes.

“Cas didn’t hurt me.” Is what he says instead. “He takes care of me. I don’t want to leave.”

By the time he finishes speaking, the words are true again.

But if he strains himself, he can feel that the foreign and reckless longing is still there, flickering like a candle buried under all his worries. Weak for now, but threatening to at any moment set his fear on fire and burn it to the ground.

This, Dean thinks, may be a problem.

Bobby considers him carefully. Dean isn’t sure what to make of the look, but unlike most, he doesn’t look like he doesn’t believe him, so the hydra that has made it its job to defend Cas doesn’t rear it’s head.

He shifts, unsure.

“All right.” Bobby says after a moment. “But I’m going to give you my card.”

Pulling the little cardboard square from the pocket of his lab coat, he holds it out to Dean. Dean takes it hesitantly, cupping it in his palm like he’s holding something infinitely precious and delicate, like Tiffany glass, or a butterfly.

“If you ever change your mind, you have my number.”

Emotion thuds into him like a drumbeat.

Dean can’t bring himself to look up from the card, not knowing how to express the depth of his gratitude. He can’t even nod, just clenches his eyes shut and tries to hold himself together.

“Do you understand, kid?” Bobby says kindly.

“Yes.” Dean breathes, voice barely audible.

Just say thank you! His brain screams, but he doesn’t, because he can’t. The words seem so inadequate that saying them feels worse than doing nothing at all.

And then the moment is gone anyway, as Bobby tells him to put the card away as he goes to let Cas back in. Dean tucks it into his front pocket, careful not to crush it.

And then Cas is back, beautiful and worried, asking the wall nowhere near Dean if it’s all right.

For a second Dean can’t do anything, doesn’t feel capable of doing anything because he doesn’t feel real. And then distress starts to bleed onto Cas’s face at his silence, and the feeling of being frozen is gone.

Hopping off the table, he almost runs over to the other man, grabbing the hand not holding his cane and tucking himself into his side. Cas pulls him closer seemingly automatically, and Dean feels warm.

“I’m fine, Cas.” Dean says, steadily but quietly. “But please, can we go home?”

Dean almost turns to look at Bobby as they leave, and finds that he can't. His guilt, unlike theirs, has always kept him paralyzed. He's scared it always will.

Chapter Text

Weeks pass. Everything changes, and nothing changes.

Cas takes the job. They buy a car, and Dean re-learns how to drive it. He finishes the first Harry Potter book, and starts the second. It gets hot, hotter than Dean had ever imagined it could be, yet the cacti stand indifferent, and the thermometer proves to be the only evidence that the change of seasons isn’t confined to Dean’s mind.

Time rolls away and they roll with it. Life, quite suddenly, loses the stagnant quality that Dean had learned to accept and turns into something breathing. Three days a week are spent at the center now, which Cas spends talking to children, all children. He’s better with the children.

Dean, when not being counseled or tutored, spends the time doing grunt work, helping Jess and the others cook and clean and package and un-package, washing dishes and sorting mail for hours on end. He likes the work. Real work has always made him happy.

The commotion of the outside world does not stay confined to outside, but comes clinging to them into their pocket of stillness like the dirty footprints of their boots. Dean had not noticed how quiet they both had been until they aren’t any more.

Now they talk. In the car, over dinner, while pretending to watch a movie. They have things to talk about now, things other than Dean’s past and Cas’s lack of one, things that don’t cause emotional breakdowns and crying fits.

The heat drives them inside during the day, but at night sometimes it drops as low as 80 degrees, and then they sit out on the porch, playing cards and getting bitten my mosquitoes, and it feels like some vague storybook idea of what life is supposed to be like has crystalized into reality.

Dean is so, so happy, and so, so in love.

But it’s there that the changes end, where the growing domesticity becomes painful, and stops.

No matter how late into the night they stay talking, they go to separate beds in the end. And it hurts Dean, and relieves him, and he wishes he could decide what he wants.

* * *

Late August arrives, and so do the students. They’re everywhere suddenly, like ants on a cookie left out in the sun. Within the span of a weekend, the average age of San Jose has dropped by at least a decade.

The sudden flood isn’t lost on the Harvell Center. At least a dozen new volunteers sign up, taking a lot of pressure off the few full time employees. Apparently an annual thing, no one else seems taken aback by this wave of do-gooders but Dean.

Young bleeding-hearts, enthusiastic and useless, who talk to Dean in soft, condescending voices and who break his heart with their naiveté. They’ll be gone within a few months, overwhelmed with schoolwork and their inability to change the world. Jess hates them. Dean doesn’t.

He surprises himself with his own patience, but more often than not by the end of the day he's is on the receiving end of Jess’s ranting.

“They help out for a few weeks and think that makes them god’s gift to mankind. Then midterms come and they’re gone, and me and you are stuck doing the work they left behind.” She stomps her heeled shoe down on the pile of boxes they’re trying to flatten with surprising strength. “They have no idea what it’s like.”

The irony of a young, well-off free girl ranting about other young, well-off free people to someone like Dean is not lost on him. He doesn’t say anything though, just nods along to the beat of her anger and hopes it helps her feel better. She’s a kid, and so are they all. They’ll learn. Dean doesn’t resent them their fright.

He kneels down to shuffle the flattened cardboard evenly and starts to tie the pile together.

“They think they’re helping,” she says as she grabs the other end of the string, “but they’ll graduate and end up perpetuating the same system they claim to despise.”

They finish tying off the pile and start on the next group of boxes, trampling them into squares.

“Not you though?” Dean asks.

Jess shakes her head forcefully, bouncing curls flying everywhere.

“No.” She says firmly. “I’m going to get my medical degree. And then I’m gonna work in one of these places.”

She gestures around, and for a moment Dean thinks she means a recycling room. He blinks in confusion, but then she continues.

“If not one of the Harvell Center’s, then some other place like it.”

He looks up at her in surprise.

“What, there are others?” The words blurt out of his mouth before he has time to think better of them, and he bites his lip to keep any more evidence of his ignorance from escaping.

Jess looks at him, and a flash of shock that merges immediately into pity flickers across her face before she schools it into something more neutral. Dean’s embarrassment sharpens.

To her credit, that’s all he sees of her feelings, and she immediately continues speaking like that was a perfectly reasonable question, like he hadn’t just revealed the depth of his stupidity.

“There’s five Harvell community centers in California alone, and a ton of others like it all over America.” She says evenly. “And there’s a lot of other anti-slavery non-profits too. Have you heard of the ACLU?”

He has not, which she deduces from the blankness of his face.

“Well, it’s a pro-bono law firm.” She continues. “Super anti-slavery. My boyfriend had an internship there this summer, actually.”

There is undisguised pride in her voice, but it barely registers to Dean, who has stopped stamping on the cardboard in favor of staring at his feet.

There is a thought growing in his mind, as slowly and as steadily as the rising sun. It seems impossible, but the more Jess speaks the more it seems to be true.

“It’s a really famous law firm.” Jess adds awkwardly, and only then does Dean realize that she’s waiting for him to be impressed.

It’s a response he is unable to give, as all he seems able to do at the moment is hesitantly offer his thought out loud, surrendering it to her to either accept or reject.

“I didn’t realize anyone cared.” He admits, and now Jess is the one staring at him blankly.

“Sorry?” She asks, and Dean blushes. He steps back and squats down quickly, staring at the floor, and gently tugs the squashed boxes out from under her feet.

They aren’t entirely flattened, but tying them together gives him an excuse not to look at her, so he breaks the still-three-dimensional parts down with his hands and grabs the string.

“Uh. Slavery. Anti-slavery.” He stutters, unwinding the twine. “I didn’t realize so many people…that it’s like…a thing.”

She’s crouched in front of him suddenly, handing him the scissors before he has to look for them.

“A movement?” She suggests, and Dean nods, cutting the string.

“Mhm.” He mumbles, still avoiding eye contact.

She steps aside so he can reach the boxes, and sits down cross-legged on the ground next to him.

It’s sort of endearing, in her professional outfit and black pumps, to see her in the childish position.

Just a kid, he thinks again. The fact that he is only a few years older than her means nothing. He’s older in the ways that count.

“You probably think I’m an idiot.” He mutters, leaning forward to tie the boxes together.

He feels like one. He’d known about Sam’s attitude towards slavery, but had figured that was just Sam being Sam about it, not thinking anyone else agreed. Even learning about the Harvell center had been a shock, and Bobby and Charlie’s dubious “connections” even more so. As much as he’d appreciated the little bubble of lunatics he’d fallen into, that’s all he’d thought it was.

Realizing that these people are in fact perhaps not just the lunatic fringe, that this may be a socially acceptable opinion, that this is some sort of movement…

He’s not sure how he feels. Shocked, certainly. Intensely hopeful. Some small amount of resentment, even.

By far the strongest emotion he feels, however, is stupidity.

Yet again, the world has proved to be so much bigger than he had assumed. Yet again, he is oblivious to a wealth of knowledge more relevant to him than anyone.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot.” Jess protests.

Dean glances over his shoulder at her before going back to the knot.

He is surprised to find that, even if he himself doesn’t believe that, he believes that she believes that.

Even more surprising, he hadn’t expected her to say anything else.

He finishes the knot and pauses, staring down at his hands.

When did I become so trusting? He wonders.

A month ago, he would have truly anticipated her agreeing and berating him. A month before that, he would have been too timid to talk to her at all. And a month before that, he would have fallen into a full blown panic attack if Cas had tried to leave him alone with anybody, even someone as unthreatening as this skinny little girl.

He had changed, and somehow he had not realized exactly how much until now.

Maybe it’s the Xanex. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t been hit in nearly half a year. He doesn’t know. He’s not sure it matters.

Dean sits up suddenly, jerking himself back to the present, and scoots backwards so he is sitting next to Jess once again.

“Thanks.” He says truthfully. He picks awkwardly at the hem of his jeans. “I uh, wasn’t allowed out much. Before Cas. There’s a lot I don’t know.”

She nods in understanding.

“It’s not your fault.” She says kindly.

He doesn’t believe her. Maybe in another month he will. For now, he can be grateful for the words all the same, but still deflects instead of answering.

“What was that you said before, about your boyfriend? Working at the uh, ASPCA or something?”

She giggles, pretty and girlish, like wind chimes. It doesn’t feel like she’s laughing at him, even as she corrects him.

“The ACLU. And he doesn’t work there, we’re both still in school. But he had an internship there this summer, which is a huge deal. He’s only 19!”

Her excitement is palpable, and Dean finds himself smiling.

“Well that’s all well and good,” he teases, “but the important question is: is he cute?”

Where the courage to poke fun at her comes from, he’s not sure, but it makes her laugh again, bigger this time. His smile turns into a grin.

“He sure is.” She says, pulling her phone out of her pocket and wiggling it around. “You wanna see?”

A sudden unease grips him, one he wouldn’t understand until after the fact. His eyes catch on the wagging phone and follow it like they are stuck.

They should get back to work, really. It’s unlike him to get distracted and slack off like this.

Still…

He clenches his fingers into his jeans.

Still, another minute can’t hurt.

“Sure.” He says.

Later, he would realize he’d already known.

Well, he hadn’t known of course, the idea hadn’t even begun to take form in his mind, he would have never been able to banter so lightheartedly with Jess if it had.

All the same, he’d known, like some unconscious instinct for pattern recognition had put it together before his brain had.

He’d known, the way one knows the moment before they are told that someone is dead.

* *
Dean had been about 15. He and John had been lying in bed together, naked, having just fucked. It had one of those rare times where John had been quiet, not angry or repulsed by Dean’s company, something that in those days Dean had taken as approval, to be tucked away inside him and rationed out on lonelier days.

They had been smoking, John’s calm putting him in the mood to share, and making Dean a companion rather than a toy. Dean had been happy.

And then, and only God could tell you why, the question had slipped out of him.

“What’s gonna happen when Sam grows up?”

Immediately he had become terrified. Experience had taught him to expect sudden violence, and he waited to be flung across the room like a rag doll, scared shitless and too devoted to be anything but furious at himself for ruining the peace.

To his shock and forever confusion, John had done nothing of the sort, but looked at Dean with an understanding that he had never seen before, and frightened him far more than anger.

For the first time in his life, Dean had felt known, and it had scared the living daylights out of him.

“Don’t, kid.” John had said, gruff and unaffectionate, but blessedly, horrifyingly calm. “Pull on that thread and your mind will unravel.”

This is what he thinks of when he sees Sam’s face staring up at him. This is all he thinks of. As if his mind had suddenly lost all other memories and thoughts, this forgotten, blurred moment plays on repeat for what seems like forever.

Pull on that thread and your mind will unravel.

His mind is unraveling. It’s unraveling, it really is, so fast he doesn’t even have time to panic before whatever part of his brain is in charge of that disappears too.

He had thought his mind had unraveled long ago, thought he had felt it happening during the dark, unchanging days spent locked in his master’s closet, when he lost count of how many cocks had breached him that evening and his vision went white and all he was was pain, when he’d been allowed so little sleep for so long that he’d fallen asleep with someone raping him.

He’d been wrong. Whatever he had felt then could not have been his mind unraveling, because it’s unraveling right fucking now.

He’d tried. He’d tried not to pull on that thread. But like always, his efforts had meant nothing. And like always, the universe and Sam seemed to be on the same side, and had different plans for Dean that they expected him to adhere to.

“Oh, Christ.” Dean gasps, nearly doubled over where he still kneels on the ground. “Oh, fuck. Christ, fuck, fuck.”

From far away, Dean hears Jess panicking, asking him what’s wrong. It sound the way words used to when they gave him the drugs that made him pass out, right before he lost consciousness. Empty and without any meaning. The way that words must sound to animals.

Dean covers his face with his hands. He moans.

“Sam.” He chokes. “Sammy.”

“How did you- Oh, shit.” Jess curses. “Oh, shit. You’re Dean.”

Dean stands up so fast his head spins.

This can’t be fucking happening. This can not be fucking happening.

He takes a step back from Jess, like she’s some sort of dangerous wild tiger.

“I have to go.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out like he’s begging, but it does. “I. I have to leave. Right now.”

Jess stands up as well, and Dean trips backwards again.

“Dean, please!” She cries.

Dean runs.

He runs like he’s never run in his life, runs faster than he thought he possibly could. He runs with the fear of every moment he’s ever wanted to run, every time he’s stuck his body in place and allowed it to be hurt, every time he smothered his survival instinct with the knowledge there was no point in trying to get away.

It all comes leaping out of him at once, propelling his body away, away, away, a never ending stream of fear and freedom that floods his blood. His mind is unraveling, collapsing, and every terrified thing he’s ever tucked away is rushing out of him as the prison walls fall.

He runs out of the building and into the sun, only skittering to a stop when he almost gets run over by a car.

Everything is too loud and too bright, colors and noises and christ it’s too much for someone who’s spent years in the dark.

He turns on his heel and keeps going, bolting down the street like there are hounds at his heels. Whether or not anyone is following him, he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter. He couldn’t stop running if he wanted to.

Sam! Oh god, Sammy!

It’s coming, it’s coming, he can’t stop it, it’s all coming at once, all the things he forced himself to forget about, every moment of love and anger and despair and love.

He runs like it’s going to kill him, because he thinks maybe it is.
****

By the time Dean’s head comes back to his body, it’s nearly dark. His phone, which had been ringing incessantly for hours, has at last given up. Dean realizes he had stopped running ages ago, but had been wandering in a haze all day.

He’s lost.

It’s hard for him to find the will to care.

The sky is purple, and the air is hot, and the cars are still whizzing down the road, and Dean sits down right there on the curb and hangs his head.

He’s lost, and Sam is fine. This is his new reality.

His eyes start to blur, and Dean blinks harshly.

Don’t cry, he commands himself. And he doesn’t.

He is mildly surprised by his success.

That wouldn’t have worked before. He’s been so fragile for so long. The ability to pull himself together at will hasn’t been one he’s had since before John sold him.

It had been a skill John had taught him, beaten into him really, and had been so essential to the way Dean had thought about himself back then. That was before Dean had been forced to see how worthless he really is.

Dean curls his fingers into his jeans.

Sam is fine, and Dean is lost. Two things he has to cope with now.

He has no idea where he is, but he isn’t scared. He should be, probably. But he’s not.

Looking up, he stares for a few quiet minutes as the cars fly by. He’s so warm.

He knows he might not go home.

He doesn’t have to. No one knows where he is. Unless someone were to see the tattoo under his shirt, they wouldn’t know he’s a slave. It would be easy to leave.

It always would have been easy to leave. They’d chained him in basements and locked all the doors, but he’d known how to pick a lock by the time he was eight. There had been guards, sometimes, but Dean knew how to win a fight. Once he was out, he could have taken care of himself. John had taught him how. He’d taught him everything he needed to escape and survive. Dean could have left any time he’d felt like it.

But he’d stayed. Simply because it never occurred to him he didn’t have to.

We could have made it, Dean realizes.

It was true, and had always been true. Sam had begged that they run so many times, and they could have. They really could have.

Sam had always known that. Dean hadn’t, not until now.

A laugh bubbles out of him, miserable and weak. There is irony in the fact that Dean may finally do what Sam had begged for for so long, but it’s not very funny.

They could have made it. Sam did.

Years and years he’d worried for that kid, and it had never been needed at all. He’s alive. He’s safe. He’s in an ivy league school with a beautiful girlfriend, still has his big dumb brain and his big dumb heart, is skyrocketing towards a career rescuing people like Dean.

God. That had always been what he’d been trying to do. He had never needed Dean at all.

He’d begged Dean to run away with him not because he wanted Dean to rescue him, but because he’d been trying to rescue Dean. Sam doesn’t need him now and he hadn’t needed him then either.

He’s so worthless. A pitiful burden people feel obligated to carry.

It’s not like Cas needs him anymore either. He had, maybe, but Dean has done his job, brought the man out of his shell and into the real world. He has a job now, is starting to make friends.

Dean is so proud of him. But his pride doesn’t erase the fact that he is no longer needed.

Not by Sam, not by Cas, not by anyone.

He feels frightened, and he feels free.

But he’d rather be loved than be free.

The sky has gone from lavender to the deep purple of a bruise. Stars are starting to appear in the sky like beacons.

What do I do now? He asks them. Who am I supposed to be?

Who is he if he isn’t needed?

He feels so alone. He doesn’t know if there is anything worse than being alone.

He doesn’t want to be alone. But he doesn’t want to be a burden either. And he’s scared. He’s so scared.

Horribly, painfully, he misses John. At least with John he had known he was needed.

Logically, Dean knows he cannot sit on the curb for the rest of his life. But he doesn’t know how to make himself move. He has to make a choice once he moves, has to be driven by some sort of intention that he himself picks, and he doesn’t know how to do that. He feels like a marionette that has had its strings cut, suddenly gone limp as it is revealed that his animation has only ever been driven by someone else, someone real.

He may have sat there on the edge of uncertainty for the rest of time if a car hadn’t eventually pulled up next to him.

A greasy looking man hangs out the window, looking Dean up and down.

“You selling?” The man asks.

Dean blinks slowly.

“What?”

“You selling?” The man says again, this time waving his hand generally at Dean’s body.

Dean looks down at himself as if something the man wants may have magically appeared on his chest, before realizing what the man means.

No matter how many times this happens, he is always startled that people want him.

“Oh.” Dean says. “Sure.”

Why he agrees, Dean doesn’t even know. Perhaps simply habit. It’s not like he hadn’t done this a million times before, back when John was gone and food was running low, praying desperately the clients wouldn’t try and take off his shit and notice his tattoo.

Dean gets out of the car fifteen minutes later, a crumpled ten in his hand and a familiar taste in his mouth. He stares down at the money, unsure of what to do with it.

It’s not cold, but Dean shivers.

He misses Cas. Already, he misses Cas.

Cas would not approve of what he’d just done. He would tell Dean it wasn’t safe to get in a car with a stranger like that, that if he needed money he could just ask, that he shouldn’t push himself to do things he isn’t comfortable with.

Dean isn’t actually particularly uncomfortable. He doesn’t mind blowing some guy for cash, not when it’s consensual. For all the things that set him off into panic attacks, he is not particularly upset right now.

He’s just lonely. Lonely and unhappy.

This is his future, without Cas. Blowing guys for cash as he inches towards Canada, then doing the same there too. It’s not like he’s good at anything else.

Sleeping on benches and eating shitty diner food, alone and occasionally roughed up, but mostly unhurt.

Before, it would have sounded like a dream. To be allowed that much freedom, to choose when someone was allowed to touch him, to be payed for the services he provided. If it had ever occurred to him that that life was not so out of his reach, he would have taken it in a second.

Now though, he feels a gut wrenching sadness at the thought.

He doesn’t want to be alone any more.

Dean starts walking, no direction in mind, mostly just to avoid another car pulling up next to him. He doesn’t think he has it in him to say no.

He wants to go home. There is no longer a question in his mind about where that is. He wants to be home with Cas, to be curled up on the couch with him, watching a stupid movie and drinking tea.

He knows that Cas is probably so worried right now, and the guilt curdles in his stomach and makes him sick.

God, probably worried about him. His phone had been ringing for hours, the phone Cas had bought him a week ago so he could theoretically contact people he would never call, the phone that hadn’t made a noise since he’d gotten it.

Dean stops where he is, fumbling for the thing, suddenly urgent. He looks down at it, cupping it in his palms like it is something holy.

Cas is worried about him. He should call the man back. He should.

He doesn’t.

Partially, it is because there is still a voice in his head that mocks him for assuming he means something to Cas. Partially, it is because he knows he can’t call him if he isn’t coming home.

He wants to go home. But he’s not sure his home wants him.

Dean puts his phone away. He keeps walking.

Would it be better if he just left? It’s not like either Cas or Sam need him any more, if they ever even did. Sam probably doesn’t even want to see him, it’s not like Dean has anything to offer him now. He’s successful and happy. No one wants to suddenly be obligated to deal with some broken sex slave they used to know barging back into their life.

And Cas…Cas is worried about him now, yes, but he’ll get over it eventually, won’t he? He has other friends, real friends, now. It might be better to get this over with now, like ripping the band aid off.

Better than having Dean hang around his neck like an anchor, useless useless and needy as hell, until the man’s love turns to resentment. Even then, he probably wouldn’t make Dean leave, too kind for his own good. Christ, would Dean even know if Cas started hating him? What if he already does, and Dean’s just too stupid to realize?

Dean hugs himself, cold suddenly. It’s uncertain whether the temperature is at last dropping as the night deepens, or if he’s just that miserable.

He would rather die than have Cas regret taking him in, even for one second. And if that is where this is inevitably going, then it’s much, much better to quit while he’s ahead.

Yes, Dean thinks, there is something worse than being alone. Being a burden to those you love.

A drifting life on the road isn’t so bad in comparison.

It isn’t.

All the same, he feels his throat close up at the thought.

God, he wishes he’d never met Cas. He wishes he’d never found out there are people fighting against slavery, how it feels to be truly full, what it’s like to turn red from blushing rather than shame. Wishes he’d never felt warm water on his skin, the ache from laughing so hard it started to hurt, someone touching his body sensually but not sadistically. He wishes he’d never found out what happiness is.

He wants to un-know all of it, all at once, now now now!

What the hell is the point? What the hell is the point of joy if he can’t keep it?

Kindness had broken him more than cruelty ever had, and now he doesn’t know how to live without it.

