No Man's Land - TrenchcoatBaby (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

“It's a thing to see when a boy comes home.”

– John Steinbeck, The Grapes of Wrath

Castiel floats his hand across the tall wheat stalks. He doesn’t want to get swept into memory, not right now. Not yet. But the sun is setting and he yearns to think about his father, his family, his pack. Or even more vivid, a sight he revisits in his dreams: green eyes flashing in his direction, outreached hands, running till his lungs burned, sweaty and laughing and young, best friends racing in the fields. What wild boys they were...

Dean. Castiel sighs, the gesture involuntary and inescapable. The omega has consumed his thoughts more than usual lately, thanks to his current return to Lawrence. But he can’t afford to think about this, about him. Not until Cas accomplishes what he’s here to do, the role he’s here to play.

“You haven’t changed much,” Bobby notes, his voice comprised of deep and disapproving grumbles, and Castiel can’t help but smile at the sound.

“You’d be surprised,” he replies, knowing he sounds enigmatic and distant, but hoping the mid-fifties beta—clad in two-decade-old flannel—will cut him some slack. Surely today of all days.

Castiel fixates on the wheat, the tickle of the spike as it meets his palm, the brustle of the leaves and the sheer density of the crop. It’s difficult to reach this place, to find the narrow creek that runs along the side of it, following it down and through fields and fields of golden harvest until he sees it: the clearing, the acres of land that seems untouched and yet have been tended to, cared for, decades before him. Decades after him. A small cluster of homes and cabins fill his vision, and the gravity of his situation hits him for the first time today.

Castiel Novak is home again for the first time in twelve years.

He’s not a kid anymore, not like he was when Bobby last saw him. He’s a twenty-nine-year-old alpha, and the son of the most prominent were packmaster in Kansas. And though he rarely considers his age or secondary gender to be particularly defining of his character, these are things that mattered to his father—tradition and family, folklore and history. So his eyes sweep the property and notice all the changes time has wrought. He forces himself to blink away the recollections, the homes that are no longer burning red and cindered but are strong and sturdy and expertly crafted. The crops that are thriving, not scavenged and cut. The animals that are well-fed in the nearby barn, the overwhelming feeling of safety and home permeating the small community.

Today in this beautiful, implausible place, Castiel is burying his father.

“Burying” isn’t the correct term, of course. He’s been gone for so long that it almost feels archaic, the traditions that weres have upheld in their grief. Cutting down trees to make the pyre, igniting the body in flame, and the next day, taking the ashes back into the ancestral vessel in some ceremonial way. Castiel has options, he knows, but one way or another he will do this. He must. He could grind the ash into a powder, maybe ask Bobby to toss them into a stew or a pie until the taste is unrecognizable. That’s the polite, palatable way that many modern weres choose to consume human ashes. In his childhood he once saw an omega sprinkle them into a cup, pour in a hefty helping of moonshine, and drink the remnants of her deceased mate in one gulp. But Castiel can’t imagine doing either of those things, not now, not after so much time has passed.

Silently Castiel and Bobby watch the buzz of families walking to and from the various buildings. Some of the older pack members seem to recognize Castiel, but very few come up to offer condolences. There’s a pecking order, an unspoken hierarchical system, and with Chuck gone that makes Castiel…

What does that make Castiel?

“Still chatty as ever,” Bobby says, and Cas realizes the pack elder must have been speaking to him, tossing him an olive branch of “welcome home” chit-chat. The alpha flushes, embarrassed to be so lost in thought.

“Apologies,” he mumbles. “I was marveling at…all the changes.”

That’s an understatement. When Castiel left the community they were still dependent on century-old wells, still collected rainwater and used outhouses—even in the winter. But someone had ushered the pack into the twenty-first century, with indoor plumbing and electricity, not to mention a large cabin in the center of the property that seems to be some sort of communal food bank, recreation center, and bar.

Bobby hums in approval. “Dean pretty much single-handedly rebuilt this place from the ground up after...y’know…”

“I know,” Castiel says quietly, but doesn’t expand on the subject. His father is gone and so are his official orders, that much is true. But it still wouldn’t be very intelligent of him to tell a pack elder that Dean had ignored a direct decree from their packmaster, keeping in touch with Castiel all these years...

“Where is Dean?” Castiel tries to keep his voice level, but the question comes out as a trembling, meandering croak. Bobby looks at him fully, a knowing gleam in his eyes that has the alpha looking down at his feet awkwardly.

“Where’d’ya think,” the beta grumbles, crossing his arms on his chest. Castiel tilts his head, trying to understand what the other man might mean. And then it dawns on him—

“The pyre,” he breathes. It’s late spring and barely sunset, but still, the alpha shudders. “He shouldn’t be making—I mean, surely someone else…”

“He wouldn’t let anyone else do it,” Bobby answers, and this time his voice is softer, kinder. “You know how he is.”

Castiel doesn’t bother replying—they both know that he does know Dean, perhaps better than anyone. Or he used to. He can’t deny that there’s a flicker of electricity, an undeniable buzz of nerves and hope and excitement, at the thought of seeing Dean again after twelve years apart.

“He’s down by the brush?” Castiel is surprised how easily the shorthand comes to him, “the brush” being the place where the pack always hosts funerals: a pocket of space in the middle of the woods, a meadow overrun with bugs and flowers and vegetation. Just thinking about the place and its history is enough to suppress some of his eagerness to seek Dean out. He thinks of the five pyres he never got to light, the ashes that went unconsumed, the healing he was robbed of because of war...

Bobby nods, adjusting his worn baseball cap, and Castiel thanks him—excusing himself for now, knowing he’ll see the beta again for the funeral. He cuts through the center of the property, admiring the new homes and landscaping as he goes. This was his home for seventeen years, and everything feels both familiar and foreign, somehow at the same time.

He wonders if his reunion with Dean will be just as complicated, or if his childhood best friend will swallow him into a tight hug and they’ll just…

Pick up where they left off.

***

Dean swipes at the sweat dripping down his forehead. He really should’ve rested after patching up Charlie’s roof, but rain is in the forecast for the next three days and he didn’t wanna risk it. His redhead partner-in-crime is generally cheerful, a beta through and through, but Dean knows from personal experience that when suddenly cold and wet, she more readily resembles a pissed off alpha on his worst day. Or, in other words, John Winchester…

Dean chuckles darkly at the thought, the sound reverberating in the stagnant air of the forest. He palms the ax handle, staring down at the cut wood and wondering if it’ll be enough for the pyre. Dean never allows himself to say what he really thinks about his dad, not even to Sam, who’s so often blathering on about all of John’s shortcomings that Dean doesn’t need to be active in the conversation. He listens, sometimes even nods, then claps his brother on the shoulder and says some form of, “But he’s Dad, Sammy. Old dog, new trick…you know how it is.” Then he reaches into the fridge, grabs them both a Margiekugel so cold the glass is frosted, and they sit together in comfortable silence until it’s time to grab four fitful hours of sleep.

At least, that’s how things were before last year, when his alpha brother broke the hearts of every available were-woman in a ten-mile radius and tied the knot. Dean almost snorts aloud at the thought, just imagining himself telling Sam— get it, dude, you tied the ‘knot’? In his head, he can already see his brother’s classic bitch face overwhelming all his features.

Making jokes to himself doesn’t help with the loneliness, though, which Dean has staunchly been ignoring for the past year…around the same time Sam moved to a house above ground and left Dean alone in the bunker with Dad. Even though John had built the space nearly thirteen years ago—right in the middle of the war—it had always felt more like a home to just Sam and Dean. To their dad it had only been a safehouse, a defensive weapon against forthcoming demon attacks. Now the alpha considers the bunker a botched experiment, a reminder of his failure—not a home to grow old in or make his own. Sometimes Dean wonders if his dad hates the bunker, if it’s a symbol of everything they’ve lost. ‘Cause even buried in the safety of the underground, Mary had still been taken…had still been killed right before John’s eyes.

Dean shakes his head at the thought and flutters his eyelids closed, focusing on the echos in the forest. Concentrating like this, tapping into his were instincts, he can hear the buzz of every insect, the rustle of every flower petal, the distinct whirr of low winds. He’s always been one of the better hunters in the pack, though they hadn’t had a real need for wild game in many years now. He can sense a doe, though, maybe twenty yards east of where he stands now, and he thinks about shifting right here and now, stalking it closely in his wolf form before leaping behind the tree cover and sinking his sharp teeth into the deer’s neck—

But it would be a senseless kill, a way to scratch the nervous itch he feels about today, smothering the apprehension he feels about seeing Castiel again after so many years...

He sighs and gets back to work, trying to keep his mind clear. The passing of the packmaster is a somber time, and rare as well—the first death in leadership during Dean’s lifetime. He’s no genius, but he has enough common sense to know that that the community will be in political turmoil until the next packmaster is chosen, which means it wouldn’t be very smart of him to show how much Cas’ forthcoming return home had ignited a spark of… What, exactly? Hope? Courage? Expectation?

It’s a ridiculous thought and Dean knows it. Fifteen years of friendship means something, sure, but Cas has spent his entire adult life away from the pack, from the call of nature, from Dean. They can’t just dive back into their relationship—uh, friendship—as if no time had passed. Besides, for all he knows Cas has settled down with a nice omega guy or gal and has a pup or two on the way. Just the thought sets his teeth on-edge.

He drops the tree limb on the heavy oak stump and hacks it in halves, then fourths. Pretty soon he’s back in a rhythm, engrossed at the task at hand, loving the burn in his shoulders and the ache in his biceps. He bends down to stack the freshly cut wood whenever he scents it—the bland, unfamiliar odor of a nearby were. A stranger.

He tenses up immediately, gripping the ax handle with his right hand. He knows the scent of all fifty weres in their pack, has memorized their unique perfume. He can conjure up their essence as easily as he can their silhouettes. This particular scent is not only unfamiliar, it’s wrong, like the burn of chemical cleaner filling his nostrils.

The pack never receives visitors this far into the woods...they’re almost seven miles from the city, more in the backwoods of the neighboring town than strictly in Lawrence. This far out—with only muddy trails and bumpy gravel roads—and this close to dark, there’s no such thing as a friendly visitor.

He waits to make a move, noiseless as hunted prey, and when he hears a twig snap he rushes the figure behind him. He slams the lurker against a large oak tree using sheer force, pinning him down with the handle of the ax. The stranger—a man—gives a startled gasp, but Dean still hasn’t stopped, hasn’t taken a moment to look at his face. He’s blind with adrenaline and aggression and a sliver of fear, until—

“Dean.” The voice is rumbling and low but gentle and insistent, instantly recognizable to Dean’s ears, and he feels the tight knot of dread begin to loosen in his chest. He blinks, his vision clearing, and beneath him is…

“Cas,” he says, his own voice sounding muddled and astonished, like waking up from a fever dream and not knowing what’s real or imagined. The alpha stirs beneath him and Dean loosens his grip, dropping the ax at his feet. He should apologize, he knows, but his mouth feels cotton-dry and rigid. He stares at Castiel without embarrassment, figuring twelve years apart has allowed him to look his fill, and Jesus, have the years been good to Cas. Where he was once a lanky and skinny teenager, now he’s broad and thick with muscle, thighs hugged firmly in denim. His hair is still the same shade of brown but cut short and scruffy, the sort of haphazard display that makes Dean’s fingers yearn to touch, to make messier. The alpha has a dark spread of five o’clock shadow on his chin and his eyes have turned even more blue and startling, though maybe Dean had just forgotten how alluring they are, after all this time…

When he comes back to himself, he becomes aware that Castiel is staring back at him—appraising his body just as intently. Dean flushes, knowing his tank top and jeans are a little too tight, but he was working all day and hadn’t stopped yet to change. When Cas’ eyes flash back up their eye contact is locked, intense and filled with a longing that makes Dean’s heart begin to race.

Twelve years ago he had been left wondering how Castiel felt about him. And now, crowded up face-to-face against a tree, checking each other out with obvious transparency, Dean thinks he might finally have his answer. The reality makes him nervous, anxious, wondering if he’s reading into things too much. He nudges Castiel on the elbow playfully and gives him a clap on the back, allowing the heated gaze to finally break.

“Shoulda said it was you,” he says, giving a lopsided grin.

“You didn’t exactly give me an opportunity,” Cas points out. “You caught me...quite off-guard.”

“Been in the city too long,” Dean quips, smirking now, his hand on Castiel’s back wandering longer and lower than it should. “You barely put up a fight. Gonna have to put you in ‘were bootcamp’ or some sh*t.”

Castiel snorts, and any remaining tension seems to dissipate between them. This is how it always was—the easy chitchat, the natural ease, the glances and touches that last just a little too long.

“Seriously though, Cas. Why the hell do you smell like…” Dean tries to find a polite word for f*cking garbage but sadly comes up short.

“It’s a scent blocker,” Castiel explains, scratching absently at the collar of his t-shirt. “I, uh, wear them now.”

“Huh.” Dean tries not to sound too judgmental, but he doesn’t understand why any were—especially an alpha, for f*ck’s sake—would feel the need to hide who they are. Being an omega isn’t all sunshine and roses, and Dean does frequent town at least once a week, so he’s not living in a vacuum. But he’d never consider shelling out fifty bucks to cover himself in some synthetic stench that reminds him of bleached cardboard.

“Well, better rinse that sh*t off ‘fore the—” Funeral hangs on the tip of his tongue and he reins it in just in time, but the damage is already done. Cas’ expression is crestfallen and Dean reaches for him, pulling the alpha into the hug he had been wanting to prompt for five minutes now. “Cas, I’m really f*cking sorry. About your dad, I mean.”

Castiel tightens his grip on Dean’s sides, sighing heavily against the omega’s collarbone. Even with the funky scent blockers, Dean shivers against him, not quite believing he’s holding Cas right now. Or being held. Whatever.

“Thank you, Dean,” the alpha says soberly. He pulls away but Dean still has a hand on his neck, then shoulder, then arm. He’s struggling not to retain physical contact and tries not to think about why. He’s just trying to comfort his oldest friend who just lost his dad, he reasons. There’s no hidden agenda here. None.

“And sorry about—y’know, the scent blockers.” Dean gives Cas a small, sheepish smile. “I’m not used to them is all. I’ve heard about those before, but out here...we don’t really gotta need for ‘em.”

“It’s fine, Dean. I’m not used to your scent either,” Castiel replies immediately, and then leans against the tree, looking slightly panicked. “I-I mean...of course I remembered your scent, it’s how I found you out here. But I forgot how nice...you smell. I mean…I did remember, it’s just—” The alpha slides his hands into his front pockets as if he’d rather be anywhere but here, and it’s so endearing and so f*cking Cas that Dean can only beam at him. He’s been told he smells good, sure, like some kind of herbal plant or some sh*t. But somehow the compliment means much more coming from this dorky, hunky alpha he spent his teen years daydreaming about. He’s tempted to rattle his old friend further, to tease him within an inch of his life, but today’s not the day.

“Glad that nose of yours kept some of its old training,” he says gruffly instead, and Cas rolls his eyes dramatically, looking relieved that they’re back in safe territory.

“Dean Winchester…the most self-righteous omega in Kansas,” he grumbles lightheartedly. He elbows Dean’s arms, the touch warm and lingering. “Nice to see some things haven't changed.”

***

Castiel helps Dean finish assembling the pyre. It’s good to keep busy, keep his mind occupied, and anyways, he’s not sure how long he’ll be in town or what his father’s death might mean for his future. In the meantime, though, he wants to soak up Dean’s presence as much as possible. He’s already dreading the thought of leaving, but it’s been more than a decade since he’s lived in this community. He’s not sure he has a place here anymore…as much as he may want one.

Night is in full swing by the time they walk back towards civilization. There’s the high-pitched hum of crickets and cicadas, even the occasional bullfrog from the rushing stream of creekwater. Cas has forgotten how heightened his senses are in nature, how connected he feels to the earth when he’s not surrounded by metal and asphalt. Navigating the forest in the dark would be a dangerous activity for most people, but the eyesight of weres is sharp, crisp even in shadows. More importantly, Castiel and Dean had spent their childhood playing in these woods—exploring together as boys and pups. It’s surprising, but not unwelcome, how effortless this all is for him. His internal blueprint of the forest reappears naturally, detailed as a treasure map.

He tries not to be distracted by Dean’s scent, but it’s wonderfully woodsy, piney, somehow almost minty and musky in flavor. It’s like holding a bundle of fresh sage in his palm and inhaling pure menthol. There’s a sharp, cooling sensation that makes his gums tingle and suddenly, the alpha can’t believe he ever survived without this. Without Dean.

“How’s your exhibit in Chicago going?” Dean asks casually, after five minutes of walking together in the dark, and Castiel has to hold in a small gasp. He knew Dean had kept tabs on him over the years, but he had no clue just how closely. He should’ve expected it, though, because once a year he would receive a postcard from Dean without a return address. He had twelve of them collected by now, kept in a tiny wooden box he carted around to each apartment. Castiel had moved almost every two years, usually drawn to a new artist’s residency or a temporary gig, but Dean always managed to find him. He suspected the tech savvy beta, Charlie, had something to do with that. He only hoped the demons he was running from weren’t as technologically advanced, though they had no idea he had changed his name to “Edlund” and moved to Vermillion to live with his Aunt Becky.

Still, Cas’ favorite day of the year—every year—was postcard day, when Dean would write him a quick note. Usually something like,

Hey C,

The moon was glowing so much last night that it reminded me of the time we convinced Sammy it was made of cheese. Even when he was four freaking years old, the kid called us on our bullsh*t. But we had the best time trying to convince him, didn’t we?

Hope the moon is bright and yellow and cheesy as f*ck wherever you are.

– D

Castiel could never risk writing back, of course. There was the possibility, particularly in the first few years, that Chuck was having Dean’s mail monitored. But he had wanted to reply with every fiber of his being.

“Sorry man, I, uh...I know I shouldn’t have kept up with you all these years,” Dean admits uneasily. “The one-way-penpal thing was dumb, and I know you couldn’t write me back or tell me how your life was going, but I just...I needed to make sure you were okay. But it was reckless. Chuck forbid me to, forbid all of us, and I still—”

Castiel stops in his tracks and pulls Dean towards him by the elbow. In the glint of darkness, he sees Dean looking back at him, tense and expectant.

“Never apologize for that,” the alpha says firmly. “If I could’ve written you, Dean, I would have. Every day.” His voice is shaking, quivering, imagining all the moments over the years that he had rehearsed this same speech, had hoped to deliver it to Dean one day.

“I hated leaving you. The fire, the carnage, the casualties…” He takes a deep breath but doesn’t look away. “That night was like hell on earth.”

“I know,” Dean says softly, agreeing in the way only a fellow survivor can. “I know, Cas.”

Castiel thinks of that night often, his last night living in the pack, the final battle of the demon war. Enemies had invaded their compound and most of the weres had shifted, paws digging into soil, launching themselves on demons and aiming to kill. The sky had been ashen with dust, gray and cloudy with smoke, as dozens of homes burnt to the ground. The pack had lost so many people, too many to count—Bill Harvelle, Karen Singer, both of Charlie’s parents. He would never forget seeing Mary Winchester reduced to a limp and bloody corpse in her husband’s arms. Running alongside his father in his shifted form, Castiel had torn across the property searching for his remaining family—Michael, Lucifer, Anna, Gabriel, and his mother. But the highest flames were coming from the Novak home, a two-story structure where Castiel had been born, where he had spent his entire childhood. And inside...

Inside only death.

He had shifted back by then, perched on his knees and crying, completely naked, unable to take his eyes off the charred remains of his family. What followed was chaos—Chuck telling him goodbye and ordering Inias, a were only a few years older than Castiel at the time, to put the last surviving Novak pup on the first bus to Ohio. The fire was tempered by then, and Castiel had managed to put on clothes before being swept through the back door. He had screamed for Dean, searching for him despite Inias’ insistence that they should leave silently and not draw attention to themselves during battle.

“Do you remember when we said goodbye?” Castiel asks suddenly, pulled from the memory, and Dean’s eyebrows raise in surprise. Even in the dark, the alpha can spot a flush of red creeping along Dean’s neck. This was not the sort of thing people discussed so openly, but Castiel had been waiting twelve years to hear this. To finally know.

“Jesus, Cas,” Dean says, then adds sarcastically, “I forgot how subtle you were.”

Castiel exhales, the windy chill making him feel solemn. “Dean—”

“Of course I remember,” the omega interrupts quietly, longingly, with reverence. “Kinda hard to forget a kiss like that, Cas.”

It had been the only proper form of farewell Castiel could think of at the time. When he had finally spotted Dean, he was wearing loose jeans and an oversized t-shirt (noticeably borrowed) and tossing buckets of water onto the burning drywall of the Harvelle home. He was so focused, so fearless in the maddening turmoil and endless loss, though he was just fifteen at the time. The sight was so overwhelming that Castiel couldn’t bring himself to utter any words—they felt too small, too meaningless.

His next move had been purely instinct...spinning his lifelong best friend on his heels, cupping his chin with both hands, and kissing him hard and dry and desperate. During their teenage years he had never known if Dean had wanted him, had been too afraid to even try. But that night, Dean had only pulled him closer and kissed him deeper. When they had finally pulled away, it occured to Castiel that they had both been crying.

“Dean.” Standing in the forest now, Castiel wraps his hands gently around Dean’s elbows, and the omega leans into the touch, their foreheads touching. “We…” He licks his lips, feeling Dean’s breath ghosting over the cool wetness. How easy it would be to close the distance, to… “We should probably discuss it at some point. The kiss.”

“There’s a lot of things we should discuss,” Dean points out, then closes his eyes, shaking his head in annoyance. “But not now, ‘kay? My nose tells me we’re about to be interrupted.”

“By who?” Castiel asks on instinct, but then a familiar scent floods his system. It’s similar to Dean’s earthy scent but slightly more burnt, singed—soiled.

“Your father is coming,” Cas whispers, and Dean nods miserably.

“He’s already here,” he answers, eyes glued to a spot behind Castiel’s shoulder. “And I gotta feeling he wants to talk to you.”

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

“We are never alone /

We are all wolves /

Howling to the same moon.”

― Atticus

A twig snaps and then the alpha is in the clearing, only a handful of yards away.

“Dad,” Dean breathes, and there’s a warning in his voice that Castiel can’t quite place. He gets the distinct feeling that Dean knows what this conversation will entail, but Cas has only just been thrust into this world again. He’s struggling to keep up.

“Mr. Winchester,” he says politely, nodding his head down even though it’s too dark to see. It’s customary to greet an older were with a small bow of courtesy, especially alpha to alpha. He does remember that, at least.

“Castiel.” John’s voice is deeper, huskier than Castiel remembers. In some childish way, he half-expected all the adults from his childhood to stay preserved somehow, suspended indefinitely through time, the same as how he left them. “Good to see you, boy.”

It seems like Castiel isn’t the only one stuck in the past, and he resists the urge to correct the older alpha—to point out he’s not a “boy” and will be turning thirty this year. But it seems like an antagonistic way to reintroduce himself to Dean’s father, so he smiles and says, “You as well.”

There’s a pause, the three men just standing in the forest in the dark, before John finally breaks the discomfort. “I’d like to walk you back, if that’s okay.” Castiel can hear the shuffle of his hands sliding into his pockets—a nervous gesture. “As your father’s second-in-command, I should show you around—”

“I got it, Dad,” Dean interrupts, and then Castiel feels the tension return tenfold. He gets the feeling that Dean is trying to protect him from something, but he doesn’t quite know what. “Cas’n I have been catching up.”

“I see that,” John grumbles, though his voice isn’t disapproving—just cautious. “But shouldn’t you be helping the elders prepare for the ceremony?”

The silence that follows between father and son is a battle of wills, even Castiel can feel it. He isn’t sure what’s happened to John in the past twelve years, but he gets the sudden sense that losing Mary did little for his temperament. Dean’s chest is quietly heaving, and just as he’s about to open his mouth to protest, Castiel cuts in.

“I’d love your company,” he says to John tactfully. Dean glares at him in the dark, as if he’s made the wrong decision, but Castiel figures that if he can help the Winchesters not come to blows over him, that has to be the right decision. Surely…

He squeezes Dean’s wrist reassuringly, and whispers, “Can I see you after…?” It’s as intimate as he’s willing to be with John watching them, but there are so many things he wants to do with Dean while he’s home…so many conversations they need to have. Dean only nods, though seems less irritated than he had a moment ago. He waves a quick goodbye and heads east, towards the community center, while Castiel and John remain north. They’re only a few yards away from the edge of the tree cover, and once they reach the property again, Castiel notices lights on every porch and strings of lanterns scalloped in the trees. He can see John properly for the first time, and fights the urge to cringe. His earlier suspicions had been correct...the alpha looks worn around the edges, both bulky and haggard. It reminds Cas of the people he’s encountered in the city—a sort of blank and hopeless expression blanketing their features.

“Mr. Winchester—”

“John,” the alpha corrects, and Castiel exhales some of the tension that’s been huddled around his shoulders.

“John,” Castiel repeats. “I-I never had a chance to tell you...how sorry I am for your loss.”

It’s been over a decade but the older man’s shoulders grow taut and rigid. “S’not my day to grieve,” he says, distantly cold. “It’s yours.”

Castiel hums in agreement, unsure of what else to say. They start heading towards the center of the compound, to a small but handsome cabin with a wraparound porch. “Was this my father’s house?”

John nods. “He was the last one to rebuild after...everything. He wanted everyone else to be settled. He was—” The alpha clears his throat, coughing into his fist. “He was a good man. A good alpha and a good packmaster.”

“Thank you.” This conversation makes Castiel uneasy. For most of his adult life he had felt like orphan, cut off from the only surviving family member he had left. John’s declaration only makes him feel inadequate, as if the whole pack knew Chuck better than he did. He eyes the front door to his father’s home and wants nothing more than to go inside, get settled, and prepare for the ceremony.

“What would you like to talk to me about, John?” he asks rather bluntly, and John smirks, regarding him fully for the first time.

“I remember now why Dean likes you,” he says, and his tone is more genuine now, maybe even impressed. “You’re a straight shooter.”

Castiel shrugs, knowing it could be perceived as a sign of disrespect, but not quite caring. He’s burning his father’s body in less than an hour—he figures he’s earned the right to be brisk. When it becomes clear that Castiel isn’t going to relent from his direct approach, John rubs a hand against his face and sighs.

“Succession,” he says lowly. “When a packmaster dies, the duty usually falls to his alpha pup. But with you being excommunicated—”

“You mean running for my life?” Castiel corrects sharply. “Following the orders of my packmaster?”

John looks at him squarely. “Whatever you wanna call it, Castiel, you haven’t exactly been around.”

A number of arguments rise and die on the tip of Castiel’s tongue. It’ll do him no good, he realizes. John seems to have forgotten he didn’t leave by choice .

“And in your stead, the packmaster’s Second would...step in.” John’s voice is purposefully light and casual, and it finally dawns on Castiel what John is asking. What information he’s being pumped for.

“You want to run for packmaster,” he pieces together quietly, “but first, you want to know if I’m planning to claim the title.”

“You might’ve forgotten, being tucked away in the city for so long, spraying your fancy scent blockers, but…the pack is democratic.” John’s voice is condescending, the tone grinding down on Castiel’s remaining nerves. “And if two contenders fight for leadership that would mean a pack-wide vote. And if that’s a stalemate, well, a deuchainn aon-mhara would commence—”

“I know how the system works,” Castiel snaps, inching closer to the front door. He didn’t come home to play pack politics—he’s here to say goodbye to his father, and if he’s being honest with himself, to see Dean again.

“Then you know just how seriously you should take this.” For a moment John sounds a concerned parent, and Castiel wonders if he’s imagining either of his own sons in this situation. Perhaps he would have more sympathy for them. “Packmaster is not for the weak.”

Castiel turns his head and closes his eyes, focusing on the murmurs of the pack members around him, the night sounds of insects and animals nearby. He needs to calm down, to breathe, to not punch this man squarely in his patronizing jaw.

Because Castiel does not consider himself weak. Far from it.

“Please leave,” he says, not bothering to turn around. Weres have supernatural hearing—the alpha could hear Castiel’s whispers from a football field away. “Just let me say goodbye to my father in peace.”

When he dares to turn around again, the porch is empty and still. All that remains of John Winchester’s presence is the scent of rotten, browning earth and hostile alpha pheromones. It makes Castiel feel like gagging, but he resists, opening the front door and heading into the unfamiliar home. He hopes his father’s hot water heater is prepared for the massively long and therapeutic shower he’s intending to take. He needs just a moment to himself before the ceremony begins, a moment to sort through what John was asking of him…and what the hell Castiel intends to do about it.

***

This isn’t Dean’s first funeral pyre.

Not even close.

Before the war he had been unacquainted with death, the idea of losing a fellow were inconceivable at best. But then the demons had come, and at fifteen years old, he could only watch as his pack members burned to ash. Some were beaten until they choked for air, others had their hearts ripped from their chest. His mother had gone toe-to-toe with the demon leader, Azazel, and ended up a bent and bloody heap in his father’s arms. All told, they had crafted over fifteen funeral pyres that day—a third of them for the Novaks. Now, shedding his clothes and folding them by the back door, Dean feels ill just imagining how closely one of those bodies could’ve been Cas.

Having his childhood best friend back around, aka, the literal embodiment of The Best Kiss of His f*cking Life, is making Dean feel on-edge. There was no way that his dad had wanted to speak to Cas alone out of respect, or long lost nostalgia—Dean’s dad is not a sentimental man. Not anymore. So it had been a political move of some kind, a plot that Dean isn’t privy to. He hasn’t felt this preoccupied with were politics in years, having prided himself on moving on from the demon war…while his father stewed in the pack’s dark history. Dean has fought long and hard not to become a carbon copy of his one remaining parent, but knows those same demons—f*ck, poor choice of words—could come back to haunt him.

“f*ck this,” he mumbles to himself, deciding here and now to stop that train of thought before it goes any further. It’s tradition for the pack to attend funerals fully shifted, so that’s what Dean does instead, stepping out in the evening coolness in nothing but his birthday suit. He quiets his mind and reaches for his second nature, the feeling easy and natural, like stepping through a doorway that was already left ajar. It’s widely known in were circles that turning becomes easier the more often you do it, sort of “practice makes perfect” or whatever, and he’s been shifting almost everyday since he was a child. It’s an unconscious gesture at this point, inhaling a breath on two feet and then exhaling on four paws.

He shakes his fur unconsciously, feeling immensely strong and alert from the effortless transformation. He can sense his pack members from every direction, most of them turned as well but some of them still fully human, and the call to join them—his family—is as natural to Dean as reeling in a fishing pole on a quiet Sunday morning. He wanders towards the edge of the property until a small, white wolf flanks him on the right—Charlie, of course, he would recognize her anywhere—and they head to the ceremony together, trodding together in a leisurely pace.

It takes half a mile to reach the brush, the spacious meadow where all past, current, and future pack funerals will take place. It’s a small patch of land that always makes Dean feel off-kilter, and he shivers, shaking his fur in an obnoxious way that makes Charlie look at him in amusem*nt. Sorry, he mumbles in her direction, and she snorts quietly, gusts of air clouding around her snout.

What’s got you all, season-five-Buffy tense? she asks playfully, but Dean doesn’t get a chance to answer—it must’ve dawned on her, because suddenly she’s squealing. Loudly. In Dean’s ear. Or...brain. Castiel came back today! Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod! You must be going out of your mind!

Dean usually prefers his wolf form, all the freedom and strength and agility, but now he wishes this conversation was taking place when he’s in a body with opposable thumbs. He would really benefit from covering his ears from Charlie’s excited screaming right about now, Jesus. But their psychic link is strong, so if she wants to let him into her thoughts, there’s really no escaping it.

Yeah, yeah, he grumbles back, unwilling to offer up any other details. Not that he has many to share—today they had spent maybe forty-five minutes together, tops. So what?

‘So what’? Dean, your true mate is back and you’re too afraid to do anything about it. Charlie’s voice is teasing and somewhat snide and Dean increases his speed from a trot to a gallop, hoping the distance will keep the radius of Charlie’s thought at bay. Hey, come back here, Winchester! I’m not finished with you—

He picks up the speed again and snarls instinctively, chest panting from the abrupt sprint. Whether from distance or strong-willed intentions, he’s not sure, but he’s finally managed to block out Charlie and her thoughts. It’s a little rude, sure, but he’s got a f*ckton floating around in his head and he wouldn’t want to accidentally project any thoughts in her direction. Apart from his dad and Sam, she’s the only other pack member who can seem to poke around in his head, occasionally without his permission. It’s a bit annoying, really, since Dean really values his f*cking privacy. Luckily, though, transmitting thoughts in a human form is next to impossible for anyone. Whenever he has a secret to keep, he’ll avoid shifting around his family for a few days.