All he had ever wanted was to be left alone. Bleeding and shuddering, in some corner, on some floor, praying to be ignored, begging in vain to be left alone, please please, god, please. That had been his life. Always.

To be alone was to be safe. And to be safe was more than he ever hoped for.

Now, he sees his life stretch out before him, and it is so empty.

He could have lived that empty life and never known he was unhappy, if he hadn’t met Cas. Now he is stuck with higher expectations for his life than he has a right to have, just because Cas is an angel.

Eventually, Dean wanders into some crappy diner, oversaturated and real in a way that Dean isn’t. He seats himself in a booth against the large window and stares out at the flickering world, mind still in turmoil.

A waitress comes and gives him a menu. He hasn’t moved by the time she comes back, so he orders a black coffee.

When she brings it, he sips it slowly. It’s strong and bitter, like what Cas had given him. It’s just as terrible as he remembers, but it’s warm and reminds him of Cas, so he drinks it.

After a few minutes, he pulls out his phone again, and actually opens it this time.

The battery is almost dead, it’s 4:12 AM, and he has over 100 missed calls.

Dean hides his face in his hands. He gives himself ten seconds, then goes back to his phone.

He nearly has a heart attack when he sees that only about half the calls are from Cas. The rest are from an unfamiliar number, the string of numbers scattered evenly between his master’s name.

Dean hesitates for only a moment before scrolling all the way back, finding the first call he’d received at 11:23 AM. Presumably a few minutes after he’d bolted.

The next few dozen are from Cas alone, until 2:14 PM, when the unfamiliar number starts to call as well.

Dean swallows heavily. His hands are shaking, too jerky to do the fine movements the iphone requires any longer, so he folds them in his lap.

It’s Sam. He knows it’s Sam.

How in the name of fucking God he found a way to contact Dean so goddamn fast, Dean doesn’t know. But the kid has always been crazy smart, and so driven when he has his eyes set on something that it’s a little scary. Someone else would be surprised at how fast he found this information, but that someone else doesn’t know Sam like Dean does.

No one knows Sam like Dean does.

And no one knows Dean like Sam.

Dean flips the phone over so he can’t see the screen and goes back to his coffee.

“Jesus fucking christ.” He mutters.

He’s not sure what he’s feeling.

There’s definitely fright. He had forgotten how driven Sam is, and how capable of getting anything he goddamn wants. He has no doubt that the calls only eventually ended because Sam knows him well enough to figure out that if he hadn’t already picked up, he isn't going to.

He feels watched, suddenly, like Sam is going to pop out of nowhere.

His eyes snap to his phone. Can’t you track people using these things? Is that possible?

If it’s possible, he has no doubt Sam can do it, and is.

Dean picks up the phone again. In order, he listens to every voice message he’d received, from both Cas and Sam. Then he snaps his phone in half and leaves.

He leaves the entire ten on the table. The waitress looked like she could use a pick me up.

He walks in a straight line away from the diner for an entire hour before he lets himself feel anything. Then he sits down on the curb again.

This time, he does cry.

Cas isn’t worried, he’s losing his goddamn mind. He’d sounded wrecked, and begged and begged for Dean to call him, just to let him know he’s safe.

What the fuck had he been thinking, thinking Cas would just “get over” Dean disappearing without a trace. What the fuck is wrong with him.

And Sam…

Why had he assumed Sam wouldn’t want to see him, wouldn’t look for him? Why hadn’t it ever crossed his mind that Sam might have been looking for him for years?

God, I’m so fucked up.

So he cries. He cries because people love him, and he cries because he is surprised.

He is so startled. He feels as though someone just creeped up behind him and made him jump.

The last time Dean had heard Sam’s voice, he had been fourteen. His voice is so much deeper now. So much less angry than Dean had expected. A lot more sad.

I’ve missed so much, Dean thinks, and another wave of tears wracks through him.

Memories fall back into his head like raindrops.

Teaching Sam to tie his shoes, ride a bike. The first time one of his teeth had fallen out, and the last. Sam coloring pictures as gifts to Dean on his own damn birthday, because Dean doesn’t know his own. Being asked advice about girls, about guns, about fear, about uncontrollable anger that makes your fists shake and gives you the urge to tear down the moon.

It all comes back to him, untainted for the first time by his own fucked up perception of things, objective in a way he didn’t know he was capable of seeing.

He sees, for the first time, his own life clearly.

God, he should have taken Sam and run. He should have taken Sam and gotten them the hell out of there.

Regret. Another useless emotion.

On the phone, Sam had been frantic. Scared. Asking if Dean is safe. Safe right now, and safe from Cas. If Cas has hurt him. A long, childish list of things Sam would do to the man if he had. A list that got cut off and had not been picked up again in the next message, which had gone back to telling Dean he could come rescue him from whatever terrible situation he’s in if only he would call Sam back.

Eventually the messages had gotten more subdued. More resigned. The last one will haunt Dean to his grave, he knows, if he decides to run. Probably even if he doesn’t.

“Hey, Dean, I’m sorry. For bugging you so much. I, uh. I get it. Jess told me the…guy your with…is alright. Safe. She told me that a while ago actually but, uh…

Anyway, I get it. I won’t bother you any more. I know I don’t have a right to be in your life if you don’t want me in it, especially after what I…

I won’t call again. I love you, though. I really do. And I’m sorry.”

The thing is, Dean is really, really angry.

He hadn’t realized that until now.

But he is. He’s so angry at Sam, for the way Sam treated him in those last few years, for taking all that Dean gave him and then throwing him away like trash.

He’d been angry for years without ever realizing it, and was only when he heard the words I’m sorry that he found out how long he’d been waiting to hear that.

Because forgiveness sits inside him like a physical thing, taking up room in his heart that he longs to be able to fill with other emotions. It almost hurts, pressing against the insides of his chest, too big to keep internal. He wants it out, out of him, wants that room to be open again and to get rid of this cumbersome object. But he hadn’t been able to give it to Sam until he asked for it.

And now he had. At last, at last, it’s out, and other feelings come rushing in. Love for Cas, longing for freedom, physical desire, things he had been feeling for a while but that had been crammed into the edges of his overstuffed heart, pushed aside by this sacred thing that belongs to someone else.

It’s Sam’s, and always has been. He feels like there had been a puzzle piece from the wrong picture jammed into his body, one that had been missing from Sam’s. And now Sam had finally taken it back, allowing the piece that was meant to be in Dean to at last be slotted into place.

He’d been waiting to forgive Sam for years and years and years. He’s so relieved he finally can.

Dean dries his eyes. He has to go home. He has to go home, and face the past, and face the future. If only to give Sam what he needs to give him.

Chapter Text

Despite his resolution, Dean did not expect to encounter Sam so soon.

He should have known better.

Despite the young man’s own resolution on the phone, he was never going to be satisfied with Dean just disappearing, was never going to slip quietly from Dean’s life without knowing what had happened to him.

This was Sam they were talking about. He’d had to break his phone to avoid the kid finding him and showing up at at a diner in the middle of the night.

It had taken him over an hour to figure out where he was that morning, and then another ten to get back home. Five hours alone had been spent just hiking up the mountain to Cas’s house, hours that were startlingly quiet after the noise of the daytime city.

Great stretches of time had passed without any cars passing him at all, blazing heat so still and steady that it made nothing at all feel real. The road wound up through the mountain like a snake, bending like the strange gnarled branches on the trees he’d never seen before. They had no leaves, but Dean wasn’t sure if they were supposed to. To him, they looked dead. The stringy, yellow grass that covered the ground looked dead to him too. The whole world looked scorched, bleached by the sun, faded and bled of color. And everything was the kind of yellow he had learned to associate with sickness and death, from the dirt to the plants to the animals to the sun. Everything was pale and thin and sallow like a person taking their last breath.

It was strange to feel like he was walking through a graveyard when he knew he wasn’t. The things around him weren’t dead, just different. They had adapted. What he knew as life would never survive here, would shrivel up from the heat and die within days. This, though. This was how one survived without water. By ceasing to need it at all.

By the time he made it to the top of the mountain, the alien landscape no longer frightened him. He rather liked it, and found himself wishing he had spent more time outside.

And when he had seen the unfamiliar car in the driveway, he had wanted to crawl right back into the undead trees and hide away with the coyotes.

He had known going home meant dealing with this. He just hadn’t been prepared to deal with this quite so soon.

He should have known better.

When he goes up to the front door, he hears yelling inside. There’s more than two voices.

Who the hell else is here, he has no idea.

Dean shuts his eyes, and leans his forehead against the door.

They’re yelling about him, of course. He hears his name multiple times, along with something about his phone. He is suddenly sickeningly glad that he broke it. Even if he did come home. Even if it did cost ten times what Dean is worth. He can’t even imagine what he would have done if this cacophony inside had found and confronted him before he was ready for it. Had a heart attack and died, probably.

Dean’s hand comes up, curling against the heavy door as if he is going to knock, but his hand never raises to do so.

He thought he had more time.

He’s so tired. He feels like a rung out dishrag. Mentally, but physically too. He’d just had to deal with the biggest shock of his life, and has been awake since yesterday morning. He doesn’t even know how much he’s walked in that time, but he just finished hiking up a fucking mountain in 100 degree weather. He’s exhausted. He’s starving. He’s so thirsty he thinks he could drink a whole ocean.

I want to go the fuck to sleep, he thinks miserably.

He is physically drained, yes, but he has gotten through worse bouts of physical distress many times before. It’s mostly that he wasn’t prepared at all to have to push himself even more once he got back, especially not to have to deal with something so monumental.

He wants to run away again. Or, no, he wants everyone but him and Cas to be gone, wants Sam and whoever the fuck else to leave the this little pocket of peace that has become his sanctuary, wants to have more time.

The thought of knocking on this door right now, of having Cas and Sam and some other strangers rush over to open it, makes him want to throw up.

He’s scared, and he’s tired. And he is unprepared.

Dean pulls his hand away from the door and stands up straight.

He can’t face Sam like this. Reeking of sweat, muscles shaking with fatigue, parched and on the verge of heatstroke. Dean is ashamed to show himself to Sam enough as it is. Worse, he literally doesn’t think his stupid broken heart can take it, not in this state. He can’t deal with whatever fall out is about to happen, he’s already so goddamn overwhelmed, he thinks he might actually just faint.

Dean walks around to the back of the house, and climbs up to the second floor with surprising ease. He doesn’t even have to pick the lock on the window, just jiggles it violently for a minute or two and it snaps off on its own.

Dean slips inside, ending up in Cas’s office. The voices sound a lot louder now. They’re loud enough that he doesn’t have to worry about being noisy. There’s no way they can hear anything over their shouting.

It’s so rare for Cas to raise his voice. Distantly, Dean is touched.

More pressingly though, he’s parched.

He makes his way into the bathroom connected to Cas’s room, passing the man’s made bed.

Cas never bothers making his bed. Dean always does it for him.

He didn’t sleep, Dean realizes with a pang.

There would be guilt, and gratefulness, later. Right now, there is only water.

He drinks, huge, sweet gulps of water from the sink, each so long and unbroken that he only stops when his lungs start to burn with lack of air. He drinks until he can’t anymore, until he thinks he might throw up.

Christ, had he been thirsty.

The most pressing need out of the way, he sinks down to the floor, limp. He leans his head against the wall and listens, halfheartedly, to the shouting match going on downstairs. It has not quieted down. It seems to have gotten louder.

He wonders what the hell they could even be talking about, individual words muffled by the floor and the door. Are they even really talking about anything, or is there simply nothing else to do but yell?

If he still had any doubts about being wanted, they are soothed.

Nothing else is soothed though. His nerves are already shot, and the noise isn’t helping. Nevermind the anxiety that’s building in his chest at his inability to make himself go downstairs and reassure them that he’s ok. He feels paralyzed as they shout, knowing with increasing certainty and guilt that he is hurting them every minute he doesn’t go downstairs, but feeling overwhelming panic at the thought of actually going to deal with this right now. The stress of the two urgent but opposing demands builds inside him like a water balloon that is going to burst.

Dean sits up suddenly in realization, before nearly flying over to the cabinet above the sink. Flinging it open, he finds his bottle and pops a Xanex before he has time to second guess himself.

There. Maybe that will help.

He stares down at the open bottle in his hands for a blank moment before closing it and putting it back.

He’s never taken a drug willingly before.

Or, he had, he’d been taking the Xanex on a regular basis, but always under Cas’s observation, not quite forced, but certainly reluctant.

But it hasn’t killed him so far, has it? And he can’t be sure how well it works, but it’s safe, at least.

And already he can feel himself calming down. Logically he knows it can’t be working that fast, that it must just be his imagination, but if even just the action of taking something for his panic helps, then who the fuck cares? He’ll take what he can get.

Dean sighs, leaning heavily against the sink.

He feels gross, and sticky, and still very much overheated. The shower is tempting.

He doesn’t think the people down stairs would even notice an earthquake with all the noise they’re making, so he strips off his clothes and gets in. The water is cool against his hot body, but not ice, and almost immediately the temperature change helps him feel less faint.

Despite the temptation to stay in there forever, he cleans himself quickly, nervous about someone downstairs noticing, even though he knows it they would have to strain to hear the shower running even if they were quiet.

When he’s done, he picks up his sweat-soaked clothes but doesn’t put them back on. Throwing his laundry in the hamper, he changes into sweatpants and a T-shirt from his drawer in his room.

He pulls out a box of cereal from his closet, where he’d stashed the emergency food Cas had given him all those months ago. It’s slightly stale by now, but Dean doesn’t care, ravenous. He eats the entire thing, then crawls under his bed and falls asleep.

By the time he wakes up, it’s the middle of the night. Dean opens his eyes to darkness.

Barely a moment passes before he realizes he is not alone.

More specifically, there is someone on his bed.

Dean’s heart stops.

So does his breath, for a second, before he forces himself to breath out very quietly, but evenly.

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s fine. Someone from earlier must be sleeping over. No one knew you were here. They’re not gonna hurt you.

It’s hard to curb his instinctive terror, though.

He waits at least until his shaking subsides, then slips as quietly as possible from under the bed.

It’s Jess.

There is relief for only a moment before he realizes that if Jess is still here, Sam must still be here as well.

You can’t hide under your bed forever, he tells his fear, and creeps quietly out of his room.

It’s even darker in the hallway than it was in his room, without any windows to let in light.

This is Cas’s world, and despite the blackness, Dean moves as confidently as the blind man does down the hall he’s walked a million times.

He remembers being amazed, when he first came here, by Cas’s ability to move about his house so certainly.

It seems a silly thing to think now that he is as accustomed to this house as Cas is. You don’t need your eyes to navigate your home. It is as familiar as if he were walking through the chambers of his own heart.

Dean doesn’t knock when he reaches Cas’s door, just walks in as if he knows he is welcome, because he does.

Cas is asleep. The moonlight from his own window streaks across the floor and the bed, illuminating the man in irregular stripes.

He looks beautiful.

Dean aches.

He’s so glad he came home.

He sits on the edge of the mans bed and just stares for a moment, letting the quiet wash over him.

Everything is so still.

Gently, Dean brushes Cas’s hair back from his face.

“Cas.” He whispers.

The man doesn’t move.

“Cas.” Dean says again, and jostles his shoulder lightly.

Cas jerks awake, startled.

“Cas.” Dean says a third time, just so Cas knows who’s woken him up.

Cas’s unfocused eyes widen. And then he is up, so quickly Dean doesn’t see it happen, bundling Dean into his arms, not like he is made of glass, not like he wants to push him inside his own heart, but like he’s a person, a person that was missed a whole lot.

Dean hugs Cas back in the same way.

“Dean,” Cas gasps. “Oh, God, Dean. I was so worried about you, where on earth have you been? Christ, you came back. I’m so glad you came back.”

“Me too.” Dean mumbles, suddenly unable to remember how to say anything else, do anything else but hold Cas as tight as he can.

“I’m sorry.” He says quietly into Cas’s neck. “I’m sorry I left, I panicked.”

Cas shakes his head.

“I’m just glad you’re back. Are you safe? Are you hurt at all?”

“I’m fine. Perfect.” Dean says, and means it.

Cas stiffens suddenly, and pulls back.

“Dean, your brother’s here.” He says urgently.

Dean sighs.

“Yeah, I know.”

At Cas’s questioning look, Dean explains guiltily.

“I, uh. I got back around four. I heard people yelling and I just…I really thought I might pass out if I had to deal with everything, I was so tired and hot. I broke in though a window and hid under my bed. I just woke up.”

Dean bows his head. He sounds like such a child, such a coward. So inconsiderate.

“I’m sorry.” He says again.

Cas doesn’t respond for a moment, looking at Dean in confusion.

“Wha- Did you walk back?” He says slowly, alarmed.

Dean shrugs, relived Cas doesn’t seem pissed at him for bolting, or for hiding in plain sight for hours.

“Yeah. How else was I supposed to get home?”

“You could have called me, Dean!”

Dean flinches.

“I snapped my phone in half.” He whispers, hands twisting together. “I thought…Sam might be tracking me on it.”

As soon as he says it, he blushes, realizing he sounds like a crazy person.

But it turns out he had not been as paranoid as he’d thought, as Cas just blinks at him and shock and says, “He was.”

Unsure of what to say to that, Dean looks over to stare out the window. The moon hangs hauntingly in the sky as always, bright as a searchlight.

“Dean…” Cas hesitates. “I’m sorry. I can tell him to go. I don’t even know how he found us, he just showed up last night with his girlfriend. I was so desperate to find you, I was so scared you were unsafe, but I couldn’t go to the police and…”

Dean looks back over to the other man, who lets out a long breath and falls back against the headboard of the bed, legs tucked up to his chest.

“I should have known you would come back if you wanted to. I never meant to make you feel like…you’re trapped, or being hunted, or. Well. I just feared for your safety.”

Scooting closer to the man, Dean leans forward, placing a kiss on Cas’s cloth-covered knee before resting his forehead on the same spot.

Cas’s hand comes up to run through Dean’s hair, just as Dean had hoped it would. He huffs in contentment.

“I didn’t feel like that, Cas.”

That’s a lie. He had. But he knows that Cas is being truthful, that he didn’t chase Dean out of possessiveness or because he has the right to. He knows Cas was just worried, so he doesn’t see the point in troubling him with distress Dean knows is unfounded.

“And I don’t want you to tell Sam to leave.”

That…is less of a lie, at least. He is still scared of seeing Sam again, still feels overwhelmed at the thought, but the thought of not ever getting the chance to see Sam again scares him even more. He just wishes he had more time. But he’s never really going to feel ready.

“I need to talk to him.” Dean whispers solemnly, and at last he has spoken a whole truth. He needs to talk to Sam. This he knows.

Cas pauses in his petting, and Dean glances up. The man if frowning.

Dean frowns too.

“Is…that alright?”

Dean watches black eyebrows jump up.

“Oh, yes Dean, of course. I just…you know you don’t have to, right?”

Dean sits up.

“I need to.” He repeats.

Cas looks wary.

“Dean, if he’s hurt you…”

Bizarrely, it is only then that Dean remembers that Cas doesn’t know.

Because Cas knows him, knows his heart and his mind, knows there is a soul inside this body that people use as a toy. He knows that soul better than Dean does himself.

The last person who had known him, and known he was alive and not a doll, had been Sam. Back then, Dean had assumed he was the only person who ever would know that.

How, how, can Cas know him the way he does without knowing about Sam? Sam is twisted into every fiber of his soul like a tapestry, forming the picture that makes up who Dean is. Take his brother away, and what’s left? Dean hadn’t thought there would be anything left to make sense of.

Dean blinks, and realizes that maybe the scars that formed over the wounds Sam left do count as part of him, even if they are just scars.

“Sam never hurt me.” Dean says, and of all the lies he’d ever told, that one must be the biggest.

But it comes out easily all the same, because Dean knows what Cas is really asking.

Sam had hurt Dean, but he had never abused him. Abuse can only come from power, and by the time Sam had begun to realize what sort of power he held over his brother, he was shaking from the weight of holding it.

Sam had never hurt him the way a god can break a toy. He had hurt him the way human beings hurt each other, because that’s what they both are.

It’s the first time he really understands that.

In front of him, Cas still has an expression of worry in his face. The tension between himself and Sam is tangible, even without having seen each other in years. Even to someone as oblivious as Cas. “Sam never hurt me” is not going to cut it.

But is there any way to explain, for someone else to understand?

Dean very much doubts it. But he owes it to Cas to try.

“It was John. He fucked us both up.” The venom in his own voice surprises him. “He…I…I loved him. I didn’t know any better.”

His breath hitches. Cas sits up farther against the headboard.

“Dean…” He mutters, and reaches his arms out.

Dean leans into them gratefully, leaning his head against the man’s chest.

“I didn’t know.” He repeats, and Cas nods, holding him tight. “I had nothing to compare to. I thought…I thought I deserved everything he did to me, I thought I deserved everything after I was sold too, because I wasn’t good enough for him to keep me, so, so…”

Trailing off, he sighs. The urgency that usually spurs him to ramble isn’t there. Cas can see a full picture in his heart without knowing the story that Dean had thought it depicted. He understands what Dean is trying to say.

This is what home is, he thinks.

“You.” Dean mumbles, breath warm against the cotton on Cas’s chest. “I didn’t know they didn’t have to treat me like that until you.”

He really hadn’t. It had been so disorienting when he’d come to Cas, and still is to an extent, not just because he had never been treated kindly but because he hadn’t even realized it could be applied to him. It had thrown every assumption he had made about the world out of balance, forcing him to see even John as cruel. Culture shock, for sure.

“Sam knew, though. He was so fucking angry, all the time, and I had no idea why. He wanted to run away. And I didn’t, I didn’t want to run away, because I loved John and I didn’t know there was anything better to run to. And I lied, I lied and said we wouldn’t make it, but we could have, and Sam knew that too.”

Cas breathes in and out, deeply. Dean rises and falls with his chest.

“Did he leave you behind?” The man whispers, and Dean shuts his eyes. For all his misunderstandings when it comes to social cues, he is incredibly perceptive in some things. It’s clear that he can read Dean like a book.

Why did he have to phrase it like that? He could have just said “run away,” but instead he had to rip Dean’s feelings out from inside him, articulate the wound that had been pulsing in pain for so long. Of course he had to say it like that. Because he understands Dean, better than he understands himself.

Dean feels like he’s had an arrow shot through him.

“Yes.” Dean chokes, and it is such a relief to admit. He feels like he is at last confessing a terrible secret that has been weighing on his soul, because in a way he is. Because it’s not true. Dean knows it’s not true, finally understands Sam the way Cas understands Dean.

So he lets his hurt hang in the air for only a moment before his forgiveness follows.

“He just wanted to be safe. And for me to be safe too. I thought I could protect him, but I couldn’t.”

Dean shakes his head.

“He used to watch…he would do something wrong, and John would beat me for it. I didn’t understand how that would fuck him up. I thought if I was the one getting beat, then he was safe, but he wasn’t, was he?”

“No.” Cas agrees. “That would have still been very traumatizing. But it isn’t your fault. You did the best you could.”

Dean blinks.

Traumatizing.

“I didn’t know.” He says again.

It sounds like such a flimsy excuse.

All the same, Cas nods.

“I know you didn’t.”

Traumatizing.

Dean wonders if Sam has nightmares too.

“God, I really fucked up.”

“No.” Cas says fiercely, startling Dean. “You did the best you could under the circumstances. You did protect him, Dean. But sometimes the best outcome is still not very good.”

Dean shrugs, and Cas kisses the top of his head.

“You were just as helpless as Sam was, Dean, if not more so.”

But it was my job, Dean thinks, but doesn’t say.

“You know John used to molest me in front of Sam. He would just drag me onto his lap and shove his hand down my pants. And Sam was little, I mean really little, three or four or five. A baby.”

“So were you.” Cas says simply.

Was he? He had never truly been allowed to be a child. He had certainly never felt like one. He remembers the way he’d felt back then, being beaten or fondled in front of Sam, remembers his thoughts, and they don’t feel particularly childish. He was always just relived he was the one being hurt instead of Sam, and worrying about Sam having to look at what was happening.

But he had been what, seven or eight in those memories? Would he think of a seven or eight year old now as anything but a baby, even if the kid was worrying about things adults shouldn’t have to deal with?

“I have to talk to Sam.” Dean says abruptly, and sits up even more more so. “Now. I need to talk to him.”

“He’s sleeping on the couch.” Cas tells him, with no hesitation this time, and Dean thinks maybe he managed get across his relationship with Sam better than he had thought he would be able to.

For some reason Dean had thought Cas might protest again, or something, something would happen that he would have to yet again be delayed.

But nothing happens, and it sinks in that he is out of time. This is happening, right now.

He’s terrified.

“Right.” Dean says.

But he doesn’t move, just stares over to the door like it’s going to attack him.

He wants to cry again, and considers letting himself, just to have a reason to delay this further.

But he doesn’t. He is out of time, and this is happening. Dean feels, in a way, like it was always inevitable, like this is what he had been hurdling towards forever.

This is going to happen, and it’s going to happen now.

A hand curls around his own, and Dean looks down at it in surprise, before looking back up at Cas.

“It’s going to be ok.” The man says, and Dean feels his muscles unlock.

Chapter Text

Sam isn’t on the couch when Dean goes downstairs. There’s a pillow, and a blanket, but it’s been kicked away and lays tangled at the other end of the couch. The lamp is on. The room is silent.

Dean comes around to where the coffee table used to be, habitually stepping a bit too close to the couch to avoid bumping into the furniture that’s no longer there. There are still imprints left on the rug, outlining its ghost, a reminder that it had stood heavily for years and years before Cas broke it to make room for Dean.

Dean keeps his head turned away from its absence. He doesn’t like to think about that day.

There are a lot of things he doesn’t like to think about.

Sam used to fall in that category. Dean isn’t sure if he still does.

Dean approaches the far end of the couch like he’s approaching a grenade. Reaching down, he brushes his fingers over the rumpled pillow.

None of this feels real.

Time slows down or speeds up or doesn't exist at all, and Dean sits down slowly, hugging the pillow to his chest.

It smells like Sam, and that should launch him back in time, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t, because deep down Dean still doesn’t believe that any time has passed.

None of this feels real, but if Dean is honest nothing has really felt real since he was sold.

Something has always felt so disjointed, so wrong, like there’s been some sort of cosmic mistake and he’s been living the wrong life. Like his consciousness had been kidnapped from one universe and shoved accidentally into another.

He still half expects Sam to come skidding around the corner, fourteen and skinny, still wakes up some days and doesn’t know where he is.

There is a line drawn in his mind of then and now, and it is drawn along the day John sold him.

Dean knows that’s bizarre. If he’s going to think of his life in two parts, he shouldn’t draw the divide in the middle of the years he was a punching bag instead of at the point he was rescued. But when he folds his life in half, it doesn’t crease along the day he became safe, but along the day he lost Sam. Somehow, Sam defined his life so much that even the abrupt stop of being routinely raped couldn’t re-designate the part of his life he thinks of as gone.

Dean blinks slowly, and tightens his hold on the pillow, the cool cloth brushing along his collarbone. He sits in silence and tries to understand how this can be his life.

He had been through and become used to things that most people couldn’t even be told without becoming sick. Five years of his life had become lost to that world, a reality so dark he still can’t really believe he lived through it. Not now, not sitting on a normal couch in a normal house, listening to his life tick away by the clock on the wall. Here, in the quiet brightness, he can pick up even the worst horrors without flinching and turn them over in his hands like they are some foreign curiosity.

There is such dissonance inside him. He’s lived too many different lives, had his heart spun around too many different times, had to start over from scratch and learn everything over again, like a child, more times than should ever happen in one lifetime. He doesn’t understand how so many different lives can belong to one person.

I’m only twenty three, he thinks, but it feels weak, and untrue, even though Dean knows it isn’t.

Perhaps that’s why he can never quite believe he belongs in his body, and why he’s always so startled that people want him. Because when he looks in the mirror, he sees the body of a young man, but doesn’t understand how that can be. He feels older than he is. He feels older than anyone else on earth.

No one is meant to live as long as Dean has, to see as much as he’s seen, to know as much as he knows.

He is ancient, and he is alone.

And he doesn’t know if he has room to fit another life inside him without splitting at the seams.

Dean blinks, and pushes his face into the pillow, and breathes.

His heart trembles with the strain of its own weight, always an inch away from collapsing in on itself like a dying star, threatening to suck all his lives and all the people he’s been into the black hole left in its wake.

It was Sam who taught him that, about space and physics and stars that caved in on themselves under the pressure of their own density. It was Sam who taught him everything.

And now he’s here, and Dean doesn’t think there are words to describe how he’s feeling. It is something between resignation and contentedness. He has landed on the other side of time, where the infinite and inevitable lie. He had not known his lives were going to crash together, but now that he’s here it feels like it was always going to happen like this.

There is something comforting and still about it, like the eye of a storm.

He hadn’t known he could feel so quiet.

He sits in silence for as long as he likes. He is out of time. There is no urgency anymore.

It doesn’t take Dean long to find Sam once he decides to.

(It never would have taken Dean long to find Sam once he decided to.)

This house is small, and Dean knows it well. Sam’s habits are small, and Dean knows them well too. He had not been surprised to find the couch empty. His brother had never been the type to stare blankly at the ceiling and worry.

He knows where to find his brother. He’s sitting on the back porch, like Dean knew he would be. He’s always gone to hide under the stars when he’s scared.

And he is scared, Dean can see that from his body language from where he stands in the back doorway. The screen door creaks like an old man’s bones when he opens it, but Sam doesn’t hear, hunched over on the steps and silhouetted by moonlight, peering at his phone like it could hold all the answers of the universe.

Dean can see what looks like a map on the screen, and he’s not so stupid that he doesn’t realize Sam is still trying to track his iPhone, even though by now he must know that Dean got rid of it somehow.

His heart aches at the futile effort, and his heart aches at the lost expression on the boy’s face, one he is unfortunately all too familiar with.

How much he’s grown is less startling to Dean than he had thought it would be. He’s a lot, a lot taller, and has filled out from a shrimpy kid to the body of a man. He’s the kind of big that would have scared the shit out of Dean not too long ago.

But his face is the same, open and lined with far to much worry for someone so young. And he is young, still a teenager in fact.

Of course he is. Dean had known that. He knows Sam’s age better than he knows his own, would know the kid’s face even if it had been a hundred years, knows the expression on it like the last time he'd seen it be that morning.

What else had he expected? Had he really built Sam up so much in his mind, to some sort of monster, or god? This is his little brother. This is his own heart, personified.

Dean doesn’t know why he had been so afraid.

This is Sam. Sam, who was his only friend for so long. Who woke Dean from the nightmares he denied having and cried over Dean’s bruises. Who hid behind him when there was no danger and jumped in front of him when there was. Who he used to play hide and seek with, who he has thousands of dumb inside jokes with that he still remembers. Who taught him to read, and smile, and is probably the only reason Dean didn’t turn out to be a total psychopath.

He feels not like the floor has disappeared from under him, but like he’s been falling for a long, long time, and has finally hit solid ground.

There is no preamble, no crescendo. They’ve waited too long to be caught up in dramatics.

“Sammy.” Dean says simply.

Dean expects Sam to jerk like he’s been shot, but he doesn’t. He just stills, and blinks, and turns his head.

There is no surprise, or joy, or tears. Just relief that spreads across Sam’s face as visibly as spilled ink across paper.

That this is Sam’s first, instinctual gut reaction tugs something horribly painful inside Dean.

“You’re back.” The boy says.

As if Dean had just been gone a few minutes. Like he’d just run out to pick something up from the corner store.

“Yeah.” Dean nods. “I’m back.”

Back here, back home. Back in Sam’s life, suddenly and without fanfare. Back, to some extent, to the person he used to be. Dean himself doesn’t know how many ways he means it. He hopes Sam hears the depth of his answer. He hopes he didn’t imagine the depth in Sam’s words.

He would almost think he had, from how blank Sam seems. He knows his brother too well though to miss the desperation that jerks across his face, before it settles into a careful calm.

Dean’s gut twists. They had never had to be careful around each other before.

Why are you hiding from me? he wants to ask, but his gaze catches again on the map still hovering on Sam’s phone, and knows he has no right to ask that question.

Sam notices where he’s looking, and he quickly switches the device off, shoving it in his pocket as if that will erase what Dean had seen.

“Sorry.” He says quickly. “Sorry.”

“Why?” Dean asks, and Sam looks at him for only a moment before his eyes skitter to the side.

“I wasn’t trying to catch you, or…I was just worried.”

Dean nods like he understands, which he doesn’t. Sam continues, standing suddenly.

“But you’re fine, obviously. I’ll get out of your hair. I just need to wake Jess up, and we’ll go.”

Dean blinks. “It’s the middle of the night,” he says stupidly.

“Its fine.”

Dean’s stomach drops sharply.

He’d thought Sam had wanted to see him, had been looking for him. Is it possible to have misunderstood so horribly?

Of course it’s possible, he thinks. Idiot slut. Why would he want to see you?

He can feel all his insecurities and fears waking up, swarming at the back of his mind like bees, barely held back.

He doesn’t understand what’s going on.

It is desperation more than anything else that makes him grab at Sam’s arm as the boy makes to brush past where Dean is stood by the doorway.

Sam pauses, and looks from where Dean’s hand is on his shoulder to Dean uncertainly.

“Why are you leaving?” Dean’s voice wavers as he speaks.

“Because you’re safe.” Sam answers, before he tenses, brow furrowing. “You are safe, aren’t you? Jess said you were, and Cas seems alright, but…”

He trails off, waiting for Dean to finish his sentence, but Dean finds himself unable to speak.

That can’t be it. Is that it? Obligation? Is that all Dean is to Sam, is that all that drove the boy to look for him?

He’s never, ever wanted to be anyone’s burden.

He feels panic creeping up on him, beginning to blur the edges of his mind.

“I’m safe.” He says blankly. “I thought…”

You didn’t say you feel sorry for me. You said you love me.

He feels his mind flinch away from the thought like its been burned, and his body wants to follow, wants to snatch his hand back from his brother and let him leave, to stop embarrassing himself, to stop imagining he is worth anything but pity.

Instead, he clings harder, unwilling to let Sam disappear again just because he’s spiraling.

“I thought you wanted to see me,” Dean finishes uncertainly. It’s not exactly a great demand of respect or self confidence, words coming out weak and confused, but all the same its not something he would have had the faith to fight for at all not very long ago.

It’s enough. Now there is shock, radiating from Sam as loud as a siren.

“Of course I want to see you, Dean!”

Sam’s voice is scraped raw, and more vulnerable than Dean’s. It’s the emotion more than the words that registers to Dean, holding back the dread threatening to overwhelm him.

“Then why are you leaving?” Dean asks again, stronger this time.

Don’t go. God, Sammy, don’t leave me alone again.

They are the words he doesn’t say, but he’s sure are painted across his face just as plainly.

Sam looks at him searchingly. Dean struggles to keep his face open, praying that Sam will find whatever it is he’s looking for.

He doesn’t. Instead he looks away, calm again. “You don’t have to do this, you know.” He mutters.

“Do what?” Dean asks, truly bewildered.

Frustration colors Sam’s expression for the first time. He shakes Dean’s hand off, and Dean pulls back, hurt.

“Pretend!” Sam hisses, not loudly but full of exasperation just the same. “Pretend you want to see me, be who I need- want you to be. I’m not a kid any more, Dean, you don’t have to give me what I want.”

Sam cuts off suddenly, and it takes Dean a moment to realize why. He had shrunk away as soon as Sam’s anger had become visible, had without thinking tried to make himself a smaller target. Dean had never hated his stupid brain more.

It’s instinct, Sam! I’m not afraid of you!

Not anymore anyway.

“Sammy.” Dean mutters, and Sam shakes his head.

“Don’t, Dean.” He says, voice heavy. “Cas told me already. That he offered to help you find me, and you didn’t want to. That you were afraid.”

“Not of you.”

“Then of what?”

Dean feels bile rise in his throat, blocking his words. Sam sighs, and starts to turn away, and it is that that pushes the words out of his throat.

“I was ashamed.” He admits, and Sam pauses. And if talking will keep Sam from walking away, Dean will talk forever. “I never. I didn’t want you to see me like this. I’ve done…I’m not like you remember. God, Sammy, I’m so fucked up.”

There it is, the truth, out in the open for Sam to take or leave.

The boy seems to hesitate, like he’s not sure whether to believe Dean.

“So am I.” He says eventually, and guilt tears at Dean’s gut.

“I know.” Dean says. “I’m sorry.”

Sam looks at him incredulously. “You’re sorry?”

“For not listening to you. You were right about John. You were right that he brainwashed me. And that we should have, could have left. You were right.”

Stunned, Sam turns back to him, looking for all the world like he doesn’t know what to do, like he is hearing something he had wanted to hear for a long time without ever letting himself acknowledge it.

There is so much guilt between them.

You help me hold mine and I’ll help you hold yours.

When Sam speaks, he speaks as though each word that comes out of his mouth is a surprise. They’ve strayed from all the scenarios Sam must have played out in his head. He has no rehearsed response to that which he never imagined he’d hear.

“I. But I still shouldn’t have…I shouldn’t have treated you like I did, I shouldn’t have gotten angry, left you…”

“You were a kid.”

“So were you.”

Dean swallows. “I guess so,” He acknowledges.

From not too far away, he hears crickets chirping like birds. Warm air clings to his body like a wet mouth on skin. They let the silence stretch so long that holes start to rip in it.

“Dean, I.” Sam starts eventually. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s ok.” Dean says simply.

“It’s not.”

“It is now.”

Because it is. Dean’s safe, and Sam’s safe, and they are both here at last. Dean doesn’t know how else to make Sam see that, and to make him see how desperately he wants his brother back in his life.

But he can see Sam’s conviction breaking.

“I’ve given you every reason to hate me.” He protests weakly.

“But I don’t.” Dean answers. “I forgive you.”

“Jesus Christ.” Sam says, and then he’s crying.

He’s crying, so hard it looks painful, and he doesn’t even move or do anything indicated by the desperation of his tears, just stands there in the dark shaking like a leaf. Arms loose, head bowed, limp, like it doesn’t even cross his mind to seek comfort or turn away or try to calm himself, or do anything at all but wait out the waves of pain that rush through him.

And that’s so wrong, in such a gut wrenching way. Surrender is not something he has ever seen on Sam before. He’s seen Sam cry so many times, could have counted the stars in the sky before listing them all. But he’s never behaved like this, not once that Dean has ever seen. He’d always known he could come to Dean, would fling himself into Dean’s chest like a toddler even when he was 14, histrionic and childish, cracking under weight no child should have to hold and letting Dean put him back together.

Or sometimes he would be angry, prideful, ashamed, furious at himself for crying and then at Dean for trying to help, screaming at him to go away, leave me alone, wiping at his face and hiding behind a slammed door as if he could hide his misery, fruitlessly choking as he failed at holding back his tears.

This is something different entirely. This is something terrible.

Defeat, his mind supplies, and Dean feels sick.

How many times has he cried alone like this, resigned and helpless?

Sam and his goddamn anger. It had driven them apart, driven them both out of the house and far away. Dean had hated it, but all the same he had thought it unstoppable.

Apparently it had never been. Apparently his anger had finally been subdued by his sorrow.

And that’s the last thing Dean had wanted. He feels guilty, like the fact that he had been desperate for Sam to mellow out and stop getting them both into so much trouble is what’s responsible for what’s happening before him now, like some fucked up genie had granted his wish just to show him how wrong he had been.

“Oh God, Sammy.” Dean whispers, pulling Sam into a hug. “C’mon kiddo, it’s alright.”

Sam lets himself be manhandled, lets himself fall into the hug like he doesn’t know what it is.

He tries to speak, but raw, irregular sobs force there way out of him in place of words.

“Sam, it’s ok. Stop, Sam. Stop.”

Sam does stop, and just lets himself shake against Dean’s chest for what seems like hours. Eventually, long minutes in, his arms come up hesitantly to circle around Dean’s torso, like he thinks Dean might shake him off. After a few more minutes pass without him being rejected, the lose limbs tighten like a python around Dean’s middle, strength in them that wasn’t there the last time Dean had seen him.

When the boy finally pulls away, his breath is still hitching and his face is all red, and he looks no less disoriented than he had before.

“S-shit.” He hiccups. “I’m s-sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I got your shirt all wet.”

“Christ, Sam, I don’t care.”

“I’m sorry I cried all over you. I always promised myself I wouldn’t, but…”

Sam trails off, and Dean feels like someone has stabbed him.

Always promised myself.

Sam never forgot about him. He’d been looking for him since he was sold.

Dean hadn’t known that. Everything would have been different if he had.

He would have gotten away.

But he hadn’t thought anyone was looking for him, hadn’t thought that anyone wanted him other than the people he belonged to. If he’d known…

But he hadn’t. The last time he had seen Sam, the boy had said he hated him. He’d called him a coward.

And Dean had believed everything Sam had said, like they were the words of gospel rather than the words of an angry fourteen year old.

Part of him feels cheated, feels like this isn’t his fault. What was he supposed to think? Sam said he hated him. What was he supposed to think?

But he knows better than that, knows that no one in their right mind would take the yelling of a stressed and pissed off teenager that seriously, and that it’s certainly not Sam’s fault that Dean had never in his life be in his right mind.

Perhaps it’s not Dean’s fault either. But Sam was a miserable kid. He should have been able to get angry without bringing his father’s fists down on Dean, should have been able to speak without thinking and say things he would regret without accidentally shattering someone’s psyche.

He doesn’t want to put even more guilt on the boy’s shoulders, doesn’t want to let him know how little Dean, in all his fright and self depreciation, had believed in him. So he tries to avoid the subject entirely.

“My God Sam, it’s fine. I’ve been crying all day.”

Sam flinches a bit, and Dean regrets speaking. But Sam just blinks wetly and says, “Just overwhelmed?”

It’s a peace offering. A willingness to accept the truth Dean gives him now, that he is happy Sam is here, and not push for the truth that had existed this morning. It is suggesting that someone is tired when it is clear that they are upset but don’t want to talk about it.

“Yeah.” Dean says gratefully. “Overwhelmed.”

Sam takes a shuddering breath. “Me too.” Then he slides to the ground, back against the doorway. Dean follows suit.

Everything is quiet and dark and suspended, and the only thing that feels strange is how this doesn’t feel strange at all.

Real, real, real. The word beats in his chest.

“He really sold you as a sex slave.” Sam mutters, choked. It’s not a question, but Dean answers all the same.

“Yeah. I don’t really want to talk about it, Sam.”

Sam nods with an acceptance that seems out of character for him. Dean wonders how much Cas told him, or if its just newfound maturity.

“What about you?” Dean asks. “Did…did John hurt you?”

Sam’s face twists, and so does Dean’s chest. But it’s derision, not distress, on the kid’s face.

“John.” Sam spits the name like it’s a curse. “No. I haven’t seen the bastard in years. I wimped out and came back a couple days after I ran. He told me what he’d done to you…I almost killed him. But I knew I couldn’t find you if I was in jail. So I went to child services. Bounced around in foster care for a few years ‘till I went off to school.”

Sam shrugs. “It was fine. I kept my head down and no one hurt me.”

The relief Dean feels is enormous. Much bigger than the dismissive tone with which Sam speaks.

He’s ok.

“Good.”

He must have spoken with more feeling than he meant to, because Sam looks at him with surprise, then a softness that makes Dean uncomfortable.

“I’m fine, Dean. You don’t have to worry ‘bout me.”

Something thick forms in Dean’s chest at the truth of those words, and dissolves in the same moment. Because it is the truth, isn’t it? The truth that had sent Dean spiraling into a panic and nearly chased him to a different country. Dean had taken so much pain for Sam, and the only pain he had ever cowered from was that he didn’t have to do that any more.

Sam can take care of himself. He doesn’t need Dean any more.

And yet here he is, Dean thinks. And here you are too.

And isn’t that more important? That his brother doesn’t need him, and wants to see him anyway?

“Guess I don’t.”

For the first time, that thought doesn’t make him feel lost.

Chapter Text

There are things that Sam doesn’t mention.

He was always observant, piercingly so, from the time his brain began to form conscious thought. Even in his earliest memories, he was thinking, wondering, noticing. It was survival that taught him quickly that the things he noticed were not always meant to be seen. His survival, and Dean’s as well, depended on his ability not only to observe and understand, but to know enough to pretend he didn’t.

He knew by the time he was two that his father was drunk when he said he was not, and was three when he knew that rage comes quicker with alcohol, regardless his father’s denials. He was four when he knew that neither of these things should be pointed out. It was Dean’s sheer relief that taught him that, even more than Johns fists.

He was five when he knew what sex was, and that it was terrible, and that asking Dean about it made him cry harder than anything, even the sex itself. At six he knew that pretending he did not notice when John had sex with Dean made Dean cry a little less afterwards. He was seven when he knew that sex was not terrible and that what John did to Dean was called rape, and learned directly after that saying so made John furious, but it made Dean even more furious, made him angrier than Sam had ever seen him in his entire life. For all Sam understood, it would not be for another decade that he could understand that.

He was eight when he knew that, despite all evidence, his father had loved someone once, and that it had destroyed him. Nine when he knew that this was his mother, and that her death during his birth was why his father hated him. When he was ten, he saw a picture of her for the first time, and saw immediately the uncanny resemblance between her and his slave brother. And he knew then why Dean had been bought, and why John hated him so much too.

When he was eleven, Sam knew that Dean loved John. When he was twelve, he knew that that love was going to kill his brother. When he was thirteen, he knew it was going to kill him too.

By the time he was fourteen, the things he knew and pretended he did not weighed on him like the piles of dirt that cover a dead body. They sat inside him, digging into his gut, and the sheer pain of it drove him mad. Everything he knew and had always known started to spill out of him around the time his body began to grow, like nature knew he was going to have to be able to defend himself against the storms that his spoken secrets caused.

The violence his words triggered was never worth it, and worth even less to Dean, who faced the brunt of it. Sam knew this as well as everything else, despite what Dean believed. It was the reason he had held his tongue for so long to begin with. He knew how Dean suffered when Sam reacted to the pain around him. But there comes a time when your logic fails you, and instinct takes over, and that time is when your body and gut know you are about to die.

The things he had never mentioned spilled out of him, because if he kept them inside him any longer there would be no room for him to breathe.

Fights and fights and fights, first with John and then with Dean, erupting like a dying star. He could see Dean’s disappointment growing, and his resentment too, getting larger with every buried truth unveiled. Dean saw him as small and selfish, thinking that he only now noticed the terror around him and immediately began screaming it to the heavens, regardless of the consequences. His brother didn’t know how long he’d known the things he finally shouted, or how tired his fourteen year old soul felt.