With his expertly-honed vision, he spots the torches before he even crests the pending hill. The scene unfolds around him quickly after that, the hefty pyre he and Cas made showcased in the center of the terrain. There are over forty wolves gathered around it already, and Dean realizes that he and Charlie are almost late. He shuffles through, giving gracious nods to all the weres he passes, blocking out their individual scents so he’s not hit with sensory overload. He finally sits on his hind legs next to Sam and John, two large black alpha wolves who look nearly identical, though Sam has a small patch of gray fur on his left paw. Dean more closely resembles his mother, with fluffy and thick grey charcoal coloring, but his slightly smaller omega stature makes him no less lethal than the two hulking alphas. What Dean may lose in bulk he makes up for in scrappiness.

Leaned against a nearby tree is Sam’s wife, Madison, arms crossed in her human form. Dean makes a mental note to check in on her later—being a bitten werewolf, not a born were, means she can’t turn at will. He knows from past conversations that these “all-shift” pack events tend to make her feel isolated, and he wonders if he should go stand beside her for support. That, of course, is when the pack elders come through the clearing, so he tucks tail and stays put. Bobby, Pamela, Ellen, and Rufus are all in their human form, as expected, since it’s a little difficult to tend to a fire using paws. Cas is too far away for Dean to scent or see, but he must be nearby, ready to enter the ceremony whenever he receives the proper introduction. Pamela is holding a thick hardbound book, pages dusty and brown, and reads in a loud, authoritative voice:

“We welcome you Luh, Madadh Alluidh, Mac Tire, descendants of Odin. Tonight we unite as a pack to celebrate the life and death of Packmaster Chuck Novak.” The wolves are quiet, waiting, most of the older members likely able to recite the traditional funeral invocation by heart. “Folklore dictates that The Wolf shall rise again when the sky turns red.” At this cue, the three remaining elders each walk to the corners of the pyre, retrieving a lit torch, and stand above the pyre, posed and ready. “For this reason, we will ignite the ceremonial fire and release The Wolf’s spirit into the celestial pastures above. But first—” She pauses, and Dean’s ears perk up, listening intently. The pack elder is speaking off-script now, which Dean has never witnessed before. “The surviving family has requested a brief eulogy of the life and legacy of our packmaster.”

Pamela keeps her finger wedged between the pages of the book, and regards the pack with open sincerity. Dean feels an ache in his chest, imagining Castiel requesting this unorthodox approach. Most were funerals are highly rehearsed and contingent on tradition, the concept of The Self fading whenever you accept the full protection of the pack. Knowing that Cas asked for this specifically, even though it goes against all their customs and rituals, makes Dean want to seek him out now, rub the flanks of his soft fur against the other man’s skin.

“Chuck Novak was born in 1958 and presented as alpha in 1970,” Pamela says, in that same commanding tone. There was a reason she had been selected as an elder, after all. “He married the love of his life in 1976, and together, they raised five strong pups—Michael, Lucifer, Gabriel, Anna, and Castiel. He is preceded in death by his wife and four oldest children, and survived by his alpha son and only remaining child, Castiel.”

And there it is, Castiel’s cue. He walks to the pyre, and—no longer perfumed in the irritating, chemical spray—Dean is immediately struck by Castiel’s scent. He puts down all his carefully placed guards and allows it to flood his system, the aroma unbearably rich and chocolatey, like a cocoa bean split open and nestled in sugar. His mouth dries, his floppy pink tongue hanging from his panting jaw. He wants to get closer to that mouth-watering fragrance, to Cas, and he moves without thinking, circling the pyre and meeting Castiel on the opposite side. The elders glance down at Dean in surprise, but don’t prevent the movement, so he goes to Cas and brushes his side against the man’s leg. Castiel reaches a hand down to scratch tenderly between Dean’s tucked ears, which should be soothing, but…

The contact is startling, a flood of emotions seeping from the alpha and funneled directly into Dean’s brain. There’s pain and melancholy, an aching sort of sadness. I never got to really know my father, and now I never will. Dean tenses, looking up at Castiel questioningly. Had just heard Castiel’s thoughts, even felt his emotions...after twelve years apart, and while the alpha was still in his human form…

Dean tries not to think about how absurd that is. He must be imagining things…

“Chuck became packmaster in 1988, and led our pack faithfully for thirty years,” Pamela says, continuing her non-scripted eulogy. “We honor his service tonight, his sacrifice and passion, his love for each of us and his willingness to help us regrow during the most difficult of days.” Dean burrows closer to the alpha beside him, offering all the physical comfort he can. Pamela reopens her tome of a book and begins reading again. “Now we spill the flowing, living blood of The Wolf. Earth Son, do you recognize the fallen’s fulfilled duty to the pack and the responsibility of the next-of-kin to uphold the same decorum?”

Castiel bows and nods solemnly, as is custom, and Pamela passes him a blunt, flint stone. Cas barely hesitates before he cuts the center of his palm wide open, sawing the skin until the steady drip of blood lands on his father. Against his control, Dean winces. He tries to push against the bond between them—the one they apparently, without even trying, developed—but the sharp sting is too overwhelming and he whines softly in his throat, feeling as though his paw has been carved open.

When the blood ritual is done Castiel puts his hand in a fist, probably hoping to stop the blood flow. Before he even realizes the immensity of the act or what the hell it may mean, Dean licks a flat tongue across the open wound. Castiel’s breath is labored above him, clearly stunned, because they both know blood sharing is sacred among weres and deeply evokes a mating ritual. But there are slight healing properties in Dean’s were form, even in his salvia—it’s part of the reason that weres heal so quickly—and the incessant burn of the cut has decreased considerably by the time Dean has licked and swallowed every sloppy drop.

If he had hoped that no one apart from him and Cas had noticed their exchange, well... Dean’s eyes flash to the elders, to his family, to the whole pack.

It becomes evident that they haven’t missed a thing.

Dean tucks his head between his paws and casts his eyes down. He never meant to be a distraction from Chuck’s funeral, for f*ck’s sake, but here he is acting like him and Cas are mated when they’re…

Just friends. Old friends. Good friends. But that’s it.

With a tilt of Pamela’s head all the torches are placed downward, the fire gathering quickly and in such a rush that Dean can’t look away. He reaches inside Castiel and knows that the alpha is trying to prevent tears from falling, ignoring the rush of sorrow at never having this moment with the rest of his family. He regrets being the last living Novak with such stark self-awareness that Dean can’t help it—he nuzzles against Castiel’s hand again, hoping to comfort him.

“And now, sing to the Fallen! Sing your song of celebration!”

The howls are succinct, a deep and persistent wailing, as the pack collectively mourns together. Meanwhile, Castiel squats down low and buries his face in the omega’s fur. Dean honestly has no real confidence that his thoughts could actually reach the alpha’s consciousness. This bond shouldn’t—couldn’t—be happening. There’s no way. It’s impossible.

But still he can’t help thinking, it’s okay Cas, I’ve got you.

“I know,” Castiel answers in his ear, his voice a faint beneath all the howling, “I know you do, Dean.”

***

Castiel stands at the fire until his father’s remains are cinder and ash. Dean never leaves his side, brushing his flank on the alpha’s shin or grazing his snout into his palm. His presence is soothing even when they’re not touching, and it’s consoling just to be infused with Dean’s sweet, herbal scent. Castiel can smell the other wolves too, of course, and has some difficulty muting their individual perfumes. He’s out of practice with things like this—”wolf” things, he calls them secretly, which had once come second-nature to him. He thinks of the cliché, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks.

But can you teach an old wolf his old tricks?

Cas is pulled from his thoughts by a nudge on his elbow, and it’s Rufus, passing him the ceremonial goblet used to collect the powder. It’s his task—no, technically, his honor—to be the one to sweep the ashes into the cup using his bare hands. The remains are still hot to the touch but he breathes through it, knowing it’s more a mental fear than a physical one. Still, he hasn’t had to utilize his reflexive healing powers in a long time. There’s not much danger when you spend twelve hours a day alone, painting in front of a canvas, conjuring up images of the past.

His fingertips are grimy with ash when he finally finishes, and though he’s full of grief at the sight of his father reduced to grit and bone, he has the familiar itch to paint something, to zone out and create. He thinks of his small studio apartment in Chicago covered in tarps and easels and various supplies, and is struck with sudden longing for the safety, the solitude it represents. Wolves by design are close-knit and family-orientated, making someone like Dean the ideal were. But Castiel has always felt on the fringe of most groups, incredibly close with a handful of people but utter strangers to the rest.

“Cas,” Ellen calls, and he looks up at the elders, realizing he was lost in thought again. She nudges her head forward, towards a small and gray cloth tent, the flaps fluttering in the wind. “It’s time.”

The other wolves dispersed moments ago, and only Dean remains with him. Castiel clutches the goblet to his chest and steps forward, the sound of Dean’s paws treading lightly behind him.

“Not you, Dean,” Ellen says to the wolf, her voice gentle.

Dean sits stiffly on his haunches and, quite unconsciously Castiel assumes, begins to bear his teeth at her.

“Don’t give me sass, boy,” she says gruffly, “you know how this works.”

To avoid further trouble the alpha squats low, eye-level with the wolf, and uses his free hand to caress Dean’s head. He really is a gorgeous wolf—the perfect shade of dark gray with a magnificently shiny mane. But it’s the green eyes that are most stunning, larger and hued with gold in his wolf form. Dean is breathtaking, human or were, and it makes Castiel’s chest ache thinking about how much he’s missed his presence.

“I’ll be okay,” he tells Dean quietly. He chooses to speak aloud, though in a whisper, rather than tap into their psychic connection. The ease of their bond in human-to-were communication had obviously scared Dean earlier, and Castiel was rather bewildered by the phenomenon himself. That sort of connection is incredibly rare and somewhat...frightening to access by accident. But Cas needs to compartmentalize, to take his current problems one at a time, and right now he has to go with the elders to complete the ritual.

“Will you take me into town tomorrow?” he asks the wolf, still rubbing his ears. “I need to pick up a few things.” He had flown in just this afternoon, and Bobby had promptly retrieved him from the Lawrence Municipal Airport. He needed a variety of things that he was either sure his father wouldn’t have, or he would feel strange about using secondhand.

Dean rumbles sweetly at the request and rubs his wet nose against Cas’ hand. He chuckles at the sensation, not even needing a supernatural bond to tell Dean is pleased with the idea of taking him shopping tomorrow. For a fleeting second he wants to lean down and kiss the top of his head, but stops himself, not wanting to be too affectionate too quickly and frighten his friend away. He pats the wolf’s head one final time and stands, following Ellen through the clearing in the trees. He can feel Dean’s presence still, guarding him as he walks away.

Ellen pulls back the tent entrance and Castiel steps inside. There’s a variety of herbs and scents overpowering the small space, incenses burning and dropping sandy gray cinders.

“Where do I…” Castiel glanced down at the goblet, nervous that he’s holding his father’s remains in an open container. What if he trips and spills them everywhere? What if the wind gusts them away?

“Over there,” Bobby grumbles, indicating a small, threadbare quilt in the center of the tent. Castiel lays the cup gingerly in the center and the elders surround it, hands connecting palm up. Castiel is only here to observe this, not participate, as they begin to chant a prayer in Gaelic. Many of their rituals originated in sixteenth century Scotland, where the first werepacks had been documented. Even out here in rural Kansas, much of the pack can understand some Gaelic—except for Castiel, of course, since he hasn’t heard or spoken the language in twelve years. He can still pick-up on words occasionally, like madadh-allaidh, gealach, talamh, and ghrian (wolf, moon, earth, and sun), but otherwise the elders’ prayers and blessings are totally foreign to him.

After nearly twenty minutes of joint chanting, they finally crack their eyes open and separate from the circle, seeming satisfied.

“That’s it?” Castiel asks, still feeling somewhat awkward that he’s unfamiliar with this process. He’s never been able to properly say goodbye to someone before, and he’s not finding the pack’s traditions as..therapeutic as he expected.

Ellen nods, then adds, “Just don’t forget—for the spirit blessing to be complete, you must consume the ashes tomorrow.”

“Before the moon begins to wane,” Rufus clarifies, adjusting the collar of his flannel that must’ve gotten ruffled during the prayer.

“Want me to whip you up a special co*cktail for the occasion?” Pamela asks with a wink. She’s an alpha twelve years his senior, but unapologetically flirtatious with every unmated pack member. She was dabbling in magic before Castiel left home, and he wonders absently if she’s still practicing the craft.

“No thank you,” he says politely. “I have...an idea I’d like to try.”

Pamela and Ellen look at the alpha curiously, but evidently decide not to pry. Now that the ritual is over, the elders have relaxed considerably, lounging around the tent. Bobby pulls a flask from his back pocket and they pass it around without comment. Castiel nearly laughs at the sight—instead of a ceremonial pipe, these elders share cheap whiskey.

He wants to ask them something he’s been wondering all day...if his presence here is safe for the rest of the pack. Have demons really been after him for twelve years, or was his father just being paranoid? His protective banishment had ended the moment his father had died, but Castiel is still not sure if it’s a good decision to be back home. To linger.

But that’s a question for another day.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me...” Castiel mumbles, reaching for the goblet. Before he can retrieve it, though, Bobby holds up a hand in pause.

“One minute, son.” He trades long, meaningful glances with the other elders before regarding Castiel again. “We got somethin’ to run by you.”

Castiel rubs his face in exhaustion and sighs. “Yes?”

“Take a seat,” Ellen requests quietly.

“And a swig,” Pamela offers, tilting the flask in his direction. Castiel looks at her suspiciously and shakes his head, though he does plop down in the tent, legs tightly folded.

“If you’re willing to share your whiskey...now I’m really concerned,” he mumbles. He’s joking, but when none of the elders crack a smile, he tenses considerably. “What’s wrong?”

The elders trade heavy glances again, and just when Castiel is about to demand someone say something,Rufus volunteers.

“Did you know that John Winchester plans to run for packmaster?” His tone is cautious and burdened, and Castiel’s stomach begins to somersault.

“He told me himself,” he answers “He made it rather clear he would prefer to run unopposed.”

“Do you…” Pamela tries to keep her voice level, but Castiel can hear the uneasy shake, the hesitation there. “Do you have any interest in the claim?”

“None,” Castiel admits. “In my family I was never really—prepped for the position. I don’t have the necessary skills, I’m afraid.” He had been the youngest member of the family, and the fourth alpha pup. He never expected to run for packmaster, never really wanted the job anyways. And then he had been forced to leave that life behind altogether, so the thought hasn’t crossed in mind in over a decade.

“You oughta reconsider,” Pamela says lightly, reaching for the flask and taking another swig.

Castiel narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Bobby’s expression is grim. “Because you’re the only one with a valid claim,” he says, as if this should have occurred to Castiel ages ago. “You’re the only one who can prevent John from taking over the pack and launching us into another goddamn demon war.”

Weres are naturally warm-blooded, but at Bobby’s words, Castiel feels his entire body turn cold.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he demands, panic rising, heart pounding in his chest.

“We’re talking about another war,” Ellen says bluntly. “We’re talking about John’s not-so-secret plan to attack the demons again, to avenge Mary’s death. And—” She sighs and tips the flask back. “We’re talking about you challenging him and becoming our packmaster instead.”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

“Oh, why did people have to be separated before they understood how much they meant to each other?”

― Linda Crew, Children of the River

The next morning, Dean hikes the dirt trail up to Sam and Madison’s house three acres away. It’s a half-mile walk from the bunker, mostly uphill, that Dean usually begrudges in the early morning hours. But today is Saturday, which means Madison has just started her twelve hour shift at Lawrence Memorial Hospital. It also means that plopped on Sam’s kitchen counter is a free breakfast with Dean’s name on it. Saturday mornings are some of the only time the brothers have alone together nowadays, and even though John has a standing invitation, he barely ever comes—he's usually run off somewhere doing some kind of work by the time nine a.m. rolls around. Dean never really knows what his dad does or how he occupies his day, but some things he feels better off not knowing.

He enters through the back door, his big ‘ol moose of a brother hunched over the stove in concentration. The kitchen feels damp and heavy with popping grease and poor ventilation, and Dean keeps the outside door cracked, deciding to toss open the window for good measure. Breakfast smells suspiciously good, and he walks up behind his brother, peeking over his oversized shoulder.

“Waffles,” Dean comments, amazed as he eyes a square stack of fluffy-as-f*ck belgians plated on the counter. His stomach growls, and his gawking continues until he spots the skillet… “And bacon? Real bacon? ” This time he can’t hide his disbelief. Half the time, Sammy uses breakfast to push his egg-whites-and-spinach agenda with a sense of self-righteous vigor. But waffles and bacon...Dean grins, knowing this display is clearly meant for him, an offering of some kind.

And then his stomach drops.

“What’s wrong?” he demands. Sam lobs the bacon on a plate with a paper towel, soaking up some of the greasy residue, and forces a neutral expression on his face. Dean crosses his arms in response and stares without blinking.

“What?” Sam grumbles, obviously deflecting. “Can’t a guy just enjoy some bacon on a Saturday morning?”

“Uh, no,” Dean replies flatly. “‘Two days ago you called bacon a ‘fatty nitrate, pork-flavored cholesterol nightmare.’”

Sam just shrugs, the corners of his mouth upturned as if he’s considering the validity of that statement, and Dean fights the urge to begin griping. Loudly.

“Dude, come on, turn off your doctor brain for point-two-seconds and enjoy the deliciousness that is bacon.” To illustrate, he snags a crisp piece from the stack and bites into it eagerly. It’s hot, too hot, and burns the side of his tongue.

“‘Doctor brain’ isn’t exactly something I can turn off,” Sam defends, though there’s no real heat in his argument. “Besides, I’m just in my residency. I’m not—”

“‘Technically a doctor yet,’ yeah yeah,” Dean interjects, picking up the plate of waffles and carting them to the kitchen table. Dean has given Sam a lot of big-brother grief for his chosen field and the eons of college it requires, but most days, Dean’s so proud of the kid he could f*cking burst. Sam was only two months into his final step of medical school, his official postgraduate training, when he’d met a fun and spunky residency doctor with brown hair and brown eyes. Within a few weeks, Madison possessed the ability to melt Sam into a puddle before Dean’s very eyes. They both had about a year of residency left, but already, they had become the unofficial pack doctors. Everyone knows that in a pinch, weres can be treated at the hospital, but their existence isn’t fully recognized by society just yet. If they are seen, they’re seen as dangerous, other, and the pack avoids involving outsiders as much as possible.

Which might have been the only reason Chuck and the elders invited Madison into the pack with open arms. The alpha and the werewolf became a package deal pretty early on, and even with the cost of building an underground chamber for Madison to use monthly, having two (almost) doctors willing to provide free medical care for the community was...invaluable. At least in Dean’s opinion, which surprisingly, seemed to count for something to most of the decision-makers around here.

Sam and Dean finish assembling the remaining necessities for breakfast—including real milk and real butter, wow, Dean is pretty sure Sam hasn’t consumed this much unfiltered dairy in years—and they dig into their feast earnestly. Dean is on his fourth waffle and seventh piece of bacon when he feels the clasp of his jeans push against his belly, and he shifts in his seat and puts his fork down, finally coming up for air.

“All right,” he mutters, setting his eyes on his neglected cup of coffee, then looking at his brother, “hit me.”

Sam, who is still making respectable progress on his own stack of waffles, looks puzzled. “Huh?”

“Oh, cut it out already,” Dean says, though good-naturedly, taking a long sip of his coffee. It’s sat unattended for about twenty minutes, and now it’s the perfect temperature to quickly guzzle. “Y’know what I mean. Just gimme The Talk or The Bad News or whatever the hell it is, so I can wheel myself outta here and go pick up Cas.”

“Cas?” Sam questions, smirking suggestively, and Dean rolls his eyes. “Seems like you two have picked up right where you left off.”

Dean narrows his eyes and doesn’t answer. Over the years he had been coerced to confess his feelings for Cas not only to his brother, but also Charlie, and neither of them would ever let him forget it. The assholes.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” he nips, before another thought occurs to him, sending a rush of nervous adrenaline through him. “Unless what you have to tell me is about Cas?”

Sam must notice the panic on his brother’s face. “What? No, nothing about Cas.” Dean feels his shoulders sag in relief. “I mean, unless...hey, you don’t think Cas is gonna run for packmaster, do you?”

“Cas? ” Dean’s voice is all incredulity and disbelief. “Dude, I doubt he’s even staying for long, much less taking over leadership of the largest werepack in Kansas.”

At that, a complicated string of emotions flashes across Sam’s face: relief, understanding, apprehension.

“Oh…okay,” Sam says, and he almost sounds disappointed, which baffles Dean to no f*cking end. As a teenager, Cas had been pretty vocal about his indifference on the whole possibly-inheriting-the-pack thing. Growing up he had three other alphas ahead of him in the succession line, and though Dean had considered most of his brothers to be major asshats, the likelihood of Cas becoming packmaster had always seemed...well, not just unlikely. Impossible.

“Where’s this comin’ from?” Dean asks, genuinely curious.

“Because—uh, Dad. I guess.” Sam speaks slowly, his cadence measured, as if he’s navigating a landmine. “There’s a rumor that he’s gonna run for packmaster.”

Dean shrugs, nonplussed by the news. “Makes sense.” He takes another long swallow from his cup, and when he glances back up from the dark brew, Sam is staring at him with a measured scowl. A classic bitch face.

“‘Makes sense,’” he repeats dully, and Dean can already feel a lecture coming on. “In what world does that make sense, Dean?”

“He was Chuck’s Second for like, thirty f*cking years,” Dean points out, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. “He’s been with the pack his whole life. He married an omega, had two pups. He’s done everything right—”

“Maybe on paper, yeah, but you know he hasn’t been the same—”

“Oh, c’mon—”

“Not since the Demon War. Don’t you dare try to deny it, Dean.” Sam’s words are firm, his hand gripping the kitchen table. Dean sniffs the air, and his brother’s usual floral scent is richer, bolder—the aromatic shift of an alpha asserting himself.

“Hey, don’t get all douchebag alpha on me,” he snaps, and forces himself to sit up straighter, not cower and hide like some pitiable omega. Biology or not, Dean will knock his brother into next f*cking week. He’s proven that enough over the years.

“You know I can’t help it. And don’t be naive,” Sam shoots back in frustration. “Dad is sonot okay. He’s spent the last twelve years tracking down Azazel like some obsessed psycho. You’ve seen his office—you know it’s true.”

Dean grunts but doesn’t reply. Sam and Dean aren’t allowed in his office and never have been, but they had gotten curious over the years, ducking in and snooping a handful of times. What they saw there was a progressively more disturbing scene: newspaper articles threadbare and brown, firsthand accounts of sightings highlighted in yellow, walls covered in photos of the demon that look professionally taken. John was obviously paying someone to tail Azazel, but whoever it was seemed to always be one step behind.

So yeah, maybe their dad is a bit unhinged from Mary’s death. And maybe he isn’t the nicest guy to hang around. But who gives a f*ck? He still helps protect the pack, which counts way more in Dean’s book than whatever shortcomings his brother has on his Dad Sucks Until the End of Time list. Sam is just holding a grudge against him for their crappy, post-Mary upbringing.

“Sam,” Dean sighs with finality, hoping to wrap up this conversation sooner rather than later, “he does what he does for a reason.”

Sam chortles darkly. “What reason?”

“For the good of the pack, okay?” Dean looks down at his coffee mug—empty. sh*t. How did this go from the best breakfast ever to the freakin’ worst in a matter of minutes? “You were just a kid, you don’t remember, but when the pack is under attack there’s no time to argue, there’s no margin for error. We need someone like dad around.”

“Or someone like you,” Sam interjects, almost so quietly that Dean misses it.

“Huh?” In lieu of more coffee, Dean downs his remaining glass of milk and burps quite attractively, if he does say so himself. “You’ve lost it now, dude. Feelin’ feverish or what?”

“I’m serious.” Sam’s face and tone of voice are equally solemn and Dean struggles to look away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re the one who the people love, Dean. Not Dad. You basically rebuilt this place with your own two hands. You always help out with the farming, you fix everybody’s cars and roofs and hot water heaters. Hell, you’re the only reason we have electricity and running water to begin with. If there’s an issue everyone always asks you to mediate, because they respect you more than—”

“Sam.” Dean puts both hands up, a silent and halting request, his elbows planted on the table. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about tossing his name in for alpha—every little pup growing up dreams about the power, the strength required to rule a whole pack. But it had only ever been just that for Dean. A dream. “Have you forgotten your charming big brother is also the sweetest piece of omega ass in town?”

Sam grimaces at the description and Dean flexes his eyebrows, grinning. “It’s against the rules, remember?” he says, just to drive his point home. It’s been a were bylaw since the very beginning. Packmasters are always alphas. That’s just...the way it’s always been.

“Yeah, well, it’s a dumb rule,” Sam says weakly, but even he knows his argument is flimsy. Weres are deeply dependent on history and tradition, so fighting against the status quo doesn’t really get you anywhere in this society. Dean stands up and takes his plate to the sink, rinsing it off and sliding it into the dishwasher. He eyes the oil-filled skillets on the stove and the remaining dirty plates, rolling his sleeves up, but Sam nudges him on the elbow and shoos him away.

“Get outta here,” he says lightly, face obscured by the refrigerator door, “and tell Cas I said hi.”

***

Castiel is only partially dressed and sitting on the porch steps, nursing his first cup of coffee, when Dean pulls into the gravel driveway.

“Aren’t you a sight,” Dean teases, reaching his hand down to ruffle the alpha’s untempered bedhead. Castiel attempts to shoot him an annoyed glare, but Dean just beams down at him with a strange sense of joy, so he rolls his eyes instead.

“Hello, Dean,” he grumbles, clutching the mug in his hand even tighter, “I forgot, you’re a...morning person.” He purposefully says the words with such disdain that Dean laughs, loud and bright and genuine, and Cas feels his grumpiness begin to lessen instantly. It’s almost—unsettling—how infectious Dean is to him. How much sway he has over the alpha, even after all these years.

“Not really, just better than you...which is to say, I’m not borderline nocturnal,” Dean snorts, reaching his fingers around Castiel’s and prying the mug from his hands. Castiel is so startled by the contact, the touch of Dean’s warm and calloused fingers prying his grip open, that he lets his coffee get carried away. Dean stands above him on the steps and takes a long sip as Castiel tracks the movement, the swallow of his Adam’s apple, the skim of his tongue as he savors the flavor. If anyone else had hijacked Cas’ cup of coffee first thing in the morning, he might’ve tackled them. As it were, from this current angle, Castiel does want to tackle Dean...but for a completely different reason.

“C’mon, grumpy,” Dean says, offering his hand to pull the alpha to his feet. “Let’s get you dressed, then I’ll give back your coffee.”

Castiel mutters something about bossy omegas until Dean elbows him in the side, and he heads for the back bedroom, sliding his shoes on and stepping into the adjoining bathroom to brush his teeth. He exits down the hallway again, passing a closed door that must be his father’s bedroom. He isn’t quite ready to crack that door open, not just yet, but his eyes do linger on the knob. He had returned so late last night, overwhelmed by everything the elders had revealed to him, that he went straight to the guest room and passed out in his jeans. Thankfully, spending the day with his oldest friend should be the perfect distraction for all the other things Castiel isn’t quite ready to face.

Dean is perched on the arm of the recliner, patiently waiting, when Castiel returns fully dressed. He hands over the revered coffee mug, as promised, and Castiel sighs at the warmth. The combined flavor of coffee beans and minty toothpaste makes him cringe, but not enough to stop, so he finishes the brew in one large gulp. He places the empty mug on the kitchen counter and scents the air—the stale musk of a vacant house, with just a hint of his father’s rich aroma lingering about, clinging to the couch and curtains and blankets. More vibrantly, though, is Dean, the crisp pureness of fresh sage making Castiel feel rejuvenated and reassured. He wants to bury his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, scenting him, leaving a small trail of kisses. He resists, of course, but just barely, and they head out the front door together without conversation. Castiel doesn’t bother to lock up behind him.

Throwing open the passenger door to the Impala, and sliding inside after all this time…it’s a near religious experience for Castiel. How many times had he daydreamed about this same scenario, sitting side-by-side with Dean, driving on a sunny day without a destination in mind? More importantly, his brain provides with some mischief, how many times had he laid awake in bed, his right hand wandering down south as he conjured up an image of Dean in the backseat, naked and on his hands and knees, presenting himself to Castiel…

“Hope you’re planning on taking Baby out for dinner ‘fore you have your way with her,” Dean remarks, starting up the engine. The alpha is flooded with panic, struggling to understand why Dean would say that— can he hear my thoughts again? —but then Castiel looks down at his hands. Both are stroking the leather seat in concentrated worship, his lips parted suggestively, his breath slightly labored. He flushes in utter embarrassment, scrambling to shut the passenger door as Dean backs out of the driveway.

“A-apologies,” he grunts, wondering how to recover after such a colossal humiliation. “I...seem to have missed your car.”

Dean grips the steering wheel and grins, lopsided and carefree. “She missed you too, bud.” He clears his throat, turning right at the upcoming stop sign. “She’s not the only one.”

Castiel is thankful for the subject change, especially if it helps Dean reciprocate some of the vulnerability his recent mishap has offered. “Is that so?”

“Oh yeah,” Dean says casually. “All kinds of people missed you. Sam, Bobby, Rufus, Charlie…”

“But not you,” Castiel replies matter-of-factly, realizing the game they’re playing now. It’s familiar, this dance—the subtle banter, the coyness, the timid sort of flirting they could never get past as teenagers.

“Nope, not me,” Dean agrees, though he offers Cas a plastered-on smile to show his playfulness. He waits at another stop sign and the car idles for a moment. “Where we going first? Grocery store?”

“Sure,” Castiel says agreeably, figuring his father had never had the most refined palate, so his pantry was undoubtedly full of junk food and liquor. Dean pops in a Zeppelin cassette and Castiel hums along to “Traveling Riverside Blues,” a song he knows by heart by now thanks to the mixtape Dean had made him years ago. He’ll never forget how pleased he had been to receive it, how he had blushed at the unexpected gift, remembering a story Dean had told him once about his parents. Evidently, over thirty years ago, Mary Campbell had only given John her number because he had known the words to every Zeppelin song. Cas being gifted his own curated mixtape from Dean made him feel welcomed into the family fold, a part of a legacy far older than them both.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?” Dean’s arm is outstretched on the bench, nearly touching Castiel’s shoulders.

“I…”

The omega sings along to the music while rays of sun stream through the open window, kissing his tanned cheeks, leaving freckles. He’s gorgeous and lovely and full of life, and Castiel wants nothing more than to touch him, to feel their lips brush against each other again.

“I didn’t miss you either,” he quips, offering a sweet and knowing smile. Dean glances at the alpha with thick and fluttering lashes, his expression abruptly turning shy, and then his arm wraps around Castiel’s shoulder and holds him close for the rest of the drive.

When they finally reach town, Castiel is amazed by how quickly Lawrence has grown. There’s a host of new business and restaurants, even a commercial mall and movie theater. They’re almost to the grocery store when Castiel spots it—an art supply shop, small and unassuming, nearly hidden in a huge strip mall.

“Turn left!” he exclaims, pointing with enthusiasm, and Dean chuckles and changes lanes. He parks in the closest spot, and Castiel marvels at the store front. “Can’t believe I almost forgot to come see Zar…”

“Who?” Dean asks, sounding edgy and cautious, but Castiel is already halfway to the front door and doesn’t get a chance to answer. The shop inside is tiny and eclectic, filled with various art supplies that Castiel is already itching to touch and examine. Behind the counter is one of his old high school friends, Balthazar, wearing a low-cut v-neck shirt. Not only that, but shopping in one of the narrow aisles is another old friend of his, Hannah.

“Cassie, darling,” Balthazar drawls with a flourish, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Castiel!” Hannah abandons her shopping cart and waits her turn, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a tight and lingering embrace. “How long has it been?”

“Twelve years,” Dean interjects, his smile dripping with false bravado. “Long time, huh?”

Balthazar laughs outlandishly, throwing his head back. “Twelve years? Oh god, no, it’s only been...what, Cassie, six months since your exhibit in Kansas City?”

Castiel feels the tension coming off Dean in waves, but he can’t explain or apologize, not in front of Balthazar and Hannah. Even though they know about the were community and that Cas grew up in the woods, their culture and customs are secrets to modern society. He can’t exactly say, “I was forbidden to communicate with anyone from the pack because a host of powerful demons could come and murder me, but keeping in touch with my high school friends, well, that was a loophole I exploited.” While the alpha scrambles to find a way to smooth out the situation, Dean is narrowing his eyes and tucking his hands in his pockets.

“Six months,” Dean repeats, sounding hollow and far away. “Huh. Isn’t that…awesome. Just awesome.” He looks around the room with a wide, sardonic grin.