It didn’t matter. Sam knew the things he knew, and he felt small and selfish anyway. Perhaps that is just how one always feels when one sees the truth clearly and is unable to fix it.

Here is the truth about Sam: he entered this world in a river of blood that killed someone who loved him, and had grown up afraid that he would leave this world the same way.

He had been so afraid. Afraid for his life, and afraid for Dean’s, and afraid for both their sanity. Afraid, as he watched Dean’s dwindle to nothing, and watched his own be consumed by anger. Both of them turning into puppets, into products of their circumstances and nothing else. They turned into things that did nothing but react, like chemicals that exploded or dissolved when mixed with different compounds. You can make a dead squid dance if you drench it in salt. You can make a dead thing move if you know how. Motion doesn’t equal life. Agency equals life, and both of them were losing theirs.

He had tried to make Dean understand. Had tried, with increasing desperation, to make him see how they were disintegrating. Understanding had meant agreement, at first. Had meant fleeing. Had meant them both being saved.

At some point he realized that Dean would not be separated from John, perhaps could not be without dying. Sam had believed they were both the monster to John’s Frankenstein, but as his hope was worn away he had started to believe that Dean was something else entirely. Dean was like John’s extra limb, that if severed would not significantly hurt his master, but would be capable of doing nothing then but decay.

The shame of how he had rationalized abandoning Dean will never leave him. He had let himself see Dean as as much of an object as the rest of the world did just so he could save himself. At the time, he had not thought it was something he wanted to believe. The “realization” that Dean could not be saved tore at his heart. But it was less painful than admitting that he was going to desert someone alive and who loved him. And pretending Dean had no agency protected them both from the truth he thought Dean’s loyalty uncovered.

At fourteen, Sam knew that Dean loved John more than him. Despite the abuse, despite the terror, despite the things Sam did and did not do to protect Dean and all the things he did not mention, Dean loved John more than he loved Sam, and to force Dean to choose between them would be cruel to both of them. It would be cruel to force Dean to admit the truth that Sam wanted to believe had been forced onto him, and it would be cruel to himself to allow the world to walk away from him rather than walking away from it first.

So he did not make Dean choose. He chose for both of them, and it was a choice he knew full well at the time he would regret forever. There had been nothing he could have done that he would not have regretted.

He did not make Dean choose. Still, though, he tried to make Dean understand. While understanding at first had meant agreement, Sam didn’t hope for that anymore. Understanding just meant understanding. He just wanted Dean to understand why. Perhaps he was looking for some hint of forgiveness or absolution before the sin had even been committed. Perhaps he was looking for an excuse not to go. He still doesn’t know.

In the weeks leading up to his escape, he had tried to so many times to make Dean understand. How even these conversations escalated continuously into fights escapes him still. He hadn’t been trying to change Dean’s mind. He had only been trying, over and over, to explain himself, had wanted so miserably to be heard and known.

Because what was he supposed to do? Allow them both to be frayed apart? He would decompose from the inside out. He’d thought, for some reason, that Dean would at least recognize this, would recognize this panic in his chest telling him to get out get out get out, like a claustrophobe who had been buried alive. It was something he couldn’t put into words, but he’d felt so strongly that there was a part of Dean that had not yet been crushed, that longed for more as well, even if it wasn’t strong enough to take action.

He was wrong. All Dean saw was betrayal, and that had hurt more than he cared to admit. He’d wanted to beg, to cry, to accuse, wanted to stand before Dean and make him understand, make him feel the fear that gripped him when he thought of staying even a moment longer. He would die if he stayed. He. Would. Die.

But Dean hadn’t understood that. He hadn’t understood, and instead of being given closure, Sam had been left with the feeling that something had just reached down his throat and ripped his gut out of his body.

Though Sam was the one who ran away, he felt he had been abandoned all the same.

The next few weeks are are blur in Sam’s memory. While the weeks leading up to his escape are painful, he is morbidly drawn to them, has spent years returning to them, rationalizing, replaying, reshaping. Blaming himself and Dean and John and himself again in turns, imagining things going differently, imagining the things he should have said. The weeks after he left are not like that. His mind has barely glanced at them since his heart began to put itself back together. They exist in his head like a gaping wound that he feels acutely, but cannot look at for fear that he will faint.

He cannot even bear to return to them now, years later and with circumstances that have wildly changed. Dean is alive, and that should make the memories easier to think of, but it doesn’t, not even a little. And he knows that is cowardly, knows those weeks were exponentially more terrifying and heartbreaking for Dean, knows that they are his own fault anyway. But none of that makes it more possible for Sam to touch that time without flinching. Human beings can bear more sadness than god could dream of. Guilt, however, dissolves ones heart like cotton candy.

Those grey weeks of winter were the worst of his life. He doesn’t need to recall the details to know that. Those weeks sit inside him like something radioactive, and even without looking at it he can’t help but feel its heat. He remembers the loneliness of the first days he spent away, how he felt so free and so scared and so sad. He remembers wandering aimlessly through the city, sleeping on benches, his fingers turning blue. Sam wishes it had been the guilt that sent him home, but it hadn’t been. It had been the cold. He remembers- he doesn’t want to remember- he remembers the cold that he had thought unbearable becoming irrelevant as something colder washed through him, when his father told him what he had done to Dean. He doesn’t remember really what his father said. He doesn’t remember what he himself said, or what he did. He just remembers not knowing, and then knowing. And then waking up in a hospital. He doesn’t remember if John hurt him or if he hurt himself. It didn’t seem important at the time.

There are things he does not mention. Dean, for years, was one of them. Sam drifted like a ghost into foster care, and after weeks of shock, turned into a machine. His only mission was to find Dean, and he pursued it without mention. He barely spoke to the foster families he was placed with, just spent all the time he wasn’t at school at the library, at the public records office, at the auction house. Doing research. Trying to find Dean.

He learned that the average life expectancy of a slave sold into the sex industry was three months. He tried to believe Dean would beat the odds. He learned legal code. He made contact with abolitionists and freedom fighters. He hacked databanks and sale records.

But Dean seemed to have slipped through the cracks of Sam’s soul and disappeared for good. It was like he existed only in Sam’s memory.

Eventually he gave up. Eventually he accepted that Dean was almost certainly dead. Eventually he admitted that he had fucked up in a way that could never be fixed, and that he would have to live the rest of his life with part of his heart missing.

He didn’t want to live at all. His back was nearly broken from the combined weight of his guilt and all the things he knew and never said. By the time he gave up hope of finding Dean, Sam knew that the things he never mentioned felt so heavy because they ran so much deeper than the secrets he kept. He knew things about people and human nature that no one should ever know, knew about evil and depravity and love and fright and how they all turned into the same thing when no one was looking. He carried the knowledge inside of him because he could not abandon it, could not abandon it like he abandoned Dean.

He had no friends. He never had had any friends, except Dean. He had no idea how to relate to other people his own age. Talking about the things they wanted to talk about felt silly and shallow, but talking about the things inside him felt sacrilegious, and scared everyone away anyway.

Admitting that he would never find Dean had almost been a relief. It was defeat, but defeat at least signifies that the fight is over.

But it wasn’t over, in truth, and would never be. Even if Dean was gone, the rest of the world was not, and Sam knew he had put too much pain into it to justify quitting. So he had pulled himself together and applied to college, his perfect grades securing him an acceptance and a scholarship, and his dubiously gained legal knowledge securing a career in fighting slavery.

And instead of avoiding everyone again he had pretended to be a better and kinder and happier person than he really is, and had tricked some idealistic classmates into being his friends. And he had gone on pretending, and observing, and not mentioning any of it, and it was all unfeeling and fine until Jess found a gun under his pillow.

She had been so afraid that Sam had been compelled, for the first time since he last saw Dean, to try to make himself understood. To speak about the things he didn’t know how to speak about. To show someone the unhappiness he did not want someone else to have to see. He had done so haltingly, and messily, and had made himself cry for the first time in years. It had not felt good to talk about. But Jess had agreed not to report him, and had let him keep the gun where it was. And that did feel good. Because it meant that despite the irrationality of his paranoia and his reluctance to talk, some small but real part of him had been seen.

So over the past year, he’s started to talk. Only to Jess, and only a little, and only when he isn’t looking at her. But it’s been more than he ever thought he would do. It’s not always a relief. Sometimes he regrets whatever he’s said immediately. Sometimes he feels so ashamed that he has to leave her dorm. But he’s stopped feeling so much like he’s faking everything he does, has stopped feeling like he’s an alien trying to pass as human. That has to count for something.

He had started to feel like maybe he understood what the world wanted from him.

And then Dean had come back to life.

And now Sam is stuck again with the world warped around him and words caught in his throat. He is so happy. He is so ashamed. He is so confused. He is so sorry.

There are three truths that had destroyed Sam’s life, and that he had kept inside him for so long, and that he had only just begun to collect himself from.

Dean is dead, and Sam would never see him again.
Dean had loved John more than he had loved Sam.
His abandonment of Dean was unforgivable.

Now, within a matter of days, all three of those truths had been proven incorrect.

Sam had thought that Dean was dead, and worse still, that he had died alone as a person can be. Not simply without friends but without even the strength of his own heart to comfort him, because it had been given to someone who had thrown it away.

He had been wrong. Dean is alive, and with his heart very much intact, with enough strength in it still to forgive Sam, and even to apologize for behaving in a way that led Sam to think he was less loved than he was. Than he is.

He is dizzy with the truth, shaky with the elation and the shock. He has carried his guilt and silence for so long that he feels unbalanced without it. Part of him can’t quite believe that this is reality the way it is meant to be, that he hasn't simply willed Dean back into existence through sheer want.

Its hard for Sam to understand. Most people sold into the sex industry only survive a handful of weeks. Not only is Dean alive five full years later, but seems to have his sanity basically intact. In fact, he seems better off mentally than he had when Sam had seen him last. In the days since Dean appeared back, Sam thinks he may have seen Dean smile more times than he did throughout their entire childhood. He smiles probably still less than the average person, but to Sam it seems like he’s smiling at everything.

He smiles at silly things that never would have made him smile before, like good coffee and “good morning” and a dip in the heaving temperatures of summer. He smiles when Led Zepplin comes on the radio and smiles when Taylor Swift comes on too, smiles when they watch Star Wars and when he announces that Harrison Ford is hot.

He smiles at Sam even, even after everything, and it makes him so happy he thinks he might burst. He smiles shyly when showing him the Harry Potter books he continued reading, and proudly when Sam tells him about school. Sometimes he just smiles at Sam for no reason. They’re not the sad, forced smiles Sam used to receive occasionally. They’re real.

He smiles the most at Cas. By far, Dean smiles the most at Cas. He smiles every time Cas comes in the room. He smiles when Cas makes him tea, and grins, turning bright pink, when Cas compliments his cooking. He smiles when Cas says something strange. He smiles when Cas says something normal. Around Cas, Dean lights up like a firefly.

On Sunday, Sam walks into the living room after dinner. Dean and Cas are curled up together on the couch with one of Cas’s braille books open between them. Cas’s hand is curled around Dean’s, guiding his brother’s fingers along the dots on the page. Cas’s eyes are open, unseeing. Dean’s are closed.

“And that one’s a ’T’,” Cas is saying.

“It feels the same as ’S’.”

“They’re different. The ’T’ has a second dot on the right side.”

Sam stands frozen, stupidly holding his book. He would have felt less intrusive if he walked in on them having sex.

“I can’t really tell the difference,” Dean says.

Cas nods. “It’s something you get used to.”

“I can’t even read printed words, Cas, I don’t know how I could do this.”

“That’s not true,” Cas frowns. “You can read printed words. You’re almost done with your book.”

Dean smiles then, with so much warmth that it knocks the wind out of Sam.

Oh. He thinks. This is real.

Then Dean opens his eyes, and he catches sight of Sam. His smile turns forced, the first forced smile Sam has seen out of him. He untangles himself from Cas quickly.

“Hey Sam.” He says awkwardly.

“Uh.” says Sam. “Hey.” He’s unsure of how to respond to what he just walked in on. He feels like he should apologize, but that would be to close to acknowledging that whatever just happened was something private.

“Whattcha reading?” Dean asks too quickly. He’s turned red.

Sam looks down at his book. He forgot he’d been holding it.

“Its called The Grand Design. Its by Steven Hawking.”

Dean’s smile eases back into something true. “Is that that nerd guy you used to tell me about?”

Sam nods.

“Tell us about it?” Dean asks, leaning back into Cas.

So Sam does, and soon enough the night mellows back into something they can all acknowledge.

Sam doesn’t forget though. But he doesn’t mention it.

There are things Sam doesn’t mention. He didn’t stop collecting them when he ran away. He finds them, unwillingly, everywhere. He found them in his foster families and his social workers and his research. He finds them in his classmates and in the curriculum and in his friends. He has been unwinding them from his ribcage, slowly, but it seems like he still acquires truths much faster than he’s been getting rid of them. This house he’s holed up in to relearn his brother seems to be full of them too.

His brother is far more sane and far more happy and far more healthy than Sam would have ever hoped to find him after what he’s been through. But Sam is not naive, and is too observant to believe that Dean is as ok as he wants Sam to believe.

Dean knows that Sam knows that they both had terrible childhoods, and that the past five years have been even worse for Dean. But, like when they were children, he clearly wants to believe that by not talking about it he is sparing Sam in some way. That hadn’t worked then, and it works even less now. Sam knows the kinds of torture Dean has been subjected to, because he has done nothing but study the sex slave industry since Dean disappeared into it. He is studying at Stanford in order to become a lawyer who specializes in helping people like his brother, so Sam’s knowledge of the kinds of human rights violations that Dean was most likely regularly subjected to is unfortunately extensive. He knows that despite Dean’s smiles, and despite his astounding resilience, his mental stability is precarious.

Even if he didn’t know the things he knows because of what he is working towards, he would still be overwhelmed with evidence of Dean’s fragility.

Before Dean had come back, there had been a list of rules taped to the fridge in his brother’s hesitant handwriting that Sam had found so disturbing that he had had to lock himself in the bathroom to cry. The morning after Dean comes back, the list is mysteriously gone. It’s clear that Dean is hoping it wasn’t noticed to begin with, so Sam plays along, and hopes in turn that it was taken down not only because of Dean’s shame but because it is no longer needed.

That very evening, Sam finds Dean’s Xanex prescription while looking for a toothbrush.

Occasionally it seems to take Dean a few moments to remember where he is.

Dean doesn’t know who the president is. He nearly jumps out of his skin when Sam asks his phone a question and his phone answers back. He knows absolutely nothing about the past five years, and Sam isn’t sure how to dance around that.

He has so many scars. He always did, but now he has so many more.

It’s clear that Dean doesn’t want him to mention any of this, would prefer if he simply had not noticed it at all.

Perhaps Sam would have felt more at ease playing along if it wasn’t for Cas. That’s another thing he notices that he’s not supposed to bring up. That Dean is in love with Cas, and Cas is in love with Dean.

They gravitate towards each other like lonely atoms at the universe’s beginning.

That Dean adores Cas is the least surprising thing that has happened out of this whole mess. Cas is kind, and vulnerable, and put Dean back together when Dean was a lot more fragile and hurt than Sam would like to think about. And Dean has always been much too gentle for the life he’s lived, latching onto even the imagined hope of kindness with a ferocity that had ruined him. So the fact that Dean adores Cas is not at all a shock.

It had taken Sam a week to realize that Dean really loves Cas, and isn’t just devoted to him. It had taken until he had walked into that low lit scene so domestic and personal that it had stunned him.

It hadn’t taken Sam long after that to realize that Cas really loves Dean too. He had seen the man when Dean was missing. It hadn’t been a pretty sight.

That Dean and Cas love each other complicates matters. It complicates Sam’s resolution to stay quiet on what Dean wants him to stay quiet on. He knows he gets no say in how Dean lives his life and the choices he makes. He knows he screwed up any right to have his opinion heard years ago. But this is hard to sit through.

Cas loves Dean and Dean loves Cas. And Dean still ran away. He ran away, for long enough that Sam knows it was more than a panic. He ran away for long enough that he knows Dean might not have come back.

He hadn’t even run away from John, hadn’t run away from any of the demons that held him after John. Yet he’d run away from the person who makes him smile more than Sam thought was possible.

Maybe all that matters is that he’d come back. Maybe. But love is a strong tether. It doesn’t erase everything else you are feeling.

Cas loves Dean and Dean loves Cas. That doesn’t change that Dean’s sanity is hanging by a thread. That doesn’t erase the fact that Cas has complete legal control over Dean. It doesn’t change that if Dean hadn’t come back on his own, he very well could have been dragged back anyway. The fact that Cas’s brother is the one with technical legal ownership of Dean complicates matters. But it is also true that neither Cas nor Dean have made any attempt at un-complicating it.

Dean had always been terrified of freedom. Sam had known that from the time he was very little. Part of the reason Dean would never leave was his devotion to John, but another part of it was that he simply never wanted to be free. He wasn’t happy, not at all, but what Dean had always desired was just for whoever he belonged to to be nice to him, and to tell him he’d done well. Any desire for freedom had been wrung out of Dean before it had a chance to take shape.

This had devastated Sam as a child, not only because it meant that his desires and Dean’s would never match up, but because everyone in a position of authority over Dean had been so cruel that it had made Dean believe that even being treated like a pet was something unattainable.

But that Dean was different from the Dean of now. That Dean never smiled. That Dean didn’t look people in the eye. That Dean didn’t stare out the window like he’s waiting for something to appear. That Dean didn’t have the strength to walk away from anyone, much less someone he loved.

There is so much that Sam sees and doesn’t mention. But the truth is that his silence had never done any good, had never protected him or anyone else.

He knows Dean wants to leave. It’s as obvious as the fact that he’s in love.

So on Wednesday, when Cas is watering the grass and Dean is watching from the porch, Sam goes to stand besides him.

They watch in silence for a long time.

“He loves you too, you know.” Sam says eventually.

Dean doesn’t say anything, or in any way indicate that he hears Sam at all. Sam lets the quiet drag on another minute before he nails his own coffin shut.

“You know he’s never really going to let himself be with you as long as you can’t walk away from him.”

Almost immediately, Dean’s eyes fill with tears, but he doesn’t let them fall.

“You don’t know shit, Sam,” He snaps, and stalks back inside.

Sam stays on the porch, alone, for a long time.

Chapter Text

Sam used to read to Dean.

When Sam was very little, he used to ask Dean to read to him, would pull some tattered picture book he’d found somewhere from behind the couch and beg Dean to tell him the story. Dean, unable to read a word at that point, would oblige anyway, making up a story from the pictures, often tailoring it so it just happened to include a little boy named Sam.

He had done this without complaint until one day when Sam was about four, he’d pulled the book back from Dean.

“You’re reading it wrong.” He’d said, and had begun to read it out loud himself, oblivious to the sudden shame that had crippled Dean’s body.

He hadn’t meant to humiliate Dean, or to make him feel as inadequate as he had felt. But after that, Dean hadn’t pretended to be able to read anymore. Now when Sam came to him with books, he didn’t lie.

“You know I can’t read that Sam.” He’d say. “Why don’t I just make up a story for you?”

But Sam hadn’t wanted to hear Dean’s stories as much as he wanted to hear what was in the books, another thing that Dean had had to pretend didn’t hurt him.

So Sam started reading to Dean instead, practicing his words without any sort of guidance. Sometimes he would get stuck and would ask Dean for help, and Dean would have to explain, again, that he couldn’t read. And Sam would always look at Dean critically, not like he was judging him but like he thought Dean might be lying, and if he asked for help enough times Dean might be caught off guard enough to admit the truth.

It had embarrassed him and flattered him in equal amounts, that Sam didn’t seem capable of understanding that Dean was as ignorant as he was.

Sam kept reading to him long after he needed to practice himself, but he never dropped the pretense that it was for his own benefit instead of Dean’s. They had both known that Dean enjoyed hearing stories as much as any other child did, but also that Dean would never just ask Sam to read to him because he wanted to.

So Sam kept pretending he needed to practice well into his eighth year, when in reality he was by that point reading books meant for adults with ease. Only when Sam started reading the astrophysics books he loved so much were neither of them able to keep acting like it was Sam who needed help, and it was then that Sam started to teach Dean to read himself.

The memories Dean has of Sam reading to him are among his most cherished. They blur together in his mind, moments of snatched peace in different motels that all looked the same.

Those were the hours or days even blessedly weeks on occasion that John was off on a bender somewhere, leaving he and Sam to their safety. He would be sewing a patch onto Sam’s pants, or cooking dinner, or cleaning Johns guns, and Sam’s voice would lift him out of his miserable life for a few happy minutes, buoyed by the story and the love he could know he wasn’t imagining when Sam went out of his way to make him happy.

There had been a story he loved so much that Sam had stolen it from the library for him. He’d kept it somehow for years despite their constant moving and John’s derision for anything not deemed absolutely necessary, hiding it between the cracks of the seats in the Impala and beneath the furniture wherever they moved. Even now he can remember every page vividly, remember how the paper felt beneath his fingers. Sam had read it to him so many times that he had memorized it even before he had learned to read, and he would take it out in the rare moments he had alone and mutter the words to himself, staring at the pictures. He had kept it throughout his teens, telling himself he loved it because it was something Sam had gotten for him. That was certainly part of why he was so attached to the physical book itself, but he had fallen in love with the story long before Sam had lifted the book for him.

Dean remembers it now as he stares blankly at the rumbling washing machine that rests against the opposite wall. It's late, and it's dark, and he’s been wrapped in a blanket sitting on the steps leading down to the basement for hours. He can hear both Sam and Cas bustling around upstairs, probably cleaning up from the dinner he hadn’t joined.

He hadn’t been hungry, but had eaten two granola bars when Cas had brought them down, if only to stave off any worries about another starvation episode. It’s less that he doesn’t want to eat, and more that he hadn’t wanted to sit though dinner.

He hasn’t felt like seeing much of anyone today, something that he made rather obvious and that both Sam and Cas thankfully respected. All he’s wanted to do since Sam said what he said to him has been think. He’s been thinking all day, about his life with Sam and his life with Cas, about how scared he was when he got here and how scared he was back before he was sold by John, without even realizing it.

Damn he misses that book. It had essentially been a comfort item for him, had been something he could look at to calm himself down. He had felt stupid for wanting it when he was fifteen and feels even stupider for wanting it now.

He’d nicked Sam’s phone earlier, wanting to see pictures of him at Stanford, knowing the password would be some variation of his name. He’d been correct, and Dean pulls it out again now, typing Dean1!, watching as the screen opens.

He has a kindle app. Dean knows what it does because Sam had shown Cas how to download audiobooks earlier that week.

He opens the app.

The Velveteen Rabbit, he types into the search.

Sure enough, he is suddenly staring down at the scratchy pictures he remembers so well from his childhood. He feels his throat start to close up, but hits download after only a moment of debate.

He starts to read.

He reads so much faster than he used to, now, can skim down the page with ease instead of sounding out each word. His heart clenches at each sentence, and he’s not sure if its because of how vividly he can hear Sam’s unbroken voice speak them or if its because he is starting to understand something about himself he’s not sure he wants to understand.

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.”

“God.” Dean says, and almost drops the phone.