“Lucky,” Hannah says, clearly not sensing Dean’s ironic tone and crossing her arms conversationally. “I haven’t seen this one in almost two years. But oh, his show in Paris—you cannot imagine how much champagne we had that night…”

Castiel smiles rather uncomfortably and wraps his hand around Dean’s back. “I haven’t introduced you both to Dean. Hannah, Balthazar, this is my…” Childhood best friend? Teenage crush? Current crush that you’re both in the process of ruining? “This is Dean Winchester.”

“I remember you from school,” Hannah says, as Dean shakes her hand stiffly. “You were a freshman when we were juniors, right?”

“Right,” Dean says, his voice tight.

“Oh, Cassie, I’ve been dying to meet your pretty little omega for ages.” Balthazar slinks his hand in Dean’s direction demurely. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure,” Dean repeats sarcastically. He turns to Castiel, and the alpha can scent the irritation and anger rolling off him. “I’ll just wait outside and let you all...catch up or whatever. It’s been a long few months.”

“Dean,” Castiel calls, but he’s already stalking away and heading towards the storefront. The bell rings as he throws open the door and Cas follows quickly on his heels, desperate to explain himself, to fix this disastrous situation. “Dean, wait—”

Dean spins on his heels, crowding Castiel up against the brick wall.

“Twelve years,” he barks as soon as the door closes, voice all rage and fury, “twelve years, Cas, thinking about you and waiting for you and you’ve been….what? Keeping in touch with Mr. V-Neck in there? Drinking champagne in Paris with some chick who has the most obvious crush on you I’ve ever seen?”

“No, she—” Castiel halts in his tracks, reviewing everything Dean had said before his mini rant about Balthazar and Hannah had taken over. “You’ve...been waiting for me?”

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake.” Dean exhales in a dark chuckle, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s just my luck that that’s what you’d wanna talk about.”

“Dean,” Castiel breathes, stepping closer. He wants to touch him, to reassure him, but he’s not sure if the gesture would be welcome right now. “Let me explain, okay? But—” He turns back around, eyeing the store from his peripheral vision. “I really only wanted to stop here to pick up some things. Would you mind giving me a few minutes to shop and say bye? And then I’ll be right out?”

Dean sighs, hands fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. “Knock yourself out,” he mumbles, and begins wandering back towards the Impala.

***

Dean fumes silently in his car for ten minutes before Castiel returns. He’s carrying two arm-fulls of art supplies, and though Dean is curious about what Cas is planning to make, he just opens the trunk and doesn’t ask any questions. He expects his friend to immediately start explaining or apologizing or yelling, something, but Castiel just sits there with his lips pursed and head tilted, as if he has an idea he’s considering. Stubborn till the end, Dean doesn’t start the car, doesn’t pull out of the parking lot, doesn’t do anything. They sit in such tense stillness, that after a few minutes, Dean can’t help but cave a little.

“Stop thinking so loudly,” he complains, thumb raking over the steering wheel. “I can hear you from over here.”

Castiel only turns to him with a closed-mouth smile, and while the sight would normally make Dean’s heart borderline melt, at the moment it’s making him irrationally angry. “Glad this is all a big joke to you, Cas,” he says bitterly.

At that Castiel frowns, and a petty part of Dean’s brain thinks finally.

“This isn’t a joke to me, Dean. Your feelings aren’t a joke to me,” Cas states gravely.

Dean stares straight ahead through the windshield, watching the clouds pass. He doesn’t know how to respond to that and he doesn’t know what Cas is thinking, so he sits and stews, burdened with worry.

“Yesterday, you asked about my exhibit in Chicago,” Castiel says carefully. “Did you ever see....Dean, have you ever seen my art?”

Dean glares at him in exasperation, tightening his grip on the wheel. “No offense, dude, but what the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question,” Castiel says firmly, unyieldingly.

“No, okay? I tried, but it turns out most art galleries won’t post photos online. And I couldn’t exactly come to you like Balthazar and Hannah and whoever the f*ck else from Lawrence High you’re still Facebook friends with—”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, and his voice is sharper now, a ring of alpha authority that makes Dean squirm in his seat. f*ck, that shouldn’t be hot, but it’s real f*cking hot. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep in touch with you like I wanted. Like we deserved. But I tried...I tried to reach you. To tell you that I was reading your letters.”

Dean squints. “Did you—Cas, any letters you sent me would’ve been taken away—”

“I’m not talking about sending you letters,” the alpha answers impatiently. “I’m talking about…” Cas’ hands, which are picking nervously at the threads of his faded denim, are suddenly reaching for Dean’s temples. “Let me try and show you.”

“Uh—” Dean shrinks when Cas’ fingertips graze the side of his head, raking gently through his hair. It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate being touched by Cas, and wow, the scent of him upclose is even more mouthwatering than it was last night. But he’s still kinda pissed at the guy, and it’s awkward sitting this close without any lead-up or excusable reason, blue eyes searching every inch of his face. “Close your eyes, Dean.”

“I know you’ve been gone a while, Cas, but the strip mall parking lot isn’t exactly the best place to sing kumbaya or whatever,” he says, but really, he’s just hoping Cas will stop looking at him like that. LIke he’s a lock on a door his friend is intending to crack.

“Close your eyes,” Castiel repeats, ignoring Dean’s protest like a parent would a child, and the thought irritates Dean all over again. If Cas thinks he can come back from Chicago or Kansas City or goddamn Paris and just start giving out orders, then he clearly doesn’t know Dean very well at—

His eyes shut tightly on instinct, like a deadbolt sliding into a door frame, and he’s pulled into something corporeal and material and real. There’s an image engulfing his brain. It’s not a memory of his making, he can tell that by the long and slender hands, the delicate way they hold a paintbrush. He’s inside Castiel’s consciousness now, remembering things the way Castiel lived them. It’s a painful sensation and he winces—this isn’t his recollection, and shoving it into the forefront of his mind makes his temples ache. But Castiel pushes the pads of his fingers more determinedly against his skin and Dean gasps...not from pain this time, but deep melancholy. Everything he sees now, he sees in fragments: Castiel’s hand clutching a stack of postcards, Dean’s writing scrolled on the back, the impulse to curl into a ball and let the despair overwhelm him. Overwhelm them, because Dean is with him now, sharing in this moment as starkly as if he’d lived it himself.

But Castiel doesn’t surrender to the anguish, the deep desire and longing prompted by Dean’s absence. He’s back at the easel now and time is moving both impossibly slow and immeasurably fast—in a small bowl Cas combines red, blue, yellow, white, and the faintest hint of black. Blended together within an inch of its life and it’s gray, but not just any gray, it’s Dean’s shade of gray, a perfect match. Time moves forward again and they’re at the canvas—Cas is painting a skyline and a hill, not to mention an outrageously colored moon that resembles...cheddar cheese.

Hope the moon is bright and yellow and cheesy as f*ck wherever you are. Dean isn’t sure if the thought belongs to him, or present-Cas, or past-Cas, f*ck this is f*cking insane, but then the nimble fingers are switching out the paint brush and they lean closer to the freshly dried landscape, watching Cas outline the image of a wolf in black. He coats the inside of the animal with that opulent shade of gray, adding ripples of texture that’s smooth and thick as Dean’s fur, including all the details others might have overlooked—the glittering gold of Dean’s irises, the sharp and glinting claws protruding from his paws. Cas spends weeks perfecting every detail until Dean feels his own fingers cramping, feels his back grow stiff and his feet swell from standing. And then the image changes and he’s in a gleaming white art gallery, and the man he now knows as Balthazar is standing in front of him, his accent thick and his voice astonished when he asks, “Still him, Cassie? After all this time?”

The view widens beyond Castiel’s perspective, providing a long, panoramic picture of a lengthy stretch of wall, covered in paintings of—wolves. The exact same wolf, to be specific, in a variety of landscapes and stances and postures, and it’s Dean in his were form, every single one of them. It’s Dean. Not only that, but it’s a series of twelve paintings, a call and response to every postcard the alpha has received since they’ve been apart.

Back in the present day, Dean feels Cas’ fingers slip from his temple to his cheek, then his chin, then finally, his hands are no longer touching Dean at all. The image in his head goes blank, void and static. Dean mourns the connection, the closeness he felt sharing Castiel’s memories. He tries to protest, to move forward and wrap himself around the alpha, to use this newfound information to reciprocate with a grand, romantic gesture—

But when he forces his eyes open they’re heavy and sluggish, as if they’re framed in concrete. Everything he sees is blurry and faint, like a watercolor painting abandoned in a torrential downpour. He tries to say Cas’ name, to reach for him, to say or do anything, but then he’s slumping forward instead, his head making throbbing contact with the steering wheel.

Then all Dean sees is dark.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

“The wolves knew when it was time to stop looking for what they'd lost, to focus instead on what was yet to come.” — Jodi Picoult

Dean opens his eyes with a groan.

He’s wrapped in a stiff patchwork quilt, and—thanks to his naturally warm body temperature, and the late spring sunshine streaming in through the window—he’s perspiring at an embarrassing level, arms and sides damp with sweat. He flings the blanket off himself and tries to sit up, to take in his surroundings, but he’s met with a burst of vertigo. Barely a moment passes before he’s clutching the couch and closing his eyes again, willing the world not to spin.

“Hey, careful,” comes a soft and soothing voice, with a deep sort of rumble that Dean would recognize anywhere. The omega feels dizzy and nauseous and out of control, a similar sensation to whenever he’s forced on an airplane, but the scent of rich cocoa and cream brings him back to the present. Cas is here, he’s close, and watching over him. The hand on his back is steadying and he leans into the touch, feeling more grounded than before, breathing through his nose as he tries to regain his composure.

When he dares to open his eyes again, he looks around the room and realizes they’re in Chuck’s house. Castiel is perched beside him, arms wrapped around him from either side, practically cradling him. The alpha looks different, messy, though in his groggy state, it takes Dean several moments to realize why: there are streaks of paint in his hair, on his cheeks, on his fingers. He’s wearing a smock that looks brand new but is already covered in swipes of wet, oily splotches of white and black and gray.

“You’ve been busy,” Dean exhales shakily, trying not to notice how incredibly...cute Cas looks, disheveled like this in the middle of a project. The alpha had always loved to paint, had been raised by his mom with a paintbrush in his hand. Dean remembers lazy summers down by the lake, swimming with Sam and Anna and Gabriel while Cas sat at the water’s edge, fixated in front of a canvas, waving at Dean whenever their eyes met.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel’s tone is sheepish, careful but strained. “How are you feeling?”

“A-okay.” The lie comes easily to Dean—he doesn’t like having people worry about him. Though having Cas this close, this attentive to him, makes him feel…good, treasured. The thought is so goddamn sappy and cringey that he clears his throat, finding it scratchy and dry. He’s considering asking for a glass of water when Cas pulls one off the coffee table and slips it into Dean’s hand. Huh.

“Thanks,” he says, and takes a tentative gulp. “How long have I been...uh...” Passed out. “Sleeping?”

Castiel frowns, checking the grandfather clock in the corner. “About three hours.”

Dean sputters on his drink, feeling choked up before Cas pats him accommodatingly on the back. “What the f*ck? Seriously?”

The alpha nods, his frown deepening. “I’m afraid so. You’ve been in and out, mostly. I called Sam, and he said you were likely sleeping it off. He offered to come examine you, but the research on our particular...bond...is rather sparse, medically speaking, so it wouldn’t do much good. You didn’t have a fever or any other symptoms, though, so we agreed to let you sleep.”

Dean hums, processing that information, and downs another gulp of water. The fact that Sam knows now about their super weird, matey form of communicating makes him want to crawl back under the quilt. The kid’s never gonna stop talking about it, not only ‘cause he’s been rooting for Cas and Dean to get together for fifteen f*cking years, but he’s also a mega nerd. Sam is probably inhaling a book on true mate bonds or some sh*t right this second.

“Dean, I...I’m so sorry,” Castiel whispers, and Dean peers at him in confusion until the morning’s events come back to him.

“It’s cool, Cas. Moon Eyes Hannah and that Balthazar Douche aren’t exactly gonna make my Christmas list, but they’re friends of yours, so—” Dean sighs and grips his water glass, swiping at the gathering condensation with his thumbs. “I probably overreacted.”

“Just a bit,” Castiel agrees, his tone light. Dean squints with obvious misunderstanding, so Castiel elaborates. “I wasn’t apologizing for that. I was apologizing for…” Castiel gulps, looking down at his folded hands guiltily. “For forcing myself inside your mind. It was too much, Dean, and—”

“What?” Dean sits up straight, still held upright by Castiel’s arms. “No, man, don’t be sorry for that. It was f*cking awesome.” It had been intense as hell, sure, and maybe his head still ached as a result. But the fact that they could do something like that was goddamn incredible. Even for mated weres, an exchange like that in human form was really f*cking rare.

“You were passed out for three hours, Dean.” Castiel is so pained, so remorseful, that Dean can scent his shame in the air. “If I had known it would take such a toll on you, I never would have forced my way in.”

“You didn’t force anything,” Dean argues, feeling defensive on past-Cas’ behalf. “The door was already open for you.” To emphasize his point, he pulls the alpha’s hand from his back and places it squarely against his chest, keeping their hands pushed together. Castiel tilts his head, looking at him curiously, but Dean just closes his eyes and exhales.

He focuses on broadcasting how totally okay he is with how things went down in the Impala, but somewhere along the way his projected acceptance becomes muddled with safety and trust, devotion and affection, and a devastatingly powerful surge of adrenaline that feels a lot like…love. Castiel gasps, fingers clutching the material of Dean’s shirt, twisting and wrinkling the cotton. Dean opens his eyes and Cas’ gaze is locked on him, suggestive and stunned, as though he’s about ready to pin Dean to the couch and have his way with him. Dean can’t look away, licking his lips unconsciously as Castiel mirrors the movement, their bond swelling to evocative new heights that make Dean want to...

“Cas.” Dean’s voice is trembling, and he either has to pounce on the alpha right f*cking now or he has to pull away. There’s still so much they haven’t talked about, so many things that sex could complicate. And he’s pretty sure that if he did finally get horizontal with Cas after twelve years of pining, just to watch the alpha leave him again—move to another big city and never speak to him—that it might actually crush him. This could never be a casual thing between them, and he needs to know what Cas’ future plans are before taking such a leap. He squeezes Cas’ wrist resolutely before reaching over, placing the alpha’s hands back in his lap. With some of the skin-to-skin contact broken, they seem to both be able to breathe again. “Point made?”

Castiel’s face is still flushed and red, and it’s one of the most gorgeous colors Dean has ever seen.

“Point made,” Cas agrees quietly. “But Dean, I’m so incredibly sorry for—”

“Dude, if you apologize one more time I might actually throttle you,” Dean interrupts. His stomach growls unexpectedly and he chuckles, looking at Cas with a lopsided grin. “If you’re so worried, how’s’bout we exchange forgiveness for a sandwich?”

Turns out, Chuck’s loaf of bread is brittle and dry, with beginning spots of mold, so Castiel tosses it in the waste bin. He laments the fact that their day for errands was cut short, the grocery store skipped altogether once Dean was unconscious in the Impala. At the mention, Dean begins to fully appreciate how Cas must’ve driven Baby home and carried him inside, bridal style. Both images do nothing for Dean’s attempt at composure, though, so he tries to ignore thoughts like wow, bet that alpha strength would’ve been f*cking hot to witness. He asks Cas to check the pantry for something canned, and they end up lunching on tomato rice soup.

Cas turns on his dad’s ancient television set—a fifteen inch screen cased in thick and heavy pinewood—and they spend an hour forgetting about the unspoken sexual tension that seems to be occupying their every spare moment. After a series of channel flips they settle on a rerun of Doctor Sexy, a guilty-pleasure medical drama that debuted in Dean’s sophom*ore year, which him and Cas had watched together every Friday night. Castiel clears away the dishes and comes back to the couch, sitting closer than he was before and with his arm draped near Dean’s shoulders. Not one to play coy, Dean collapses against the alpha’s chest without much thought, stretching them both out horizontally, pining Cas beneath him and settling in under the alpha’s chin.

“Okay then,” Castiel chuckles, gathering his arms into the curve of Dean’s back, sighing contentedly. The air around them is fragrant and sweet, their scents pairing together easily from the domesticity of their lazy afternoon, and Dean takes a long sniff into the fabric of Castiel’s shirt.

“Tell me a normal day for you,” he mumbles, left hand resting on Cas’ abdomen, enjoying the warmth and wondering what his bare skin would feel like.

“Hmm?” In the lull of conversation, Castiel’s attention had been drawn back to the TV. Now he’s looking down at Dean with a sweet sort of intrigue.

“Tell me a normal day for you,” Dean repeats, voice muffled by Castiel’s shirt. “You’re in your apartment in Chicago. You wake up, and then…?”

“You know the answer to that question,” Castiel muses.

“Right. Coffee.” Dean feels fingers running softly through his hair, and he smiles. “What’s next?”

“Depends on how long I’ve slept, and if I’m working on a project,” Castiel says thoughtfully. “Sometimes I’ll read the paper, make breakfast—though it’s usually lunch at that point—or go for a run. If I’m painting, though, I’ll sleep for just a few hours and get back to work.”

“Huh.” Dean burrows in closer, trying to not think about the fact that he is definitely, definitely, cuddling with Cas right now. f*ck. This is amazing and perfect and will probably end with Dean getting his goddamn heart broken. “All work and no play makes Cas a dull boy.”

“You’re not wrong,” Castiel chuckles, hands still stroking Dean’s hair. “I hardly have a social life to begin with, but whenever I’m painting, I don’t stop for anything.”

Something about that doesn’t settle well with Dean, and he’s absently scratching at a spot of dried painted on Castiel’s shirt when he realizes why. “You were painting earlier, when I was asleep, but you stopped for me,” he says softly.

Castiel’s hands stumble for a moment, as if Dean is making a point he hadn’t considered. “Yes, well…” He clear his throat and begins his ministrations again, like he’s finally decided how to approach this. “When an unconscious person on your couch finally wakes up, it’s good manners to go check on them.”

“Stop it, Cas, you big sweet talker,” Dean teases, and Cas scoffs above him, the hum of his chest vibrating like a purr. The alpha tightens his grip and they hold each other snuggly, restfully, for several minutes. Dean’s eyes are heavy and closed, and he’s wondering if he might fall asleep again when Castiel finally speaks, his stubbled chin tickling Dean’s forehead.

“Dean,” he whispers faintly, and the omega grunts in response, “have you ever…been forced to make a decision where both outcomes are…unfavorable?”

Dean cracks his eyes open. “I think the term you’re looking for, Cas, is ‘stuck between a rock and a hard place.’” He sighs, the peaceful quietude they had been sharing seeming to dissipate. “And yeah, ‘course I have.”

His heart is pounding from anticipation, and he knows they need to have this conversation, but he still isn’t quite ready to face reality. “Why?”

“I just...find myself trying to decide between what’s best for me and what’s best for everyone else,” Castiel admits, and his tone is gloomy, painstaking. Apparently, while Dean was comfortable and warm and borderline drooling on the alpha’s shirt, Cas had been stuck inside his head, deliberating on his future with the pack. “I don’t know what to do.”

Dean can already feel his heart ache, his stomach dropping like an anvil’s sunk to the bottom. He’s been wondering how long Castiel will stay now that the funeral is over, and once Cas consumes Chuck’s ashes tonight, it seems his lifelong friend is contemplating how much longer he might stay. But there is a very real possibility that demons are still after Cas, harboring some sort of decade-long grudge against the Novaks. Is Cas endangering them all by staying here? If he moved back to Lawrence, back to Dean, would the alpha be putting them all in a precarious situation?

“That’s sorta above my paygrade,” Dean mumbles, deflecting ‘cause it’s what he does best, and ‘cause he can’t stand the thought of telling Cas what he truly thinks.

“Please, Dean,” Castiel breathes. “I trust you more than anyone. Just...tell me what I should do.”

Dean concentrates hard on the spot of paint on Castiel’s shirt, chipping away on it with his fingernail. His eyes are watery, burdened with unshed grief. A moment ago he had been happily snuggled up with Cas, his Cas, the person he had been waiting to return for twelve years. But the stark reality of this conversation has hit him squarely in the gut and he’s not sure he can hold it together.

“If it were me, I would do what’s best for everyone,” he croaks, breathing heavily. He stares at the paint spot with concentration, as if it’s the only concrete thing in the room, the only thing tethering him to earth. As long as this paint spot is here, Cas is still here. “I would—f*ck, Cas. You know what I would do. I would sacrifice just about anything to make sure the pack is safe.”

“I know.” Cas sounds miserable and Dean wonders if he’s said the wrong thing...but no. If the situation was reversed, and keeping the pack safe meant he had to go into hiding, Dean would do it in a heartbeat. Why should his happiness mean more than fifty people’s, the families who depend on him to keep them safe? “I know what you would do, Dean, because of who you are. You’re loyal and fearless and brave. Braver than I’ve ever been.” The alpha’s voice is unsteady and Dean can’t help it—tears are filling the corners of his eyes. “I can only hope to be as strong as you.”

“Cas…” Dean lifts his head up and scoots up, their lips a breath apart now, their gazes meeting for the first time in nearly a half-hour. Castiel’s eyes are so unbelievably blue and his face is filled with such unbearable pain and Dean cups his hand around Castiel’s jaw, leaning closer, both of their eyes shutting softly as they draw together—

The harsh vibrations of Dean’s cellphone startles them both, and Dean pulls away with an annoyed grunt and wiggles himself partially off Cas. He retrieves his phone from the pocket of his jeans, and it’s a text from his dad: need u home now.

“sh*t,” he mutters, and Cas raises a questioning eyebrow, so he says, “It’s Dad. He sounds…” Bossy. Overbearing. Irritating. “He needs me.”

Castiel nods diplomatically, though he doesn’t loosen his grip. Dean still worms his way up and off the couch, searching the living room for his shoes and car keys.

“I parked your car in its usual spot.” Castiel is standing now too, leaned against the counter and watching him go. He’s sullen and sad and Dean wants to wrap his arms around the other man’s hips, draw him closer, give him every shred of touch and affection before he leaves and they never see each other again.

But he doesn’t, ‘cause despite was Cas thinks, Dean is a big ‘ol f*cking coward.

“Thanks, Cas.” He grips the front door knob, then turns, figuring he can at least say this much. “Just don’t...don’t leave again without saying goodbye.”

He shuts the door firmly behind him, not waiting for the alpha’s reply.

***

Castiel spends the rest of the afternoon painting.

The idea had come to him after the fire, when Chuck’s remains had been ground down to a powder. All he’d needed to purchase from Balthazar’s store was some oil paints, linseed oil, and texturizing gel, and he had produced a ready-made pigment of human ashes. Using a half-broken mechanical pencil, he first sketched an image of his father’s wolf form, but stepped away from the rudimentary drawing—unsatisfied. He felt as though he were making a painting that would impress the pack, not a piece of art that would be a true portrait of how he saw his father. So he had erased all his markings and started again, this time letting the lines go wherever they deemed necessary, unworried about producing something worthy of praise.

While he works, he forces himself repeatedly to drive away thoughts of Dean and his impending run for packmaster…but he can’t help pondering Dean’s parting words. Why would he think the alpha would be leaving? He had just encouraged Cas to do what was right for everyone, not himself, and that meant officially staking his claim as packmaster and saving the community from a senseless war.

Surely Dean knew that.

No matter what, it’ll all come to a head this evening. Cas dreads the thought of seeing any of the Winchesters once he announces his claim. But he needs to complete this painting before the moon wanes, so he pushes all his anxieties away, rolls up his sleeves, and dives back into his project.

What he ultimately comes away with is a sketch of his father in his human form, exactly as Castiel remembers him on the last day of war. Chuck is sporting a thick beard, jeans, and a sweatshirt, in his mid-forties but still vivacious and strong. He’s cresting the top of his favorite spot in the woods and there are angel wings protruding from his back, the wingspan impressively huge but delicately beautiful. Castiel paints the surrounding scene with a palette of oil-based neutrals, lots of dark greens and browns and grays. But the wings are the centerpiece, and they’re dark with ashes, black and sparkling against the sunset sky. When he pulls away nearly six hours have passed, but the small painting is shockingly decent and finally finished.

This is what Castiel loves about art—how consuming and freeing it is. For just a moment he’s boneless and weightless and totally uninhibited, as though he has angel wings himself. Which is why he’s strangely nonplussed by the knock on his door, and is even pleased to see Bobby standing there with his rolled-up flannel sleeves and baseball cap.

“Come in,” Castiel says politely, door cracked open wide. He’s covered in paint, he knows, and has a bowl on his easel filled with a composite paste with his father’s ashes mixed in. In other words, he really shouldn’t be entertaining company, but he knows the pack elder is likely here for an important conversation. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“This ain’t a social call,” Bobby says, though he looks sideways at the tarp covering the hardwood, and the canvas drying on the easel. “Is that…”

Castiel waves a dismissive hand. “We can talk about it later.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a sense of dread floating through him. “What is it, Bobby?”

The beta leans against the kitchen counter, scowling. Despite the previously ignored request, he goes to the cabinet and comes back with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Cas raises an eyebrow but complies, clinking their cups together before swallowing the dark liquor.

“John Winchester is like family to me. You should know that.” Bobby pours himself a double shot this time, but Castiel shakes his head, covering his glass with a flat palm as he waits and listens. “But he’s a reckless, revengeful sonuvabitch. He’s been hunting down the demon who killed Mary for twelve years, and if he finds him, he would run this pack into the ground just to kill him. The only reason Sam and Dean turned out as well as they did was sheer force of will.”

He falls backwards and onto a stool, and Castiel sinks down across from him. “He’s going to announce his...what the hell would you call it?” Castiel shrugs, and Bobby taps the glasses against the countertop. “Candidacy? Whatever it is, the announcement is going down tonight.”

Castiel bites his lip, quietly musing. “I figured as much,” he admits. “I-I asked Dean what I should do.”

“And?” Bobby raises a curious eyebrow in his direction.

“He told me to do what was best for the pack,” Castiel says slowly. “And that’s what I’m prepared to do. But I should tell you, I don’t feel...equipped for this. I don’t at all know what I’m getting myself into.” He chuckles darkly, head lolling to the side. “I’m not the right alpha for the job.”

“No, you’re not,” the elder says honestly. “But you’re the only one we’ve got.” Cas can’t even bring himself to feel offended by the frankness—it feels strangely comforting to have the elder agree with him. Bobby tilts the bottle again and Castiel doesn’t stop him this time—he’s going to officially go toe to toe with John Winchester tonight, he’ll need all the courage he can get. They take their shots in silence, Castiel grimacing at the fire burning in the back of his throat.

A half hour later they both receive a text from Charlie’s automated system. Even though the message makes his stomach sink, Cas can’t help but be proud of Charlie for ushering the community into the twenty-first century:

[7:14 p.m.] ALERT: ALL PACK MEETING FOR PACKMASTER HIERARCHY. ATTENDANCE MANDATORY FOR ALL LEGAL AGED WERES. 8:00 PM END OF ALERT

Bobby waits on the front porch for Castiel to clean up and change, nursing a beer he found in the back of the fridge. He’s showered and redressed by the time the sun is low in the early summer sky, and they walk together to the community center, the unofficial nucleus and meet-up spot of the property.

Bobby tells him what to expect from tonight’s voting ceremony, but aside from that they barely speak, both preoccupied and lost in thought. Despite his own nerves and fears, the least of which include pledging his entire life to a patriarchal system he’s not sure he even believes in, Castiel admires the quiet decency of Bobby Singer. Backing Castiel will undoubtedly put a strain on the relationship between John and all the elders, but Bobby and John grew up like brothers, so his rejection of John’s leadership will be the biggest blow. But like Dean, Bobby cares more about the good of the pack than anything else, and their sacrificial humility touches Castiel deeply. If only Bobby had been appointed as Chuck’s Second, instead of John, maybe they wouldn’t be in this mess…

Then again, they had never elected a non-alpha packmaster. Were society has many admirable traits, but they aren’t exactly known for their flexibility.

There’s already a crowd gathered by the time they approach the center. At Bobby’s earlier urging he approaches pack members he’s hasn’t spoken to yet—like Kevin and Linda Tran, who were both incredibly young when he saw them last; Ash and Garth, who fittingly work at the Roadhouse bar under Ellen; and Sam and Charlie, the former hugging him tightly while the redhead nudged him in the side and made suggestive comments about his relationship with Dean.

Speaking of, the omega and his father are pointedly absent until the very last second, coming into the clearing at eight o’clock sharp. Dean’s features, which had been vivacious and lively during the morning and afternoon he had spent with Cas, are muted and stony now. He looks despondent and distant, and splits with John the moment he spots his friends waiting for him. Castiel is torn between watching him approach and wanting to comfort him, and observing John as he rises to the front of the crowd. The older alpha takes dominion over a small hill, looming over the pack like a hard nosed, no-nonsense dictator. He claps his hand ceremoniously and begins to speak.

“ Luh, thank you for gathering. I am John Winchester, alpha of this pack and Second to the recently fallen packmaster, Chuck Novak.” A hush falls over the crowd and Castiel can feel his heart rattling in his chest. “We meet this evening to shephard our pack into a new era of leadership.”

Castiel feels cold for the first time all day, imagining what he has to do next. He sends up a slight prayer to Chuck—please let me do what you want me to do. Dean has reached them finally, and his eyes are wide and frantic and full of heat.

Heat directed at Cas.

“Dean—”

“Are you running?” Dean spits out, all fire and fury. Sam is trying to shush him but Dean bats his brother’s hand away. “For packmaster? Are you?”

“I…” Castiel’s swallows a dry lump of uncertainty. Hadn’t Dean already encouraged him to do this? “I told you I was.”

“No you f*cking didn’t,” Dean bites back, his scent one-hundred and ten percent pissed off omega, and it makes Castiel want to reach for him, soothe him, but he resists. “Don’t you dare do this, Cas.”

Above them John is still addressing the pack-at-large, announcing his intention to run. “The Winchesters and the Campbells have lived on this property for over a hundred years, and through my marriage, I united these two families. My wife and I contributed two strong pups to the pack, and we fought without fail during the Demon War.” His voice quivers for a moment but he continues. “My son Dean is loved and honored in this community. My son Sam offers free health care and medical assistance. I have been the second-in-command for thirty years, and I know the pack traditions and history. I am the only logical choice for packmaster, and would like to formally and publicly announce my intention to accept this role.” He opens his arms wide, an inviting gesture. “Do I go unchallenged?”

Castiel moves to break from the crowd but Dean grabs him by the elbow, hard and unforgiving, his gaze fierce and penetrating. He’s so furious that his eyes flash gold—he could change into his second-nature at this very second, could rip Castiel to absolute bits.

“Don’t,” Dean warns, his voice a calculated threat, but Castiel pushes him away with every ounce of emotional strength he has left. He’s completely mixed-up by Dean’s reaction, when earlier he had seemed completely accepting of Castiel’s fate. But he can’t think of that now, can’t allow himself to wallow in whatever damage this is doing to his relationship with Dean.

Right now, he has to be the kind of alpha his father would be proud of.

“I am Castiel Novak, last surviving son of Chuck Novak, and I challenge you for the role of packmaster,” he roars in his most commanding tone, rounding up the hill to stand beside John. “The blood of The Wolf flows in my veins. I am the rightful heir of this pack and vow to serve you to the best of my ability, as my father did for over three decades.”

The reaction of the crowd is decidedly mixed. None of the elders look surprised, having orchestrated this whole event, but Dean’s distant Campbell and Winchester relatives look positively enraged. Rufus, Pamela, Ellen, and Bobby assemble in front of the hill, calling for quiet.

“Looks like we got ourselves an election, folks,” Ellen calls out, casual as if she were ringing the dinner bell.

“Let’s lay out the rules before we get started,” Rufus says gruffly. “Legal were age is the year of presenting, so only fully-presented weres can vote. That leaves us with forty-seven total voters, though you may abstain from voting without penalty.”

Castiel scans the crowd, trying to gauge each individual reaction. Most seem excited about the unfolding scene, others slightly uneasy about deciding between the two men. He tries to avoid looking at Dean, but he can’t help it—his eyes seek the omega out naturally. Dean is standing in the back of the crowd arguing vehemently with his brother, hands waving manically in the air. Castiel focuses all his senses on their conversation but he’s rusty—the heightened hearing skill is just one of many other “wolf” abilities he’s let slid over the years. He can’t hear a thing and the ambiguity surrounding Dean’s reaction is killing him.

“It’s time,” Bobby announces gravely, and Castiel tenses, heart beating wildly in his chest. Despite his earlier bravado, he’s still flooded with confusion and doubt...is he making the right decision?

“Let the vote for packmaster begin.”

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

“Wolves have no kings.” — Robin Hobb

Dean is pissed, there’s no goddamn doubt about it.

“Listen, Dean,” his brother says in his quietly curated “lecture” voice, trying to keep his inflection level, “I know you’re upset—” Sam is shaking his shoulders and pulling him through the crowd, finding a spot in the back for better privacy.