He remembers that part. When you are Real you don't mind being hurt. He used to tell himself that all the damn time, every time he felt he couldn’t bear it anymore.

He keeps reading, morbidly, though he knows how the story goes down to every word. The stuffed rabbit is shoved into the little boys arms by his nurse to replace his other lost toy. As the boy becomes increasingly attached to the rabbit, it becomes increasingly worn and frayed, but it doesn’t care, because the boy loves the rabbit, and that makes the rabbit real.

Then one day the boy gets sick with a fever. Being the boy’s comfort becomes harder than ever for the rabbit, but it loves the boy and the boy loves it so the rabbit just looks forward to when they can play and be happy again. But the doctor knows that the stuffed rabbit has been infected with germs, and they have to get rid of the rabbit for the boy’s own good. The boy doesn’t want to throw the rabbit away, but he does it in order to survive.

They replace the velveteen rabbit with a new toy, and the rabbit is thrown outside with a bunch of the boy’s other things to be burned.

Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become Real if it all ended like this? And a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.

Dean struggles not to cry as well. He doesn’t know how he was ever stupid enough not to know why he loved this story so much.

Up until that point in the book, Dean had loved it, and had understood. He had understood that he was the rabbit, and that the boy was Sam. He’d understood how the rest of the world, even John, saw him as only a toy. He’d understood that his humanity hinged on his ability to care for Sam and therefor be loved by him, no matter the toll it took on Dean. And he had understood, though he’d never wanted to, that he would one day be thrown away. He’d known he was only going to be kept as long as Sam needed him, had known he would one day end up in that pile of trash, waiting to be burned.

He’d known that that would be where his story ended, that real life was not a children’s book and did not grant happy endings. Often, he had been unable to bring himself to read the rest of the story. Often, it felt too painful, and he would close the book at the point where the rabbit is waiting to be set on fire.

Because he hadn’t understood the rest of the story. If the author wanted a happy ending, the rabbit should have somehow been reunited with the boy, should have been taken back as his favorite toy and loved for as long as it could be, even though it would still eventually be discarded when the boy grew up. That was the happiest ending Dean could imagine back then, and hadn’t been able to understand the way the story really ended.

She was quite the loveliest fairy in the whole world. Her dress was of pearl and dew-drops, and there were flowers round her neck and in her hair, and her face was like the most perfect flower of all. And she came close to the little Rabbit and gathered him up in her arms and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying.

"Little Rabbit," she said, "don't you know who I am?”

The Rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before, but he couldn't think where.

"I am the nursery magic Fairy," she said. "I take care of all the playthings that the children have loved. When they are old and worn out and the children don't need them any more, then I come and take them away with me and turn them into Real.”

"Wasn't I Real before?" asked the little Rabbit.

"You were Real to the Boy," the Fairy said, "because he loved you. Now you shall be Real to every one."

Real to everyone. Dean skims the rest of the story blankly, knowing what happens. The fairy turns the rabbit actually real, real in its own right, alive and able to move and play independently from the boy.

He hadn’t understood what the ending meant, back then.

Real to everyone.

He thinks he understands it now.

Finishing the story, he scrolls back to the cover page and just stares at the sketched rabbit, trying to will his hands to stop shaking.

“You used to love that book,” a voice says behind him, and Dean jumps violently.

Sam is standing a few steps above him, wearing striped pajamas that make him look childish despite his height.

Dean forces a smile.

“You scared me,” he says, trying to make it sound like a joke.

It falls flat, and Sam looks at him guiltily. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Dean shrugs, feeling uncomfortable with the sincerity with which Sam speaks. He knows his alarm when startled is incredibly disproportionate, and he doesn’t like having to address it. Doesn’t like Sam seeing his weakness.

He’d thought, he’d thought, that he’d been doing a pretty good job of keeping it together this week, of acting normal and unbroken. He hadn’t had a single panic attack, and had managed to keep his flinching to a minimum, had managed to smile and play house almost like a regular person. It hadn’t even all been a lie. He’s been so damn happy since Sam came back that it’s been hard to be too stressed about anything. Conversations he’d expected to have to force and put on a persona for came easily, naturally, and he’d found himself truly enjoying his brother’s company rather than bearing it for the sake of love.

And then Sam had to go and say what he’d said, blinding Dean and knocking the wind out of him. And now it felt infinitely harder to pretend his brain isn’t duct taped together with medication and Cas’s kindness.

He lets his smile slip. There’s no point in pretending. Sam sees right through him, whether he wants him to or not.

“Why are you here, Sam?” He asks.

Sam shifts uncomfortably. “I was just looking for my phone.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He clearly does know what Dean means, but doesn’t know how to respond, and just stands quietly, staring until Dean feels prompted to continue.

“Why did you come here? What do you want from me?”

Sam’s face cracks into hurt. “I don’t want anything from you.”

“Really?” Dean snaps.

“Really.”

“Well it doesn’t seem like it.”

Dean turns away, looking back down at Sam’s phone, and the doodled rabbit stares back up at him. He can’t stand the way it gazes at him all of a sudden, and he clicks the phone off.

Both he and Sam are quiet for a minute. Dean won’t look up from the black phone.

“Can I sit?” Sam says eventually.

“No.” Dean says harshly, just to see if he can get away with it.

He can. That shouldn’t still surprise him, but it does.

“Oh. Ok.” He can hear the hurt in Sam’s voice and immediately feels like a dick. He doesn’t rescind his rejection though. Partially he really doesn’t want Sam too close to him right now, and the space next to him on the stairs gives no room for Dean to curl away. Partially though he is just too bitterly gratified at having his childish boundaries respected.

Everything is different here. He still has trouble remembering that.

He half expects Sam to walk away now that he’s made it clear that he’s pissed off. He doesn’t though, just accepts Dean’s anger and stays.

After another minute passes, he speaks.

“What exactly is it that you think I want from you?”

His voice is soft, void of anger or defensiveness. It’s not sarcastic or exasperated, the way he once would have spoken. It sounds like he’s really asking.

It’s not enough to sooth Dean though, and his frustration and fear falls out of him.

He scoffs. “What everyone wants from me. What everyone expects. For me to demand freedom. For me to want freedom. For me to- to heal the way you and the rest of the world want me to.”

His sentences waver as they come out of him, heedless of Dean’s desire to stay calm.

He doesn’t want to be having this conversation, doesn’t want to be, once again, fighting with Sam. It’s strange to be in the position now of the aggressor, of knowing he needs to shut his mouth but being unable to. Is this how Sam had felt all those times? Dean has more sympathy now.

“Dean.” Sam says, and he sounds unsteady. Dean still isn’t looking at him. “That’s not…All I want is for you to be happy.”

“And you know best how to make that happen,” Dean snarls. “You know best, of course. Poor Dean, too fragile to make his own choices, too fucked up to understand what he wants. Thank god I have you.”

Dean hears Sam shift, then start to walk, and for a moment Dean thinks he really has scared him away. But Sam doesn’t leave. Instead he walks down the rest of the stairs and sits himself down on the cold floor of the basement, facing Dean. Sam doesn’t come any closer than he had been, in fact puts another foot or two of space between them, like now that Dean has said he can’t sit with him he’s scared of coming too close. Nevertheless he’s placed himself directly in Dean’s line of sight, forcing Dean to look at him.

At first glance, he looks infuriatingly calm. But they’d spent too many years together for Dean not to be able to read between the lines, and Dean sees the almost invisible cracks in Sam’s mask. There is a tension around his eyes that Dean knows too well, and almost immediately he can feel his heart soften.

“I’m here because I miss you.” Sam starts, almost whispering. “I’m here because I thought you were dead, Dean, and finding out you’re not feels like some biblical miracle. I’m here because I love you.”

He looks at Dean gravely.

“I know you’re scared I’m only here because I’m worried about you, or I pity you, or I feel guilty. I know you’re scared that’s why Cas is here too. I know every time you see those feelings in someone, you panic, thinking that’s whats keeping them attached to you.”

Dean sways backwards involuntarily. How had he ever forgotten the way Sam could read him, could reach inside him and pull out truths he himself hadn’t noticed, like a magician pulling coins from behind someone’s ear.

Sam can see through him like an X-ray, finding the broken parts inside that Dean can only interpret as inarticulate pain.

“Am I wrong?” Dean mutters. “Am I supposed to believe that’s not how you feel?”

Sam makes a noise of frustration.

“God, you’re so…Of course that’s how I feel.”

And that’s so far from the platitudes Dean expected to hear that the hurt doesn’t manage to worm its way inside him before Sam can finish his thought.

“Of course I worry about you, of course I feel sorry for you. Of-fucking-course I feel guilty. How could I not? After everything that’s happened, what sort of psychopath wouldn’t? That doesn’t mean that’s all I feel for you. That doesn’t invalidate everything else.”

Dean blinks. “Everything else?”

Sam, sitting cross-legged on the floor, looks up with him with such a pitiful expression that Dean feels like a monster for having put it there.

“I’ve missed you, Dean. I’ve been here over a week, more than enough time to see that you’re not in danger. I’m still here because I missed you so much, and I enjoy your company, and I want to be part of your life again.”

It’s so exactly what he feels as well and so exactly what he wanted to hear that he’s speaking before he even realizes.

“That’s what I want too.” He says, and his voice comes out more pleading than he would like. “That’s all I want. Why can’t we just leave it at that?”

“Leave it at what?”

“At that! At…this.” Dean waves his hand around vaguely at their surroundings. “You can stay here until school starts. And then you could visit me. And I could visit you. You say that’s all you want. Why are you pushing me to be…to want…more? I like it here Sam. I’m safe. Isn’t that enough?”

Sam gives him a careful look.

“I don’t know, Dean, is it?”

Dean doesn’t like the rhetorical tone Sam uses, doesn’t like how he turns his own question around to point it at Dean like a spear.

“Yes!” Dean says fiercely, regardless of the truth. “Yes it is, Sam. You have some fucking nerve- I’m sorry if it’s not dramatic enough for you, Sam, but Cas takes care of me, and- and…”

His resentment trails off with his words, and he is left with the hot shame burning visibly on his face. How can he explain? How can he explain to Sam, who is so capable and independent, what Cas and the safety he offers means to him?

“I’m not completely crazy.” He starts, haltingly. “I know I’m fucked up. I know wanting to stay belonging to him isn’t healthy, or normal. But I’m never gonna be normal, Sam, and if that’s what you’re waiting for you might as well just leave now. I’m- My head- I’m all screwed up, I’m all broken. I don’t have things I want, I don’t know what I like or don’t like. I don’t know how to eat when I’m not feeding someone else, I don’t know how to sleep or shower or piss if I’m not told it’s ok. I don’t- I don’t know what to do. If I’m not being told what to do I don’t do anything.”

Humiliation surges upwards within him, dislodging the words he wishes to keep within him and forcing them out of his mouth.

“I can barely read, I can’t do math. I don’t know how to act around normal people, I don’t know what’s normal or what’s weird. I can’t- I can’t look after myself. I don’t know how to be free. I don’t even feel real half the time. I can’t…I can’t…”

Sam is looking at him with concern more visible than he’s shown since the first night, and Dean is reminded, suddenly, that Sam hasn’t seen him like this. Unhinged. Unwinding. Stuttering and confused. That he’s been trying terribly hard to avoid showing his brother this unstable part of himself. And that even if Sam is far too smart not to know he’s not as ok as he’s presented himself, there is quite a difference between guessing someone has skeletons in their closet and actually seeing them.

He hates that he gets like this. He hates how he disintegrates under duress, revealing his cracked core. It’s ironic, Dean thinks. Sam doesn’t understand his dependence on Cas because he hasn’t seen how broken Dean is. In trying to explain it he has instead visibly revealed his decay, and the manifestation of his fragility likely helps Sam understand the truth far more than elegant words could have.

He hates it anyway.

“I know what’s gonna happen to me if I’m free, Sam,” he continues, helpless to his own rambling. “I won’t just suddenly become real because a piece of paper says I am. I’ll spiral, Sam, and if I don’t die within a month someone else will pick me up, someone not as nice as Cas, and I’ll do anything they tell me to do, and they’ll treat me terribly and I’ll let them, I’ll let them Sam, they’ll use me and hit me and I’ll be devoted to them anyway because I don’t know any better. I’m sorry Sam, I don’t know any better.”

His voice breaks as he apologizes, and Dean looks away, intensely ashamed, both by his lack of control and by what he just admitted. He’s trembling slightly.

Pathetic.

It really is pathetic. He really is pathetic. What kind of person lets themselves collapse in front of their little brother? What kind of person is so helpless, so dependent, that they would fall into anyone’s arms before they stood on their own two feet?

He is made of such little steel. There is nothing in him that’s real, there is nothing in him that wasn’t put there by someone else. He only comes alive when someone else wants him, is only driven by the will of another. And they leave, they all leave, taking the parts of themselves they’d lent him with them. And he caves in like a tent without its skeleton.

Cas won’t leave. Cas won’t leave, and as long as Dean can stay by him, he can continue leaching off his warmth like a parasite. Cas breathes life into him, and it’s a good life, not like the life he led before.

Before, the colors people animated him out of weren’t nice ones. He had had no choice but to become whatever their terrible imaginations wanted him to be. And he accepted it. Because having some direction, some purpose, even borrowed and miserable, was better than disappearing. Because even a painful half-life was better than the blank nothingness he became when left on his own.

He still leads a half-life. But it’s a gentle half-life, a peaceful one. Cas loans him his own soul to fill himself with, and Dean convinces himself he’s content with that, even if this reality is not his own.

When Dean speaks again, his voice has lost it’s hysterical edge. He’s nothing but resigned now.

“I’ll spread my legs for anyone who looks at me, and I’ll beg them to take me home. And someone will, and it won’t be someone nice. I’ll go with anyone who wants me. I’ll find someone to belong to.”

Dean realizes, unfocused, that he’s still holding Sam’s phone. He blinks at it, slightly confused at what it’s still doing in his hands, like it should have disappeared by now. He doesn’t know why he picked it up to begin with. It was a silly story anyway. Before, he’d felt like he was at the edge of something, of understanding something. But it’s gone now.

Good riddance, Dean thinks, and puts the phone back down next to him on the step, face down.

He is acutely aware of Sam looking at him, sees his head move to follow Dean’s movement out of the corner of his eye.

He feels stupid now for making Sam sit on the ground. There was no reason for him to be on the ground. Sam shouldn’t have indulged him. He should have ignored Dean’s whining and sat where he wanted to.

This is why you can’t have your own willpower, he thinks. The things you want are silly and inconvenient at best. When you choose, you chose wrong.

“So, wait,” Sam says. “So…you’re saying you want to keep belonging to Cas…because you don’t think you have any better options.”

Dean looks back over at Sam, blinking. He has a look concentration on his face, like he’s thinking. Otherwise, he seems completely unfazed by what Dean just told him, and Dean doesn’t know what to think about that.

He’d thought the things he just said and the way he just behaved would have startled Sam more. By now he knows enough at least to understand that what he just announced wasn’t normal, that babbling about his incompetence would freak out most people. Cas would be freaked out.

But Sam seems un-rattled.

“I…no.” He says eventually, realizing he has to answer the question.

“No?”

“No.” Dean grabs his blanket and pulls it tighter around himself. “No I…I love him. I want to stay with him because I love him.”

Though it’s the first time he’s said that out loud to Sam, it’s not much of a shocking confession. He feels slightly robbed of the drama of it all, but supposes there’s enough drama to go around right now.

Sam tilts his head like an owl.

“You loved John too.”

Dean feels the shock of those words seep out of his heart in a cold diffusion.

He hadn’t expected Sam to say that.

“It’s different,” he insists. “What the fuck, Sam. You know Cas is different.”

There’s a pause.

“Cas is different,” Sam acknowledges.

He speaks so kindly that Dean knows he is saying something painful, though he is lost as to what it is.

The emphasis Sam puts on Cas’s name makes him uneasy, and so does the way Sam continues to look at him expectantly, clearly waiting for a reaction to something that has flown over Dean’s head. It doesn’t come, because Dean doesn’t understand.

Eventually Sam accepts Dean’s silence for what it is, and continues.

“What would you do if Cas hit you?” He asks, blunt like a mallet.

Dean feels his heart flinch away even as his body stays put.

“He wouldn’t,” he answers immediately. “That’s what I’m trying to explain. It’s not like before. Cas would never hurt me.”

Sam looks at him with something too close to pity for Dean’s comfort.

“I didn’t ask about Cas,” he says. “I asked about you.”

“I don’t understand,” Dean says, because he doesn’t. “Cas won’t hit me. I thought you believed that.”

“I do.”

“Then why are we talking about this?” He asks, feeling agitated. Even just talking about Cas behaving like his other owners is making something low in Dean’s belly swoop like he’s been dropped from a hight. “We both know he’s not gonna hurt me. So what does it matter what I would do if he did?”

His voice wavers as he finished speaking. He doesn’t like talking about this. He doesn’t like thinking about this.

He likes knowing that he’s safe with Cas. He doesn’t get the point of imagining scenarios where he isn’t. He’s lived through enough of that that it doesn’t take much dreaming to visualize, and he can feel the fright that he’s held at bay this whole week waking back up, clawing at his chest.

Sam’s face is contorted in distress as he answers.

“Because you matter, Dean!” He exclaims, and there is so much righteousness in his words that Dean is forced to listen. “Because you don’t only exist in relation to your environment. Even if you’re safe, the part of you that has learned how to react when you aren’t still exists. You exist the same way, even when you’re treated differently.”

The swinging in Dean’s stomach stops suddenly, as if someone had dropped a boulder onto a pendulum.

Oh.

Oh.

That makes sense. That makes a lot of sense, actually, and Dean feels like Sam has struck a chord on an instrument neither of them had realized was there.

“Yeah.” Dean rasps. “I guess I do.”

It’s not a triumph, like Sam seems to believe it is. It’s just the truth, and it’s ugly. It’s the truth he’s been grappling with for months and months.

Cas makes him so happy. It doesn’t make the awful parts of himself disappear. It doesn’t make his memory disappear. It doesn’t make his warped soul disappear. It’s why, despite all Cas’s kindness, he can’t seem to put himself back together again.

It’s not fair. He did everything they asked, became everything they wanted him to be. He became nothing when they wanted him nothing. He became miserable when they wanted him miserable. It’s not fair that now that he’s being asked to become happy, he can’t.

Dean had thought himself a chameleon. It’s been his only way to survive. He did more than bear his life, he became that which his owners saw him as. No one can be human and bear what he has, so he became less than human. A soldier, for John. A hero, for Sam. Then worse things, but always what they wanted from him. A doll. A slut. A victim. Obedient, for one. Angry, for another. Eager to please. Scared and repulsed. Unfeeling, if that’s what they desired. Anything and everything they wanted from him, he became it. It wasn’t an act, really. It wasn’t a voluntary change. It just happened, because that’s the only way to survive that kind of life.

The only way to bear that kind of suffering is to become it. There is no deep down for him.

He knows Sam would disagree. Knows Cas would too. Benny, Bobby, Charlie, Kevin, Jess, all the people who know him now. But Dean knows better.

He walks and talks like a real boy now, smiles for feeling rather than their pleasure, has, despite what he told Sam, begun to discover his own likes and dislikes and the power to follow them. But it’s shallow. Because he only became human because that’s what Cas wanted from him.

Cas wanted him to get better. Cas wanted him to make decisions. Cas wanted, on a deeper level that he did not admit, a friend. You can’t be friends with a doll. You can only be friends with a human, so that’s what he’d become.

It’s not that he’s molded his own interests to reflect Cas’s, or that he only likes what he thinks Cas likes and dislikes what he does not. That’s not how humans behave. Humans let their own hands guide them, and find their desires inside their own hearts. It’s not that his humanity doesn’t come from inside him, it’s that he only went looking for it because of someone else’s will.

And so his humanity isn’t screwed in place like it is for other people. It’s not something that can’t be lost at a moment’s notice, depending on outside factors. It’s not something he would retain if other people stopped wanting it from him. It’s not real.

You exist the same way, even when you’re treated differently.

Sam thinks that means there is something enduring about Dean, something permanent, even if it’s something negative. Even if it’s trauma. But the only thing enduring about Dean’s existence is his malleability, his tendency to change into whatever it is they want from him.

In front of him, Sam is still looking at him with that awful look of kind understanding, like he understands anything at all.

“I’m not trying to…accuse Cas of anything,” He says, when the silence has dragged on too long. “But whether or not he would hit you, the part of you that would allow him to is still real.”

Allow. A word that implies a choice. Dean has never had a choice.

He wouldn’t allow Cas to hit him. He would become something that’s purpose is to be hit. Just the thought leaves him drowning because he knows how suddenly he would disappear, all his independence, all his wants, all his love that for the first time doesn’t feel compelled.

Dean wouldn’t allow Cas to hit him, because the power he has to let anyone do anything, or make any kind of choices, even about how he feels, only stems from Cas. And Cas could take it away in an instant.

“I can’t help what I am,” Dean tells Sam, defenseless. He doesn’t know what else to say. He has no answer that Sam would want to hear. He is as weak as Sam accuses him of being. “They made me like this. They made me obedient, and now I can’t…I can’t…”

He shrugs helplessly.

“You don’t have to tell me I can’t defend myself. Fuck, Sam, I don’t even feel like I have a self to defend.”

Sam blinks, looking afraid.

“That’s so dangerous.”

Sam’s earnestness grates on him in a way Dean knows isn’t fair. But it’s late, and Dean is frustrated and humiliated, and so before he can stop himself he’s twisted around on the step, hiking his shirt up to his shoulders, baring the plethora of scars that litter his back.

He hears Sam inhale sharply.

“Yeah Sam,” Dean snaps. “I know it’s dangerous. I figured that out by now, funny enough.”

Sam doesn’t respond, and Dean cranes his neck to look back at him.

He looks so horrified that Dean immediately feels ashamed of himself, and tugs his shirt back down quickly, turning back to Sam.

By the time he is facing Sam again, the boy has gotten over his shock, and now has his head tilted far enough down that his hair covers most of his face. Dean sees his chin wobble, and he suddenly can’t bear to leave Sam alone on the floor a moment longer.

He slips off the stairs, scooting his body closer to his brother.

“Sammy,” Dean sighs, and drags the boy into a hug.

Sam’s arms wrap around him in an instant, and Dean can’t help but compare it to how tentatively he had been hugged the week before.

“I don’t want you to be hurt anymore,” Sam mumbles into Dean’s shoulder, and Dean hates himself for having frightened him.

“I’m not,” he replies. “Not anymore. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

He sits back on his heels, dragging himself away from Sam, who looks at him pitifully.

“I’m not what you want me to be. I’m not…strong.”

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” Sam replies immediately, and Dean feels for a moment like he’s choking on either pride or shame, and he’s not sure which it is.

“No,” he says. “I’m not. I only ever seemed strong to you because that’s what John wanted me to be, and I had to be what he wanted. I have to be whatever they want.”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Sam insists. “You could be free. You could be whatever you want.”

Dean shakes his head. “All I want to be is pleasing.”

Something awful crosses Sam’s face then, something distressed and helpless, like he’s watching a rocket break apart upon reentry from the ground. It’s the same look that used to surface in-between the waves of anger when they fought, and it hurts Dean as much now as it did then.

He could always see the depth of that feeling in Sam’s eyes, but this is the first time he feels it inside his own ribcage as well.

“Don’t you get it Dean?” He asks, hopeless. “That’s not enough. You can’t just keep martyring yourself for people and telling yourself it’s the same thing as love.”

Dean blinks.

“I…what? What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how you’ll let people run you over if you think that will make them happy!”

“I’m not letting Cas run me over to make him happy!” Dean snaps, suddenly so defensive he can feel his pulse pick up. “What makes him happy is when I’m happy. He’s not gonna fucking hurt me, he loves me. This isn’t anything like it was with John.”

“I don’t think you’re acting like you did with John. I think you’re acting like you did with me.”

Dean doesn’t know what he expected Sam to say, but that was certainly not it.

He hesitates.

“I…what?”

Sam looks as startled by his own words as Dean feels. He purses his lips, and looks at Dean imploringly, asking Dean something he doesn’t understand. He just stares back in confusion, and Sam’s shoulders sag in resignation. As he watches, Sam seems to change, the lines of his body shifting in a way that seems to both stiffen and sink at the same time. His constantly imploring eyes look haunted.

Discomfort curls in Dean’s stomach.

“The way you used to look at me…” Sam starts, sounding tired. “Like I was the only thing that brought any light into your life.”

The discomfort tightens its grip.

“You were,” he admits.

Sam’s brow pinches.

“I know.” A pause. “Misery just…radiated from you. I knew you would do anything for me. It scared the shit out of me.”

Dean feels like he’s been slapped.

“I’m sorry,” Dean offers, helplessly. He has nothing else.

Sam looks away, and down.

“It wasn’t your fault. God, of course it wasn’t your fault. I was all you had because they stole everything else from you. I’m just sorry I took that away from you too.”

In the silence, the machine rumbles on. The shape of Sam’s shameful form stays steady.

“I never expected you to stay,” Dean admits.

As soon as he says it, he knows its true.

He had hoped. Wished. Needed. Needed so forcefully that the need had wormed its way into his soul, and he had never bothered preparing for the blow which he knew he couldn’t survive. When Sam had left, Dean had shattered as if caught off guard. But in reality, he had been waiting without his fists curled forever.

Waiting to be abandoned, to be left behind. Waiting, constantly, to be hurt. Eyes shut, muscles relaxed by sheer force of will, against all instincts. A position he’d been in a million times before, waiting, waiting, open and vulnerable, knowing it will hurt more if he tenses. Knowing that trying to brace yourself doesn’t help. Knowing that he’s good for nothing else but this, so what’s the point in fighting.

He waited for the pain, and the pain had come. Over and over, the pain had come. Dean had never been surprised. He’d never been resentful. He’d never expected anyone to be what he needed them to be.

“I never expected anything of you,” Dean concedes.

“You should have,” Sam says softly.

Dean shrugs. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” Sam’s voice cracks, childishly.

Dean looks at him, helpless.

“What could I have done?” He asks. “You were always gonna do what you wanted. What could I do to stop you?”

“You could have hated me,” Sam replies, and Dean is stumped.

Because he’s right, isn’t he?

Dean had always been powerless, had always been unprotected. He had never been able to do anything but take the shit people gave him and deal with it the best he could. He couldn’t walk away, couldn’t lock the door, couldn’t fight back. Just because he loved Sam didn’t mean those rules of vulnerability didn’t apply.

He had put up with so much shit from Sam. It hurts Dean even now to think it. He’d spent so much of his childhood lying to himself and pretending he hadn’t been bothered, because he hadn’t been able to make sense of the hurt. He’d always known full well that John didn’t love him, as much as it tore him up, and so he had never felt betrayed by his mistreatment. He had known he wasn’t cared for.

But Sam was different. Sam said he loved him, and Dean believed him. And he hadn’t understood how pain could come from the same place that love did.

Sam had been such an unhappy kid, and he’d taken it all out on Dean because he hadn’t had any other outlet. It had never occurred to Dean to resent him for it. He wonders, now, how much pain he could have avoided if he had.

Because Sam had hurt him, had been hurting him for years before he’d run away. He threw screaming tantrums until he was almost eight, would scratch and bite and pull Dean’s hair, and it’s not like it was exactly the worst thing Dean had experienced but it still wasn’t pleasant, especially on top of the more serious wounds he inevitably had.

And he would take from Dean, because there was never enough of anything to go around, but Dean got so much less than anyone but it hadn’t mattered. He’d ask for Dean’s food when he was hungry, though Dean was always hungrier and had less. He’d ask for Dean’s one ratty blanket when he was cold at night, though he had others and Dean didn’t. He’d ask for Dean’s time, every moment of what little free time he got, would demand his attention even when he was so exhausted he felt like he would drop.

And, god, he got Dean in so much trouble. He blamed Dean for so much shit. He blamed Dean when John had found cigarets under Sam’s mattress. He blamed Dean when he knocked John’s whiskey all over the carpet. He blamed Dean when they got overdue library fees. Dean knows it was panic, he knows very well the feeling of absolute terror that comes before you are thrown into a wall and how it can make you say anything. But Dean didn’t give into that feeling when John turned his anger on him, didn’t call Sam out on his lies that made no sense, even though they both knew he was about to be beaten ten times worse than Sam would have been.

But Dean had never resented Sam. He had never hated him. Because how could he blame him for trying desperately to claw his way out of the pit they were both in, even if he stepped on Dean in the process? It wasn’t his fault Dean was laying there passively like a dead body instead of trying to get out too.

Every time Sam had kicked or bit him, Dean had been twice as big and twice as strong. He could have stopped him, he just didn’t. Every time Sam had asked for his food, he could have said no, he just didn’t. Every time Sam had handed him the blame, he could have refused to take it, he just didn’t.

It was Dean’s job to provide Sam with whatever he needed. If Sam needed his pain, so be it.

Dean has been quiet for too long, but he still doesn’t speak. Instead he picks up Sam’s phone again and wakes it up. The light from the screen is startling in the darkness of the basement, and it illuminates Dean’s face sharply. He knows he must look like he’s holding a flashlight under his jaw, about to tell ghost stories.

In a way, he is. The people he and Sam used to be are dead and gone, and everything from that time feels like a ghost story now.

Dean holds the phone cupped in his hands, resting in his lap. The cover of The Velveteen Rabbit is still staring up at him, scratchily drawn rabbit and all. Dean blinks down at it.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Sam look at the screen, then look away quickly, like what he has seen has hurt him.

Dean feels a dull sense of satisfaction, then a dull sense of guilt.

“I did used to love this book,” Dean comments sadly.

“I’m sorry,” Sam says immediately.

“Why? You didn’t destroy it.”

He hadn’t. He had tried to, sort of. Halfheartedly. He had been 12, and Dean 16. They had been fighting, again. It was a few months after the fights had started to get really bad. Sam was starting to pick up a lot of John’s bad habits, like cursing at Dean and punching walls. Dean was wondering, like he always did during those last years, if this was going to be the fight where Sam finally got sick of being screamed back at and started beating him too.

Instead he’d found Dean’s book and tried to rip it in half. He was so clearly mimicking John, who had a tendency to destroy Sam’s shit when he was pissed. It was the one punishment Dean was usually spared, if only because he didn’t have anything to be destroyed. Not that Sam was exactly overflowing with material wealth either, but he’d had more stuff than Dean.

It had all been a target to John’s rage, as much as their flinching bodies. John would rip apart anything he could get his hands on with a strength that still makes Dean tremble to think about. He would shred the clothes Sam liked, snap his school supplied in half, had even broken the frame of his bed once because he hadn’t liked that Sam was hiding under it.

Mostly, though, it was the books that got destroyed, not by having their pages torn out but by being ripped clean in half, cover and all.

Sam did not have a twelfth of the strength that John did, and so he had stood straining, sobbing in rage, book bending in his hands but coming nowhere near to tearing.

So Dean, without thinking, had plucked it out of his hands and torn it in half himself.

Sam had been so stunned that he had finally shut up. There had been, finally, total silence for just a few seconds, and then the tears had come.

Dean had stood crying, broken heart in his hands, arms half lifted in offering. As if the torn thing that had meant so much to him might be of some slight interest.

But Sam hand’t wanted it. He’d fled. He left Dean crying in the kitchen with his grief. It was the rejection that had hurt more than anything.

“You didn’t destroy it,” Dean repeats. “I destroyed it.”

“For me.”

“Yes,” Dean says simply. “You were the one who gave it to me. It was yours to take back, if you wanted. I couldn’t hate you for that.”

“You should have,” Sam says, and Dean frowns.

“I couldn’t,” he answers. “Don’t you understand? I literally couldn’t. Unless I wanted…to totally disappear.”

He swallows. He feels, after all these years, again like he is holding his heart out to Sam, with all it’s cracks and bruises, hoping there will be something inside it still that he wants.

“All the good parts of me,” he starts slowly. “They’re all for you. You have to know that. They’re all for you. How could I be angry if you mistreated them? They’re yours.”

Halfheartedly, he shrugs.

“You tell me I could have hated you. But what would have happened to me then? What would I be without you, Sammy?”

“You would be better off,” Sam says firmly.

“I would be empty.”

Dean feels his desperation rise.

“You don’t know. You don’t know what it feels like, to be empty. To be…gone, to, to, just be a thing.”

“You were never a thing, Dean.”

“I was,” Dean says forcefully, because for once he’s not going to let someone else explain to him the inside of his own mind.

“You never saw it,” he tells Sam. “Because it couldn’t happen while I had you. It was. After.”

He curls in on himself.

“And it’s not because I had no one who loved me. It’s because I didn’t have anyone to love. To care about. At all. There was…nothing. To keep me here. To keep me tied to, to anything that mattered. You, Cas, everyone. You take your own love for granted. But I don’t. They took that from me too. I won’t let it go now that I have it back, even if it’s for my own good.”

He looks down at his hands. They are trembling very slightly, like there is something inside of them straining to get out.

“I know, with the way he treated me, I shouldn’t have loved John the way I did. I know that- I could never hate you, Sam, you were a good kid and I never could have stopped loving you. But I know I should have. Maybe. Been angry sometimes. But. The things that happened to me, after.”

The trembling in his hands increases. His voice sounds the way a scrapped knee looks.

“It was so bad. Not even I could love them. Not even my fucked up head could find a way to be devoted. And it was horrible. Worse than the things they did to me. The way I felt, the emptiness…I thought it would never end. I felt like I was a dead body at the bottom of the ocean. Because. I’m just a reflection. They were empty, so so was I.”

He curls his hands into fists, in an effort to make the shaking less visible.

“Do you…understand?”

Sam looks at him with an expression Dean can’t identify, but makes him hurt.

“Not really,” he admits, and Dean swallows.

If Sam can’t understand him, then no one can, and that thought is too upsetting to let lie.

“Everything I love is everything I am,” he tries again. “I belong to the people I love because there’s nothing real inside me except them.”

“Dean,” Sam says emphatically, and moves towards him too suddenly, arms outstretched.

The movement frightens him, and he flinches visibly. But he doesn’t move away, or raise his arms to protect himself, too conditioned to letting people hurt him to still have any instinct for self defense.

Sam freezes, arm still outstretched. He blinks at Dean in shock.

Dean feels humiliation surge within him, feeling again like he’s 16, offering absolutely everything to a kid who doesn’t want it, or even get why Dean is extending it.

“You don’t understand,” Dean insists, miserable and embarrassed. “They took everything from me. Everything. What I am is all I have left. They took the parts of my heart they wanted and left me with this fucking mess,” he gestures at himself. “And it’s all I have to give you, and its all I have to give him. I know it’s shit, I know you don’t want it. But it’s all I have. So yeah, he can hit me if he wants to, and you can hit me if you want to, I don’t care. My love is all I have to offer. What am I if I can’t even give that?”

It had been the only contestant of his life. His value has always depended on how much he can please other people. His own happiness has never been worthy of consideration, because on his own, he is worth nothing. On his own, he takes up space in the world that he isn't deserving of, because on his own, he offers nothing back. He is too big and too loud and too hungry, taking blood from an already hemorrhaging world.

It is suffocating to feel helpless as you watch people bleed. The jealousy he feels towards those who are capable, who have skills and resources to offer, who can effect things that happen around him, is limitless. But Dean isn’t like those people. He’s always been a dead thing, screaming and clawing at the walls of his coffin until his nails break, but never being heard. His rage is useless. His sadness is useless. His feelings, no matter their intensity, are fated to tunnel endlessly inward instead of outward, meaning nothing to anyone except him.

So he lets his misery grow inside of him, and tries to keep it from leaking out. He knows that this is all he can do, all he has control over. It’s all he has to offer. He can absorb the shock of violent blows, blows that would otherwise fall on real people. He can’t stop people from shoving their bodies inside of his, and shoving their anger and unhappiness inside him too. But he can keep that awfulness there, contained, can keep it inside him where it can’t hurt anybody.

Sam has dropped his hand. It lay draped in his lap, loosely. He isn’t looking at Dean. His head is low, and his body is twisted away.

He is quiet, but his shoulders are shaking.

Dean swallows.

“Sam. Are- are you crying?”

Both his hands fly up to cover his face.

Fuck.

“Sam. Don’t- I’m sorry.”

Sam shakes his head, and his mop of hair flops around.

He drops one hand, and the other moves so he is wiping his tears on his sleeve.

It’s a childish gesture that evokes all of Dean’s protective instincts, but he doesn’t know what to do to to make Sam feel better, except turn into something less broken. And if he knew how to do that he’d have done it a while ago.

“Dean,” Sam says again, and for a few seconds thats all he says. Dean doesn’t reply, partially because he knows Sam isn’t done, and partially because he wouldn’t know what to say even if he was.

Sam wipes at his red rimmed eyes again.

“Dean.” He says again. “That’s not what love is.”

Dean shifts uncomfortably. Sam is looking at Dean intensely, like he wants Dean to suddenly reveal that he’s kidding, like Sike! I know that! I’m just pulling your leg!

Instead Dean just squirms awkwardly.

“Your love for someone isn’t dependent on how much pain you can bear from them.”

Hearing it phrased like that makes him feel like he’s been kicked in the stomach.

He wants to argue, and tell Sam that that’s not what he meant. But it is, isn’t it.

He bites his lip. “Oh,” he says stupidly, like Sam has just pointed out an error in one of the math problems he struggles with.

“Do you really think you’re just a reflection of other people?” Sam asks, like Dean might have been lying.

Dean feels like dragging the confirming answer out of his throat might rip it, so he stays quiet. Sam takes his silence for the agreement it is.

“I mean,” Sam says. “If you were really just reflecting people around you, you wouldn’t have become empty when you were sold, you would have turned cruel. But you didn’t, because you’re not a mirror of other people. You’re you. That emptiness you’re describing? That’s medical, Dean, you were depressed, and for a good fucking reason. It wasn’t your fault, and it didn’t mean you’d lost the ability to love anyone.”

Dean just stares at the ground.

“You think that when I was throwing screaming tantrums and trying to scratch your eyes out, you were copying my patience? Or, what, do you think John was such a great role model that you got it from him? When I hid in the closet after drinking John’s beer, and you didn't rat me out and let him think you did it, were you copying my bravery?”

His stomach is getting all twisted up in knots. He knows, objectively, that Sam is saying nice things about him, but he’s getting upset like he’s being spat on and he doesn’t know why.

“When I called you names and you never did back, were you copying my kindness?”

Dean interjects, finally, if only in an effort to make Sam stop talking.

“I just love you,” he says simply. “That’s all. I just love you.”

“I know,” Sam says back. “But it was brave of you to love me. It was kind, and patient, and good.”

Dean feels his eyes stinging, and blinks desperately to keep himself under control. He keeps his head down in an effort to hide the redness.

“It was for you,” Dean mumbles.

“Maybe those traits were for me, but they didn’t come from me. Your heart is your own. And it can’t be stolen, or taken, or given even. It can only be shared.”

Dean’s heart, regardless of the transient qualities it possesses, feels like it has dropped into his stomach, and he feels sick like he’s going to throw it up.

“Stop,” Dean begs. “Please, stop.”

He begs because he is overwhelmed, and he begs because he is afraid.

And Sam does stop. He stops.

Dean is so used to having his wishes ignored that it takes him a long time to realize that the stretching silence is of his own doing, that Sam has halted not because he’s finished but because Dean had told him to.

The surprise he feels should unnerve him, should send his already teetering worldview into a tailspin. But instead the thing that had come loose inside him while Sam spoke seems, if not to slide back into place, at least to steady. The world still feels tilted at an unfamiliar angle, but at least it is no longer spinning, and if Dean stays very very still and keeps clutching at the railing, he might not fall off.

“What is it then?” Dean says carefully.

Sam just looks confused.

Dean swallows. “You said, ‘That’s not what love is,’” he clarifies. “What is it then?”

Sam looks sad, and Dean tries not to let it make him feel bad for asking.

“Love is choice,” Sam answers. “Love is being able to go anywhere in the world and still coming home at the end of the day. Love is saying, ‘there’s a million ways for me to be happy, but this is the one I choose.’”

Dean aches.

“If I could choose,” he says very quietly. “I would choose him.”

He’d thought.

He’d thought he was getting better.

He’d thought he could choose, now.

They had taken so much from him, against his will. He’d been happy to give Cas whatever was left. He’d been proud. He’d been proud of himself, for not lying helplessly, but for gathering the last of his strength to sit up and hand the rest of himself over to the only person who hadn’t demanded it.

Sam’s words ring in his head, now.

You’re heart is your own.

It can only be shared.

His head hurts.

I love him, he thinks helplessly.

But that’s wrong, apparently. Love isn’t supposed to be helpless, even though his always has been. It’s not supposed to be something you have to bear for the sake of your own sanity.

Dean had never really been allowed to choose anything, not even how he feels or who he loves. He didn’t even choose to love Sam, really, and it’s only Sam’s own goodness that nudged this relationship out of the realm of abuse.

That luxury wasn’t found with John. Dean loved John. He didn’t get a choice about that either. He loved him because he had to. He loved him because he didn’t have the choice to leave him, and so love was the only way his stupid heart could handle his own life.

People can bear much in the name of love. Without that banner, they’re left writhing and scared.

It had been his only protection. He was going to be hurt either way. To suffer for someone else's sake, that makes you brave, that gives you purpose. It’s impossible to accept so much pain without reason and keep your mind from breaking.

He’d made himself into a martyr, willing to die for the very thing killing him. He’d clung to his cross till the splinters stuck through his hands like nails.

When they’d taken it from him, he hadn’t known what to do. He’d been left, blinking and bewildered, in just as much pain as before but no way to make sense of it. It had nearly driven him insane. Blinding pain and terror, minutes bleeding into hours, hours into days, days into weeks, weeks into years. With nothing to hold onto.

Then he’d been sold. For the sixth time. And he’d thought it was over for him. He’d hoped, really, that it was over for him. He was so tired of pain.

But he hadn’t been met with pain. He’d been met with food, and a bed, and gentle hands that bandaged and soothed his broken body. And helplessly. Helplessly. He’d been compelled, against his timid will, to love.

“It’s not fair,” Dean says out of nowhere. “It’s not fair. I would have loved him on my own. They didn’t have to make me.”

All of a sudden he feels like he wants to throw up, helpless helpless helpless panic thrumming through his veins at the thought of his feelings for Cas even touching the mess they’ve made of his devotion. He loves Cas, not the sick, desperate way he used to love, but really really loves him. Cas makes him happy, he feels good when he’s around him, not afraid like he always used to be.

He wants to take a crowbar to his heart, and pry his love for Cas and his knee-jerk, screwed up devotion apart.

But they are welded together.

If he had all the time in the world. If he had all the time in the world. He would wait.

He would wait to grow old and die, then wait some more, sitting at the feet of his corpse. He would wait till his flesh was eaten away, wait for his insides to rot, wait until even his bones were gone. Then he would pick up what was left of himself and swallow it again, and that would be his love, and that would be it unattached to the rest of his shame, which would have decomposed before his body had even turned cold. And he would know then that there was something real inside of him.

He doesn’t want to wait that long.

“I have no where else to go,” Dean admits.

Sam looks surprised, like he hadn’t actually expected to get through to Dean.

Dean doesn’t know what else to do but stare back, the truth of his words more concrete than his wavering will.

“Well,” Sam says carefully. “I sort of assumed…you would come live with me.”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to look surprised.

“With you?”

Sam looks hesitant. “Is that so bad?”

“I…I don’t…”

He hadn’t expected Sam to offer such a thing, and takes too long to formulate a response.

Sam’s face twists into something like shame.

“You’d be safe,” he tells Dean. “I’d take care of you.”

“You shouldn't have to,” Dean replies. “That’s not…”

Your job, he doesn’t say.

“You’re in school,” he says instead.

“I have an apartment.”

“That’s not what I…that’s not the point. You shouldn’t have to. Deal with. I don’t want you to see…you don’t know.”

“I do know,” says Sam, oddly serious. “I do know.”

Dean flinches, and curls his hands into fists, feeling like he is being pinned by the way Sam seems to understand what he’s talking about better than he does.

Bile rises in Dean’s throat.

Then I’ve failed, he thinks.

But the kindness in Sam’s eyes says otherwise.

Maybe he does know. Maybe he does know how messed up Dean is, and why, in a way Benny and Cas can’t really understand. He was there for the base of it.

Dean had wanted to shelter him, sure that seeing the battle wounds Dean has weathered would ruin him.

But maybe he underestimated Sam.

He seems to have turned out all right.

And isn’t that all that Dean really wanted?

As if he is reading Dean’s mind, Sam speaks.

“You don’t have to protect me. I’m not afraid anymore.”

Dean closes his eyes.

I’m not afraid anymore.

Dean doesn’t want to be afraid any more either.

“I love you,” Dean hears.

Without opening his eyes, Dean answers.

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well I do,” Sam says firmly. “And just because you think I shouldn’t doesn’t mean I’ll stop.”

Dean keeps his eyes closed, but he can’t help the smile that pulls at his lips.

He supposes that’s true.

Sam’s one stubborn bastard. Dean could talk until his voice went hoarse about all the reasons he’s better off not caring about the mess that Dean’s become, and Dean doubts it would make one lick of a difference.

Because Sam already knows he doesn’t need Dean. He doesn’t need Dean to tell him so. He knows that full well and he’s here anyway, because he wants to be, because he decided on his own volition that Dean is worth his love. He doesn’t have any alternative motives, doesn’t have terror whispering in his ear and swaying his emotions.

Dean wants to know what that feels like. He wants to untangle the strings of his heart and find out which belong him alone, and follow them. If any of them are really his, he already knows where they lead. He strung them there himself.

He just has to unknot those that grew inside him from the ones that have been planted by others, so he can find his way back here on his own without getting lost again.

“Alright,” Dean agrees, and opens his eyes. “I’ll go.”

He lets go of his lifeline.

Because you have to love what you need. It’s when you don’t need something, and love it anyway, that you know your love is real. And when your love is real, so are you.

Chapter Text

Cas comes to help him pack his things.

There isn’t a lot. The months he’s been with Cas haven’t allowed him to collect the boxes and boxes of items most people gain over the course of a lifetime. There’s just his clothes, and his books, and a few scattered knickknacks Cas had bought for him because they’d made Dean smile.

If Dean had actually started packing when he went up to his room after he and Sam had broken the news to Cas, he would have been long finished by the time the other man comes in.

As it was, he’d only gotten so far as to pull everything out of the cabinets and shelves, and had been sitting on the floor amidst the mess for a long time, blank.

He’d been in a daze ever since he’d stuttered out whatever he'd said to Cas.