“Screw you,” Dean snaps, not meaning it to Sam specifically but to anyone who tries to talk him off a ledge right now. Still, his brother’s expression is crestfallen and he shakes his head, trying to recover some brain function. “Look, I...I didn’t mean that. It’s just—” He attempts to concentrate on breathing through his nose, but fails, his chest heaving. “I told Dad that Cas wasn’t running, okay? But apparently I don’t know him as well I f*cking thought I did.”

After leaving Cas’ place earlier that day, the immense gravity of their near-kiss and definite couch cuddle had been seared into his brain. But then he had spent the whole afternoon at the bunker, while John had been a mess of uneasy fury about announcing his run for packmaster. He had been convinced that Castiel was planning to sabotage his attempt, and all but demanded Dean swear the other alpha had refused to toss in name into the ring…which he’d been glad to do. After all, up until about five seconds ago, he’d been convinced his old best friend and potential love of his life was halfway out the door, ready to move back to Chicago.

Clearly that couldn’t have been farther from the truth.

“sh*t,” Dean mutters to himself, kicking the ground in frustration. This development is producing a whole laundry list of f*cked up and conflicted feelings for Dean. He hadn’t wanted Cas to leave; in fact, he had spent the past few hours crafting excuses and daydreaming about begging him to stay, demon-drama be damned. And if the risk to the pack was just too great, then maybe Dean would give up his home, his life, his family, and follow Cas wherever he wanted to go. It’s a ridiculous and grossly romantic notion, not to mention totally preemptive—they hadn’t even kissed in twelve years, so the whole “move to the ends of the earth to stay with you” thing might be presumptuous as hell—but Dean has already decided that life without Cas is like living in slow motion. Not his family, rebuilding the pack, or even years of one-night stands could keep the fire lit inside him.

But now that Cas is back, things are moving too goddamn quickly…all the repercussions spreading like wildfire. Everything is out of Dean’s control and he hates how powerless he feels.

“Let the vote for packmaster begin,” Bobby announces up the hill.

“He is f*cking serious?” Dean is glowering, eyes flashing between Sam and Bobby, Cas and John, every muscle taut and tight as a bow string. “Nope. No f*cking way I’m letting this happen.”

“It’s out of your hands,” Sam says weakly, but Dean is already pushing away his brother’s outstretched hand. “You can’t stop it, Dean!”

“Watch me,” he growls. He sprints around the crowd, gaze split between the elders and the vying packmasters. He’s so overwrought with apprehension, anger, and disbelief that his hands are shaking at his sides. His mind races at how the election could unfold. On one hand, Castiel as the packmaster would guarantee him sticking around, which would give him and Dean a chance to…

Give this thing a real shot.

But that’s just Dean thinking with his dick—or maybe his heart? f*ck if he knows. The only real collateral damage in the Cas-as-packmaster scenario would be John, whose pride is everything to him. Losing to an alpha half his age who’s been MIA for twelve years would push his dad off the goddamn deep end. And even more significant is the fact that Cas never wanted to be alpha, never loved the pack traditions one-tenth as much as Dean. Why would Cas be throwing away the rest of his life, dedicating himself to a job he has no interest in holding? The whole sh*tty situation sounds shady as f*ck, and Dean’s gonna get to the bottom of it somehow.

“Dean…” Bobby’s voice is reproachful, a weary sort of warning, but Dean is in throwing-caution-to-the-goddamn-wind mode.

“No, Bobby,” he spits out, pointing a finger between all the elders to let them know his words apply to them, too. “This whole thing is f*cking crazy and you know it.” The elders try shushing him, shepherding him away from the rest of the pack, but he’s not in the mood to be silenced. “We gotta stop this now. Cas doesn’t even want—”

“Don’t presume to know what I want, Dean,” Castiel says distantly, maybe even coldly, and it makes the omega feels like he’s been dunked in ice water. Dean looks at him with wide eyes, his heart pounding, fighting a shiver. This is Cas— his Cas. What the f*ck is happening? Cas looks at the elders, who seem to be waiting for some kind of confrontation to occur between him and Dean. But when the omega is too stunned, and frankly, too pissed to address him again, Castiel says, “Let’s proceed.”

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose and chuckles hollowly. “Dad?”

John is crossing his arms and looking reproachful, but doesn’t reply, evidently trying to appear unruffled by the forthcoming election. Dean realizes that’s why Cas had been aloof to him as well—he hadn’t wanted to agree with Dean’s assessment publicly and lose potential votes. Well f*ck that, f*ck politics, and f*ck posturing alphas who only care about their own image. Dean was done with every f*cking one of them at this point.

“Fine,” he snaps, unable to keep the bitterness out of his tone, “do whatever the f*ck y’all want. I don’t care anymore.”

There’s a beat of clumsy, uncomfortable silence before Pamela steps forwards. She positions John and Castiel near two opposing trees—left and right, respectively—then uses the same voice from last night’s ceremony, bright and clear as a ringing bell.

“Weres are physical beings. Our spirituality is tied to carnality and flesh,” she says, addressing the large cluster of pack members standing and waiting, “and so we vote accordingly. All legal-aged voters, please move towards the alpha you vote as packmaster.”

Dean watches in horror and dismay as his friends and neighbors begin to move, to vote. It feels like being suckerpunched, watching people he loves and respects vote against his dad. The first on Cas’ side of the divide are Charlie, Jo, Kevin, Linda, Ash, Garth, and Madison. Sam seems immobile for a moment, eyeing his dad with sympathy and guilt, before joining his friends and wife on the Novak side. Well, that’s it, the omega thinks dimly, Dad’s lost. But Dean has underestimated the Campbells, his maternal side of the family who have none of his mother’s warmth apart from a steadfast preoccupation with tradition: Christian, Gwen, Mark, Johnny, Tyler, Arlene, Robert, Ed, even Moishe. And along with them come all of John’s old friends who fought alongside him in the Demon War—Martin, Cole, Tara, Jim. Ten others join his ranks and pretty soon, Dean is convinced that his dad has won this thing after all.

But in his distracted state many others have joined Cas’ side, families and mild-mannered weres who benefited the most from the peace Chuck had given them post-war. Dean is still standing with the elders squarely in the middle, observing the spectacle like a trainwreck he can’t resist watching. By Dean’s count Castiel is still down by four votes...until Rufus turns and says, “it’s time,” and all the elders move collectively to the edge of the Novak camp. Dean hadn’t even known the elders could vote, but they are pack members first and foremost, so he really shouldn’t be surprised.

He’s standing alone in the center of the field when several things hit him at once—first, every single f*cking person is staring at him, waiting for him to vote; second, he can feel his dad’s forceful scrutiny, his alpha scent practically screaming at Dean to obey his family alpha and come to his side; third, Castiel is frowning and staring at him, sad and sympathetic, as if he pities the choice Dean has to make; and fourth, the vote is officially split, both alphas having an even number of twenty-three pack members.

Dean is the deciding vote.

Dean is the deciding vote.

Goddamn it all to hell.

Dean knows a lot about body chemistry—it’s part of being the unofficial town mediator for all community squabbles. He knows that stress triggers the body’s fight or flight response, the adrenal glands flooding the body with stress hormones like adrenaline and cortisol. In humans this produces heart palpitations and sweaty palms, or even serious cardiovascular symptoms; but for weres, this sensation sets their teeth on-edge, makes them feel like their insides are pushing against the confines of their bones, their skin. Dean knows the signs, has seen them reflected in his own pack mates. He’s about to shift, to run the fastest he’s ever run through the wheat fields and miles and miles away and into the forest, killing any animal he comes across purely from instinct.

“Dean.” The voice is familiar and makes him pause, breathe. It’s Sam. It’s his brother, Sam. Sam is his brother and because of this fact, Dean can hold onto his humanity for a second longer, can fight the impulse to claw at the earth and snarl in the air and tear something apart with his canine teeth—

“Dean,” Sam calls again, more softly this time, “you have to choose. You have to end this.”

There’s a scorching, spreading fire in his veins and Dean can’t...he can’t stay in his human form much longer, he needs to be released. “No,” he rasps, and his voice sounds like a scratching grumble, more like a bark than comprehensible English. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“Are you…” Ellen’s voice comes across the clearing and Dean has his hands in fists. “Dean, are you officially abstaining from the vote?”

He eyes the empty space around him, calculates the amount of steps it would take: left three steps for John, right three steps for Cas. For a fleeting moment he imagines himself as a game piece on a board game and chuckles deprecatingly, a growl growing in his throat. He’s not f*cking doing this—he’s not choosing between two of the most important people in his life. He can’t bare the weight of that decision on his shoulders, can’t accept the consequences of such a monumental choice. Just imagining it causes a physical, searing pain.

He looks at the elders and nods his head.

“So it'll be,” Pamela says gravely, and Dean can feel dread and fear coming off her, off everyone, in waves, “the deuchainn aon-mhara, The One Tailed Test, shall commence with the waning of the next crescent moon.”

That translates into three days. Three days before the trials, the three tests of endurance and strategy and physical strength that will pit John and Cas against each other until...until one of them fails, or one of them dies. Dean knew this would be the end result when he refused to vote, knew that his neutrality would come with a price. But watching his father and the man he just might love, pursue one another in dangerous combat?

It’s too much. It’s too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too—

His clothes shred like ribbons, his eyesight growing sharp with precision, his forefeet digging craters into the ground. And then he’s running faster than he’s ever run, fast enough that no one can catch him, fast enough that he considers never coming back.

***

The walk back to his father’s cabin, his cabin, is long and gloomy for Castiel.

Dusk has fully settled now and he doesn’t bother watching his step, figuring if he trips on a tree root or stumbles on a rock that he likely deserves it. He feels cold and bare and disconnected, fighting the urge to run into the woods and track Dean down. It would be a futile attempt—he’s not half the wolf the omega is, thanks to his twelve year hiatus from the pack and Dean’s natural, wolfish agility. Castiel hasn’t shifted in several years now, and he winces just thinking about it, knowing after such a long time he’ll feel every bone bend and break, dislodged into unfamiliar shapes. He honestly doesn’t know if he can even consider himself a wolf anymore, he feels so inferior to everyone around him. Why he ever thought he could lead one of the largest wolf packs in Kansas, he’ll never know, but it feels almost laughable now.

Laughable enough to get him killed.

He enters his house and slams the door behind him. He doesn’t know much, but he knows the deuchainn aon-mhara isn’t for the weak...or an alpha in the middle of a mid-wolf identity crisis. But this is where he finds himself now, faced with the daunting task of going toe to toe with John Winchester, one of the oldest and strongest alphas in the pack. In the state. In probably the world. Castiel’s limbs are afire, pumped with adrenaline that he doesn’t know how to expend. He turns and flings everything off the kitchen counter, an empty jar and knickknacks and stray bits of paper falling to the floor. The action feels good and then suddenly he’s blind with it, the desire to break everything in sight, and he’s heading for the end tables and the mantle and the hutch, grabbing and tossing and flinging as he goes, swearing to himself and full of rage, until—

Until there are hands pining his shoulders back. His hands are halted and he growls, fighting against the solid hold. He’s hit with the scent of another alpha, a familiar alpha, but he just can’t place who it is right now.

“Cas,” Sam says, breathing heavy, struggling to keep the other man at bay, “Cas. Calm down.”

He twists and squirms, shoving against the arms holding him down, and finally breaks free. He spins on his heels, panting, as his surroundings finally come into full view. The floor is covered with scattered papers and broken glass, and Sam is lowering his gaze in trepidation.

“Sam,” Castiel rasps, rubbing his temples, trying to breathe, “why...why are you here?”

“Seriously?” Sam looks incredulous, eyeing the current mess on the floor, but Castiel pointedly avoids his gaze. “I’m here to help you, Cas. I’m here—” His face softens and Cas sees a flash of the young boy he knew growing up, the well-mannered bookworm always trailing him and Dean around. “I’m here to help you win.”

It turns into a two-day process, prepping with Sam. They clean up the cabin, brew pot after pot of coffee, and the younger alpha spreads his book collection across Cas’ cabin, poring over the ancient lore. According to recorded were history there hasn’t been a deuchainn aon-mhara for centuries, and the practice is woefully archaic in Castiel’s mind, a brutal competition of physical strength that he’s doomed to fail. But Sam tries to help him see the other tested aspects—strategic flexibility, mental prowess, quick problem solving, level-headedness, even compassion. Still, the packmaster must be highly skilled in battle, and that—combined with his lack of knowledge on defending against demons and monsters and any form of physical attack—makes Castiel feel miserably unprepared.

He needs to become a warrior, and he has very little time to do it.

It’s late evening on the second day, and Cas and Sam are halfway through their fifth pot of coffee when a question occurs to Castiel.

“Sam,” he says carefully, trying his best to form the words, “how will they...how will the elders actually start the trials? And keep them contained?”

Sam hums, taking an extra long sip of his warm mug. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—imagine one of the trials is, I don’t know. Your father and I racing to the top of a volcano.” Cas thinks it’s the most outlandish example he can think of, but with a sharp sting of dread, realizes that it may not be far off. “How would that trial even be...powered? And who controls it?” He waves his hands, trying to find the best way to express himself. “In other words, who stops the lava from burning everyone up?”

“Hmm…” Sam puts his coffee mug down with a clink. “Well, Bobby mentioned that the elders partner with some local covens. So they'll probably ask someone. Pamela has a strong connection to earth magic, but her gifts aren’t strong enough to power something this...monumental.”

“So it’s built on a foundation of spellcasting,” Castiel muses. “I wonder if this witch—will she have control over the events?”

“I don’t think so,” Sam says, though it’s clearly a guess, fingers thrumming against the pages of his open book, “according to most sources, the spell the witch casts will choose the trials based on the contending packmasters...uh...” He scratches side of his neck nervously. “Weaknesses.”

“Weaknesses,” Castiel repeats quietly. “So, let me get this straight—there are three trials crafted through powerful magic, which are designed to test my personal shortcomings, and are so dangerous that they might even kill me?” He closes the book in front of him, sighing. “In the words of your brother, I’m f*cked. Aren’t I?”

“No, you’re not, Cas.” Sam’s expression is earnest but careful, and Castiel wonders if he’s keeping his skepticism to himself. “And speaking of Dean—”

“I haven’t heard from him,” Cas says flatly. These past few days he’s felt empty, cold and untethered without Dean’s presence. Dean is probably still wandering the woods in his were form, and he knows better than to force a conversation before the omega is ready, but it leaves Castiel horribly unsettled that the things between them aren’t resolved. Tomorrow, he could be heading into the most difficult challenge of his life, and…

And the man he loves may never actually know it.

“He’ll be okay, Cas,” Sam says gently. “You know he’s just—working through things.”

Castiel doesn’t even justify the comment with a reply. Sam is trying to help Castiel prepare the best he can, and reading all the lore and refreshing his memory of the mythology has made him feel more equipped, if only slightly. But he doesn’t want to discuss his problems with Dean, romantic or otherwise, with his brother. In moments like this, Cas misses his own siblings—wishing Gabriel was here to provide snarky commentary, or Anna, a warm and reassuring hug.

It’s nearly midnight when Sam finally leaves. They stand on the porch and Castiel thanks him for everything, for the forty-eight hours of nonstop preparations and encouragement, but tells him not to return tomorrow. Madison is surely missing her husband, and anyways, Cas wants time alone on the day of the first trial. He watches his friend walk away, giving him one final wave, before closing his front door. He yawns, his lack of sleep catching up to him, and shuts off all the lights on his way to bed.

He’s been asleep for less than an hour when he hears it: the distinct patter of paws on his front porch, the muffled howls of a changing wolf. When he splits open the curtains of his bedroom window, Dean is lying naked and huddled on his front porch.

***

The omega’s transformation back into the world of the two-footed is rougher than he expected. It’s been years since he’s maintained his were form for more than a few hours, back in the days when he had been tasked with hunting meat for the pack. This go around, it took two straight days of running and preying and revelling until Dean began to lose himself in the simplicity of wolf life, the need to hunt and sleep and run over and over again.

But something draws him from the woods, an inexplicable magnetism that makes him return home even though his deepest urges incline him to stay gone. He wakes up human on Castiel’s porch, still warm from his recent shift and the late spring humidity. From the threshold of his house, the alpha stares down at him for a moment before launching into action, squatting beside him and pulling Dean to a sitting position.

“Dean,” Castiel says softly, reverentially, as if he wasn’t quite sure the omega would ever return. Cas’ scent soothes Dean in a way he doesn’t want to analyze, and he leans against Castiel’s touch, whimpering, too far gone to even feel embarrassed about his nudity. “Are you okay?”

Dean is shaking, lighthearted and woozy. “I’m...can I…”

Castiel, shirtless in only boxers, stands abruptly and comes back with a throw blanket, wrapping it around Dean’s shoulders. He pulls him up from behind with surprising strength and they pad slowly inside, Dean stumbling and falling into the couch cushions. Cas brings him a glass of water, which he chugs with trembling hands, and chuckles to himself.

“What’s so funny?” Cas’ voice is light and a little dazed, and it occurs to Dean that it must be late...the grandfather clock in the corner says it’s nearly two a.m. He’s woken Cas up from bed.

“It’s just—this is my second time in the past three days, being slumped over on your couch, passed out. You being back has been bad for my health.” Dean means it as a joke, but as soon as the words leave his mouth, he wishes he could swallow them back down. Castiel frowns and tilts his head with worry.

“I know,” the alpha mutters solemnly. “Dean, I’m so sorry for—”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, sounding sterner than he feels. “Just...not now, okay?”

Castiel complies, nods and falls silent. He sits on the floor near Dean’s side, and though the omega wishes he could be wrapped up in Cas’ arms instead, he knows they need time to warm back up to each other.

“Can I, uh, borrow some clothes?” Dean asks sheepishly, and Castiel bounds up quickly, seeming embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of offering some himself. He comes back with sweatpants and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, and Dean excuses himself to change in the bathroom. Once he’s dressed, he splashes faucet water on his face and tiptoes back to the kitchen, where Castiel is assembling two sandwiches with various types of deli meat.

“Made it to the grocery store, finally,” Dean notes, remembering their postponed trip from two days ago.

“I didn’t, but Sam did.” Castiel is lathering thickly cut bread with mayo, while Dean tries to hide his surprise.

“Sam was here?” he asks, polishing off his glass of water. He scents the air with curiosity, and yep, there’s his little brother’s telltale alpha scent.

Castiel nods dimly, and after a few moments of silence, adds, “He’s been helping me...prepare for what’s ahead.”

He slides a piled-high sandwich in Dean’s direction, and though his were body was recently filled with fresh deer meat, his human stomach growls for something a bit more edible. “Huh. So what, Sam is like your campaign manager now or something?” He takes a generous bite and moans at the flavors heavy on his tongue—the smoked turkey meat, the crisp lettuce, the pungent sting of red onion. He’s distracted by the food until a thought occurs to him, and he swallows his bite in a hurry. “Sam—did he know you were gonna run?”

“What? No.” Castiel had been re-fridging his sandwich supplies, but turns around sharply at the implication. “No one knew but the elders, and...well…” He shuts the door with a thud, loud in the empty cabin. “I thought you did.”

Dean’s had two long days to contemplate exactly how they miscommunicated this collossly badly, and he’s finally ready to discuss it. “I didn’t,” he says truthfully. “When you told me you had a difficult decision to make, I thought…” He looks back down at his sandwich, wishing he could just bury his worries there instead of voicing them aloud. But they need to talk—they have to talk. “Cas, I thought you were leaving. Going back to your life in Chicago or Kansas City or Paris or wherever the f*ck.” Yeah, he’s still a little sore about the whole Balthazar and Hannah thing. Sue him.

Castiel’s wrinkled eyebrows overwhelm his facial features, and it is definitely, one hundred percent, not endearing. “Why would I leave?”

“Because of the demons,” Dean can’t help but say a little impatiently, “because demons are after you and it’s not safe for you to be here...is it?”

Castiel sighs, pulling up a stool and taking a seat across from Dean. The omega is suddenly aware of how close their knees are to touching, how much he yearns to reach out and entwine their fingers together.

“I don’t know if demons are after me or not,” Castiel admits quietly. “But that’s another day’s problem. Right now, your father is supposedly trying to launch us into another war, and...after all the devastation the first one caused, I feel obliged to stop him.”

Dean stands up abruptly, the plate in front of him skittering on the counter. “Hold on.”

“Dean—”

“Hold the f*ck on.”

“Dean—”

“My dad wants to do what?”

Castiel looks pained to break the news, though it’s nothing compared to the turmoil building inside the omega—a high voltage of shocked anger and astonishment.

“It’s what the elders told me, the night of the funeral,” Cas says quietly, and begins to recount the story, though an obviously abridged version for Dean’s benefit. Afterwards they move without speaking over to the couch, though on opposite ends, and Dean stares forlornly down at his hands. He’s conflicted, mixed-up in a way that he can’t quite put into words. If his dad really is planning to do something so f*cking rash, he needs to hear it from his own mouth before Dean makes any judgment calls.

“I haven’t told Sam, but I think he suspects.” Castiel is picking a stray thread from the worn patchwork quilt, and Dean stares at his fingers twirl and spin, how dexterous and steady they are. Painter’s hands.

“Figures,” Dean grumbles, knowing Sam had always seen the worst in their dad. He hadn’t been surprised when his brother had voted for Cas instead of John, but it might be the final nail in the coffin of their father-son relationship. “Cas, I’m…” He clears his throat, trying to properly form the words. “I’m not good at this ‘feelings’ crap, y’know. But I...I wish things had gone differently. I see now that you were in a tough spot and were only trying to do what’s right by everyone.” It’s as much of an apology as he can muster, though he’s unsure if he technically owes Cas one or not. Things have gotten complicated real f*cking fast.

Castiel looks at him fully, unblinking and aware, and his eyes are so stunning and blue that Dean can’t bring himself to look away. “It’s okay, Dean.”

They fall into a more relaxed silence, and just when Dean is about to stretch sideways and pull Cas’ body to him, the alpha yawns. Then, as if the whole universe is conspiring against Dean’s secret desire to cuddle, the grandfather clock chimes—three o’clock.

“I should get some sleep,” Castiel mumbles regretfully. “I have a...rather big day ahead of me.”

The tight ball of anxiety and fear that had left Dean momentarily—feeling scent-drunk off the alpha’s presence, not to mention sleepy from the late hour—returns tenfold. If Dean had just voted, neither Cas or his dad would be facing a dangerous f*cking trial in a handful of hours. But if his dad wins, according to the elders and Cas, it could be the start of the second Demon War. It could also mean that Cas was so unsuccessful during the trial that he...well, it’s very possible that he could…

Dean closes the distance between them, hands gripping the smooth, bare slope of Castiel’s neck. The fact that the man beside him is half-naked does nothing to strengthen Dean’s resolve to let him sleep, but he knows he should. “Promise me something?”

Castiel licks his lips, his gaze striking, all-consuming. “What’s that?”

A thousand different responses float across Dean’s mind, but of course, the bluntest version of his request rises to the surface of his mouth. “Don’t die on me.”

Castiel chuckles darkly and looks away. Dean’s hands slip from the alpha’s soft skin, but the other man intercepts him, reaching for his wrists and holding him there. He kisses the inside of Dean’s palms gently and the omega gasps at the sensation, the deeply romantic gesture of it all. Without another word Castiel stands up, stretching, and walks down the unlit hallway and out of sight.

Dean’s hands feel warm and tingly, buzzing from the contact of Castiel’s lips, and it’s distracting…so distracting, in fact, that it takes the entire walk home for him to realize—

Cas never promised.

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

“Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children? Nothing has changed... It's just a different wolf.” — Alfred Hitchco*ck

Hours later, Castiel rises with the sun.

It’s the first day of May, and perhaps it’s the intensity of the forthcoming day, but his wolf senses are heightened—vigilant and jittery, as if he’s a scientist inspecting every particle of air. He steps onto his front porch to watch the sunrise and swears he can smell the sunshine, can feel the brush of earth like a hand cupping his cheek. It’s calming in a way he’s forgotten, being surrounded by the familiarity of the backwoods, and he tries to savor the moment. In all his recollections of home he had imagined it was perpetually summer, his best memories with Dean taking place during the three months when they were free from school. Swimming in the lake, running through the fields, wrestling warm and rough and wild. Altogether they’re a collage of moments when Castiel fell in love with his best friend, years of his adolescence marked by quiet nights lying side by side in a field of stars, willing himself to stay still, to resist the urge to kiss him already.

But if Castiel survives today, he’ll do just that. Their only kiss was twelve years ago, in the midst of war and death and destruction. The circ*mstances now aren’t much better, he thinks cynically, but he still wants to erase the original memory—no longer a goodbye kiss between them but an open-ended one, a plea for something he can’t quite put into words yet. He’ll kiss Dean in a slow and measured way, lingering, savoring, like the first sip of freshly brewed coffee. The possibility sends a flutter of nervous energy rolling across his stomach, but it propels him forward, gives him the momentum to finally face the day. He heads back inside and pads in the direction of the guest bedroom, passing his painting hanging over the mantle. He pauses halfway to his room, staring at the doorknob he’s been avoiding. He figures now is as good a time as any.

After all, this might be his last chance to say goodbye.

He creaks open his father’s bedroom door and is hit with the immensity of his scent. It’s fainter now, nearly a week after his death, but it fills Castiel with nostalgia and melancholy. The room is smaller than he thought it would be, and it’s clear by the design and the furniture that Chuck never intended to mate again. The bed is small for a full-sized frame, one end shoved against the corner of the wall. Everything is sparse, missing the sort of domestic touch a mate or pups would have offered, but Castiel examines every item as if they’re clues to figuring out who his father was, or had been, over the past twelve years. He holds the half-empty (or, he thinks reflectively, half-full) glass of water on the nightstand, breathes deeply into the cotton pillowcase, reads a paragraph from the nearby novel his father will never finish reading. He closes his eyes and whispers a prayer into the stagnant, alpha-scented air. And then he goes into his father’s closet, fingers grazing every fabric, and tucks a worn black and white baseball tee under his arm. Somehow the thought of wearing his father’s clothes, today of all days, feels a bit like putting on armor. The simile isn’t far off, he realizes, as he slips the shirt on over his head.

He is going into battle.

When he checks the grandfather clock, a decent amount of time has passed. The waning crescent moon begins soon, around nine a.m., and he has just enough time force himself to swallow down coffee and toast before heading towards the forest in a quiet, solemn mood. He closes his front door and wonders what will become of Chuck’s cabin, his things, his legacy, if Castiel doesn’t return.

***

Dean is not pacing. He’s not. He’s without-a-f*cking-doubt, definitely not—

“Dude,” Sam mumbles, stepping in Dean’s path with his hands up in a “yield” position, “stop pacing.”

The glare Dean shoots his brother would make any other alpha shrink the f*ck away, even one this obnoxiously tall. But not Sammy, nope, he just stands there with a sympathetic expression on his face. The asshole. Dean tries to continue his walk, because he’s definitely just walking and not pacing, but Sam is blocking his usual circle and he can’t bring himself to start a new one.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Sam says gently. “If it were Madison, I would be out of my mind.”

Dean does pause at that, ‘cause—did his brother just compare Cas to Madison? That’s pretty damn audacious, even for Sam. Not that Dean wouldn’t want to settle down with Cas one day, mate him, have some pups. But the thought of Castiel wanting that with him sounds way too good to be true. Sure, there’s an attraction there, a strong friendship, and Cas had spent the last twelve years painting all those gorgeous f*cking paintings of him...

“Dad’ll be okay, too,” Sam is saying, looking down in guilt, and Dean realizes he’s missed a large chunk of what his brother has been saying. Great, so now he’s pacing and worrying and on the goddamn verge of proposing to Cas, just ‘cause Sam compared his crush to Madison. Just great.

“He’s been training for this ever since the Demon War,” Sam says, and it takes Dean a few blinks to realize he’s still talking about Dad, and…why the f*ck would Dean be worried about him? Sam already hit the nail on the head—John will be fine. He practically put them through a kill-every-known-monster-on-the-f*cking-planet bootcamp. Before, during, and after war the Winchesters trained nonstop, gearing up to protect themselves and the pack from anything that goes bump in the night. Dean’s not the least bit concerned about his dad today, which maybe is a sign that he should be, dramatic irony or some sh*t. But Dean’s life isn’t a f*cking play or a short story, and if it was, it would send most people howling to the goddamn nuthouse.

John will be fine, Dean knows this like he knows how to sleep or cook or shift. It’s an instinctual knowledge at this point, something he doesn’t worry about or second-guess. But Cas…

“You know,” Sam whispers, leaning close, “Cas is just inside that tent if you need to—y’know, tell him anything.”

Dean glowers and bites his lip. Yeah, there’s a f*ckload of stuff he still needs to tell Cas, but it’s ten till nine, which means the Wicked Witch of the West will be making her grand entrance any minute. The whole pack is already here with their wolfy senses turned on high, so no conversation with Cas would be private, not even the one Sam and Dean are having right now. Not that you could call this a conversation, really. Dean hasn’t actually said anything in a long ass time. He clears his throat, figuring he should probably toss the kid a bone at some point.

“I’m not,” Dean grunts lowly in response, and Sam looks up, eager for Dean to finally share his feelings, “… pacing.”

By the time the magical adjudicator has arrived, Sam and Madison are sitting together on a stub, the whole pack looks annoyingly excited—like they forgot to bring popcorn to the movie or some sh*t—and Dean is on the phone with the local sheriff. The bitch witch is making her rounds, greeting some of the older and more powerful families, but Dean ducks behind a tree and leans into his cellphone. He’s never liked that f*cking lady, for reasons that are too complicated to contemplate right now, so he drags out his conversation with Jody as long as he can.

“Something big’s going down today,” he says into the receiver, “like, in ten minutes or less. Make sure the whole forest is a human-free zone.”

“Thanks for the advanced notice,” Jody replies dryly, and in the background, Dean can hear her giving similar instructions to her deputies. Good—they’re already coming up with an excuse for why the woods should be given a perimeter of officers, road barriers, and emergency tape.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, and he genuinely does feel bad—it was irresponsible of him to wait this long. “Haven’t exactly been on two feet since I, uh, heard the news.”

Jody sighs, and Dean imagines her planting her elbows on the desk, looking at him with concerned eyes. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no f*cking idea,” he whispers, and gives Jody a brief synopsis of what’s about to happen. He’s not supposed to be sharing pack customs and rituals with outsiders, it’s more of a need-to-know basis with humans, but Dean has been the liaison between the pack and the Lawrence Police Department for years now. He considers Jody a friend, maybe even a close one, and it feels good to talk to someone outside of the whole pending drama.

“That’s...wow,” she mumbles, awed to silence after getting up to speed.

“Tell me about it,” Dean replies sullenly. Through the trees he hears rustling, and then…great. The witch. She’s heading in his direction wearing an outrageous maroon fur coat—outrageous because it’s almost summer, so that’s gotta be hot as a f*ck. But more importantly, she does know they’re goddamn wolves, right? Decorative furs don’t exactly make Dean feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s nearly impossible for a human to shoot a were by accident, but since shifters have become the dirty little secret of modern society, silver bullets are no longer foam pellets stocked in Halloween costume tents. Now they’re sold in gun stores, and they hurt like hell. Struck in the right spot at the right time, they can be f*cking fatal.

“Dean?” Jody’s voice is startling, jolting him from his train of thought.

“Sorry, gotta go,” he says, almost regretfully. If he can just stay on the phone with Jody forever, maybe Rowena f*cking MacLeod will never reach him, the trial will never start, and Cas will never be put in danger.

“If you ever need someone to talk to or some place to go, my door is always open,” the sheriff says softly, and it’s such a tempting offer right now that Dean almost says be there in twenty. But he’s already run from this problem once, already had his two-day wolf-fest in the woods. He’s gotta face this like a human would. Like a man.

“Thanks, Jodes,” he says quietly, meaning it with everything he has, and ends the call a moment later. He turns the opposite direction and creeps through the brush, hoping he can avoid whatever irritating chit-chat the pelt-wearing witch has in mind. But in his haste to escape he runs right into Sam, shoulders colliding with a violent impact.

“sh*t—”

“Dean,” his brother says, relief in his voice, “c’mon, they’re about to get started—”

“‘Just the boys I wanted to see,” comes a high-pitched, cheery Scottish accent, and they both turn slowly, dread growing in Dean’s stomach. On top of the hideous coat, Rowena is wearing thigh-high red leather boots and a slinky black dress. The ensemble looks so out of place here in the woods that Dean can’t help but laugh.

“Rowena,” he greets, trying to sound unruffled by her presence. “Got a gala tonight, or are you trying to impress the mosquitoes?”

“Oh, Dean, you charming little wolf,” she purrs, her red-tinted lips pulled into a smirk, “you know I always try and impress the infamous Winchesters.”

She settles in front of them, all five feet and three inches of her, her chin held high and mighty. A beat of silence passes between the group and she squints her eyes, as if she’s examining the ingredients of a spell. “Worried about the family patriarch, I see?”

“He’ll be fine,” Sam says stiffly, and Dean is inwardly proud of his little brother’s brevity. He was half-worried Sammy would be spouting some “water under the bridge” crap about everything Rowena’s done over the years, but Sam seems just as resolved to end this conversation as Dean.

“Oh, but wouldn’t it be nice to have a little...insurance?” She grins wickedly, picking up a stray twig and twirling it in her hands.

“No,” Sam says firmly, answering again before Dean has the chance. “None of that. This has to be a fair fight.”

“How noble of you,” she says, as if she’s pondering the merits of such an act for the first time. “Though surely even you must know that dear ol’ Dad isn’t a young pup anymore. The brave and gallant Winchesters aren’t quite as invincible as you think you are.”

At first, it’s almost comical to Dean that the witch seems hellbent on threatening the wrong competitor. She obviously hasn’t done her homework, or she would know Dean is a million percent more worried about Cas right now. But after her words sink in, fury burns like a flame in Dean’s skin. Is she really going there, today of all days? He takes a step closer, crowding her slightly and fighting the urge to bear his teeth.

“And who’s fault is that?” He can feel Sam’s hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards, but Dean shrugs him off and stares down at Rowena. “Who’s spell conveniently faded?”

“Whatever do you mean, dear?” She blinks at him innocently. “If you’re referring to your mother, you should know I have nothing but the deepest sympathy for her...tragic death.” She laces her voice with an extra dose of benevolence and sympathy that makes Dean’s skin crawl.

“Your sweet little mother Mary was simply—”

“Don’t you talk about her,” Dean growls, hands tight in fists. “Don’t you even say her name.”

Fact is, if Rowena had followed through with her duty to the pack all those years ago, if her protective enchantments hadn’t fallen at just the right moment, the enemy forces would have never gotten in. For over a decade, Chuck had dismissed Dean’s suspicions that Rowena was somehow connected to the demon army. But he could never quite shake the feeling that the petite redhead had been playing both sides, that she had a vested interest in making sure the demons won and the weres stayed in the dark.

“Dean,” Sam says, pulling his shoulder more insistently, tapping into that alpha strength until Dean relents and takes a step backwards. “Now isn’t the time.”

Rowena straightens the front flap of her coat, plastering on a neutral sort of smile.

“Quite right, Samuel,” she muses. Dean isn’t sure if he managed to get under her skin or not, but she’s trying hard to appear normal—composed. That’s a win in his book. “Like my wee old mother would say, ‘whit's fur ye'll no go past ye.’”

Dean forgot the annoying witch spoke in weird ass idioms and he needs a goddamn pocket translator whenever he talks to her. He looks skeptically at Sam, and the alpha sighs.

“It’s a Scottish phrase...sort of like ‘whatever comes will come,’” Sam explains, and Rowena flashes him an approving nod.

“Very good,” she says congratulatory, as if they’re two friends gossiping over tea. “You must’ve received full marks in medical school.”

Dean’s big brother instincts kick in even with Rowena around, and he’s about to say of course he f*cking did, whenever there’s general commotion sounding off from the other side of the clearing.

“Oh, bless.” Rowena claps her hands together in apparent delight. “Seems it’s time to...what would you call it, Dean? ‘Get this show on the road?’”

Yeah, he might have said that phrase a time or two, but f*ck if he’s gonna admit that to her. Before he can reply she’s bounding forward, heading back towards the ceremony spot. Without much choice Sam and Dean follow close behind. The pack members have been pushed to the side now, several yards away, with only the elders and the two competitors in the center. Dean’s heart aches at the sight of Cas, hair messy from wind, expression carved in stone. He’s kneeling, and Dean tries to catch his gaze but the alpha is looking resolutely straight ahead. He’s trying to focus, and Dean shouldn’t attempt to distract him, but f*ck if he doesn’t want to run to him, kiss him, protect him.

“Nice of you to join us,” Bobby grumbles in Rowena’s direction, and she flicks a casual, delicate hand.

“Forgive me, dearie, had to fetch some curly dock and elderberries.” To Dean’s surprise, she pulls out a handful of light green leaves, wavy and smooth, and a bundle of dark purple berries. What the hell—when did she even have time to gather those? Before or after harassing Dean? He hates sneaky ass witches down to his core, and Rowena is one of the most powerful in the world. That might stop other people from antagonizing her, but his list of f*cks-given today starts and ends with Cas. Everyone else can get on board or get the hell out of his way.

Sam goes to join Madison on the far side of the pack, but Dean plops himself right in front, figuring Jo and Charlie won’t care that he’s wormed his way to the best seat in the house. His dad versus his best friend slash possible love of his life means Dean feels totally justified cutting in line. He watches with rapt attention as Rowena crushes a dozen herbs and plants in a mortar bowl using a pestle, then mixes the contents in with a strange brown potion. She pours the combination into two metal goblets, chants something totally foreign in a language Dean can only assume is Celtic—it’s similar to Gaelic, which he is familiar with, thanks to were lore. He watches in bewilderment and trepidation as a swirl of purple energy wraps around the ancient-looking cups. She hands one to Cas and one to John, both who are still kneeling at her feet. Even the elders have backed away a reasonable distance now, and Dean’s so nervous he hopes he doesn’t accidentally shift.

“Sláinte ,” she says, beaming down at the stoic alphas at her feet, and it must be a drinking toast or some sh*t ‘cause both men drink simultaneously. They sputter and choke, the goblets sliding from their fingers, and Dean’s mistrust of Rowena has reached new heights. She has an agreement with the elders, sure, but what if she doesn’t honor it? What if she just poisoned them because she’s an evil f*cking bitch?

She places one hand on each of their temples and her eyes go milky and white. She’s chanting again in Celtic, and Dean is fidgeting so much that Charlie grabs his wrist and holds his hand—a platonic gesture of solidarity. Rowena intones on and on for what feels like hours, until the spell seems to have been cast and a burst of purple magic sends the alphas spiraling forward and into the grass. Dean tenses, ready to launch into action, but Charlie’s grip holds him steady. There’s a translucent curtain of energy separating them all—not only the alphas from each other, but the pack as well. Castiel and John are alone in separate cells, no bigger than four hundred square feet, and thanks to the magically generated walls, Dean is officially unable to intervene.

“The Wolf has chosen your first task,” Rowena announces, addressing Cas and John. Her eyes have returned to their normal color and she must have at least a smudge of decency inside her, ‘cause she has the tact to sound solemn. “Before each of you are five weapons—” They appear suddenly at the feet of both alphas: a book of matches, a silver knife, a canister of salt, a machete, and a magnifying glass. John’s face is cold and calculating, familiar with each of these various objects and their uses, but Cas is squatting low and touching them like they’re marvelous gifts.

“Once you use a weapon you cannot reuse it, so choose wisely,” Rowena explains in that same unflinching tone. “Today you will battle one tormented soul demanding rest, and three descendants of Eve. The victor will be decided by the swiftness of your triumph over your foes…” She looks between them both, the gravity of her words steadfast and immovable. “Or by the death of your competitor.”

Dean is sweating now, shaking, and it feels ironic that this sh*tshow is taking place in broad daylight, on a gorgeous summer day. This can’t be happening, he thinks. Can’t be happening, can’t be happening, can’t be—

With another flash of light, there are four new occupants in the ring, the alphas surrounded at every angle. Dean didn’t believe he could feel any more worried for Cas, but these f*cking monsters are proving him wrong.

Dead wrong.

The ghost he was expecting, the whole “tormented soul demanding rest” thing was pretty on the nose. The ghost is a flabby old man, transparent and gray, and there’s a small wooden chest in front of him that Dean’s betting are his bones. Easy enough—ghosts are strong and deadly, but nothing a good ol’ salt and burn can’t fix. But the others. Oh f*ck…

The others.

There’s an arachne in one corner. It’s in the shape of man, average build and height. Looks can be deceiving, though, ‘cause that f*cker is definitely a spider-like creature with white eyes, light blue irises, and black pupils. His skin is crusty and flaking and he’s grinning, probably gearing up to spin his first web, to trap Cas so he can bite him—kill him, turn him, whatever seems most fitting to his f*cked-up brain.

Then there’s a beautiful woman, blonde and athletic, but she hisses and...Dean shivers involuntarily. The vetala’s fangs are impossibly sharp, her blue eyes wide with purpose and intrigue, her pupils oblong as a snake’s. It would only take one venomous bite for her to end this whole thing, for Cas’ ears to ring and his limbs to turn heavy and sluggish until he’s knocked out cold…surrounded on all sides.

The bad news keeps f*cking coming as Dean takes in the final monster. It’s exceedingly tall, boney and sunken, with sharply crooked teeth. The creature’s claws look long as razors and its fur is matted, chunks of gray-tinged flesh missing in random patches. The wendigo lets out a deep guttural growl in Cas’ direction and the omega flinches on instinct.

Killing any one of these freaks would take nerves and knowledge and training and a f*ckload of luck. But killing all four at once?

It’s a goddamn suicide mission for someone who’s not trained for this. Someone like...

“Cas!” he screams, appalled and desperate and lightheaded, fighting against hands that are holding back. Bobby and Sam must have joined him at some point, because in addition to Charlie and Jo beside him, Bobby is wrapping him up from behind, keeping him pinned to the beta’s chest. Sam is front, hands on his brother’s shoulders, his head turned in unfiltered horror. “Cas!”

***

Castiel grabs the salt and matches.

The old man’s spirit is an unpredictable, ethereal threat that can appear and disappear without rhyme or reason. The other three monsters are terrifying, material and lethal, but at least he can always see them…can anticipate their moves thanks to the physical body they’re tethered to.

The ghost is a different story.

He remains a reasonable distance from any of the four when he bends over and reaches for the chest, the object he’s hoping holds the bones. He’s cradling the chest tight with one hand, the salt and matches in the other, but before he can crack it open, the ghost materializes right in front of him—hitting him squarely against the cheek and flinging him backwards several feet. The hit throbs but Castiel barely feels it, his fear and adrenaline propelling him forward, pushing him to keep moving. It’s lucky that his grip on the weapons had been strong, not to mention that the chest was still closed during his tumble.

He rises to his haunches, squatting low in front of the chest, and his hands fumble with the canister of salt. He slings open the chest, sprinkles the salt generously over the grimy old bones, and strikes a match. The fire lights immediately, bright and warm, so close that the radiating heat makes him sweaty. The ghost is close to Castiel, gearing up for another hit when his body begins to burn away, glowing like the butt of a discarded cigarette. The vengeful spirit moans in dismay and anguish before finally disappearing altogether.

The alpha’s relief in defeating the ghost is short-lived, however, once the blonde woman yanks his collar from behind. She’s terribly strong, her grip tightening on his throat, and his arms flail as his feet leave the ground. She glares up at him with snake-like eyes and settles Castiel back on the ground…right around the time he’s about to lose consciousness. He gasps for air, grateful that he hadn’t been choked to the point of passing out, but his reprieve ends abruptly as she tugs on his neck, bearing her sharp fangs menacingly. He shudders and struggles, realizing he’s completely overpowered by her physical strength and he needs to get a weapon— now . He sweeps a leg up and kicks her shin with all available force, and she retreats slightly, more in surprise than pain. It’s enough of a window for Castiel to stretch down and grab the first weapon he sees.

The machete.

He’s grasping it like a lifeline, hands shaking, relatively certain this snake-like creature is a vetala. He knows getting bit by one will almost certainly incapacitate him, maybe even turn him. He doesn’t quite remember how to kill one, but he has to make a move soon...he’s running out of time and options. The other two monsters are closing in on him—a man with the characteristics of a spider who’s eyeing him sinsterly, and behind him crouches a beast that looks ready to tear Castiel’s flesh apart. If he wants to survive he has to divide and conquer, to give himself enough space to deal with them individually—as fast as humanly possible. Rowena had said each weapon is only allotted one use, so choosing the wrong one on the wrong enemy means almost certain death. He has a finite number of choices and no assurance of victory.

What is Castiel supposed to do?

The vetala is gaining on him, grasping his shoulder with a hard and unforgiving clench, and he no longer has the luxury of contemplating his next move. He turns and sinks the machete into the vetala’s neck, barely breathing, hoping beyond hope that he’s chosen the correct weapon.

He hasn’t.

The blonde smirks at him and pulls the machete out, looking irritated but unflustered, like a woodworker dislodging a small splinter. Castiel watches in horror as the heavy knife dissolves into thin air, it’s one-time-only use wasted on the wrong foe. He doesn’t even have time to process what a colossal mistake he’s made before the arachne is behind him, the sound of its sticky web gearing up, sticking to Cas’ shirt. At the same time the hulking gray beast—which Castiel recognizes now as a wendigo—is barreling straight towards him. In a last-ditch effort he bends low and rolls, and somehow his swerve technique works: the arachne and the wendigo collide against each other. Castiel pants heavily, the race of his heart like the steady pounding of a drum, and reaches for the only other weapon he feasibly has left. Wendigos are killed with fire, so the magnifying glass must be the right (though daunting and entirely cumbersome) weapon in sparking its final end. If the machete didn’t work on the vetala, Castiel reasons, then by process of elimination, it was meant for the arachne. That leaves…

The long sliver knife.

He’s back on his feet and reaching for it, nearly in his grasp, when the vetala kicks his feet up from under him. The alpha is flat on his back when she launches herself onto him, straddling his hips and pining his shoulders down.

“How delicious you are,” she hisses, her hugely-pupiled eyes gazing down at him with hunger and desire. She licks his cheek with a flat, wet tongue and he grimaces. “I believe I’ll make you my mate. Oh, the hunts we’ll have…”

Mate. At the word, an image flashes in Castiel’s mind. Green eyes, bowlegs, a mischievous grin. A reason to fight through this, a reason to survive.

“Sorry,” he replies, his left hand weaving in the grass and reaching for the handle of the knife. “I’m already spoken for.”

He plunges the dagger into her heart and she seems momentarily stunned, wheezing and gasping for air. He pushes her off with a hefty shove and sets his eyes on the next task, but before he can move, a hand reaches out and grasps his ankle. It’s the blonde-haired vetala again, definitely injured but not dead…but…why?

Twist the knife!

The answers pops in his head in a voice that isn’t quite his, but he doesn’t have time to suss out the mystery of how he came to acquire this knowledge. He’s about to be knocked off-balance and preyed upon by the stubbornly resilient vetala, but he lunges to his left instead, seizing the silver knife that’s planted in her chest and rotating it thoroughly. Her mouth gasps open and she slumps on the ground, her skin turning brown and flakey, her body beginning to decompose right before his eyes.

Thank god, he thinks. Maybe she’s actually dead this time.

Two out of four means he’s halfway finished with the trial, but there’s no time to rest, no opportunity to regroup or gather his strength. The male arachne is within touching distance and then there’s a stream of slick webs streaming over him. The force of the texture and the impenetrable quality of the net knocks Castiel off his feet, his head falling against the ground with a hard thump. He can’t even count the number of times in the last ten minutes he’s been knocked over and winded, rammed into and struck, but this is the first time he hasn’t been able to get back up and defend himself. He’s completely paralyzed, and no amount of struggling against the gummy mesh of the arachne’s web with allow him to slip free. This trap is perfectly designed for him, contouring to every slope and grove of his body, and the only way to free himself is…

Is if the web no longer fits his body.

He hasn’t shifted in years and the process will be excruciating. The last thing he wanted to do was turn with an audience watching—the future packmaster should be able to turn at will, organically, flawlessly, like Dean can—but now isn’t the time to protect his pride. The arachne and its double eyes are staring down at him with glee, and whether he intends to bite Castiel and poison him, feed on his flesh, or attempt to turn him, the alpha doesn’t want to find out. He forces himself to close his eyes, spots of sunlight dancing in his vision like a kaleidoscope. His insides feel hollow and tight, like there’s an itch he just can’t scratch. He pushes past it until his limbs ache, until he feels sore in muscles he doesn’t recall having. It’s simply an uncomfortable feeling at first, like running a marathon after months of idleness, but eventually it gives way to a sharp and pricking pain. His legs twinge and his shoulders are burning and he growls through every sensation, his tongue catching the pointed edge of his front canine teeth. It happens quickly after that, the transformation: his bones are contorting, twisting like a pretzel, and he screams in open torment. One minute he’s howling with his human voice and the next he’s more animal, cracking open his eyes to watch his fingers turn to paws. Instinctively he tries to speak, but it comes out as a rumbling bark. The unbelievable pain has faded completely, as if it never happened, and the alpha feels strong and powerful.

And angry.

The large web is now nothing more than an annoying layer of gauze, and the wolf shreds it easily enough. The arachne appears startled at this development, but not too concerned—until Castiel bounds forward and leaps into the air, knocking him by the shoulders and looming over him. The arachne’s neck is bare and he’s pinned down, vulnerable. What Castiel does next is something he knows, deep down, he’ll relieve in revolting detail for many days and weeks to come.

He bites down on the arachne’s neck, clamping sharply with his incisors. His once-co*cky opponent writhes beneath him, but the wolf only opens his jaw wider and punctures more and more muscle. His molars are met with the density of bone and there’s a sickening crunch, his wolf side reveling in the primal, relentless kill. The original weapon for the arachne had been the machete, a reasonable part of Castiel’s brain reminds him, which means beheading should be his primary objective here. He snarls and gnaws and feels the tendons begin to separate, bone and veins and skin discarded like stray scraps of paper. With one final, determined shake, the head of the arachne reels away, the lower half of his body strangely peaceful compared to the immense terror painted on his rolling head. Castiel is vaulting in the air from ecstasy, fully celebrating the kill, when something huge and strong and imposing launches itself towards him.

This is one of the strongest monsters out there, and even in his wolf form, Castiel can feel the pressure of the wendigo’s claws digging into his stomach. The creature slashes Castiel’s soft middle with its razor-sharp claws and the wolf whines audibly, blood trickling down. He can’t fight this monster physically—its strength is superhuman, its vulnerabilities limited. With intense dread, he realizes he’ll need to shift again in order to defeat the wendigo.

He grits his teeth and unhinges his jaw, mauling the brute’s bony shoulder with all his available resolve. It’s not enough to even wound the wendigo, but it’s enough to distract him, and Castiel is back on all fours and running towards the magnifying glass. Now that he’s momentarily escaped, this is where the human transformation is necessary—opposable thumbs and all. Castiel’s brute growl evolves to a scream as he converts back into the body of a man.

He’s now crouching on the ground, nude and panting, and the wendigo is gawking at him with an air of disinterest—like a giant regarding a fly. But the monster underestimates Castiel, or rather, the forty-eight hours of instruction he’s received from Sam. There’s a mound of loose dirt near the alpha’s left knee, and it’s just enough space to dip his finger into the soil and draw a deep circle with lines spiking from the top. It’s an Anasazi symbol that the creature can’t cross, and Castiel is unashamedly impressed that he’s remembered it...but he is an artist, and he had spent twenty minutes yesterday mapping out a potential painting utilizing the same mark. The wendigo howls in displeasure for not being allowed passage beyond the symbol, but Castiel forces himself to block out the screeches. He grabs the magnifying glass and stares up in the sky, examining the sun.

The forest floor is littered with pine needles and leaves and twigs, and it’s not an ideal tinder but it’s certainly a start. His jeans, t-shirt, and boxers have been shredded and turned to cloth strips, thanks to his unplanned transformation into a were, and he adds them to his nest of dry materials. He holds the magnifying glass between the sun and the pile and holds his breath, noticing a small, bright dot appear against his makeshift pile. He tilts the glass until he achieves the smallest circle possible, then focuses the dot for what feels like hours. In actuality it’s thirty or forty seconds, maybe a minute tops, but the wendigo is growling and Castiel is unclothed and undoubtedly injured, he’s too panicked to tell, and waiting any length of time feels like punishment. Eventually the tinder begins smoking and he keeps his hand steady, not flinching until there are obvious flames rising up and into the air.

He searches the space behind him and sees a thick and hollow branch. It’s nearly six feet long, but he cracks it into thirds, taking one section and wrapping scraps of t-shirt material on the end. If he feels remorse burning his father’s clothes, he absolutely refuses to let himself feel it now. This is about survival.

When enough fire has gathered on his torch, he holds it up triumphantly and scowls at the beast. The moment he steps beyond the Anasazi symbol he’s going to get ambushed, but all he has to do is plunge the fire onto the wendigo. He doesn’t allow himself time to think about it, to second-guess himself. He begins to sprint headfirst, and to his amazement the wendigo is now running from him , having spotted the fire heavy in his fist. But there’s nowhere to run here, not in this magical cage of Rowena’s making, and the wendigo is fully backed into a corner by the time Castiel sinks the lit torch violently into the creature. It flings and wails and stumbles over to Castiel, burning the tops of his exposed feet and shins. The alpha cries as the flames scorch and scald his skin, but manages to run far enough that the wendigo can no longer use the spreading blaze against him. Castiel covers his burns in loose dirt and wheezes with considerable effort, watching the beast finally burn to ash, immobile in the grass.

Castiel doesn’t pass out, doesn’t cry from relief or exhaustion or pain, but god does he want to do those things and more. The dividing walls between him and John, and him and the rest of the pack, finally dissolve. The elders are standing beside Rowena but everything else is a blur, surreal and intangible, and he thinks he can hear Dean calling his name...but maybe he’s just hallucinating. It seems impossible that he’s survived, but here he is, naked and battered, dirty and burnt, but alive.

“The first trial has officially concluded,” Rufus announces, “the victor, who defeated his foes in under six minutes, is John Winchester.”

There’s a modest amount of applause and Castiel feels as though his insides are collapsing inside themselves. He went through all that, nearly died several times over, and he still—lost?

“According to tradition, the next trial will begin on the first sight of the waxing gibbous moon,” Pamela says, sounding strained, and how far away is that—two weeks? Two weeks until Castiel has to do something idiotic like this again?

The elders are still speaking, blathering on about the next trial and the rules, but he’s had just about enough of this. Even if he can survive the next trial, there’s no way he can do it better or faster than John Winchester. He limps his way inside the makeshift tent feeling defeated in every sense of the word—his body is damaged and aching, his self-confidence is at an all-time low. He wraps himself inside in a threadbare quilt on the ground, and shivers in spite of the late morning heat. He’s not worthy enough to be packmaster. He’s not a worthy alpha, a worthy wolf, a worthy man…

“Cas!”

Castiel lifts his head just a tilt and there he is, his omega, Dean, flustered red with worry. He squats low and they face each other, unblinking and steadfast. His sweet herbal scent is soothing, like being swathed in sunshine and vines, and Castiel can’t keep from studying his face. Some of the stiffness in his muscles seems to lessen, a slow exhale seeping from his chest.

“Hey there, champ,” Dean whispers, fingers skating across his skin. He touches the alpha everywhere—forearms, shoulders, shins, and Castiel winces at the grazing pressure. “You’re...how bad are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” He pulls the blanket tighter across his shoulders, and Dean’s expression is muddled and hard to read—fearful and apprehensive, relieved and affectionate. Dean is huddling close to him now, hands lingering on him. He inclines his head questioningly, so Castiel continues.

“I lost.” He shuts his eyes and leans against the tent wall, willing himself to breathe. “After all that, I still lost.”

“But you did it, Cas. You survived. And f*ck—” Dean’s voice is earnest and vulnerable and raw. “I’m proud of you.”

A half-dozen arguments rise and fall on Castiel’s lips. He’s nothing to be proud of, he knows—Dean should just leave him, let him suffer alone. But there’s still just enough hope and dignity remaining for him to keep quiet, to bask in Dean’s presence and try to forget how disastrous his life is. Eyes still closed, he sighs at the first brush of Dean’s lips, wet and warm on his kneecap and elbows, his collarbones and stomach. It’s startling and intimate and strangely practical, considering his were saliva has healing properties that lessens Castiel’s suffering. But more than that…it’s a poignant and tender demonstration of love, and he shivers when Dean breathes over a trail of kisses, cooling and tingling, stirring a fire low in his belly.

When Dean’s lips finally meet his it isn’t sensible, it isn’t reasonable—it’s the smoothing of Dean’s hands through his hair, the soft stroking of his cheek, the sensation of his mouth sweeping Castiel in an open-mouthed kiss. Castiel moans and his arms wrap around Dean tightly, his body still sore and bruised but he can’t help but pull him closer, drawing the omega into his lap. It’s nothing like he imagined this morning, not slow and sweet but frenzied and hot-blooded.

It’s the most remarkable kiss of his life.

The heat between them heightens as Dean flicks his tongue between the alpha’s parted lips, breathless and gasping, and it becomes overwhelmingly clear that Castiel is still...quite naked. With the rocking of Dean’s hips, the graze of the quilt as it rustles and slips, he sucks Dean’s lower lip as his erection grows harder.

Dean pulls a breath away, foreheads touching, and fiddles with the threadbare blanket holding Castiel at bay. “Cas,” he keens, voice a light and husky whisper, “lemme touch you…”

His eyes are hooded and imploring and his hand snakes steadily down, skimming the alpha’s chest and abdomen and then—

“My house,” Castiel rasps, unwilling to cross this boundary and alter their relationship while the entire pack stands only yards away, undoubtedly eavesdropping. They need privacy, they need seclusion, they need…

A bed for Castiel to lay Dean out, naked and hard and waiting, so he can worship his omega for hours with his lips and teeth and tongue.

“Let’s get out of here, Dean,” Castiel breathes. “Now.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

“There is no better way to know us /

Than as two wolves, come separately to a wood.” – Ted Hughes

During the walk home, the late morning sun high and rising, Dean places a protective hand on the alpha’s lower back. His posture is tall and domineering, almost defensive, and from the outside it might appear strange—an omega fawning over an alpha, one who’s wrapped in a thin quilt with his head ducked down. But this isn’t just any alpha, and this isn’t just any circ*mstance: it’s Cas, who Dean has carried a torch for so long at this point, he’s surprised he hasn’t burst into flames. Not only that but it’s Cas post-battle, after facing off against three badass creatures and a ghost, a practically impossible feat that Dean is still in shock over. There were a dozen times he had been convinced that Castiel was officially monster meat, and he’s pretty sure Bobby and Sam are achy and sore from restraining him, but Cas miraculously survived. He’s scraped and bruised and a little injured but he’s…alive. He’s home. He’s home and alive, and by some phenomenal luck, he wants Dean as much as Dean wants him.

They stumble up Cas’ porch steps side by side, Dean’s arm wrapped around his hip for support. He shuts the door behind them with an air of finality—they are wonderfully, blissfully, alone again—but Dean has no clue what to do next. He knows what he wants to do, what his body and hormones and omega pheromones want, but he’s not entirely sure how bad a shape Cas is in. Is it irresponsible of him to be seducing a man who may or may not be wounded? Should he call Sam to come examine him instead?

He’s pondering all this when the alpha pushes him against the kitchen island without warning, the blanket falling from his shoulders like a discarded cape, and launches himself against Dean. It’s a lusty, frantic sort of outburst that he wasn’t entirely prepared for, the loop of his jeans snagging on the grainy wood of the counter, determined lips on his before he’s had much time to recover. Castiel is fully naked and rutting against Dean’s groin, and the friction feels amazing and the sight of the alpha’s co*ck grinding down against the front of his zipper is enough for Dean to make a mess in his jeans.

Real f*cking quickly.

“Cas,” he breathes, trying to pull away just a fraction, “f*ck—Cas. You know how onboard I am with this, but let’s get you doctored up first—”

Castiel’s mouth is peppering his chin, his neck, his collarbones with kisses, wet and sloppy and insistent. His scent is overwhelming and sweet, piquant with a spicy sort of heat. It’s a smell he’s caught from Cas before but never quite knew what it meant.

Turns out: arousal.

“No,” Cas replies, and his voice is a low and promising rumble, “not until you and I...finally... Dean…”

His stare is unwavering, desire and longing etched into every detail of his unfairly mesmerizing gaze, licking his lips and regarding Dean with open admiration. Dean knows right then—should Castiel want to try this thing for real, with the mating bite and marriage ceremony and the standard two-point-five pups, he’ll never be able to deny his alpha anything.

Anything.

“Whaddya want, Cas?” he asks huskily, tossing reason out the window. He lifts his hand and cradles the alpha’s face in one hand, his thumb caressing the damp, swollen pink of Cas’ lower lip. Castiel shivers, his tongue flicking to brush the pad of Dean’s thumb, and they both shudder noticeably at the contact. It’s a faint mix, but somehow they’ve already started to smell like each other, the space around them vibrant with earthy sweetness.

“Dean.” Castiel’s long, skilled fingers unbutton the omega’s jeans. “I’ve waited years for this, so…” His lips return, warmer and gentler than before, a sweet sort of pop kiss suctioning their lips together. “I just want you.”

Dean sinks into the touch, the alpha making quick work of his jeans and boxers. Meanwhile he does some quick mental math, wondering just how many years Cas is implying. He thinks back, and he had been around fourteen the first time he’d stood in the shower, imagining Cas being there with him, and without quite meaning to he had started to…

Well. You know.

Jesus…so many years he wasted, not acting on his feeling. The magnitude of what they’re about to do hits him all at once and suddenly Dean is trembling, so scared to ruin this somehow, to damage the only relationship he’s ever cared about. But he can’t possibly untangle himself now—not with the alpha’s fingers sliding against the elastic band of his underwear and grabbing his ass—and more to the point: he doesn’t want to. There’s a lot of f*cking stuff they need to discuss, not just the lost years they apparently spent pining, but the harsh reality of the trials and what Cas’ loss might mean for them.

For their future.

But now isn’t the time. ‘Cause right now, Castiel’s lips are sucking mercilessly…zeroing in on a tender spot at the base of Dean’s neck. Dean feels himself tremble and moan as more slick escapes him, and decides right then and there that it’s time to get this show on the road. He pulls his boxers further down his thighs, releasing his rapidly hardening co*ck, then reaches back and swipes a purposeful hand into his crack. He teases his hole with just the tiniest of flickers to get his fingers nice and dripping, then takes them both in-hand. The stroke is slow and teasing and spectacular but Cas growls, really and sincerely f*cking growls, and Dean thinks he might come just from the sound alone. The alpha nudges Dean’s hand away with a frenzied motion and wraps his fist around their co*cks, damp now with Dean’s slick, and begins a hurried, desperate sort of rubbing.

“f*ck, Cas,” he whimpers, because the pace the alpha’s setting is too fast and too much and too slow and too light, and he wants more and he wants less, and he feels like he’s already on the verge of coming after an embarrassingly short amount of attention to his downstairs brain. They’re not so much kissing as they are panting into each other’s mouths, and he risks a glance down. The sight is just…

Obscene.

Cas’ fist is tight and clenched, slipping with slick and precome, and the heads of their co*cks keep appearing and disappearing inside the narrow and unyielding space of his wrapped fingers. Their dicks feel firm and wet and incredible against each other and Dean glances back up when he feels the heat of Cas’ stare on him. He never maintains eye contact like this during sex, always finds it weird or awkward or off-putting, but Cas twists his wrist and rubs their co*ckheads together in a delicious slide and they both moan fully, unbashful and open, and it’s the most intense sexual chemistry Dean has ever felt. He pulls Castiel in closer by the shoulder and scents him, the full rich sweetness of him, his alpha, and he smells so goddamn good and his fingers are doing astounding things to Dean’s dick and he can’t breathe or think and—

He comes with a trembling shudder and a whine, embarrassed that that kind of high-pitched noise can come out of him, and wow, he’s always had decent sex, but apparently Cas had the key to mind-blowing sex all along. He had always suspected it would be different with him, intense and burning and simply more, and he’s somewhat smug that his assumption had been right.

Astronomically so.

The alpha finishes a moment after him, even popping a knot from their shared hasty handjob, which surprises Dean. Usually knots are reserved for full-on sex, aka, penetration—from what Dean has heard, at least. He’s never actually been knotted by an alpha before, only messed around with one, a god-awful experience that made him steer clear of alphas for years afterwards. He wonders why Cas’ body is having such a visceral reaction from rubbing one out…maybe it has something to do with the post-battle pheromones? Yeah, that’s gotta be it.

There’s come all over them both—Cas’ fingers and lower abdomen, the front of Dean’s jeans. It’s a gorgeous f*cking sight. In a weird sort of sex haze, Dean takes Cas’ hand to mouth-level and sucks and licks the come off his fingers, eyes unswerving as he swallows every ounce of residue from the alpha’s flat palm and slender fingers. Castiel is watching him hungrily, like he’s a crocodile about to strike an unsuspecting doe, and Dean is wondering if their recovery time will be sooner rather than later, when there’s an undeniable knock on Cas’ front door.

And...there’s that growl again. f*ck, it shouldn’t be hot, watching Cas all posturing and protective and tense as hell.

But it is. It really, really is.

“Someone’s here,” Cas says, stating the obvious, then adds in a snarl, “another alpha.”