He barely knows what he’d said, only that he’d said it and that it had gotten the message across. Sam had helped him, smoothing over his broken words and turning them into eloquence, like a lawyer advocating for his client.

It had all become so concrete so quickly.

Dean doesn’t know why he’s surprised, other than that he’s still not used to his wants and choices being listened too.

It’s something he is going to have to get used to, he supposes. Something that is going to be happening more and more frequently, as he gets closer to freedom.

Still, he feels stunned. The reality of his choice sits in front of him in the form of piles of clothes and boxes, and Dean is frozen in front of his own power.

He is in shock, and when Cas appears in his doorway, hesitant, it is a relief.

He looks unsure, fingers twitching nervously on the brass handle of the door.

“May I come in, Dean?” he asks. He stands still in the doorway while Dean blinks the stupor out of his eyes.

Dean remembers, then, with an odd swoop of his stomach, how Cas had promised him on his first day here that he wouldn’t come in without permission.

“Yes,” Dean affirms. His own voice echoes in his head as Cas then crosses the threshold, reverberating with the truth of his own permission. He’d said yes, so Cas had come in. He could have said no, and then Cas wouldn’t have come in.

No one ever used to listen to him. His choices never seemed to matter.

His choices matter now.

Cas closes the door behind him and finds his way over to Dean, kneeling in front of him among the strewn objects. He’s carrying an empty duffle bag, and Dean blinks at it dully.

His choices matter now.

“I thought this might be helpful,” he says, as he places the duffle bag between them.

Dean doesn’t want it to be there.

God. This is really happening.

“Thanks, Cas,” he says quietly. “But, uh, I won’t really be able to get it back to you. At least not for…a while.”

Cas shrugs.

“That’s alright. I don’t need it.”

Because I’m not going anywhere.

The implication is clear.

Dean feels a lump in his throat.

“You might,” he offers quietly.

Cas doesn’t say anything for a long time. He bites his lip.

Dean waits, guilt deepening with every passing second.

“I don’t think so,” Cas admits eventually.

Dean deflates. Unsure of what else to do, he starts to pick up the clothes on the ground and fold them, placing them inside the bag.

“Well,” Dean says lamely. “Thanks.”

Cas nods, and then starts to pack up the bag as well.

Dean watches the man’s hands, watches the way he folds Dean’s clothes before placing them in the bag.

He folds everything all wrong, but none the less he does it painfully carefully. He straightens out each item on the ground or on his lap before folding it, smoothing everything out with his hands and holding the corners of each item delicately between two fingers as he doubles the piece in a way that makes no sense.

Dean feels an ache that starts in his stomach diffuse throughout his body.

He’s seen the way Cas puts away his own laundry when Dean doesn’t do it for him. He crumples his clothes carelessly, cramming them in his drawers on top of one another. His clothes are always full of wrinkles because of it.

But Cas isn’t so thoughtless with Dean’s things.

Cas touches his clothes with the kindness and gentleness with which he touches Dean himself.

He mishandles Dean’s things as carefully as he mishandled Dean.

Dean is so suddenly aware of a deep, deep sadness inside of himself, as if a coin that had been falling for months had just finally hit the bottom of a well.

Dean feels the thump echo up and up and up and out of him.

“You want me to be happy, right?”

Cas’s head moves up, startled.

Dean realizes they have been folding clothes in silence for quite a while.

Or, Cas has been folding clothes. Dean’s hands are limp in his lap, clutching a sweater he’d forgotten about. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring at Cas.

Cas’s face is infinitely earnest.

“Of course I do.”

Dean knew that. Of course he knew that. But hearing the words spoken out loud settles something inside of him anyway, some twitchy thing that had wondered if he’s making the right choice.

Something that was open inside of his chest shuts. It’s a muffled feeling, but a solid one.

His gaze drops, landing on the grey sweater in his hands.

“I’m not happy.”

He doesn’t know it until he speaks it, but once he speaks it he’d known from the start.

He brings the sweater up to his chest, holding it tight.

“I’m— I’m not happy.”

He says it again, as if the truth might disappear if he stops saying it.

But the truth doesn’t work like that, and it stays true even as his words are swallowed by silence.

It is horrible to know.

It’s horrible, and the relief of the acknowledgment overflows from his heart like a hurricane washes away a city.

Thank god, he thinks, even as misery blinds him.

Dean stares over Cas’s shoulder, at a lamp in the corner of the room.

It’s dark outside, and the light is casting everything in light orange that makes Dean feel warm. He likes it. He likes feeling warm. He already misses living here.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” Cas says.

He sounds sorry.

“It’s not your fault,” Dean tells him, still not looking. “I’m not your fault. If I was your fault it would mean I belong to you, but I don’t.”

There’s a pause, then, “You’re not anyone’s fault, Dean.”

Dean feels frustration take hold of him.

He digs his fingers deeper into the sweater he’s still holding.

Now he does look at Cas, straight on.

“Then don’t tell me that you’re sorry!” he snaps. “I’m not- Don’t you get it? You don’t get it. I’m not unhappy because you did something wrong, I’m not your fault. I’m a. I’m. I…”

The indignation drains from his voice as fast as it came, leaving uncertainty in it’s wake.

Dean ducks his head.

“I’m a person.”

The words aren’t strong. In fact they’re so weak they could have been mistaken for a question.

But they’re spoken aloud. He’d pushed them out of his mind and into the world, and Dean tries to believe that’s what counts.

Cas is appalled.

“I know that, Dean.”

He manages to sound horrified and kind at the same time.

Dean blinks.

“I didn’t,” he answers.

Cas doesn’t seem to know what to say to that.

Dean looks down and away.

He finally folds the sweater he’s holding, putting it in the bag.

“You don’t understand,” he says quietly. “The fact that I’m unhappy…it means I’m real. It means I’m more than what other people want from me. I don’t want you to feel guilty about it. It’s not your fault. It’s not yours at all.”

He feels so unbearably small.

“This unhappiness…” he continues. “It’s mine. It’s the first thing that’s ever been mine. This is the first time I know for sure that what I feel is…real.

Because you’ve given me no reason to be unhappy, but I am. So it’s coming from me. I can be sure it’s coming from me.”

His own words chip away at his heart, bit by bit, and each piece comes off fragmented and brittle, revealing that all along it had only been stuck to the rest with glue. Every day, for months and months, he’s been tearing those pieces off, and he still hasn’t found what they are glued to.

But he’s found something.

After hacking away at his stone heart for so long, it’s like he’s finally struck gold, but the gold is his hurt.

It shines up at him like the burning bush, like the eyes of a person trapped under rubble, like life at the darkest bottom of the ocean.

It rings inside him like the liberty bell, loud and cracked and real real real.

“Don’t blame yourself, please. Blaming yourself…it’s like taking that away from me. My feelings aren’t your responsibility. I’m not your responsibility.”

“Yes you are!” Cas snaps suddenly, and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s been so quiet and still that Dean had almost forgotten he was listening. “Yes you are, you aren’t safe on your own, you have no protection! You, you’re dependent on me for everything, if I make a mistake you’re the one who suffers. Dean I love you, I don’t know how not to hurt you, I, I…”

He trails off, voice softening, as if he just noticed that he’s speaking out loud.

“Oh, god, Dean…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to yell…”

Dean doesn’t react for a moment, eyes wide. He had frozen still the moment Cas had started talking and it takes a moment for his muscles to unlock.

“You weren’t yelling,” he makes himself tell Cas eventually. It’s all he can think to say.

Cas’s face crumbles like a sandcastle, guilt in every line. Belatedly, Dean realizes his voice sounded kind of shaky.

“Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Dean shakes his head.

“It’s ok.”

“No it isn’t.”

“I’m not…you didn’t scare me. I just startle easily, you know that.”

Cas does know that, or at least Dean thought he did, but he doesn’t agree now, just bows his head in shame.

Dean swallows, feeling sick.

“Cas. I’m always gonna be real fuckin’ jumpy. You can’t just…you can’t fuckin’ hate yourself every time I freak, you didn’t do nothing. That’s my…that’s my point. Cas…”

Dean sets his jaw, determined. Pushing the duffle bag between them aside, he scoots himself forward so he’s in Cas’s personal space. Gently, as gently as Cas touches him, he puts his fingers beneath Cas’s chin and tilts his head up.

The turmoil and distress on Cas’s face is almost enough to bring tears to Dean’s eyes.

Is this what he used to look like? Is this what Sam saw, when Dean beat himself up over the kid’s own misery?

No wonder he ran away. He can’t stand to look at this either.

“Cas, I’m not a scared animal. I’m not an abused dog.”

Cas opens his mouth, to protest that he knows this, no doubt. Dean isn’t finished though, so he puts his finger against Cas’s lips.

“Listen to me, Cas.”

Cas does.

“What I’m saying is…you can’t fix me by being nice to me for long enough, or in the right ways, or anything. There’s no cheat code. There’s no right answer. I’m screwed up, and I’m gonna be screwed up forever. I’m doing my best, but there’s always gonna be shit that makes me panic for no reason.”

He swallows.

“That’s why I have to go. I can’t be your responsibility. I’m not a child, or an animal, or a toy that needs to be put back together. As long as I’m your responsibility, I’m still yours. Every time I fuck up, every time I cry, every time I get scared, you’re gonna feel like it’s on you. And I’m gonna feel like an object, ‘cause even my screw ups are yours.”

He drops his hand from Cas’s mouth, knowing he’s not going to interrupt now.

“And as long as I stay, you’re never gonna admit to me when you’re upset or exhausted or pissed at me, because you know I’ll freak. Like right now. You couldn’t let yourself be even a little frustrated, because it was scaring me. And you won’t even admit…you’re pretending you’re fine with me leaving, because you think I’m so fucked up and desperate to please that I’ll change my mind if you admit that you want me to.”

Cas pulls away from him. Dean hadn’t realized how close together they’d been until they aren’t any more.

“Dean…”

“It’s not fair!” Dean insists. “You know it’s not. We have to be free to feel sad, and be angry, and make mistakes without worrying someone we love is going to kill themselves over it.”

His heart bounds in his chest, pumping everything he’s held inside of it into his bloodstream. He feels braver than he ever has.

He thinks about Sam, fourteen and falling apart under the pressure of holding Dean’s psyche together.

“Cas, we have to learn to take care of ourselves, ‘cause we can’t take care of each other. We gotta stop hanging our happiness on other people, and then falling to bits when they let us down. They didn’t ever agree to be the way we measure our own self worth.”

He doesn’t know why it’s taken him years to understand that. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it at the bottom of a beer can he couldn’t stop John from drinking, hear it in the jumbled mess of Sam’s yelling, taste it on Cas’s lips before he was gently pushed away.

He doesn’t know why he had to hurt so much before he knew, or why he had to cause so much hurt either.

Cas blinks at him for a long time, looking something between stunned and broken.

He runs his hand through his hair.

Then he stands up, and for a moment Dean thinks he’s going to leave, going to walk out the door and leave Dean with the wreck his own words have brought.

But he doesn’t walk away. He stands blankly for a moment, looking like he doesn’t know what to do with his body, or like he’s just noticed he has one.Then he sits down on the bed.

With his feet on the ground, he hunches over with his elbows on his knees and his head almost between them.

He stays like that for almost a minute while Dean stares at him, still on the ground.

“You’ve always been real to me, Dean.”

There’s a beat after Cas says this. His hands are twisted together, so strained that his knuckles are white with tension.

He seems to be struggling to speak, opening and closing his mouth more than once without any words coming out.

“I know I’m…quiet,” he stammers eventually. His speech is slow, as if he is considering every word carefully, checking for an error before setting it free. “I know I’m reserved, and that I don’t always talk about what I’m thinking or feeling as much as I should. But Dean, you must know. You must know.”

His voice breaks, and so does Dean’s heart.

“I’ve never talked to anyone like I’ve talked to you. I’ve never shown myself to anyone like I’ve shown myself to you.”

His voice aches with sincerity. The stoicism that usually characterizes Cas’s body language is gone now. He radiates want. Emotion rushes onto his face like blood out of a wound, so vulnerable that Dean wants to look away.

He doesn’t.

“Your company and friendship has meant more to me than I can possibly articulate. If you knew how I felt about you…If I knew how to tell you all the things in my mind…

I know you are so much more than what anyone could want from you. Because I want you to stay. With all my heart and all my will, I want you to stay.”

He starts to cry then, starts to sob.

Dean had only seen Cas cry once, all those months ago, scared he couldn't take care of them both. Now Dean knows he was right.

It’s wretched to know, wretched to watch Cas know as well.

I want you to stay. I want you to stay.

Now Dean knows he has a will, because he can feel it wavering.

He swallows down the lump in his throat.

“Cas…”

I have to go, he wants to say.

But he doesn’t have to. He wants to.

I’m sorry, he wants to say.

But he isn’t. Or at least, he shouldn’t be.

He shouldn’t be, but he always will be as long as he stays here. He’ll never be able to want things other people don’t without feeling like he’s doing something wrong.

And Cas will never feel like he can cry in front of Dean, will never feel like he can even tell Dean what he wants from him because he knows Dean will treat it like an order.

Cas shouldn’t have to be afraid that expressing his own desires will override Dean’s so completely. Dean shouldn’t have to be afraid of that either.

With the same certainty that he knows Cas would never keep him against his will, he knows that Cas does not have the strength to make him leave if he decides not to. He can hear it in the heartbreak trailing down Cas’s cheeks.

It’s not fair to expect him to have that strength. It’s not fair, and it’s not love.

Love is choice.

Love is knowing that you can lean on someone without losing the ability to stand on your own. Love is knowing you can lean on someone without them falling apart.

You can’t lean on a person you’re holding up.

Dean knows, then, that if he allows himself to fall apart now, allows himself to be swayed, that Cas will not have the strength to make him leave, but he will also never show himself to Dean again.

Cas is trusting him to stay solid, to stay real, to not disintegrate like a hologram at the first sign of weight. He’s allowing Dean to look at him, trusting that his true face won’t turn Dean into stone.

Dean isn’t going to let it.

He takes in the image of Cas, red-eyed, blotchy skin. Calmed, now, but with still hitching breath. He lets it ingrain itself in his mind.

“Cas, I’m in love with you.”

He’s surprised at how steady his voice sounds, and how solemn.

Cas sort of flinches at his words, sort of jerks away like Dean had snuck up on him.

You snuck up on me too.

“I want more than just to stay. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I want…I want to marry you. I want to do right by you.”

Dean shifts.

“I guess what I’m starting to realize is that I can’t do right by you if I ain’t doing right by myself too…if that makes any sense. ‘Cause how can I love you right if my heart’s all broken apart and twisted? That means my love’s all broken apart and twisted too.”

Cas shakes his head, almost frantic.

“Dean, you are not broken. Neither are your feelings.”

Dean shrugs.

“Sure I am. Sure they are. How’s it right that you’re ashamed to cry in front of me, ‘cause I might get to worrying myself sick and falling apart all over the place? How’s it right that I’d let you hit me, and that I wouldn’t even stop loving you?”

“I would never hit you!”

“I know, but I’d still let you. I used to think that means I really really love you, but now I think it just means I’m used to getting hit.”

After he says that, Cas stands up very quickly. Dean blinks up at him. For a moment it seems like he might say something, but he doesn’t. Instead he sits right back down again, and doesn’t move.

Dean realizes he’s said rather a lot, about being in love and wanting to get married, and that he didn’t really think any of it through or give Cas any time to process.

He hasn’t really processes it himself.

“Dean,” Cas says slowly. His eyes are still wet, and his voice is rough. “I’m…not really sure what you’re trying to tell me.”

Dean looks down.

“I dunno,” he mutters. “I guess I just…don’t want to love you the way I loved people who hurt me.”

He hears Cas suck in a sharp breath.

“I…it doesn’t feel fair, to me or to you. My love’s all twisted, and you try so hard to untwist it but you shouldn’t have to, and I don’t even know if you can. I think it’s something I have to do.”

Finally, he stands up, and moves over to the bed. Sitting next to Cas, he considers the hands folded in the other man’s lap carefully.

“I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m leaving so I can come back. So I can choose to come back, with my head screwed on right. That’s what I want more than anything.”

And then he changes his mind about holding Cas’s hand and kisses him.

And Cas kisses him back, long and deep and hard. He holds Dean’s face between his hands, and Dean melts immediately. His eyes flutter shut.

Dean lets Cas kiss him for as long as he wants, and as it turns out that is quite a long time.

Cas kisses him like he is starving. Dean can feel the longing rolling off of him in waves, feels it in the press of fingers against his cheekbones, the way he leans into everything Dean gives him, how they are left gasping for breath in the mere seconds before their lips meet again.

It’s desperate and yearning and yet still deliberately restrained. Even as Dean allows Cas to move him any way he wants, lets him have anything he wants, he still takes so little. Hands never stray away from his face, not even to his shoulders or back. The kiss is strong enough to be full of want, but gentle enough that it never becomes even mildly uncomfortable. Even with the intensity dialed up to eleven, Cas never tries to stick his tongue in Dean’s mouth.

It makes something warm spread through his chest, something that definitely amplifies the warmth he’s feeling lower down but is firmly different from his want. It’s something between happiness and security and flattery, some mix of every pleasant feeling he’s ever experienced that deepens as the kiss does.

He’s never been kissed like this before.

Is this what it’s supposed to feel like?

He starts to smile against Cas’s mouth.

With a burst of uncharacteristic confidence, Dean takes Cas’s right hand off his face and slides it under his shirt.

That startles Cas out of whatever trance he’d been in, finally, and he jerks away, blank eyes wide.

“Dean,” he mutters, voice low and filled with heat. “What are you doing.”

Cas’s hand is warm and strong against his navel.

“What I want,” Dean answers, and then he laughs.

It breaks out of him and sounds like pennies falling against the floor.

Cas looks even more startled then, and Dean understands why. He doesn’t think he’s ever made a sound that sounded so happy, didn’t know his body was capable of it.

The surprise fades after a moment, melting into a slow smile that breaks across Cas's face like like the sunrise breaking across the horizon.

His eyes are still red, but they crinkle all the same, shining with tears and pride simultaneously.

The hand posed daringly upon Dean’s chest becomes unimportant then, as Cas brushes the thumb of the hand still cupping his jaw across his freckles, in a motion so tender Dean feels his breath stop.

There is so much meaning in that motion, so much hesitance and longing and gentle desire. The touch is soft, and it makes Dean feel soft too, makes him feel like he is made of something that should be handled carefully.

He feels wrong footed, suddenly, shy like he isn’t used to feeling. He feels desirable, in a way that’s less about passion and more about reverence.

There’s a nick on his cheek, barely visible, where someone had backhanded him with a ring on. Dean knows Cas must feel it, light as it is, because Dean can feel it too. But Cas doesn’t shy from it, or try to rub it away, but brushes over it with the same warmth with which he touches the rest of Dean.

He feels known, and cared for. He wants Cas to touch every scar on his body, without disgust or fear because they are part of Dean and Dean is not disgusting. He wants Cas to run his hands over his scars and remind Dean that they are not alien, that they are not foreign parts that have been attached to him, but his own skin, warped and gnarled but still as much his own as the rest of his body.

The brush of Cas’s finger ignites something inside him, or soothes something restless and unsure. Of course Cas wouldn’t flinch from his scars. The scars are as much a part of his skin as his nightmares are a part of his mind. They are part of him, and Cas loves him.

Cas loves him. He can feel it in the stroke of his thumb against his cheek, in the warmth of the hand trapped under his own, palm pressed to his chest.

Under his shirt, Dean curls his fingers tighter into Cas’s own.

“Anything you want, Dean,” Cas whispers.

He’s still smiling, wistful and bittersweet in a way that makes Dean’s chest ache. Dean isn’t smiling anymore. His mouth is soft, slightly open. When Cas’s thumb makes its way towards it again, Dean turns his head slightly towards it, so it is pressed against his bottom lip.

Cas stills then, and Dean does too. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, and wonders if Cas can too. His breath is hot against Cas’s skin.

Cas’s eyes darken, and his smile slips, distracted by the feeling of Dean’s mouth. After a moment of hesitation, his thumb begins its exploration once again, rubbing at Dean’s lip in a much smaller movement than before.

Dean’s slightly parted lips open centimeters wider, and the tip of Cas’s thumb slips in.

Dean closes his eyes. He closes his mouth too, and sucks lightly.

He hears Cas’s breath stutter. The thumb is pulled out of his mouth.

Dean doesn’t move, or open his eyes. Immobilized by want, he mutters, “Cas.”

His voice is low, and rough.

He waits.

A few seconds pass, and then he feels the tips of Cas’s pointer and middle finger resting against his mouth, seeking entrance.

Dean grants it, lips parting. His mouth is pliant and pleasing as Cas’s fingers slip in and out slowly. He sucks very slightly, and moves his tongue as he wishes to, sliding along and between the digits.

His blood feels hot and quick, but his body feels heavy and sluggish like he’s been hypnotized. He likes the way Cas’s fingers press so far into him without causing him to choke. He likes how little he has to think, how he can allow this muted heat to overwhelm him because he doesn’t have to be afraid. He likes how vulnerable he feels.

He likes how vulnerable he feels, because it highlights the fact that he’s safe.

His mouth is being fucked and he likes it so much.

Dean moans, hips rolling upwards reflexively, seeking out friction that isn’t there.

His moan turns into a whine. Kneeling against the comforter, his legs instinctually spread wider.

He knows he must look completely debauched, fingers in his mouth, shirt half pulled up, legs spread, hips now jerking intermittently in helpless, half aborted movements. He can feel his blush deepen in his face, and spread down his shoulders and chest.

If he were with anyone but Cas, he would feel deeply, deeply ashamed. As it is, the thought of how wrecked he must seem just makes him harder.

Eventually, the rhythmic jerking of his hips must rock the bed enough that Cas realizes what he is doing.

“Oh,” he breathes.

His fingers still in Dean’s mouth, deep inside of him, almost touching the back of his throat.

His other hand, which had until now still not moved from where Dean had pressed it against his chest, begins to trail downwards. Dean’s hand, on top of Cas’s, moves with it as it inches towards his naval, then his stomach, then lower.

He drops his hand from Cas’s when they reach Dean’s pelvis, and focuses all his energy on staying still as Cas’s fingers find the hardness straining against his jeans. His fingers skim delicately over the fabric, providing only the lightest of stimulation.

“Oh,” Cas says again, as if he is surprised by what he’s found. As if Dean had been sucking on his fingers out of boredom, or something.

The light touch is too much for Dean, and he whimpers loudly.

He hears Cas shift, and then the fingers are withdrawn from his mouth, as if he had just been reminded that he had left them there.

Dean kisses them as they retreat, then opens his eyes at last.

Cas’s face is startled, and his wet fingers are slightly curled, frozen in the air, as if Dean kissing them had shocked him.

His other hand still rests gently, gently, against Dean’s crotch.

“Cas, please,” Dean begs, and the sound of Dean’s voice seems to break Cas out of whatever trance the kiss had put him in.

“I- Dean, are you alright? Do you want to stop?”

“No!” Dean says loudly. “No, I want, I want more, please, I want you to touch me, I want, ah!”

Dean is cut off by his own pleasure as Cas cups his hardness and rubs, finally.

“Fuck, fuck,” Dean whispers, as he strains to keep his himself still.

Cas does it again, and Dean keens. His hips stutter, but he manages to calm himself.