Dean groans, eyelids fluttering in irritation. “I don’t suppose whoever that is will come back in, y’know, twenty minutes?” Cas looks at him blankly, twitchy, so Dean clarifies. “After I blow you?”

This eases some of the angry alpha scent in the room and Castiel coughs and sputters, seemingly choking on his own spit. “I, uh...would enjoy that very much. But—” He takes a noticeable sniff and Dean follows suit. They come to the same conclusion at the same time. “It’s Sam, so I’d say the chances of him leaving soon are incredibly low. Unfortunately.”

Dean pouts dramatically, mostly to make Cas tilt his head and chuckle, then tucks himself away. He feels grimy, damp with slick and come and sweat, and Sam is about to get a whiff full of some strong as f*ck let’s-get-it-on alpha and omega vibes. Cas washes his hands at the kitchen sink and retrieves his discarded blanket, throwing it back over his shoulders as Dean leans against the kitchen counter. Cas seems to have let his guard down some now that he knows the alpha is a familiar one, but there’s still a rigidness to his movements, like it goes against his instincts to let another alpha enter so soon after they messed around. Dean’s not embarrassed about what they’ve been doing—it’s been a long time coming and he’s honestly suppressing the urge to skip around the room and announce it at the top of his lungs—but the front of his jeans is in pretty nasty shape, so he stays put and lets the alpha greet his brother. The front door opens and a whole crew actually comes in, the first to enter a rather sheepish Sam, who scents the air immediately.

“Hey guys,” he mumbles, looking like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“Hello Sam,” Castiel greets without a hint of irony, as if he’s not standing there essentially naked in the middle of the day, the evidence of their recent hand job scenting the air.

What a guy.

Charlie and Madison are standing behind the other alpha, just crossing the threshold. Madison blushes and grins, Charlie peaking over Sam’s wide shoulders to give an outrageous thumbs-up.

“Just, uh...thought we’d come check on Cas,” Sam explains, holding an amber vile in his hand and sloshing the contents around. “Rowena mixed up a potion for him—”

“Rowena?” Dean says tersely, elbows spreading wide on the counter, abandoning the whole don’t-draw-attention-to-himself thing because really? “No thanks. We’re good.”

Sam looks at him in surprise, and Charlie clarifies, “It’s a super simple healing remedy for scrapes and bruises—”

“Yeah, well, simple or not I don’t really trust witches,” Dean interrupts. “Especially this witch.”

Castiel looks between the Winchester brothers, as if trying to decide which side to land on.

“Thank you, Sam,” he finally says, taking the short and discolored bottle between his fingers, and Dean narrows his eyes. Where’s the alpha to omega, I-just-had-your-come-in-my-mouth-two-seconds-ago loyalty? Sam appears relieved and slides his hands into his pockets.

“We should probably give you a once over, too, while we’re here—”

“Think Dean already took care of that,” Charlie snigg*rs, and Cas flashes his eyes towards the omega in awkward solidarity. There’s no regret lacing his expression, just an acknowledgment of their new relationship status.

Current: It’s Complicated.

But leaning towards Taken if Dean has anything to say about it.

“You’re all f*cking hilarious,” Dean dismisses their guests dryly, cupping his hands around his mouth and in their direction. He doesn’t much like being goaded or provoked—he’d rather be the teaser than the teased—but he’ll put up with just about anything to keep his situation with Cas in an upward progression. Sam has his medical bag slung over his shoulder, but Dean tips his head towards the back hallway in a covert, hey-let’s-talk kind of way.

“Madison should be able to handle this alone, though,” Sam says, catching the signal as Dean knew he would.

“Aw, thanks honey,” Madison says sarcastically, grinning up at him and sliding the bag off his shoulders. She’s pulling a small flashlight and a reflex hammer when she adds, “You three go on. We should have privacy for the physical.”

The petite but commanding werewolf directs Castiel to sit on the couch, watching as he gulps down the strange brown concoction, wincing at the taste. Another flash of annoyance surges through Dean—stupid witches and their stupid potions. Why can’t they just… not exist? Cas has two whole weeks to recover until the next trial, so he doesn’t need magical interference from that irritatingly Scottish, Reba McEntire wannabe. Then again, he supposes anything that makes Cas stronger, that puts him back in fighting shape more quickly so they can assemble some kind of strategy...well, it’s probably not the worst idea that Sam’s ever had.

Even if it does involve Rowena.

Once Madison begins her examination, Dean turns sharply down the hallway and leads the way into the back bedroom, the one he knows Cas has been sleeping in. There are two echoing footsteps following him—one light, one heavy—and he can tell Charlie and Sam are following behind him. He doesn’t waste any time, though, rifling through Cas’ drawers for a pair of sweatpants. He can’t exactly have a serious conversation with his brother and BFF while his Levis are suspiciously stained, so he strips them off quickly and discards them in the corner, pulling the borrowed pants up and over his hips by the time the other two enter the room. He’d rather have a hot shower but that’d be pretty rude with company, and anyways, he’d rather wait for Cas to join him...

Sam looks at the wardrobe change curiously, but Charlie just spins and squeals, closing the door behind her.

“Dude,” she exclaims in disbelief, eyeballing his new wardrobe, “did it get... that messy?”

Sam grimaces, and Dean figures staying quiet will make him sound guiltier—so he smirks instead.

“Hashtag hot omega sex,” he jokes, then frowns immediately, as if there’s a bad taste in his mouth. He should really, really never try to use a hashtag again.

Out loud or otherwise.

Charlie’s been a bad influence on him.

The redhead in question just snorts, crossing her arms. “Uh, no kidding. I’m a beta, but even I can tell you totally just put out about ten gallons worth of slick—”

“Okay, no, for the love of God,” Sam interjects, sitting on the edge of the bed with his hands waving, “I’m happy for you, and I do want to discuss your relationship.” The, but-please-god-no-details-of-your-sex-life is heavily implied. “But later. You know we have bigger things to talk about.”

Dean nods but doesn’t speak, leaning against the wood paneling and inhaling the sweet scent of Cas, Cas, Cas everywhere. “I know. I know we do. Can you just...gimme a second to appreciate that he’s alive?”

Both Charlie and Sam grow starkly white at the indirect mention of the first trial, of Cas’ immense struggle, and Dean bites his lip, unable to handle their silence. “We knew Dad was gonna beat him, yeah, but not—”

“That fast?” Sam says, his solemn whisper reverberating in the small room. Dean doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to. John had taken out the enemy exactly as Sam and Dean had been trained to do, had been practicing for over a decade. He had attacked with military precision, salting and burning the bones first—but what had impressed Dean was how John had actually used the fire from the ghost to defeat the wendigo as well, manhandling the ridiculously intimidating monster until the two had collided into a burst of bright orange flames. Two foes, one fire. After that, it had only taken him mere minutes to plunge and twist the knife into the vetala and behead the arachne with one determined swoop of the machete. The whole thing had taken him about five minutes. He had barely broken a sweat.

“That doesn’t mean the next trial will be the same,” Charlie defends, as if she’s strangely reading Dean’s mind, a surprising amount of vigor in her voice.

“And we have two weeks this time,” Sam says reasonably. “We can...I dunno, all pitch in. Help him train.”

“Every day if we have to,” Charlie adds resolutely. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and imagines what they can accomplish in that short amount of time. At this point he doesn’t even care if Cas wins, though they supposedly have another war to look forward to if John does continue his winning streak. Right now Dean is all about compartmentalizing, and his main objective is simple.

Help his alpha stay alive.

“I can help him learn how to shift better,” he says, arms crossed and staring down at his feet. Castiel’s transformation into a were had been clumsy and long and from the outside, excruciatingly painful. He couldn’t believe Cas had gone that long without shifting—the packmaster’s wolf form should be as easy and fluid to slip on as a silk robe. The exact opposite of whatever Cas’ attempt had been.

“Madison and I can help him work out,” Sam offers, looking eager and excited, as if he’s already mapping out the routes they’ll run each morning. Normally Dean would chastise his brother for his annoyingly zealous exercise routine, but if it keeps Cas alive and breathing, he should probably keep the snide commentary to a minimum.

“And I’m working on a computer program.” Charlie brushes a strand of red hair from her face, as if it’s an afterthought to mention, but Dean has learned not to underestimate his scrappy, badass friend. “It’ll gather every known variable about John, Cas, and their various weaknesses. It should give us concepts for future trials based on probability, so we can develop a strategy for each potential challenge.”

“Wow, that’s awesome,” Sam says approvingly. “You have got to show me how that works.”

They spend the next ten minutes discussing things like coding and software systems but Dean’s mind is wandering, feeling encouraged that they at least have a plan.

He just hopes it’ll be enough.

Being dual-natured has always meant that Dean’s life has felt...intensely carnal, his human soul tied to a second self, one that’s primal and unpredictable. Having a father like John Winchester has guaranteed his experiences with physicality is nothing if not extreme, and since the war, he’s always felt sort of like he’s...fighting to stay afloat. But none of that compares to the bone-deep throb, the anguish and anger and fear of watching the person he loves fight to stay alive.

The longer he keeps to himself, tactfully ignoring the full-on nerd fest of a conversation around him, the worse he seems to despair. f*ck, Cas really could have died today. It’s honestly a f*cking miracle that he didn’t. There’s the possibility that Dean could lose his alpha just as quickly as he’s finally gotten him, in the second or the third trial, and the reality of that truth is making him withdrawn and restless in a way he hasn’t felt in...

Well. Years.

Realizing now that he’s fully stuck in his own head, but not having the mental fortitude to push his complicated feelings into a dark corner of his mind and abandon them for now, he just shadows Sam and Charlie as they return to the living room. Cas, god bless his inner exhibitionist, is still just wrapped in that goddamn blanket and Dean is wondering if he ever intends to put clothes on again. Sam is filling him in on their training plan, which Castiel seems to accept rather graciously, and it’s decided that the unofficial Novak Packmaster Task Force will reconvene tomorrow morning. Dean leans against the kitchen island with a purposeful sort of distance, though no one seems to call him on his aloof attitude. There’s more chitchat, general talk of strategy, and an appreciation for Cas’ creative maneuvers in the arena—though no one is blunt enough to point out he still lost, no matter how impressive his decision-making. Eventually, thankfully, there are half-waves of goodbye and the sound of the front door finally closing.

“Dean?” Cas’ deep voice is disquieted and thoughtful, as if he’s disturbing the personal space of a skittish animal. The omega spins towards his alpha with his mouth half-open and a small “huh?” flowing from his mouth. Cas seems relieved to have his attention, but takes a step forward looking cautious.

“That’s the third time I’ve said your name,” he says softly. He stops in front of Dean but he doesn’t touch him, and Dean sighs and rubs his face absently, feeling drained and tired.

“Sorry,” he says, muffled and lethargic, and his alpha’s concern only grows deeper. Which is really f*cked up, considering it’s Cas who battled a bunch of goddamn monsters today, it’s Cas who nearly died, it’s Cas who will have to experience this whole f*cked-up scenario in two weeks’ time.

“Don’t be,” Cas answers just as quietly, and he tilts his head with overt curiosity. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

To his dismay, Dean chuckles—a dark, self-deprecating, sardonic sound. “I dunno, man. Maybe it’s that I’ve been waiting twelve years for my childhood best friend to finally come home, and a few days in, he’s almost dies right in front of me. Or maybe, it’s that said childhood best friend is someone I’ve been harboring a secret hard-on for most of my life, and he could literally get killed trying to compete with my asshole dad for a job he doesn’t want. Or maybe—”

“It wasn’t a secret,” Cas interrupts, deadpan, and Dean squints in irritated confusion, so he continues. “Your hard-on for me. It wasn’t a secret, Dean.”

The omega is torn between laughing and glaring, so he does a weird combination of both, wondering how this dorky little alpha always manages to deflate his expanding panic as easy as a pin puncturing a balloon. It still amazes him, how effortless things are with Cas after all this time…even in the most dire circ*mstances.

“Not the f*cking point, Cas.”

“No, you’re right. The point is that I’m alive and…we’re okay,” Cas says, reasonably and kindly, and he wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrists and squeezes. The pressure is soothing and Dean breathes out, already feeling steadier. “I was feeling terrible after the...after the battle. But you helped me work through it.” Dean looks at him skeptically, ‘cause what has he done apart from freak the f*ck out all day and have an amazing org*sm in between bouts of panic? “You distracted me,” Cas explains, and Dean snorts.

Yeah, he thinks, sex is one thing he might actually be decent at, so if that helps his alpha recover he’ll do that all day long. But that’s the old Dean talking, the one whose emotions are cut off with steel walls and heightened barbed wire. Sex with Cas would never be casual, would never be just a means to an end or a distraction, and he has to make sure the alpha knows what he’s signed on for.

“So, uh—” Dean coughs and looks away, feeling ridiculous. If he can’t have honest talks with Cas, who can he have them with?

A totally unhelpful part of his brain answers: no one.

“What we did—it, uh—took your mind off everything, huh?”

He’s leaning an elbow on the counter, trying to appear nonchalant when he feels anything but.

“Glad to be of service,” he says jokingly and with a wink, but it comes off way weird, too much of a paid-sex vibe that makes him cringe visibly. Jesus, Winchester, get your sh*t together.

“Not that it was just for you, I sure as hell wanted that too. Seriously dude, over the years there were weeks when I had non-stop wet dreams about you and I couldn’t get you out of my head, and sometimes I would have to take care of myself if you know what I mean, just from thinking about you.” Worse, worse, worse, this is way f*cking worse. Cas looks at him in surprise, though noticeably pleased by this embarrassingly transparent piece of news. Dean is wishing he trusted Rowena enough to ask if she has a spell for f*cking time travel, ‘cause what the actual f*ck is he saying right now? He wants to abandon his body, crawl out of his own skin, and start life over somehow.

“Uh, so, wow. That was a lot of info to give after our first time messing around. Dunno what the f*ck’s wrong with me. I’m just...”

“Nervous,” Cas supplies, and he’s smirking now, a look that’s annoying and totally not hot on him. Nope. Zero percent hotness coming from Cas’ general vicinity at the moment.

f*cking smug ass alpha.

“If it helps, I’m nervous too,” Cas says quietly, rubbing his thumb into the gentle pulse of Dean’s wrist.

“You don’t seem nervous,” Dean grumbles, though he doesn’t pout. Ya hear that, Sam? I do not f*cking pout. Also, “scissors” is the best choice in rock-paper-scissors and you’ll never convince me otherwise.

Cas chuckles and shrugs, managing to look in-control of the conversation even while he’s wrapped in a goddamn blanket.

“I have a decent poker face.” He takes a step closer, crowding Dean against the counter, and their scents begin to mingle again. “Truth is, I’m terrified. I’m terrified of the trials, of the violent things I had to do today to survive. I’m terrified of dying, of losing, of becoming packmaster. And I’m terrified…” His gaze is penetrating now, vulnerable and unguarded in a way that Dean furtively envies. “Of rejection.”

It takes a moment for that last statement to sink in, then Dean squints his eyes in bewilderment, ‘cause…

In what f*cking world would he reject Cas?

“Don’t think you have to worry about that last one,” he says truthfully, but decides to demonstrate by cupping the alpha’s chin with his hands. “I’ve thought about this—wanted this—wanted you—for…” He swallows, finally having the forethought to pause, not wanting to overplay his hand. They’ve spent twelve years apart… What if Cas wanted him way back when, but after spending a few weeks with Dean 2.0, changes his mind? He was completely different before the war…co*cky and fun, irresponsible and swaggering. And, yeah, maybe he’s still those things occasionally, but now he’s way more stressed out with his family baggage and a trunkload of self-doubt, plus a schedule of daily tasks necessary to keep the pack running.

He takes a deep breath.

He starts over.

“Cas, where you and me are concerned…I’m in this,” he admits, and it’s the closest thing to a love confession he’s willing to risk right now, but it’s still really honest and his heart pounds erratically.

“That’s lucky,” Cas says, and he’s beaming now and Dean feels relieved, brushing his thumbs in the corners of the alpha’s mouth, “because I’m in this as well. Though, I’d rather be in the shower.”

He finally looks sheepish, as if he just realizes he’s been wandering around naked for the better part of two hours. Dean can’t f*cking help it.

He grins.

“Want some company?”

Cas leans in and kisses him, warm and wet and simple, without reservation.

“Yes, Dean,” he says, “that is exactly what I want.”

***

The next few days pass in a blur. As much as Castiel wants to hide, to never leave his cabin and stay wrapped in bedsheets with Dean, he rises early each morning to go for a run. He’s actually been a runner for most of adulthood, but he’s forgotten how different city runs are, how flat the terrain is and hard the concrete sidewalks are compared to the unpredictability of the woods. Madison seems to pinpoint the alpha’s weak points immediately, deciding on an uphill trail that’s more of a hike—certainly the most strenuous course he’s ever tackled. After a few miles each day and an hour of weight training with Sam, he’s properly sore and exhausted by the fourth day. He wonders if any of this effort will actually pay off—ten more days of working out surely won’t help him beat John Winchester, who’s no doubt been training for this competition for over a decade—but Dean gives him a full body massage at night, draws him a bath sprinkled with epsom salt, and refuses to let him give up. His omega is gentle and thoughtful, a natural caretaker, and the attention keeps Castiel going on days when he’d rather quit.

On top of the intensive workouts, the other aspects of his training are just as unpleasant. After exercising for hours he sits down with Charlie around lunchtime, which should be a moment of much-earned rest and contemplation, but that…is not the case. His beta friend more or less grills him on his fears, his weaknesses, and even asks Pamela to use hypnosis one day to draw unconscious worries and anxieties to the surface. When he finally snaps out of his trance it’s early evening, and both of his friends look sympathetic and concerned, lips pinched in mirroring expressions.

Then each night, after Dean has spent the day as the unofficial go-to guy of every imaginable pack problem, they reconvene down by the brush. They strip their clothes—though they have to do so several yards away, or else they might get distracted—and they practice shifting. The pain is sometimes too much for Castiel, the break of every bone distinct and unavoidable, and he begins to doubt that he’ll ever be good at this. But according to Dean, it’s all about finding the correct mental space and rhythm, so he tries to meditate before each shift, reaching back inside his skull for that place of corporeal stillness.

All told, it’s an irrefutably difficult period in Castiel’s life, and if he survives this, he’ll look back on this time with anxiety and ambivalence...and even a little joy. On one hand he’s in very present danger, counting the days down to potentially deadly task, putting his body and soul under more pressure than he ever thought possible. He itches to paint again, has a need for his hands to be coated in color, for a fresh canvas to slide onto his easel with possibility and promise. But he’s too busy prepping for the trials, for the role of packmaster, for the battle of his life.

Thankfully he’s with Dean, really with him in ways he’s only ever dreamed about, and if pain and violence are necessary in order to feel this, to fall further and further down the rabbit hole of infatuation with his lifelong best friend, then it’s worth it. They’ve been inseparable for days now, only leaving each other’s company for a few hours before greeting each other again with a smile or a hug or a kiss, and it’s honestly the happiest Castiel can remember being. But then he’s forced to do more training for the next trial, and he comes home too exhausted to get physical with Dean beyond a few kisses and a lazy handjob or two, and it’s...then the most miserable Castiel can remember being.

Conflicting.

Confusing.

Contradictory.

That’s how Castiel defines his situation, over and over again, during those rare flashes of solitude. This is both the best and the worst series of days he’s ever had, but he tries to focus on the goal of winning, of staying alive.

Of doing both for Dean.

The days stream by, more quickly and intensely and in an absolute whirlwind, until it’s only three days before the second trial. Castiel figured he would be feeling more confident by now, stronger from lifting weights and mentally prepared from his sessions with Charlie, but he honestly just feels...worn down. Ragged. He shuffles his feet against the forest floor limply, with little to no energy, meeting Dean at their usual spot for shifting practice. Cas feels sticky and uncomfortable, even though it’s barely seventy degrees and the sun is starting to set, and he leans against a tree trunk and unbuttons his pants. They’ve picked a spot far enough removed that no one is likely to wander upon them, but it wouldn’t make a huge difference, since nudity via shifting is just another aspect of their lives as weres. He toes off his boots and socks and slides his jeans off. It’s so immeasurably hot and sweat is running down Cas’ back like grease in a frying pan. Have summers always been this hot in Lawrence? Maybe he’s just forgotten…

He’s down to his boxers by the time he scents Dean. Usually the omega’s leafy, lush fragrance blends well into the wild, making him harder to track, but tonight...tonight his minty bouquet of sage is undeniably vibrant, effervescent and energizing. Newfound energy pulses in Castiel’s blood, and many things happen all at once.

He follows the trace of omega, omega, omega entirely on instinct, taking wide and sprinting steps without caring that he’s barefoot. He taps into his were hearing and there’s a heartbeat ten yards away, coupled with the revitalizing tingle of Dean’s scent, and he focuses on both with laser focus. This is the most clear-headed he’s been all day, and he increases his speed, his one goal to...to…

Well, he can’t comprehend why it’s so important to see Dean right now, only that it is. When the omega finally spots him, his face blinks with a half-dozen emotions, flickering fast like the song pages of a jukebox. First is a small grin of recognition, of excitement. Second: flirty raised eyebrows, an appreciation of Cas’ bare legs and torso. Third is entirely disbelief, maybe even caution. Fourth: pure astonishment, pleasure, provocation. Because…

Cas.

Without making the conscious decision, the alpha has launched himself onto the omega and pinned him to the ground. Castiel is straddling him and burying his nose into the collar of Dean’s t-shirt, breathing deep and shuddering. The omega smells…

Mouthwatering.

“Uh, howdy.” At the words Castiel stirs, pulling back just a fraction to regard him fully. His chest aches at the sight of omega horizontal, horizontal and beneath him, his eyes even greener than the well-watered grass they’re currently flattening. Dean licks his lips and looks up at him, amused. “What’s up? Boycotting the word ‘hey’ or something?”

Castiel tries to think of something coherent to say, a justifiable reason for tackling the omega like a linebacker, but he’s too distracted by the actual drool threatening to spill from the corners of his mouth. He breathes, tries to concentrate, to clear his head. But then Dean’s tongue comes out to wet his lips again, and they’re rosy and glistening and Castiel’s erection comes on suddenly and without warning. He bends over and surrounds Dean, engulfs him, lips crashing together with teeth, hands slipping up and under the thin layer of his t-shirt. Dean moans in surprise and seems almost frozen for a moment, but then decides plow forward, sucking on the alpha’s bottom lip and trying to take control of the kiss. But no no no, that just won’t do, the alpha’s chest rumbles deep and vibrating and he’s thrusting his tongue and parting Dean’s lips, hot and heavy and unyielding, nothing like the quiet soothing kisses they’ve traded the past few days. This is beyond desire, beyond indulgence, it’s an honest need as demanding as thirst or hunger and Castiel can’t remember feeling this way, not in years at least, which seems an important clue for some reason…

Distantly, as if he’s underwater and someone is calling his name from the shore, he hears a man clear his throat and approach them. He scents the air, chest heaving, and fights the urge to snarl. The interrupter isn’t an alpha, which is perhaps the only thing keeping Castiel from hurling himself forward in a possessive claim, because he’s with his omega and he wants to mate him, bite him, keep him safe and protected and sated and hot and moaning, his his his his his his—

“Easy there,” Bobby says gruffly to Castiel, adjusting his baseball cap and shooing away a buzzing mosquito. “I ain’t no peeping tom. Woulda rather burned my eyes out with a cattle prod than interrupt this, believe me.”

Pushing words out takes considerable effort for Castiel, his bare chest puffing up, straining to keep his throat from closing up.

“Then...why...are...you?” He’s still on top of Dean, and he knows he should move, should feel embarrassed, but the omega just smells...so good...he can already imagine what his slick would taste like. Castiel hasn’t sampled it yet because they’ve been so busy, because they’re taking things slow so they don’t ruin their friendship, because (and this is a private reasoning, one he hasn’t shared with Dean) Castiel knows he might die, and if he does, he doesn’t want to leave Dean with memories that will haunt him. It would be better to wait until after the trials to fully consummate their relationship, to discuss things like mating bites and marriage rituals and everything Castiel is hoping his omega will want, but…

But getting Dean naked is the only thing he can think about right now, the instinct to flip the omega on his back and lick his wet and dripping hole unrelentingly until he’s a writhing, sobbing mess coming all over the grass—

“We gotta problem,” Bobby says, and Castiel blinks, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead. The only problem is that Bobby is still here, and Cas wonders if he should tell him that. Thankfully, Dean speaks before the alpha can open his mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Dean demands, sitting up and pushing Castiel off his lap. The alpha breathes through his nose, trying to focus on anything else but the broken contact between their bodies, the desperate craving to touch and touch and touch.

“It’s your daddy,” Bobby explains, looking regretful. “He’s in rough shape. You oughta come with me.”

“Oh,” Dean mutters blankly, processing the information, “okay, sh*t. I’m coming.”

Castiel clamps his mouth shut and sits back on his haunches, concentrating hard to control his body. To sit still. To watch his omega stand up straight, brush his clothes free of stray grass, and walk away with another man…

He growls automatically at the thought but covers it up by clearing his throat, staring down at the ground and attempting to be as steady as the earth beneath him. He knows now what’s wrong with him, but it’s so unexpected and downright preposterous that the thought had never occurred to him before now.

“Cas,” Dean calls, and judging by his tone of voice, it isn’t for the first time, “I gotta go, all right? But I’ll come by your place after.”

Breathe.

Breathing is a good idea, right?

In, out.

In, out.

Except...except for he can smell Dean again, and the scent is so good that he almost whines.

That’s enough breathing for today.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grits out, teeth grinding, resisting the bile building in his stomach as he struggles against every reflex, every part of his biology. “I’ll just...see you later.”

Dean looks at him curiously, perhaps even hurt by the nonchalant brush-off, but he gives a small nod of goodbye and follows Bobby through the forest, heading towards the Winchester’s bunker. Castiel waits until the omega is several yards away before taking a deep breath and standing up, snatching his clothes hastily but not bothering to put them back on. He jogs back towards his cabin and tries not to panic, ignoring the longing and yearning and internal plea to run in the opposite direction, to find Dean again, to kiss him and stroke his co*ck and slurp his slick and knot his hole. f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. He can tell he’s truly gone because he rarely curses, but that train of thought is definitely not helping him. He runs faster now, trying not to touch the aching co*ck bobbing between his legs, but his movements are rubbing the cotton of his boxers against the sensitive head and he might come just from this if he’s not careful. When he spots his house ahead at the bottom of the hill, he propels himself into a sprint, dying for privacy. He reaches the porch in record time, closes and locks the front door, and draws all the curtain to close.

Only then—

Only then does Castiel take himself in hand, shaking and sweating and wheezing, bursting with the need to finally come. It’ll be his first org*sm of many, he knows, because...

Because this is Castiel’s first rut in almost a decade.

And the absolute last person who needs to know about it, he decides while falling into the couch cushions with a hand covered in come, is the only one equipped to help him through it. But he can’t risk damaging their relationship, can’t force them into something they’re not ready for.

Yet...he grows hard again almost instantly, just thinking his name.

Dean, he thinks wistfully, then moans out loud, reaching down for his co*ck and stroking up and down, up and down, in dry and painful earnest.

It’s going to be a very, very long few days.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

“Have you seen what wolves do to their prey?”

― Donna Lynn Hope

Dean treks down the familiar slope, heading towards the bunker.

Anxiety and apprehension are dense in the back of his throat, thick as a pill he can’t quite swallow. Bobby opens the heavy outer door and they enter, Dean following down the steps and keeping his face slack. There are two familiar alphas waiting below, aromas so common by now that he brushes pass them, unnoticed: John and Sam. He spots his dad and brother sitting at the long narrow table, both on opposite ends, arms-crossed and silent. Hilarious, Dean thinks, that they’re identical in the same ways that they’re really f*cking different.

There are also two human men sitting between the alphas, nondescript white guys with unkempt brown hair. Dean finds them both vaguely familiar….

“You ‘member Walt and Roy,” Bobby grumbles as way of introduction, and the names click into place like the missing slide of a projector. Walt and Roy are old buddies of John, guys he met right after the Demon War. John spent years hunting with them on the weekends—supposedly. Even as a teenager Dean had been suspicious of them, of how they always seemed jumpy with their shotguns slung carelessly over their shoulders, how weird it was that John would want to hunt with humans when prowling as a wolf was immensely more satisfying. It had never quite added up, John having secret friends outside of the pack, but Sam had only been eleven at the time—thrilled to have Dad gone, their metaphorical rain cloud lifted. Being a big brother was the most important thing to Dean at fifteen, had always been the most important thing, so he hadn’t pressed the issue. Instead, he’d made their John-free hours, days, and weeks fun and exciting for Sammy. Like a vacation. Even though raising a kid when he was still a kid himself had been…

Well. Not a vacation, that was for damn sure.

“Hey fellas,” Dean greets conversationally, with feigned cheerfulness, as if being dragged away from Cas mid-makeout sesh isn’t the most annoying part of his day. In the back of his mind, he knows his brief interaction with his alpha had been a bit...off. Hot yet strange, which was Cas in a nutshell. It left him wanting so much more. He had been dying to jump Cas’ bones good and proper for forever, but the timing had been wrong. It was only three days until the second trial…was Cas panicking? Had Dean just been a distraction, a way to resist the doom and gloom?

Roy and Walt shuffle forward, each shaking Dean’s outstretched hand stiffly, muttering their own half-hearted greetings. Dean clears his throat and tries to stay in the present—getting distracted by Cas the past few weeks is probably why he’s out of the loop right now. The fact that Sam made it here first and seems to already be pissed off about something is giving him some serious FOMO.

What the hell is going on with his dad?

He sets his gaze back on the two men, unwavering.

“What can we do y’all for?” Dean tries to present the question as if he, John, Bobby, and Sam are a united front, and Roy and Walt are simply the outliers. But it’s a weak attempt at wrangling in the crowd, and he knows it. Sam and John’s relationship is so splintered, it might as well be freaking wood chips. Silence follows Dean’s question, every man in a five foot radius staring down at the floor and actively avoiding him. Dean’s patience for awkward pauses is wearing thin. Why does every situation lately seem to require him to come in and ruffle up a bunch of f*cking feathers? When the hell did he become everyone’s therapist?

“Somebody better start talking, or…” He leaves the threat open-ended. He’s not sure who he’s attempting to intimidate, but figure Roy and Walt are the easiest targets. He glares at them pointedly, but it’s his dad who finally answers.

“Can’t hardly take you seriously,” John grouses, disdainful eyes flickering to meet Dean’s, though only barely, “walking in, smelling like that.”

If Dean had been in his were form, his hackles would be raised.

“What the hell does that mean?” He speaks instinctively, though he knows exactly what the hell that means. He feels flushed and woozy, immediately on the defensive, flooded with anger and embarrassment and a peculiar sense of shame. He smells like...himself, sure, herbal and green, that’s to be expected. But there’s a pretty substantial slice of Cas in there too, a creamy sort of richness, and it comforts him, noticing how entwined the two scents are after two weeks spent together.

“You already know,” John says evenly, calling Dean’s bluff just as the omega knew he would. It makes him blush like a damn idiot. Apart from a nun or a priest or his kindergarten teacher, there’s literally no one on this earth he’d enjoy discussing this with less than his freaking dad. He doesn’t know how the f*ck to respond to this bullsh*t. This is his parent, his only surviving one, so of course he wants him to approve of his growing relationship with Cas…he’s not immune to wanting his dad’s approval. Dean might be strong, but he’s not emotionless. But accepting that Cas is technically his dad’s enemy probably means that John will never be okay with them together.

f*ck.

Dean swallows, that same infuriating lump weighing dry and heavy in his throat.

“Not sure how that’s anyone’s business,” he says, hating how timid his voice sounds now. He pictures his alpha—tousled hair, sinking blue eyes, voice like stone and whiskey. Just the image of him, the thought of him, gives Dean the strength to mumble, “Nobody ‘cept me and Cas.”

John opens his mouth wide, like he’s settling in for a long and well-prepared argument, and part of Dean can’t help but shrink back on instinct. But Bobby claps a hand on his shoulder and says, “Dean’s right, we’re not here to discuss his love life. Why doncha save the pillow talk for your next sleepover?”

Dean raises his eyebrows and exchanges a look with Sam, trying not to show how impressed he is by Bobby’s brush-off. No one talks to John Winchester like that, ‘specially after the Demon War. Almost like he’s reading Dean’s mind, there’s a wave of seriously pissed off alpha vibes coming from his dad’s end of the table, the air between them muddy with unfiltered rage.

“All right, Bobby,” John whispers threateningly, in a tone that’s on a different freaking planet from all right, “if you’re in charge of how I talk to my boys, then go ahead. Be in charge.”

“I ain’t in charge of nothing,” Bobby answers crossly, though part of Dean wants to point out that his elder status does kinda make him in charge…but mentioning this won’t help their cause, so he stays quiet. “But if you’re gonna keep your boys in the dark, how are we supposed to help—”

“I don’t need help—”

“You don’t? Then why’d you have these two bozos on your payroll?” The two silent men stiffen, as if just realizing their involvement might be noticed, and Bobby shoots a slightly apologetic glare at Roy and Walt. “No offense, but we know y’all aren’t just hunting buddies, all right?”

There are hard looks exchanged all around: John to Bobby, John to Roy and Walt, Roy and Walt to Bobby, and so on. Sam looks at Dean in helpless exasperation, as if they’re grownups being forced to eat Thanksgiving at the kids’ table.

“It’s obvious,” Sam mutters, mostly to himself, but when he glances up he has the attention of the whole room. He fixes his eyes on Dean, as if they’re having a private conversation, and continues. “I mean, do they think we’re dumb? Roy and Walt have been chasing down demons.”

Dean hums in agreement. They’ve suspected this for years…it isn’t a new theory by any means, just one they simply haven’t proven yet.

“And not just any demon…” Dean looks his dad straight in the face, hoping he’ll be able to gauge the accuracy of his assumption by John’s reaction alone. “It’s Azazel they’ve been tracking.”

The air around them grows tense, stale. No one has mentioned the demon by name, the one who killed Mary, around John Winchester in…

Well.

A long ass time.

“What’s it to you if they are?” John replies coolly, staring at Sam, Dean, and Bobby squarely. His expression gives nothing away. “What’s it to any of you?”

Sam and Bobby both open their mouths to argue, but Dean gets there first.

“If you’re trying to become packmaster just to force us into another f*cking war, then it means a hell of a lot to all of us,” he growls, taking a step closer to the table and out of Bobby’s reach. John stands up abruptly, the feet of his wooden chair scraping against the concrete floor.

“Who the hell raised you to talk to your father like that?” John demands, shoulders shaking with obvious rage. “It sure as hell wasn’t your mother! She would be ashamed—”

“Funny, I was thinking that’s how she would feel knowing you’re willing to risk the lives of everyone in the pack just to avenge her death!” Sam snaps, elbows posed on his chair, ready to spring to his feet. “Face it, Dad, the only one she’d be ashamed of would be you.”

There’s a blur of movement then, a quick dive from one end of the table as John clutches the front of Sam’s shirt and draws him to his feet. Sam pushes against him roughly and then all Dean can see is liimbs, the shoves becoming more and more violent as the seconds pass by.

“Knock it off!” Dean yells, racing past Walt and Roy and wedging himself between his dad and brother. They’re both snarling now, their alpha posture reaching impressive new heights, but f*ck if Dean’s gonna let them pummel each other just to stroke their egos.

“Bobby—get Sam out of here!”

Sam glares down at Dean in fury, but the omega gives his brother a gentle push towards the elder. “Just...f*ck, Sammy, go sit over there and cool down.”

“Dean—” Sam begins to protest, but Dean shakes his head firmly, giving him a stern look. Sam rolls his eyes, chuckles darkly, and pulls his chair to the opposite end of the room, openly fuming. Dean sets his gaze back to his dad, who’s panting with anger but blinking and breathing, clearly attempting to center himself. Dean drops his hands and sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. He saunters into the kitchen without explanation, and comes back a few minutes later holding a bottle of whiskey and a stack of glasses. During his brief absence, Walt and Roy have somehow hightailed it outta there without even tossing him a goodbye. Huh. John, Bobby, and Sam are sitting at the table again, avoiding each other like direct eye contact might spread a f*cking plague.

“Nobody’s leaving ‘till we play a little game,” Dean announces cheerily, setting his supplies in the center of the table. He flips the first cup, tips a long drag of liquor, and slides the glass in John’s direction. “Truth or drink?”

***

Castiel’s eyes blink hazy in the dark. He moans deep in his chest and rolls over, wheezing like an unruly gust of wind. Dried come flakes irritatingly on his lower abdomen and he needs a shower, a glass of water, a sandwich, a bed…

Instead he’s clutching his erection. Again again again. A steady, guttural whine escapes his lips. It’s been an hour, only an hour, and already six. Six org*sms, some quick and fast, some long and languishing, but all six leaving him tender and aching and full of unfilled want.

“Dean,” he whimpers, and even to his feverish ears, he sounds rather…

Pitiful. He’s pitiful.

He needs his omega with a throbbing need, a craving, a longing so deep it’s practically bottomless.

“Dean,” he whispers again, tears rolling from the corners of his eyes. Why did he ever let his omega leave…

After the seventh time, he rummages around in the dark, finally locating his cell phone on the coffee table. The harsh glow of the light makes him squint, his temples pounding from the sudden glare. He scrolls through his recent call list, hovers over Dean’s number, and thinks very seriously about calling—

But he can’t, no no no, he can’t just use Dean like a sex toy just to get through his rut. His rut. How in the world had this happened? He locks his phone screen and groans, standing up and shuffling to the bookshelf in the hallway. Every step weighs him down, makes him feel sluggish and sweaty and sick, but maybe he can distract himself from all things Dean if he figures out why his rut—dormant now for years—has returned with a vengeance. He has to keep a clear head, has to be better and stronger and more restrained. Dean deserves more than a careless knothead. Dean deserves... Dean….

He’s hard. Again. He closes his eyes, breathes, tries to stay calm. He needs to get lotion soon or he’ll rub himself ragged. He grabs the first promising book off the third row of the bookshelf, Alpha and Omega Biology and Mating, and stumbles into his bedroom. But this…

This was a mistake.

Dean has been sleeping in this bed, has been naked in this bed, has org*smed in this bed, for almost two weeks now. The book slides out of Castiel’s grip and falls on his left foot, but the pain barely registers, because all he can think is mate mate mate and then he’s launching himself onto the mattress, rutting against the rustling sheets, shouting Dean’s name and crying out for relief.

***

John fingers the glass, tilting the amber liquid and watching the gentle roll. When he glances back up, he smirks.

co*ckily.

Good, Dean thinks, maybe I actually have his attention.

“What’ll it be, boys?” John’s voice is airy, breezy, as if he hadn’t almost come to blows with Sam not fifteen minutes ago.

Dean flips through his mounting list of questions, sorting them in his mind like an old-fashioned card catalog.

Finally, he exhales. Time to go for the gold. “What do you know about Azazel that you’re not telling us?”

Everyone in the room stills, frozen, holding a collective breath. Dean doesn’t dare risk a look at his brother, fearful the movement will reveal too much, will show John how long they’ve been debating this very question. Every bone in Dean’s body tells him that John will drink—drink instead of answering, drink and skip the question, as the game goes. But the eldest Winchester takes a long and steady inhale and begins to speak in a calculating voice.

“Chuck told the pack the demons attacked us at random. That we didn’t know why they instigated a war, only that we had to defend ourselves.” Dean nods—that’s the story he was always told. John’s voice is a slow rumble, and as he speaks, he exchanges a solemn glance with Bobby. “But that wasn’t true. Azazel had an agenda. Has an agenda. He wants to…”

“To open the gates of hell,” Bobby finishes gravely. Dean breathes in so sharply, he feels a sudden ache in his chest. How the f*ck is he just now hearing about this?

“That’s impossible,” he says senselessly, because it’s instinct and honestly, what the everloving f*ck is happening?

Sam looks startled too, but he shakes his head at his brother. “Opening the gates is...incredibly difficult, but not impossible. It was ancient were ceremonial magic that forced them closed—”

“And so it’s ancient were ceremonial magic that can bust them open again,” John completes, looking grim.

“But hang on—” Dean points his finger absently, thinking out loud. “If this is all true, then why the f*ck would Azazel stop? He obviously didn’t get what he wanted all those years ago, since opening the gates would usher in some seriously evil sh*t that we would know about. Right?” Bobby’s nod is the only confirmation he needs, so Dean continues. “So what’s with the twelve year hiatus? Dude’s just drinking Mai Tais on the beach or something?”

John and Bob exchange a glance, as if neither of them want to say what’s coming next. Unsurprisingly, it’s Sam who puts two and two together.

“The original ceremony used the blood of two living Novaks,” Sam contemplates quietly. Dean feels cold and shivery the moment Cas is brought back into the equation. “According to legend, the gates were closed by magic and were blood. Opening them would require the same ritual.”

“So…” Dean’s throat has officially dropped into his stomach. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Dean,” Bobby says ruefully, as if he’s surprised the omega hadn’t worked this out years ago, “why do you think Chuck was so adamant about Castiel staying hidden? About them staying separated?”

Chuck and Castiel could never be in the same place at the same time, because…

Because it would be like giving Azazel two of the key ingredients he needed to open the gates and wreak bloody havoc.

Holy sh*t.

“But you’re all forgetting one key f*cking fact,” Dean says, animated from the sudden realization. The group looks at him, interested. “All of Azazel’s demons. They killed Cas’ entire family in cold f*cking blood. His mom, Anna, all his brothers... Why would they kill almost all the Novaks if they needed their blood to open the gates?”

“We’ve considered that,” Bobby explains, hands clasped tightly in his lap, “all we can figure is, the demons were either too stupid or too low on the totem pole to know Azazel’s plan. Or...there was a spy inside his ranks.”

“A second faction?” Sam ponders. “Another group working against Azazel from the inside?”

“A traitor. Someone who double-crossed them.” Dean’s fingernails rake against the glass whiskey bottle, the sound filling up the room. “f*ck. What a f*cking mess.”

“This still doesn’t explain why you want to start another war,” Sam says with newfound heat, gaze settling on John. “Nothing’s changed, except now there’s only one living Novak…so the chances of the gates being opened are even slimmer.”

John appears flustered for the first time, as if Sam has flipped over a card he wasn’t expecting anyone else to be holding. He opens and closes his mouth a half-dozen times, before saying, “I believe I’ve more than answered your first question, Dean.” He reaches across the empty space of the table, and slides the glass full of whiskey in Dean’s direction. The cup slips into the omega’s hand smoothly, cold against his palm.

“Are you planning to mate Castiel?” he asks bluntly. “Because it should be clear by now…you can’t have a family with him. You can’t bring other Novaks into the pack while Azazel is alive. Not without risking the literal gates of hell being opened.”

There it is again—the knot in Dean’s throat. Not the fun kind, either. To stop himself from shaking, he chuckles offhandedly. “Huh. Is that supposed to be a question?” He looks at the smudged fingerprints on the lowball glass. “Sounds more a lecture to me.”

John narrows his eyes. “Not an answer, Dean.”

The omega shrugs his shoulders, tilts back the glass, and swallows the drink in one gulp.

Realistically, he doesn’t even have a reply to John’s question, but he’s sure as hell not gonna hypothesize on his future with Cas with anyone but his alpha. And just like that—he’s desperate to see Cas again, to hold him, to be held by him. There’s sweat on his brow, his legs are shaking, his longing all-consuming. He wonders if his alpha is thinking about him too, or if he’s too busy worrying about the second trial…

Probably the latter. Cas is a busy guy, he’s got a lot more on his mind lately than getting Dean naked…despite how badly Dean wants it.

Wants him.

The game, vigilant as ever, continues its rotation.

“What new information did Walt and Roy bring you today?” Bobby asks, looking directly John. The alpha stares at his friend, stares at the table, stares at the glass.

And then, to Dean’s disappointment, he polishes off his glass.

The game continues without too many other developments, but in a weird way, it feels good to ask questions—to be upfront with each other for once. An hour later the discussion turns back to normal topics, and Dean feels relieved. Sam and John are having a surprisingly interesting conversation about how they both almost fainted after getting married and claiming their mates publicly, but Dean is too distracted to listen, sliding his phone from his pocket. He frowns, examining the empty screen—no texts or calls from Cas.

Weird.

“Don’t you go telling Castiel all of this,” Bobby says quietly, peering over his shoulder in a soundless way that makes Dean jump.

The omega leans his head back and chuckles blankly. “‘Uh, you can’t exactly expect me to keep all this gates-of-hell crap from Cas—”

“Maybe not forever,” Sam interrupts, and who the hell invited him into this conversation anyways? “He should know eventually. But Dean, the second trial is in three days. Do you really think you should burden Cas with all this…” He waves a hand, searching for the terminology.

“Bullsh*t?” Dean offers helpfully.

“Yeah. All this bullsh*t right before he competes?”

At the mention of the packmaster competition, the awkwardness surrounding them seems to resettle. Dean tries not to look at his dad, but he can’t make himself stop.

“Dad knows everything,” he points out.

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Bobby points out gruffly. “Your daddy’s been carrying these secrets around for over a decade.” He peers in John’s direction, a mix of emotions displayed on his face—caution, suspicion, respect. “And I ‘spect he’s got a few more tucked away that he doesn’t feel like sharing with the class.”

As if confirming Bobby’s worst fear, John snakes his hand towards the whiskey, cradles it in his hand, and stands up. “Game’s over, boys,” he announces in a tone that brooks no argument. “You can let yourselves out.”

He shuffles in his muddy work boots towards the back hallway and out of sight. Sam tries to catch Dean’s eyes, likely hoping to debrief from the f*ckload of information they received tonight, but there’s a thought nagging in the back of Dean’s head…one he won’t be able to silence until it comes to the surface.

“Bobby,” he says carefully, and the elder regards him again. “I know we’re not playing the game anymore, so you don’t have to answer this, but…” He bites his lip, thinking. “If you knew Dad might have an actual good reason to start up the Demon War again, why did you and the elders beg Cas to run against him?”

Sam raises his eyebrows, evidently impressed, but Dean just stares a hole at the beta as he waits. Bobby just sighs and rotates his empty glass, maybe wishing John hadn’t snuck off with their closest bottle.

“‘Cause, you idjits,” he says, looking between the brothers, voice dropping to a whisper, “your daddy’s been my friend for over fifty years, okay? But that don’t mean I trust him.”

A few minutes later, after Dean salutes Sam and Bobby a quick goodbye, he ducks into his bedroom and calls Cas. It rings and rings, and the voicemail picks up. The automated voice bounces around in his ear, there’s an intrusively loud beep, and then…

“Uh, hey Cas,” he mumbles, realizing they haven’t done this—left each other voicemails—since they became official. Or...whatever they are. It doesn’t matter. Dean’s not gonna make it awkward or anything.

“Sorry to abandon you in the middle of…” Our hot ass makeout session in the woods? “Family stuff I had to do. But everything’s okay for now, I guess. Call me if you want me to come back over tonight—” Too clingy? “I know I sound like a girl, but it feels weird sleeping alone.” Yeah, majorly f*cking clingy. f*ck. “Uh, anyways, maybe you’re already asleep, which is fine. Totally fine. I mean, why wouldn’t it be fine? It’s not like you had to wait up for me or anything.” What the actual hell is he saying? Jesus Christ. “Anyways, it’s only been a few hours but I already miss you like crazy—”

The bland, monotone voice of a woman interrupts him. Message limit received. To send, press one. To delete, press two.

“Thank f*ck,” he breathes out, realizing that this message makes him sound like a grade A creeper. Why the hell is he being so...needy? So desperate to see Cas? He bites his lip, falls against his cold and empty mattress.

He presses two.

Message deleted.

***

Castiel wakes up with his legs twisted in the sheets, the sun high with mid-afternoon heat, and a frantic cry falling from his lips.

“Oh god,” he pants over and over, “oh god, oh god, Dean, Dean, Dean….”

His grip is tight and fisted, and he works himself over with a dry hand, but it’s no use. He’s not sure he can make himself come anymore—at least, not him alone . He has no clue how much of the night was a dream and how much actually happened, considering how feverish and dizzy he still feels. But if his memory is correct, he passed out in thirty and forty-five minute increments before…before waking himself up by rutting against the mattress, seeking a violent sort of respite from his erection. He keeps stroking himself because he simply can’t help it, the glide of his hand as natural as breathing now, but he keeps hearing...strange noises…

Is that his cell phone ringing? He hears it coming in and out, the singsong melody of wind chimes three, four, five times in an irritating sequence. He needs to get up, to see who’s calling him, but his body is so...heavy...and he’s just so...tired…

He startles awake again, eyes flying open and heart thrumming, but for the first time in over twelve hours, his pseudo-alarm clock isn’t a pounding erection. It’s a knock on his door, hard and persistent, and he groans. Can’t an alpha just suffer his rut in peace?

Through his irritation, though, something else occurs to him. He really, really shouldn’t be around anyone right now. Other alphas would make him feel aggressive and brutal, and he’s dazed enough to latch himself onto any other person who dares cross his threshold. But he only wants Dean, and he nearly whimpers at the internal image of his omega, those gorgeous and full lips, eyes so green they’re mesmerizing, to say nothing of his perky ass or perfect co*ck—

Another missed phone call. More banging on the door. Distantly, Cas hears a loud thud from the front of the house. The living room, the front porch. The sound is like the friction of wood forced against a threshold, a door being kicked off its hinges, and then—

Weighty footsteps. Not a tiptoe or even a jog.

Someone is running.

And then Cas’ bedroom door is being thrown open wide, and the most stunning omega in existence is standing there and staring, chest heaving, mouth parted wide. Eyes locked on Cas.

And those eyes…

They look inquisitive and lustful and concerned.

And undeniably angry.

“Dean,” he whispers.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

“As wolves love lambs, so lovers love their loves.”

—Plato

“What the hell, Cas!” Dean bounds forward, taking a large step, but Castiel forces himself to withdraw, back aligning with the headboard. “You’re in a rut and you didn’t tell me!”

“How did you…” Castiel pulls the sheet closer to him, trying to hide his nakedness, to put a protective layer between them. He shakes his head, attempting to locate his resolve. His omega can’t stay. He can’t stay. He can’t.

But he smells delectable, like sunshine and vibrancy and greenery and sage and home and sex and love and…

He holds his breath.

“It doesn’t matter. Dean, you need to leave.”

“Like hell I do,” Dean snaps, and to Castiel’s amazement, he begins to kick off his shoes. Then unbutton the front of his jeans. Next...slide his jeans off and remove his shirt. In fact, in no time at all, Dean is standing in only his boxers. Though it’s a sight Castiel has seen frequently lately, there’s a ravenous pit in his stomach that wants to consume the omega’s unclothed body.

He’s craving Dean.

Greedily.

“Don’t,” Castiel protests, but it’s rather weak, and his erection has perked up in full and glorious earnest. Dean ignores him and walks closer, tripping over his feet until his knees are dropping on the mattress and he’s crawling towards Castiel, draping his body and lowering himself down. He strips away the sheet until the alpha is lying beneath him, naked. “Won’t...won’t be able to stop myself, Dean…”

“Don’t want you to stop,” Dean answers huskily. His lips are grazing Castiel’s neck and the alpha shivers involuntarily, trying not to think about how many times he’s imagined this same scenario in his mind the past few hours. Dozens of times. Hundreds, maybe. “Want you to f*ck me six ways to Sunday, Cas, knot me up real f*cking good, and then I’m gonna kick your ass for not calling me to come help. Got it?”

There’s distinct omega arousal in the air, not to mention the sugar sweet smell of slick...

“Dean—”

“Cas, for the love of god, if you don’t shut the hell up I’m gonna make you—”

“But—”

Dean’s lips press against Castiel’s furiously, prying his clamped lips apart with equal desire and hostility, and something inside Castiel…

Snaps.

He growls viciously, hands digging into Dean’s sides with unrepenting vigor, and he flips their positioning, pinning the omega beneath him. He assaults Dean’s mouth with his tongue, his teeth, unrelenting and impatient, not waiting for either of them to catch a proper breath. They grind together in such a hurried rhythm that Castiel feels hysterical, and he pulls Dean’s hardening co*ck into his hand, fondling it roughly and without prelude. Dean throws his head against the pillow and Castiel takes the opportunity to scent his omega fully, licking a slow, flat tongue against the slope of his muscular neck.

“Mine,” he rumbles, the taste of his omega like a drug that makes him feel dizzy and reckless and strong. Dean whines in response, bucking his hips up to get more friction as his co*ck slides in and out of Castiel’s hand. Instead the alpha loosens his grip. He slips Dean’s boxers to his knees and then clean off his body, throwing the offensive garment into the opposite corner. He can fully scent the slick now, like a hidden vault of liquid gold between his omega’s ass cheeks, and he wants it.

He wants every last drop.

“On your knees.”

Dean cracks his eyes open, pupils blown wide, and complies instantly. Castiel sits on his haunches and watches as his omega moves, rubbing his dick absently, his heart pounding. Dean is the absolute vision of sex, ass elevated in the air, dick bobbing low beneath, the prominent dip of his back as he presents himself fully for his alpha.

His alpha.

Before he even realizes it he’s kissing Dean’s cheeks, grabbing and groping and kneading, and Dean groans and rocks back against him. Castiel manhandles him until they’re both flat on their stomachs, Castiel’s ankles dangling off the bed and Dean’s bowlegs parted wide, and he dips his tongue against the omega with wet and wild strokes, from hole to perineum, drinking in his slick. Dean thrashes and whines and it tastes so good, so unbelievably good, that Castiel can’t believe he ever denied himself this. He separates Dean’s cheeks with firm, unyielding hands and stares at his gorgeously leaking hole, so pink and sweet and dripping. The brush of his tongue is steady and automatic and he digs deeper, spearing the tip of his tongue in and out, in and out, until Dean is whining and trembling, hands pushed against the headboard.

“Cas,” Dean whimpers, words muddled with moans and groans and sighs, “Cas, ah, Cas, please, please give your knot. Give me your knot, alpha, I need it, f*ck, Cas, I need you…”

Dean is babbling and shaking and Castiel is transfixed by the leaky, gaping hole in front of him. He adds a pointer finger to his sliding tongue, but Dean pushes back in frustration. “I can take it, Cas, f*ck, give me your co*ck. Please Cas, please…”

“Can’t hurt you,” Castiel grits outs, barely audible, but Dean just growls in a frustration and Cas suddenly can’t deny his omega anything. He reaches around on Dean’s sides and flips him again, bringing his knees up until they’re parallel with the alpha’s hips. He slathers himself up with Dean’s slick and lines up his incredibly erect co*ck, rubbing it in firm circles against the inviting entrance. In the back of his mind he knows they should be going more slowly, knows Dean likely requires more prep, but his omega is writhing beneath him and begging for Castiel’s knot and the alpha is blinded by lust when he slides in all at once, bottoming out. Dean howls from the impact, expletives falling from shouting lips.

“f*ck, Cas, so full, so big, f*ck…” Dean is panting, calves quivering, and Castiel reaches down to kiss those plump and glistening lips in an effort to soothe. He nips and licks and waits for Dean to adjust, and when his omega breaks the kisses and bucks his hips up in the air, Castiel knows it’s finally time.

He rears back and slams in, again and again with a relentless sort of thrust, and their yells echo one other better than any p*rnographic film Castiel has ever seen.

“So good for me, Dean. So tight and wet and all mine,” Castiel groans, blathering on but unable to stop himself. “All mine.”

“All yours,” Dean whispers in agreement, voice raised higher and higher and Castiel adjusts his aim, shifting Dean’s knees until his movements are brushing… “Oh f*ck! Oh f*ck, Cas! Right there! Right f*cking there!”

He nails Dean’s prostate without remorse, every motion fast and feverish. The only sounds in the room are the slap of skin on skin, the slip of slick entering and exiting Dean’s hole, their gasping breaths and moans as Castiel drives himself in deeper and deeper. The sensations are amazing, unbelievable, addicting. He’s like a man possessed, a machine operating on autopilot, and he thinks he might have even blacked out for a moment…because when he blinks again, coming to full consciousness, Dean is clenching around him, his hole is impossibly tight and they’re both crying out, Castiel’s knot catching on the rim as Dean comes with a flurry of white hot come.

Castiel shouts and follows, experiencing the most intense org*sms of his life as he pumps Dean full, coming for so long that he slumps down and exhales, feeling wobbly and drained. They’re linked together for an immeasurable amount of time waiting for Cas’ knot to gradually unswell, so they brush lips and kiss gently, never speaking but holding each other and breathing heavily, the disbelief of having sex that intense painted clearly on both of their faces.

After almost an hour, a handful of excess org*sms forced between them, Cas pulls out feeling more clear-headed than he has in almost twenty-four hours.

That, of course, is when the guilt sets in.

“Dean, I’m…” He clears his throat, but talking feels strained. He’s so thirsty. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” Dean silences him, his voice a hoarse whisper. He’s wincing, and to Castiel’s utter shame, it’s almost certainly from the rough sex. “Shower, then food, then talking.”

“Can we talk while we shower?” Cas asks, unable to keep the hope out of his voice. Dean stands and chuckles, shaking his head and walking towards the bathroom with an outlandish waddle.

“Yeah, ‘course, but…” He rustles behind the curtain and the stream of water clicks on. “Did you not enjoy that?”

He turns back while the water heats up, looking…almost insecure. Castiel couldn’t hide his astonishment even if he tried, so he doesn’t, eyebrows raised and panic in his voice.

“Of course I did,” he insists, almost pleads. “That was…” He crosses the threshold of the bathroom door and cups Dean’s elbow, a light and caring touch. “That was the most erotic experience of my life.”

Dean blushes and looks down, but when he glances back up, he’s grinning.

“Ditto,” he says, winking, some of his standard bravado seeming to return.

“It wasn’t—” Castiel doesn’t know how to tactfully share his concern, so he decides honesty is the best option. “Too rough?”

“From anyone but you, maybe,” Dean admits, “but it was you, and I asked for it. I trust you and I f*cking loved it, so…” He angles his head towards the running shower and says, “Better hop in ‘fore it gets cold.”

Castiel nods and kisses the shell of his ear, whispering suggestively, “I promise, our first time after my rut ends will be...different. Slower. I want to take my time with you, Dean. Taking you apart, worshipping your body, opening you up for me…”

Dean seems to be in favor of this future plan, yanking Castiel’s chin in his direction and laying a passionate and sloppy kiss on his lips. The alpha buzzes, sated and content for the first time in a long time, and pulls back the shower curtain.

He takes his time washing Dean, layering the soap onto a washcloth, massaging his back and leaving silky kisses against his skin. He uses the soft caress of his fingers to rinse away the come and slick from his omega’s more tender spots, though the longer he seems to pay attention to Dean’s freshly washed hole, the more interested his dick becomes with the otherwise practical activity. He furrows his co*ckhead against Dean’s crack on instinct, but the omega turns around apologetically.

“Gimme a minute to recover, babe,” he requests, and though the rejection makes Castiel’s alpha side feel deflated, the affection in his voice makes Castiel the man feel warm and tingly all over. In the end, Dean drops to his knees and wraps his lips around the alpha’s co*ck, the spray overhead making water drip from the corners of his mouth. He twirls a skilled tongue around the slit and head and Castiel moans and shakes, but fights against his instincts, mumbling, “You...you don’t have to…”

Dean pops off obscenely and begins to jack Castiel’s co*ck with unhurried strokes. “I knew what I signed up for the moment I came here and scented you,” Dean admits with a small grin. “Let me make you feel good, Cas.”

Dean does just that. He does that again and again and again. In the bedroom, and then again, in the hallway. Castiel barely makes it halfway through his sandwich before Dean is stroking him roughly through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. What Castiel really wants is his omega’s sweet slick hole stretched around his co*ck, and they both know it, but he tries to rein himself in. He doesn’t want to pressure Dean for more before he’s had time to recover.

The other man looks at him sheepishly at the broken-in front door, but wedges a kitchen chair to keep it firmly closed, and promises to fix it later this week.

“Next time, I’ll make you a key and save you the trouble,” Castiel says lightly, though not at all joking. While he’s cleaning himself up with tissues, Dean bends over and locates Castiel’s cellphone, forgotten on the coffee table.

“Huh,” he says, holding up the phone as if it’s a prize he’s been searching for, “guess you didn’t get any of my calls, then?”

Castiel wads up the mess and pulls his loose pants back around his hips…though for how long, he can’t say. If he were alone he would just stay unclothed all day, but he’s not sure having Dean accidentally brush up against him would be very…advantageous for either of them.

“I heard it ringing, but I was passed out a lot,” Castiel says quietly. “I didn’t want to keep it nearby in case I called you.”

Dean wrinkles his forehead, looking confused and somewhat offended. “I mean…uh, okay. I guess.”

He sits down on the couch, expression sullen, and Castiel follows him and takes a nearby seat. “I didn’t want to put you in this position,” Castiel explains, wondering why Dean needs him to say it. “It’s a lot to ask someone.”

“I’m not just ‘someone,’” Dean says, almost vehemently. “I’m your...boyfriend. Right?”

Part of Castiel’s misperceptions begin to realign, his puzzlement settling into something softer, clearer.

“Right,” he agrees gently, hooking a subtle hand on Dean’s chin. “But you’re much more than that, if I’m being honest.”

Dean seems to visibly relax, sinking into the couch. When he speaks, though, his voice is uncharacteristically small. “So, you avoiding me wasn’t about you...not...wanting me?”

Castiel doesn’t mean to, doesn’t know why his body reacts this way, but—

He laughs.

“Dean, I ambushed you in the woods,” he points out. “Being without you all night almost killed me. Not to mention that I’m fairly certainly our…reunion…is what triggered my rut.”

The omega seems rather dumbfounded by that bit of news, and Castiel clears his throat in embarrassment and glances away.

“Really?”

Castiel closes his eyes shut, wondering how much of this he wants to get into right now.

“Yes. I haven’t had a rut since I was nineteen. It seems the longer I spent away from the pack, away from…” You. My love, my soulmate, my mate. “Everyone, the weaker my wolf aspects became.”

“That explains the book,” Dean mutters, almost to himself, and Cas gazes at him curiously. “That textbook on biology or whatever? On your bedroom floor? Nearly tripped on it trying to get to you.”

“Oh,” Castiel mumbles dumbly, having already forgotten about his hopes for research the moment he scented Dean on his bedsheets. Speaking of…

He leans in closer, nuzzling the soft patch of skin behind Dean’s ear, and breathes in and out. The scent is soothing and arousing and maddening all at the same time, and his omega shivers under the attention. He reaches a deft hand to the front of Castiel’s sweatpants, palming against the alpha’s growing erection.

“Might be outta my mind, but ’m ready for you, alpha,” Dean croaks, and Cas can’t tell if his voice is weak from exhaustion or emotion or arousal. Maybe all three. “But this time…can I…?”

“Anything,” Castiel promises, easy as breathing.

“I’m gonna ride you, Cas.”

And Dean Winchester, an omega true to his word…

Does.

***

Dean wakes with a hand on his stomach, lips gazing the back of his neck, and a very…

Prominent erection rubbing against his ass crack.

Really f*cking suggestively.

“Mmm,” he sighs contentedly, leaning into it further. “Mornin’, cowboy.”

It’s funny how quickly this has become his new normal—being woken up with sex, only leaving bed for food and showers but existing in a nest of blankets and pillows otherwise.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas replies, rather formally, which strikes Dean as funny since the head of his co*ck is currently leaving a trail of precome on Dean’s asscheek.

Any sign of humor takes an immediate exit, though, when Cas’ hand wanders from Dean’s lower abdomen to the soft nest of his pubic hair, kisses becoming firmer and more intentional as the omega’s co*ck begins to stiffen in the other man’s hand. Dean has wondered lately if maybe his own heat has been triggered somehow, even though it’s months off schedule, because f*ck, his co*ck never recovers this f*cking fast. He’s been getting off about half the time Cas does, which is still a f*ckload of org*sms in a short amount of time, maybe…twelve? Fifteen? He’s honestly lost count. He doesn’t even know what day it is at this point, hasn’t touched his phone since he kicked down Castiel’s front door. Whenever that was.

“I had a dream about you,” Cas confesses softly, mouth now working over the shell of Dean’s ear, and the omega shivers. He’s so distracted he can’t even bring himself to form a coherent thought or make a sarcastic joke, so he just hums in response and waits for Castiel to continue.

“Do you remember the field where we used to go? Right before I left?” It’s not a sexy question, not quite as dirty as Dean had expected, but it’s something even better.

Intimate.

Nostalgic.

Heavy with shared history.

Again, he stays silent apart from a buzz of recognition in the back of his throat. He doesn’t trust himself to speak.

“Laying beside you on a blanket, looking up at the stars, but never touching you…” His hand drops Dean’s dick in favor of caressing his stomach, his arms, his chest, in the softest sweep of fingers the omega has ever felt. It’s tender and loving and Dean shivers and sighs, both turned on and relaxed. “For years after that, I dreamed of us in that field. Of turning you on your side just like this, kissing every inch of your body, and finally having my way with you.”

As if to demonstrate his point, he rubs his erect co*ck more pointedly against Dean’s hole, but not entering, and the omega whines from the anticipation of it all. In this position, being the little spoon and given all the attention, he can’t do much but lay on his side…waiting for Castiel’s lips and hands and co*ck.

Totally at his mercy.

“Please,” he whispers, knowing Cas will know what he means.