Cas takes his hand away.

Breathing heavily, Dean blinks.

“Cas?” he asks.

“Why aren’t you…moving.”

Dean looks at Cas. He’s as hard as Dean is, but he seems to be ignoring it. Instead, there is a look of concentration on his face. He looks confused, and he looks concerned.

Too far gone to really make sense of what’s going on, Dean struggles to comprehend what he’s being asked.

“Huh?” he says brilliantly.

“You aren’t…moving. Into my hand. Or, you’re trying not to.”

Cas squints.

“If you want more friction, why won't you move?”

Dean curls into himself. Still hazy with heat, he feels self conscious for the first time. He hadn’t noticed he’d been trying to keep himself still until Cas pointed it out, and is unnerved by his own behavior.

“I dunno, Cas,” he shrugs awkwardly. “Relax about it, yeah? I’m not thinking about it. I’m just doing what feels good.”

“No you are not,” Cas replies, uncomfortably blunt. “If you were, you would be moving. And you would have touched yourself rather than waiting for me to do it.”

Dean squirms, not sure what to say. He doesn’t want to think about touching himself, doesn’t want to have to explain to Cas why he feels like he can’t.

He hadn’t been analyzing his own behavior the way Cas apparently had been, and it’s freaking him out.

“I dunno, Cas,” he says again, weaker. “I’m just working on instinct.”

Cas’s face shifts as he says this, going from concerned to suddenly sympathetic.

“You are not used to taking your pleasure,” he says.

Dean turns even pinker than he had been. “I guess not,” he admits, looking down.

Without warning, arms are suddenly wrapped around Dean, and he is being moved. Dean is compliant as he is carefully manhandled, and in a moment he finds himself straddling Cas’s lap, looking down at the other man.

His hardness had not reduced at all during their conversation, nor had Cas’s, a fact he becomes keenly aware of as their groins are pressed together.

Dean groans, and drops his head. His forehead presses against Cas’s.

He squirms, hyper conscious of the heat of their members.

“Shi- ah.”

His hips buck automatically. His hands, against Cas’s shoulders, clutch tighter.

He shuts his eyes. He wants to move, but he doesn’t know how to let himself.

“Cas, please,” he says shakily. “Please, I want more.”

“Then take more,” Cas says.

They stay still against each other, Dean tense and confused.

“Dean,” Cas says seriously. “You don’t have to be embarrassed in front of me.”

Dean swallows, opening his eyes again. He looks at Cas nervously from under his lashes.

“I-” he stutters. “I’m a slut.”

Cas frowns. He looks upset.

“You are no such thing. Don’t call yourself names.”

Dean shrugs, looking down.

“Was sucking on your fingers,” he mutters.

“Yes. It felt very nice.”

Dean considers that response.

He bites his lip.

“You don’t think I’m a slut?”

Cas looks deeply sad, and deeply caring.

“Dean, you are so embarrassed by your desires that you can’t even bring yourself to move. You’re not wanton, Dean, you’re shy.”

For a moment, Dean thinks Cas is making fun of him. The thought is dismissed quickly, because he knows Cas wouldn’t do that. But as that idea is crumpled up and thrown aside, no better explanation appears in his mind for why Cas would say something like that, and he is left staring at Cas blankly.

Several seconds pass, and Cas says nothing more to clarify what he could possibly mean.

His face stays troubled though, and it is then that Dean is forced to recognize that Cas is serious.

He’s glad for a moment that Cas is blind, because the conflict and surprise that must pass so blatantly over Dean’s face then would be humiliating if observed.

Shy.

That’s never been a word that could apply to him.

It unsteadies him deeply, leaving him conflicted and disconcerted.

Shy. It’s a word he’d thought linked intrinsically to others that so clearly don’t apply to practiced whores like him.

Virginal. Modest. Inexperienced.

Shy.

He’d thought Cas was shy. Thought he would be shy about sex, and maybe he still is. But it’s Dean who’s blushing like a beet, Dean who feels timid and uncertain, Dean who, for all his talk, still can’t take what he wants.

“Oh,” Dean says brilliantly.

Then, as if to prove Cas’s point, he curls towards Cas and buries his face in his neck.

“I guess,” he mumbles against Cas’s skin.

The movement forward had brought their bodies closer together, and by extension had pushed his own member further against Cas’s.

It feels warm, it feels good, but that’s as far as Dean can bring himself, and he stays still then with their hardnesses pressed together, wrapped firmly around Cas like a koala.

After a moment passes, he feels Cas’s hands move slowly down his body until they reach his hips. They feel strong and solid, and when they rock him back and forth against Cas’s groin, Dean’s body yields like it yields to gravity.

He makes a soft noise of pleasure at the back of his throat.

Clinging to Cas’s back, he waits in anticipation.

Slowly, slowly, Cas does it again, grinding Dean’s limp body against his own.

Dean moans again, louder.

The pleasure that sparks within him is unbearable, tempting him with the promise of more without delivering.

Cas moves him again, giving him enough friction to keep the fire inside him growing, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

Dean realizes then that Cas is teasing him, enticing him without any intention of giving him what he needs.

He groans in frustration, but the next time Cas pulls him forward, Dean moves with him.

He’s rewarded with pleasure that hits deeper than before, coaxing a gasp out of him, and with Cas whispering “Good job,” into his ear.

Part of him feels like an idiot, being praised for humping Cas’s lap like a dog, but a larger part of him preens, his insides squirming happily at the praise.

He begins to kiss Cas’s neck. His movements become deeper, and increasingly confident as time goes on. Cas’s part in moving his body becomes minimal, then fades completely, and the hands on his hips serve no purpose but comfort.

It doesn’t take long for Dean’s confidence to turn into desperation, and the rhythmic movements against Cas’s body become increasingly erratic and frantic.

“More,” he begs, “More.” He sets Cas’s hands to tugging at his jeans, making his intention clear.

“You want-”

“Uh-huh,” Dean mumbles, and then Cas’s hands are fumbling with the button and zipper over Dean’s bulge. Soon Cas is tugging the jeans down, over his ass and down his thighs, and then Dean is doing everything he can to squirm completely out of them while staying as physically close to Cas as possible.

With his jeans off, Dean feels twice as sensitive, and motion becomes suddenly more intense. His already thin briefs are stretched to accommodate his fully hard member, and nothing is left to the imagination on either of their ends when Dean presses it into Cas’s. He rubs himself unabashedly against Cas. He can feel the roughness of Cas’s jeans against the soft skin of his cock, and can feel the heat from Cas’s body radiate onto his own.

“Cas,” he keens, overwhelmed with desire.

He’s never wanted like this before. He’s never let himself chase his own pleasure like this before either. He’s never felt safe enough to do so, never felt like he wouldn’t be proving everyone right and showing himself to be a whore.

“It’s alright, Dean.”

He doesn’t feel like a whore right now. He feels like he’s drowning in pleasure, but he doesn’t feel like a whore.

Cas’s arms are wrapped around him, and he feels safe. He feels safe to look after his own pleasure, and loved enough to show it.

When he comes, he does it clutching Cas as close as he can, face turned into his neck. It’s pure rapture, blinding white and nothing like the conflicted, halted things he’d forced himself through in the past.

When he comes down, he finds that the sickening sense of self-hatred he’d come to associate with orgasming is no where to be found.

He’s never in his life been able to come without feeling like he wants to cut out any ability to feel pleasure from himself with a knife.

But even as the minutes pass and his heavy breathing evens out, the sharp disgust doesn’t rear its head, held at bay by the feeling of Cas petting his hair and whispering kind things to him.

Drowsy and pleasantly buzzed, he basks in the novelty of the feeling and in the sweetness Cas treats him with. His body feels docile and malleable, for once not out of the fear of being hurt but from the complete security that he won't be.

“Love you,” he sighs.

“Oh Dean,” Cas whispers into his hair. “I love you too. So much.”

Cas’s voice trembles as he speaks, but Dean’s head feels too hazy for him to think much of it.

After a few minutes, Cas untangles himself from Dean, and places Dean gently down on the bed. He gets up to leave, and Dean makes a noise of protest.

“Hush, Dean. I’m only going to get you a washcloth and fresh clothes. I’ll be back momentarily.”

True to his word, he’s back within a minute, holding a warm washcloth, along with another pair of briefs and Dean’s pajama bottoms.

Sleep-muddled, Dean wriggles out of his underwear and wipes himself down, immodest. Cas can’t see him, and he doesn’t think he would mind even if he could.

The room is small enough that he can toss the dirtied underwear and washcloth into the hamper without getting up. He wiggles into the new pair of underwear, but can’t be bothered with the pajama pants and tosses them aside.

“Mmm…” he sighs. “Stay?”

Cas nods solemnly as if he is making an oath. “Of course, Dean.”

Shedding his own jeans, Cas turns off the lamp and climbs into bed alongside Dean, shifting them around until he can pull the comforter over them.

Curling into Cas, Dean’s leg brushes against Cas’s groin. He’s still half hard, and its only then that Dean realizes, guiltily, that Cas hadn’t come.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Cas, I…how do you want me.”

He presses his hand tiredly to Cas’s cock, realizing suddenly that he’s not sure he can make himself do much else besides a hand job.

Before he can get too nervous though, Cas has already calmly taken Dean’s hand and moved it away.

“Don’t worry about me, Dean.”

Dean blinks, confused.

That’s not how this is supposed to work.

“But you didn’t come.”

“I didn’t intend to. I just wanted to make you feel good.”

In the dark, Dean can’t make out the details of Cas’s face. Cast in shadow, Dean doesn’t know how he still manages to be beautiful.

He pushes his own face deep into the pillow beneath him, and feels marginally less off balance.

“Really?” Dean asks.

“Yes, Dean, really.”

“Wow,” Dean murmurs. “Wow. You’re so nice, Cas. I’m gonna miss you so much.”

Cas shifts closer to him. Their hands, resting on top of one another, tangle together.

“I’ll miss you too.”

His voice sounds choked.

Dean is too tired and bleary to formulate a real response, so he kisses him, gentle like a dove, and then lays down his head on Cas’s chest.

He can feel the thumping of Cas’s heart through his shirt, and hums contentedly. He feels warm and safe and knows with the certainty of the prophets that this is where he belongs.

As he drifts off to sleep, that certainty crystalizes in his mind and articulates itself as a thought that carves itself into his soul.

I’m coming home to you with my heart all healed right, even if I have to tear it out of my chest to fix it.

Chapter Text

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 22, 9:02 AM
Subject: Dean’s Documents

Hello Gabriel,

I am writing to you in regards to Dean and his papers. I need you to transfer ownership to me and send me the documents, as I am planning on freeing Dean as soon as possible. Thank you for your time.

Best regards,

Castiel Novak

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 22, 8:14 PM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Hey Cassie!

glad to hear from u!! :) uve been ignoring my calls recently! Too busy with ur boy-toy for ur wonderful older brother I guess ;) I can see he’s got u wrapped around his finger lol. Guess that’s a good sign- it means I picked well. I’m not sure about this plan of urs tho. Have u really thought this through? U told me urself uve been eating better and getting out more since loverboy has been around. Besides, freeing him is a bigger thing than I think u realize. It takes a lot of time and money and paperwork and bureaucracy that ur not so great at dealing with. I think 4 now it would be best for u and him for u to keep him, and ill take care of the taxes and bureaucracy and crap so u don’t have to worry about it. anyway, when can we meet up? I haven’t seen u in person since may, and u barely answer my txts any more!! I wanna catch up :) why don’t I swing by mid-day on Wednesday?

See u soon1!!

Sent from my iPhone

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 23, 11:43 AM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Hello Gabriel,

I cannot meet you on Wednesday because I have work, which you may remember I told you about a few weeks ago.

Please refrain from calling Dean my “boy-toy” or “loverboy” in the future. He is my friend and it is extremely inappropriate considering his situation and what he has been subjected to.

In regards to your concerns: Yes, I have thought this through. I am aware of the steps and requirements necessary for manumission, and am prepared to fulfill them. My eating habits and social life are neither relevant nor your business. I appreciate your worry, but it is misplaced. Please send the documents as soon as possible.

Best regards,

Castiel Novak

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 23, 9:22 PM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Hey Cassie,

Ok, how about Saturday? Sorry, guess I’m used to u having an open schedule! Glad uve been keeping busy with ur little activist group tho. It’s important that you keep urself occupied, and I really think it’s great that you’ve found a place that will let u volunteer :) Don’t strain yourself tho- maybe 5 days a week isn’t the best idea? Don’t get me wrong, I’m psyched that ur getting out of the house now, but u know u get stressed easily and sometimes u get these big ideas in ur head about helping ppl and u take on more than u can handle. Like this manumission thing, actually. What prompted this anyway? Did the kid (NOT ur boy-toy, got it :P) say something? I know ur a huge softie Cassie, but u gotta think with ur head instead of ur heart sometimes.

This just isn’t practical. The process of manumission takes months. You’d have to pay a bunch of fees and fill out so much paperwork. You’d have to make a bunch of appointments yourself with the manumission office in LA, which is a bitch to get to even if u can drive, which u cant. You’d have to be there in person to sign documents and meet with officials, and u have to have a bunch of IDs that I don’t think u have. You need a passport, which I know u don’t have, and ur social security card, which I also know u don’t have bc I have it. U also need ur birth certificate, which u don’t have and I don’t have either bc mom has it and she definitely wont give it to u. And then u would also be in charge of setting up Dean’s entire identity b4 he’s free. U have to go thru the process of getting him a birth certificate, social security #, etc…u also have to set up a bank account for him, establish his housing post-manumission, set up his appointment to get his tattoo filled, and a bunch of other crap. Dean also has to take and pass a pre-manumission test. This tests his skills in reading, writing, math, and basic history and science. You would have had to start getting him tutoring months ago for this to happen soon. Don’t try to bite off more than u can chew, kiddo.

See ya soon,
Gabe

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 24, 8:51 AM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Gabe,

I am not free on Saturday either, as I am meeting with my friend Meg from work, and then am going to the DMV. I am working five days a week at my “little activist group,” which is in fact the biggest anti-slavery network in California, because it is my full time paid job, which I have also told you.

As I mentioned in my previous email, I am aware of the steps and requirements of the manumission process. I am going to the DMV on Saturday to get my passport, and I filed for and received another copy of my social security card months ago. I am in the processes of applying for a new birth certificate. Dean also already has a new housing situation, as he has gone to live with the young man he grew up with. I am also fully aware of what the manumission test is and what is required to pass it, and Dean has been being tutored since June. Again, your concern is misplaced. Please send the necessary documents as soon as possible. We can discuss an alternate date to meet after the manumission process has been completed.

Regards,

Castiel

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 26, 12:22 PM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Gabe,

You have not replied to my last email. Please send the documents as soon as possible.

Regards,

Castiel

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 29, 10:31 AM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Cas,

This isn’t my formal apology about what happened the other day. That has been posted separately to Sam’s address. I wanted to talk to you straight and since you haven’t been answering my calls, I figured I would have to email.

I really am sorry I scared Dean so bad by showing up like that. It wasn’t my intention. I don’t really know what my intention was, I guess, except to meet this guy who screwed up my brother so bad.

When you told me this kid was already off living with his friend, it really pissed me off. It pissed me off because it proved how little this guy cares about you, and how successfully he’s using you. And it doubly pissed me off because I saw how fucked up and pathetic he was when I bought him, and he of all people should be grateful enough not to take advantage of you. That was the whole point of giving him to you. It was supposed to be safe.

I figured you were talking about Sam Winchester from looking at Dean’s files, and it was easy to find out where he’s living now. I know going to confront Dean wasn’t a kind thing to do, but I’m not a kind person. I’m not like you. I’m not like you, but I do love you. And I’m going to do what’s best for you even when no one else will. Even Dean, or even yourself.

Which is all to say that though I’m sorry for scaring Dean like that, I’m still not handing over the manumission papers. Maybe you think that’s cruel. And maybe it is, to him, but I don’t care about him, I care about you.

I know to you that sounds callous, but not everyone can fit the whole world inside their heart like you can. I have to put you first, because you clearly aren’t going to.

I know you’re angry at me, but please try to understand. You don’t know how badly you were doing before. You were always a lonely kid, and I always worried about you. I know how betrayed you felt when I took mom’s side about the whole college thing. I know you moved halfway across America because of it. But now more than ever I’m sure that I was right. I didn’t take mom’s side because I wanted to hurt you, I took her side because I knew you aren’t capable of the same things other people are, both because of the blindness and the social stuff. It’s not your fault and I would never want you to feel bad about it, but if you don’t accept your own limitations you’re going to get hurt.

Almost as soon as you moved you started to spiral. You were barely eating, your apartment was a mess, you were totally isolating yourself. You needed so much support that you didn’t have. I understand more than anyone how shitty our family is, but once I saw how you were doing on your own I realized how much they had been propping you up. You never would have made it in college, and you were barely making it in your house.

I know I’m being blunt, but blunt is all you understand. When you were little, you used to chase after me and Micheal and the others when we raced and climbed and played in the back yard. Mom and the staff and me and the others would all try to stop you, but as soon as you could get away from the adult watching you, you would be off. You didn’t get that you couldn’t run around like us, because you would get hurt. And you did get hurt, over and over and over, tripping over something and scrapping your knees after a few minutes every time. You never learned though, and would keep trying no matter how many times you fell. It was only when you landed hard enough to break your wrist that you stopped.

When I took mom’s side about college, I was trying to stop you from breaking your wrist again, and it’s what I’m trying again to do now. You think you can do so much on your own, but you can’t. You thought you could run with us, you thought you could go to college, you thought you could live independently. Cas, every time I visited you it was worse. You had no hobbies or friends and wouldn’t leave the house for months at the time. You were fading away, and every time I visited you I was worried it would be for the last time.

I brought you Dean because I was scared for you. I wanted him to help you around the house and actually bring you outside, I wanted him to give you company, and more than anything I wanted you to have a reason to get up in the morning. And it worked, 100%. As pissed as I am at the kid about the whole manumission thing, I have to admit how good he’s been for you. You’ve been getting out of the house all the time, and are making friends, and you yourself told me how you’ve been eating and sleeping better. You have a job, for god’s sake! Don’t think I’m not proud of you.

I love you. Dean has to stay because he is good for you, to such an extent that I don’t think you can fully see it. I truly am sorry that I scared Dean, I was pissed off but should not have gone about it like that. But I’m not giving you his papers. I know you’re going to be angry at me, but I have to do what’s best for you. I’ll leave you alone for now, but give me a call when you’re ready to see me again.

Love,

Gabe

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: September 29, 2:53 PM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

Gabe,

There are few things in my life that have made me so terribly sad as reading your response has, and this is not something I say lightly or without having peered into the darkest crevices of human nature. But of all the terrible things I have encountered and learned, both recently and through my life, by far the most terrible has been this: Sometimes love is not enough, a truth that your message has confirmed.

I hope very much that you know that I do know you love me, and that I love you too. I love you with a dull but constant ache that can only echo out from the depths of childhood, an ache that reaches back farther that my memories do. If there is anything in your message that is true, it is that I grew up lonely, always chasing after you and our other siblings with a desperation none of you were ever really capable of understanding. I don’t blame any of you for that, really, but all the same I will remember to the grave how it was only ever you who slowed down or came back for me, remember like a Shakespearean character with a generational grudge. Your occasional kindnesses towards me in childhood meant more to me than you ever knew, something I understood just as well then as I do now. I was starved for friendship and affection, and your lack of cruelty and good-natured indulgence towards me was as close as I ever really got. In my memories, you dart in and out like a silver thread, appearing infrequently and erratically but in sharper focus than anything else ever was.

I had no way to repay you for your affection except to restrain myself from returning it in the overwhelming manner I wanted to, and leave you alone. I was not stupid, as much as everyone treated me like I was. I knew I wasn’t wanted, and that your friendliness towards me was not an indication that you enjoyed my company and wanted to include me in your games. The last thing I wanted was to alienate you like I seemed to have managed to alienate everyone else, and so it was with great restraint that I kept from clinging to you and instead resigned myself to my solitude. That is how much I love you.

So it is with my heart heavy like lead that I write to you now, knowing that you will not hear me. I sit here going in circles in my mind, trying to find the right words to explain myself, while knowing all the while that the issue is not a lack of articulation but that you have your hands covering your ears. How can I explain to you that you aren’t listening to me, when that very fact makes anything I say fruitless?

I am not the oblivious caricature that you make me out to be. I am the first to admit that I was not doing well at all when you brought Dean to me. I was equally as aware of this then. The difference is that I had no motivation to do anything about it. I had no friends, no family that truly cared for me, no job or other purpose. I will also acknowledge that having someone dependent on me to care for gave me the motivation that I was lacking. I ate better so he would, kept the house clean so he wouldn’t feel the need to, engaged in entertainment such as movies and games so he would, ventured outside and made contact with others for his sake. I found it unbelievably stressful at first, not only because Dean was so fragile but because I was so convinced of my own ineptitude that I was sure I would damage both he and myself further.

This turned out not to be the case. While we had many missteps, I increasingly found that I was more capable than I had thought myself to be. I found that more often than not, it was my own anxiety and inexperience that made interacting with the world difficult, more than my disability or awkwardness. It occurred to me, slowly, that the reason I had been living in such an isolated manner was not because I was not capable of having a social and work life, but because I had been so convinced of this that I had never tried. At the end of the day, the only thing that has ever really held me back is people like you, who treat me like I am a child or a burden because I am disabled.

You're right that Dean has helped me, so so much, because he gave me the strength to test my own abilities in a way you or our family never allowed me to, and I found out for the first time that I am capable of more than you ever let me believe.

You tell me that you love me, and I believe you. But love is not an excuse to treat people however you want. It is not a magic word under which all sins become acceptable. It is wrong for you to have stopped me from going to college. It is wrong for you to force Dean to stay belonging to me. It is wrong of you to override my choices because you think you know better. That these things are done out of love doesn’t make them less wrong.

As a friend recently told me, as long as I am your responsibility, I am still yours. And I cannot be yours. I have to be mine. That’s how you really get better.

I have spent enough time trying to explain myself, something I am only doing at all because I love you, and I cannot help but give one last attempt at making you see. You should be able to see that I am not a child, and that I am just as capable as you. But I also shouldn’t have to wait for you to understand in order to live the way I want to, so I won’t.

I shouldn’t have to sit here trying to convince you that I’m capable, like a defendant pleads with a jury. That is not a judgement you have the right to make. I hope you understand that I am a responsible adult that you don’t have to worry about taking care of. But if you don’t understand this, it doesn’t matter. You do not get to decide how I am treated. That is up to me.

I love you, but your belief that I will still be willing to see you at any point in the future despite your refusal to transfer the manumission papers is misplaced. I allowed you in my life after you helped block me from going to college only because I felt I had no other options if I did not want to be totally alone. I am no longer alone. I have a job and I have friends and I am moving to a new home which won’t be so far from what is now my life. If you would like to be part of it, you will have to understand that from now on we are equals or we are nothing.

I will not fall apart without Dean in my life, and I will not fall apart without you in my life either. Whether or not you believe that is of no consequence to me. The truth of my life doesn’t depend on your recognition.

Please send the requested documents ASAP. You will not be hearing from me again until they have come through. I apologize but I cannot spend any more time drafting this message, I am seeing a client at three.

Love,

Cas

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Date: Oct 2nd, 6:13 PM
Subject: Re: Dean’s Documents

1 Attachment