“Do you want it, Dean?” The alpha’s co*ck is sliding around in Dean’s slick, which has been ramped up to a teeming, borderline gush, and Dean knows Castiel must be approaching the end of his rut. How else could he have the patience to tease Dean like this? “Did you want it then?”

“Yes,” Dean rasps, wishing he had a glass of water nearby, but not nearly strong enough to pull himself away from this. “Wanted you then and want you now, alpha, please.”

“Not sure I believe you, Dean,” Castiel says, expertly ribbing him, a smirk obvious in his tone. “I might need some convincing.”

Dean is disgruntled and impatient, yet completely turned on by Castiel’s delay. He could just keep begging for it and the alpha would eventually give in…but why not have a little fun with it instead? Maybe even give Cas a taste of his own medicine?

“Wanted you that night. My dick was hard the whole time, just having you so close.” He shuts his eyes, straining for details. “You know I was still a virgin, right? Only fifteen, untouched, waiting for you. Waiting for my alpha to claim me. I jerked off twice that night, wishing it was your hand instead.”

Castiel seems to tense up, rubbing his co*ck against Dean with renewed vigor, hands gripping Dean firmly in the middle.

“You didn’t end up being my first, ‘cause you left,” he mumbles, unable to keep some of the melancholy out of his tone. There had been too many hot human girls at his high school, and his hormones hadn’t stopped spinning whenever his best friend-slash-crush left town. It had been a long ass road, getting them here. But worth every hardship and pain.

“But you wanna know something? You’re the only alpha I’ve ever had, Cas. The only alpha to enter me—” He hurls himself backwards without warning and then both moan…the tip of Castiel’s co*ck has managed to finally enter, all wet from slick and precome, tight and hot and Dean wants more of it. “The only alpha to f*ck me so f*cking good, to make me come back to back with your huge, alpha knot.”

Castiel’s hips are moving now and his dick is sinking in deeper, inch by delicious f*cking inch. Dean is so open and ready for it, so worked over from their f*ck fest that having a co*ck in him feels like the status quo.

“I’m the only alpha who will ever have you,” Castiel says posessively, voice all gravel and rumbles, and Dean is suddenly aware that he hasn’t spoken in a few minutes. He needs his alpha’s voice to keep going, needs to hear him shouting as he comes. “You’re mine. Tell me, Dean, please.”

“I’m yours,” Dean agrees instantly, not sure how that’s even a question at this point. “And you’re mine,” he adds in, because equality is a thing and he’s not some subservient omega. When the time comes, he’s gonna mark his claim on every f*cking inch of his alpha’s naked body, whether Cas likes it or not. But Dean has a feeling he’ll like it.

A lot.

“Now move, Cas.” Dean is prepared to do more pleading, to ramp up his alpha even more with shameless dirty talk, but thank f*ck it doesn’t seem to be necessary. Cas has only just bottomed out when he begins moving, hips thrusting with skilled rhythm, and the omega whines from the burn of it. Dean hadn’t been lying earlier—he had fooled around with guys before, but never anal, and this rut cycle thing has undoubtedly wrecked his hole. He might be walking funny for a week and avoiding uncushioned seats, and he might even catch some hell for it if his friends notice, but it’s been beyond worth it. He’s not sure if it’s the anal component, the alpha component, or the Cas component, but it’s the best goddamn sex of his life.

The discomfort turns to pleasure quickly, as it always does with Cas, and then he’s clasping his dick at the tip and trying to stave off his org*sm. But his alpha smells amazing, scented like chocolate and warm as fire and musky with sex. His opened mouth is panting into Dean’s ear as he thrusts, and it’s making Dean feel dizzy and breathless, heart racing as he tries to match Cas’ breathing. The slippery sounds of his co*ck enclosing itself while his hips buck, inside of him and bringing them both unbelievable pleasure, and Dean has sudden image of something else being inside of him—

Maybe he really is in heat, or maybe Cas’ rut has rubbed of on him, but Dean has to clamp his lips shut so he won’t starting begging for Cas’ come to shoot inside him, to travel deep inside his tight channel and stay there indefinitely, until in no time at all he’s…

“Cas,” he whimpers out, trying to warn his alpha, but it’s no use. He comes explosively, all over his hand and the sheets, and then the alpha’s knot is swelling and he’s pumping him full. It’s a newly familiar and still thrilling sensation, being stuffed with a knot, and Dean tries not to think about the come filling him, about satiated and happy he feels. “f*ck, that was…”

He doesn’t bother trying to find the word for it.

There isn’t one.

“Yeah,” Castiel mumbles, sounding dazed. His lips renew their ministrations and cover Dean’s neck and shoulders in kisses. “You’re amazing, Dean.”

“Not so bad yourself,” he replies, trying to sound cheeky and flirty but he’s been too thoroughly f*cked, so it comes out more earnest and sincere. They wait out Castiel’s knot, though the time frame seems to vary. Dean would never admit it, unless maybe there’s blackmail involved, but the quiet moment afterwards when they hold each other, whisper and kiss without any goal in mind…

Well. It’s kinda his favorite part.

“Can I ask you something?” Cas says, almost inaudibly.

Dean rolls his eyes playfully, though his alpha can’t see the gesture from behind. “Dude, you’re still in me.Pretty sure you can ask whatever.”

“You…” Cas hesitates, then plows forward. “You really never had an alpha before this?”

The question catches Dean off-guard, and he blushes a little, remembering all the dirty things he said a few minutes ago.

“Nope,” he says, almost proudly, then reminds himself there was one guy… “I did start hooking up with this one alpha once, but he ended up being an asshole, so his nose met my fist pretty early on.”

Behind him, he feels Cas’ hands curl into him protectively, tense and overwrought. “What happened?”

Dean clears his throat, embarrassed. “It’s stupid.”

“Not to me.” Cas reassures him with another kiss, this one long and pointed, the kind that bring about hickeys. Hm, that’s a thought. Covering up his alpha with hickeys…

“I had just sent off one of your postcards, number seven I think, and uh…I was feeling sorry for myself and needed a distraction. So I tried out a new bar, a fancy one downtown. Dick bought me a few drinks. He was a corporate guy, all suited up. Really rich, not that I give two sh*ts about that, but it made me feel better taking all the free drinks.” He sighs, not enjoying this particular memory, especially when he has something so much better now. “We decided to get outta there. Made out some and were walking towards Baby when he kept saying he was gonna bend me over the hood for everyone to watch. I thought it was just dirty talk, but then he actually did it, even after I told him f*cking no.” He takes a deep breath and continues. “He actually managed to get a finger in, all dry and sudden, it hurt like hell. But I pushed him off and punched the sh*t out of him.”

Castiel is frozen behind him, breathing uneven, fingers rubbing circles against Dean’s sternum. “Then you got away?”

“f*ck yeah I did. I know horny alphas are supposed to be beefed-up or whatever, but this guy was just a paper pusher. And I’m kinda badass, if you haven’t noticed.” He’s hoping his last comment will make Cas chuckle, ease a little of the tension, but the alpha’s tone is just as strained when he speaks again.

“Have you ever seen him again?” he grits out.

“Nah. I only went there ‘cause the bar’s name is Gaelic, Deoch or some sh*t, which usually means it was were-friendly. But it wasn’t my scene.” He was also nervous about running into Dick again, but he decides not to mention that.

“Good,” Castiel says resolutely, lips behind Dean’s ear and tickling him. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Dean.”

“S’okay, Cas.” He wants to recover the light, dreamlike sex haze from earlier, but Dean’s story has put a clear damper on the mood. He’s curious about Cas’ own sexual history, if he’s been with an omega before or if he ever dated anyone seriously. Maybe even that pretentious f*ck Balthazar, who probably frequents bars like Deoch on a regular basis. Or that needy brunette Hannah, who was basically tripping over herself to suck Cas’ co*ck right there in the paint aisle. Well, he thinks smugly, this hot as hell alpha painter man is spoken for. Better luck next time, assholes!

It could be the tension from the story or the fact that Cas’ rut is tampering off, but the alpha’s dick slides out in record time, leaving Dean’s insides slimy and gross. He falls against the pillow and grips it, ignoring the empty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s debating on taking a quick shower versus heating up a frozen pizza, when he hears the front door crack open.

He rolls over in bed, where Cas is wiping himself clean with a wad of tissues. “Who…” He tilts his head, trying to scent the air, but it’s too far away for his out-of-practice nose.

Dean, however, could recognize that scent blindfolded.

“Sam,” he says, standing up and groaning. f*ck, he’s not gonna bottom after this for…well, at least a day or two. Maybe a week if he can resist. He grabs a pair of Cas’ discarded sweatpants, dusty and wrinkled from the floor, and slips them on. A fresh outfit would be better, but he’s gonna smell like rut sex no matter what, so it’s not really worth the effort. “I’ll get rid of ‘im.”

As soon as he enters the hallway, it’s a straight shot down and into the rest of the cabin. He can see his brother leaned against the kitchen counter, holding a brown paper sack and looking worried.

“Little preoccupied here, Sammy,” Dean says, by way of greeting, and Sam narrows his eyes.

“I can see…and smell…that,” he answers, grimacing. He pulls two small vials from the sack: one tall and clear, the other smaller and starkly white. Both are clinical and brand-new. “C’mon, playtime’s over. We don’t have much time to get Cas ready.”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Get him ready for…?”

Sam’s face is incredulous, even outraged. “You’re kidding, right? The second trial, Dean. It’s in two hours.”

The omega feels like an anvil has been dropped into the deepest pit of his stomach. “The…uh…” How the f*ck could he have forgotten? “Yeah, ‘course.”

Sam looks skeptical, but seems too focused to press the issue. “Yeah, it’s today at four o’clock. I need Cas to drink this—” He puts the tallest vial in Dean’s open palm. Dean’s opening his mouth to protest using any potions, but Sam seems to anticipate this, cutting him off and explaining, “It’s medicine that Madison picked it up from the hospital. It’ll repress the rest of his rut.”

Dean exhales and nods dully, trying to keep his mind focused on the conversation at hand because what the everloving f*ck. They only have two hours?

“This one’s for you,” Sam says, putting the smaller bottle in his palm. “It’s…uh, birth control. The after-sex variety.”

“What?” Dean demands, eyeballs practically rolling into the back of his skull. “What the f*ck?”

‘It’s a preventive measure,” Sam says quickly, dropping his voice down low. “Or have you already forgotten about what Dad said? About the Novaks and their blood and the danger Cas is in?”

Dean’s whole body goes rigid, and he grips the bottle like he might smash it with his bare hand. “No,” he says angrily. “In what f*cking world would have I forgotten that?”

He drops it on the counter, the sound of the glass hard and clinking. “But I’m not in heat, not that it’s any of your f*cking business by the way. So I can’t get…”

“That’s not true,” Sam says definitively, though more gently than before. “It’s rarer, but there are medical accounts of true mates who have successfully gotten pregnant outside of a heat cycle. Especially during a rut, when sex drive is at its highest.”

“Cas and I aren’t…” he begins to argue, but stops short, biting his lip. He doesn’t actually know if they’re true mates or not, but the way they can occasionally communicate telepathically is—suspicious.

“I won’t make you,” Sam says softly, genuinely, “and I won’t judge you either way. But I couldn’t live with myself if I put you or Cas in danger by not at least offering.”

Dean would have never wanted a mate and pups, or to even settle down the human way, if his best friend hadn’t returned home. He would’ve just stayed a bachelor, he knows it. He only wants those things now ‘cause they’re possible with Cas.

If his alpha can survive the second trial, of course, happening in…less than two hours…

“Fine,” Dean snaps. “We’ll take our medicine, doc. But I need to get back to him.”

Sam nods solemnly, looking like he wants to say much more but is stopping himself. “We’ll meet you there.”

As soon as the front door shuts—well, as much as it can shut after Dean broke it open, sh*t, he really needs to fix that—he runs down the hallway to tell his boyfriend to get his ass out of bed. Castiel looks just as deer-in-the-headlights as Dean about the trial being today, but the omega tries to cast away his own anxiety and apprehension about the whole thing by soothing Cas.

“I should’ve spent these last days preparing,” Castiel says, flooded now with panic, “instead I’ve been…”

Having a lot of amazing sex is implied but unspoken.

Dean cups his alpha’s chin and stares into his eyes—hard.

“You couldn’t help it,” he reasons firmly. “You did nothing wrong, Cas. If anything, this is a good thing. Like taking a break before the big exam. It’ll make you think clearer about what you’re up against.” Dean has no idea if any of that is f*cking true, but he prays it is with all his goddamn soul.

“Now here, drink this.” He passes the tallest vial to the alpha, who looks at it curiously. “From Sam, apparently it’ll dry up the rest of your rut. Then we’ll shower, and eat, and…”

“I’ll face an immensely dangerous, life or death battle,” Cas deadpans, uncorking the bottle and tipping it back. Dean flushes in annoyance but nods, knowing he needs to hold it together, needs to be strong today.

“What’s that one for?” Cas asks, almost an offhand comment, eyeing the small bottle in Dean’s hand.

“It’s…uh…” The amount of things Dean can’t tell his alpha is really starting to mount up, but he can’t exactly explain that he’s holding an abortion-in-a-bottle, even though he does want to carry Cas’ pups one day, but he can’t right now without fear that their kids might be hunted down and killed in order to open the gates of hell.

f*ck. Their lives are really f*cking complicated.

He can’t say these things, not now anyways, not right before he watches the man he loves go risk his life.

Again.

“It’s an anti-heat thing,” he lies, feeling nauseous, and promises himself to tell Cas the truth the minute this is over. “Just in case I’m triggered like you were.”

“Oh.” Castiel nods sympathetically, leans in and kisses his forehead, squeezing his wrist. “Very thoughtful of Sam.” Then he wanders into the bathroom, stripping down and turning on the shower. Dean drinks the contents of the vial before he can think too much about it, before he can wonder or worry or talk himself out of it.

And then he joins his alpha in the shower, washing him and rinsing him clean. Cas must assume the tears in his eyes are nerves for the second trial, and when he holds Dean’s face between his hands and whispers, “I am so lucky to have you,” Dean buries his cry into his alpha’s neck, unable to look him in the eye. Rationally he knows the chances of him actually carrying a child right now are slim, but he can’t help mourning what could have been, can’t suppress a surge of frustration that their life together is being orchestrated in this way. Part of him yearns to tell Cas everything right this second, to unburden himself fully; but the other, less selfish and more empathetic side, knows this his burden to carry.

For today, at least.

They dry off and dress quietly, making quick work of the frozen pizza Dean’s been daydreaming about eating for over an hour. With ten minutes to spare, they leave the cabin for the first time in days…walking hand in hand into certain danger.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

“In the calm, deep waters of the mind, the wolf waits.”

— F.T. McKinstry

The first thing Castiel notices is the dagger. It’s thick and sharp, pointed like the jagged edge of a canine tooth, and looks incredibly sinister…even in Rowena’s petite clutch.

“What a gorgeous day,” she says conversationally, rays of warm sun shining through her hair, and she fans herself with exaggeration. The reflective surface of the knife glints in the brightness, and Castiel closes his eyes, wondering if she’s using blood magic for today's trial. From a few yards away Dean glares at her, and it’s enough to make the alpha smile despite the current circ*mstance. He can practically hear his omega now—is she really making small talk about the f*cking weather while holding a knife?

“C’m’here, pets,” she chirps, ushering the two vying alphas closer to the center. Like the first trial, the rest of the pack has formed a misshaped circle, with the elders observing from a closer distance. With her empty hand—the one not holding a knife—the tiny and commanding witch indicates a patch of grass at her feet.

“Take a knee,” she instructs happily, as if she’s enjoying this part, and Castiel doesn’t even need to glance at his boyfriend to know that if looks could kill…

Castiel falls to his knees alongside John, absurdly thinking that he should’ve worn a different pair of jeans, because what if he gets grass stains on his favorites? The thought is so outrageously normal that it calms him. He’ll be okay. He and his grass-stained jeans are going to be okay.

They have to be.

“I have consulted with the Spirits,” Rowena announces, as if they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes watching her whisper and grind over her mortar and pestle, “and they have chosen your second task.”

Castiel breathes in and out, doing his best to push aside every scent—every other alpha and beta and omega in the vicinity, even the distinct whiff of soil and grass and fresh air. He only needs one scent to keep him steady, one aroma to spread calm through the tight center of his chest.

Sage. It’s sweeter, still invigorating but more indulgent now, their combined scent reminiscent of a mint chocolate candy. But it’s still there, the soothing clarity of Dean, and the alpha exhales.

He’ll win this. And if he doesn’t win, he’ll at least survive it.

Because he has someone waiting for him.

“Today’s challenge is the Mhallachd nèamh,” Rowena declares, and a sweeping murmur flows through the spectating crowd. Castiel feels the first peak of anxiety course through him—Sam was right. He should’ve been practicing his Gaelic the past few weeks, because he has no clue why that phrase has significance.

“The Curse of Heaven,” Rowena translates finally, as if reading Castiel’s thoughts, and he tilts his head, trying to figure out how something like Heaven could be anything but good. He had been raised religiously—though with plenty of were lore and nature worship woven in—and has always had positive feelings about the possibility of the afterlife.

How could Heaven be a curse?

“Each competitor will be ushered forth into the afterlife through the plunging of this ceremonial blade, and to regain entrance back into the land of the living, must combat their way through the temptations of Heaven,” Rowena says crisply, easily, as if she hadn’t just told Castiel that she’s about to stab him to death.

The alpha feels cold, like the cloud coverage in the sky has gathered and moved right above his head. He’s about to…

Die.

Truly and properly.

And he’ll only come back to life if he can fight his way through Heaven.

John’s complexion has turned sweaty and gray. Castiel is utterly dumbfounded. There’s commotion in the corner of his eye, the sound of shouts and obvious upheaval, and he knows without even glancing up who’s causing the turmoil.

“Dean,” he says evenly, with much more composure than he feels, “it’ll be okay.”

Dean is being gripped backwards by Sam, whose long arms wrap around both sides of his brother’s shoulders. The omega doesn’t look worried yet, only pissed off—channeling all his concern into anger for Rowena, Castiel figures—and he snarls in protest.

“Like hell, Cas!” Dean argues, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It’s one thing to fight for your life from a monster…it’s another for you to be actually f*cking dead.”

“There’s no way around it,” John says tightly, looking a bit seasick even though they’re firmly on land. “You can’t interfere, Dean.”

“He’s right,” Castiel agrees, feeling like he’s fighting back bile, then lamely repeats, “it’ll be okay.”

Rowena steps closer to them, chanting offhandedly in a language that sounds more like Celtic than Gaelic, and puts her hand on John’s shoulder. The blade hovers just outside Castiel’s line of vision and he’s not sure he’s ever felt a stronger urge to flee, to withdraw his bid for packmaster, to let John be the leader and reignite a war.

But he can’t be a coward, not now and not here, in the ancestral land where his family has lived for centuries. Not with his omega watching. His eyes flash to Dean, trying with concentration to channel all his love and affection into the stare, erasing all the fear and uncertainty with something more palatable. Dean, for his part, tries to reciprocate, but the frown lines in the corners of his eyes are undeniable. His gaze flashes between Castiel and John, torn between love and duty, desire and responsibility.

“How will we escape?” John asks Rowena coarsely, his throat like a rumble. “What will we see?”

“No idea, dearie,” Rowena answers nonchalantly. “All I know is, you’ll be well and proper dead, ‘m fraid, though this spell can bring you back. Your soul will be able to return to your physical body, if you overcome the challenges of the trial.”

That’s a very, very big if.

John swallows, and surprisingly, shoots a melancholy look in Castiel’s direction. They stare at each other for a long moment, as if daring the other to back out, to call the whole thing off. They both open and close their mouths, unspoken words heavy between them.

In the end, neither speaks.

John nods at Rowena, fixes his gaze back straight ahead, and closes his eyes. Her chanting increases, an aura of purple magic swirling around John’s neck, and eyes wide with purpose, she yanks his head to the side and swipes her knife across, breaking the skin with all her might.

Castiel can’t help it.

He shudders, suppresses a choke, and flinches.

John sputters and convulses for a few moments, then falls unconscious. The cut was deep and penetrating, the witch evidently no stranger to violence, and in less than a minute his body is totally immobile, horizontal and lifeless.

John Winchester is dead.

There’s blood on him, and lots of it—his neck, the front of his shirt, the grass, the knife, Rowena’s hand…

Said knife and said hand are reaching now, this time for Castiel. The alpha wonders if his heart can actually burst from panic and distress, from sheer anticipation and trepidation, but forces himself to stay rooted in the spot. John’s soul is already fighting, already in the trial—there’s no stopping this now. Castiel has to see this through.

And he has to make it back alive.

The atmosphere in the crowd is different now, less like a sporting event and more like a public execution, silent and dense with horror. Castiel’s hands are shaking at his sides, but he curls them into fists. As much as he wants to look at Dean—just in case this is goodbye—he can’t risk, can’t imagine a scenario where he makes his lover stare into his eyes as his throat is cut. So heregards the sky instead, imagining what Heaven will be like, as Rowena’s fingers tug into his hair, bearing his throat to her blade.

Then there’s only the cold surface the knife as it slashes across, and he releases a held breath, blood dripping down with the density of a fallen curtain. Absurdly, he tries to mop it up with his hands, but his eyes are closing on instinct and he plummets towards the earth, shoulders slumped and body trembling. Strangely he feels very little pain, only an uncomfortable wetness and vague sense of alarm, and he’s wondering if Rowena’s cut wasn’t actually fatal whenever he feels frigid immobility weighing down his limbs. Then he’s no longer moving, no longer thinking or blinking or breathing, he’s—

He breathes again.

He’s standing at the edge of the lake.

“C’mon, Cas!” Dean calls cheerfully from the water, grinning. “Nobody likes a lurker, dude.”

They’re in the woods and Dean is young, incredibly so, a teenager with skin spotless and tight and tan. Castiel’s hands fumble to his neck, because something is incredibly wrong, something is very, very…

“Don’t you remember, Winchester?” Gabriel whizzes past him, wearing tinted aviator sunglasses. “My sweet baby bro can’t swim.”

“Can too,” Castiel argues childishly, though he’s suddenly thrilled to see his annoying older brother…and he doesn’t know why. His voice sounds—different. Still his, but not quite as deep, which is unnerving.

Maybe he’s sick? Is that why he feels so off-kilter? He looks down and examines himself, shirtless in his own trunks: his biceps are small, his stomach infinitely flat, every inch of his skin golden from sun. His body feels light as air and full of boundless energy, and he has the impulse to shift, to run miles and miles into the distance.

His fingers skate across his chin and finds a small patch of blemishes and patchy, uneven facial hair.

He’s seventeen years old.

Of course he is.

This is normal.

Isn’t it?

“Something strange is happening…” he mumbles, eyes roaming the scene in front of him. The colors are stunningly vibrant, the lake water not murky and brown like he knows it should be, but crystal blue as a tropical ocean. There are flowers blooming everywhere, a rainbow of intriguing colors and textures, some he doubt can even grow in Lawrence. Logically he knows they’re still on pack property, but the vision in front of him is utterly stunning with its beauty.

Otherworldly, in fact.

“Leave Cas alone,” Anna chides Gabriel, and he whips his head around. His sister is sitting under a blanket, sunbathing beside a peach tree that’s broad and thick and beautiful, but that can’t be. Peaches don’t grow in Kansas… “You know he likes painting, rather than splashing around with you idiots.”

Standing in the water, Michael shouts something self-righteous about not appreciating being grouped in with Gabriel or Lucifer, thank you very much, but Castiel blinks back around and there’s an easel in front of him, his favorite from childhood. Situated on the edge is a canvas covered in gorgeous blues and pinks and yellows, an abstract interpretation of the lake and the flowers and the sky that the alpha feels rather….impressed by. His work is accomplished—inspired even.

“How can this be?” he whispers to himself, glancing down at his fingers covered in stray swipes of paint. He has little time to ponder his own creative genius, though, as Dean dives underwater and comes back up to the surface, glinting water in his hair as he wades towards the shallow end. He saunters to the shore and Castiel is mesmerized, breath caught, nervous momentum coursing through his veins. There are droplets sliding off every inch of Dean’s uncovered arms and legs and torso, and Castiel wants to swipe beads from the omega’s collarbone and bring it to his lips, savoring and sweet. Dean smells divine the closer he comes, more dazzling than ever, but Castiel can’t show his true reaction to the scent.

He’s in love with his best friend,and is fairly sure their situation falls into the unrequited category.

Dean strolls over to the peach tree, picks a soft one, and comes to Castiel’s side. He sinks his teeth in while making eye contact with Castiel, juice dribbling down the corners of his open mouth, and it’s so obscenely suggestive that Castiel can’t tear his eyes away. His freckles are softly scattered on his cheeks, his eyes vivid green, his body magnificent and dazzling and absolutely torturing Castiel. The alpha feels warm and lightheaded in his presence—a moth drawn inexplicably to its own death.

Death…

He thumbs over his throat again and shudders, though he has noclue why.

“Why aren’t you swimming?” he asks his friend, rather breathlessly. Dean puts a hand on his lower back and regards him with raised eyebrows.

“Rather be out here with you,” he says simply, as if that statement doesn’t make Castiel lose every molecule of air in his lungs.

“There’s nothing to do out here,” Castiel debates, though he’s not sure why he’s trying to make Dean leave. Usually he absorbs every moment he can in the omega’s presence, whether they’re alone or in a group, at school or at home. But there’s something he’s missing, some substantial clue to why he feels so off…and Dean is just distracting him.

“Come on, Cas.” Dean’s expression is strangely mischievous and confident for someone so young, and he slides his hands to the alpha’s uncovered hips. Castiel freezes, afraid that if he jostles away too suddenly, he’ll scare the omega off. They never touch like this. They gaze at each other, long and hard and meaningfully, but apart from a hand on a shoulder or the rarest of hugs, they pointedly avoid all physical touch. They have to.

Because once he starts, Castiel will never stop.

“What are you…?” The paintbrush slips from his lax fingers, because Dean’s hands are moving up his body now, sliding up teasingly until they’re cradling his jaw.

“You’re an artistic guy,” he whispers, staring down at Castiel’s lips. “Nothing to do ‘round here, then…why don’t we get creative?”

He brushes their lips together, dry and balmy from the sunshine, and Castiel can’t contain his yelp of surprise. He pulls away, overwhelmed with disbelief and shock. “Dean…”

From the water, he can hear their brothers protesting their distaste with over-the-top jeers. Sam, a lanky kid who can’t be older than eleven, is openly shouting, “Ew, Dean!”

“Thought we told you no PDA,” Michael says, though it’s a casual reprimand.

“Yeah, kiss your boyfriend in private like everyone else,” Gabriel jabs playfully.

Castiel’s eyes return to Dean, who’s shouting at their leers with a string of expletives that Sam looks rather scandalized by.

“Boyfriend?” Castiel repeats to himself, in a small voice this time, and Dean looks at him curiously. He wets his lips and Castiel mirrors the movement, the omega’s eyes flicking downward.

“Uh, didja forget?” Dean jokes. “Maybe I should refresh your memory…”

Then there’s a hand cradling Castiel’s neck and one on the small of his back, and when they kiss this time, it’s anything but chaste. Their bodies slot together, Dean sucking the alpha’s top lip into his mouth, and Castiel moans quietly and flicks his tongue inside. His hands are gripping the omega’s back eagerly now, as if letting go is no longer an option, hips aligning as their tongues glide with an expertise he has no idea where they acquired. This is objectively a perfect kiss, breathtaking and dizzy, and he’s confused, unable to think clearly. He heaves himself away but Dean isn’t deterred, wet lips leaving a sprinkling of kisses on his neck, but that can’t be…there’s something wrong with his throat…

“When did we become boyfriends?” Castiel asks huskily, wanting nothing more than to dive back in for another deeply satisfying kiss, but forces himself to resist.

“Huh?” Dean sounds distracted, his teeth having located the sensitive patch of skin behind Castiel’s ear. It makes the alpha’s knees almost buckle. “I dunno. We’re not exactly the anniversary type.”

Something about that doesn’t ring true and Castiel takes a step backwards. “You don’t have to give me an exact date, Dean, but…when? Last week? Last month? Last year? When did we start dating?”

“Who cares, Cas?” Dean shoots over his co*ckiest grin and Castiel almost surrenders. “We’re together, that’s all that matters.”

“No…” Castiel closes his eyes, thinking. “This matters. This question matters, Dean.” He glances at the peach tree, the flowers, the water.

All impossibilities.

Dreams.

Just like Dean, his happy-go-lucky teenage boyfriend.

“This isn’t real,” he says to no one in particular. “None of this is…possible…”

He swipes a finger across his throat again and when he pulls back, his hands are no longer covered in paint.

Blood. Everywhere. On his forearms, in the grass, smeared across the empty canvas in front of him. Even the lake is no longer water, it’s red and bubbling and thick, and Castiel feels shaken, like he might start sobbing. Everyone is gone, Lucifer and Michael and Anna, even Sam. Dean. Especially Dean, but why…

The second trial.

The knife.

Heaven.

Everything comes back to him in a nauseating jolt and he thinks he might be sick, knowing his memories have been contorted and tampered with, recreated into scenarios that would make him want to never leave.

But he has to leave, and quickly. Staying dead is not an option.

“Let me out of here,” he growls viciously, bloody fists beating into the ground. “Let me out!”

He stands to his feet, flinging the easel and canvas to the ground, wood splintering from the impact of his push. “Let me out!” he screams again in frustration. “Let me—”

When he looks down the earth has changed.

Not only that, but his feet…

They’ve turned to paws.

They’re in the woods, his entire family racing together, his father immeasurably large and brown at the front. His mother isn’t far behind, smaller and lightly black, and he’s flanked by Anna and his brothers. Something is peculiar about this but he’s too busy running, claws digging and loosening the soil, leaping over tree roots and fallen branches. He can communicate with his family if he concentrates on reaching their consciousness, and he looks at his siblings, rattles his snout playfully, and thinks: race you.

The race is winding and tedious but Castiel wins, which ultimately, is how he knows. Anna always won, was always the fastest wolf in his family, and he recalls the second trial more quickly this time, flooded with another disorientating lurch. He’s not in his were form, not really—he’s lying dead in the grass, his soul floating around Heaven. The dose of reality isn’t nearly as difficult to accept as last time, but it leaves him just as angry.

He’s still trapped.

Next time he’s sitting by his father, side by side by the fireplace, and he can’t be older than eight. Castiel is tall but thin for his age and reading quietly to himself, covered in a quilt his mother made. Chuck is young and lively and kind, writing with concentration in his journal. Castiel had forgotten his father kept one, a detailed log of life as the packmaster, but it’s a familiar and comforting sight to see Chuck with a pen in his hand. But all too soon, Castiel can feel the sunshine on his skin as his corpse lies on the ground in the woods, and Chuck’s pen begins emitting blood instead of ink. He shrieks in revulsion and then Castiel’s soul is gone again, overtaken by the momentary euphoria of being zapped into another memory.

There are so many with Dean. Ones when they’re young, wrestling and racing, laughing and joking. Some when they’re teenagers, friendship unchanged but shy now, purposefully avoiding the orbit of each other. In one altered memory Castiel loses himself completely, swept away by it, and they both lose their virginity in the middle of a field. Impossibly bright stars bear witness, and there’s no discomfort or awkward fumbling, only a dreamlike haze. Castiel eventually snaps out of it when he remembers Dean, the real Dean, his Dean, told him recently that he regretted Castiel hadn’t been his first. The alpha had almost cried at the thought then, realizing his Heaven was comprised entirely of righting all the wrongs he had made with his omega, clinging to the remembrance of a family that’s now long dead.

He doesn’t keep track of how manyreminiscences he relives. A dozen? Two dozen? Enough that he grows animated with rage, imagining a devilish angel sitting on a throne, flipping through his life like the pressed pages of a photo album. Surely there must be an end to this, a last play, a final buzzer. Something.

After what feels like hours, days, he finds himself in the correct body. Well, not fully, since his actual body is still lying dormant. But he’s twenty-nine again and wearing the same outfit he tossed on after his shower with Dean. He’s standing in a building, a long hallway that’s starkly white and lit with fluorescent lights. Gathered around him is his family.

His family of ghosts.

They are no longer recollections, recreations crafted from his subconscious. They’re here, in the exact form they were in the day they died. Their skin is translucent and gray, and he reaches out to touch them, but his fingertips go straight through them.

“You’re not dead, not fully,” his father explains, looking pleased about that fact. He’s much older than Castiel can recall—the twelve years apart were anything but good for the packmaster’s vitality.

“But you don’t have much time,” his mother adds, cradling his cheek with a transparent hand. Her touch is icy cold but he doesn’t pull away. “If you stay here any longer, you’ll be stuck here. With us.”

Anna, Lucifer, and Michael make up the other half of the circle and he eyes them heavily. They’re permanently young, frozen in their early twenties. He’s more aged now than his older siblings, at least in physical appearance, and it’s a disorientating thought.

“I want to stay with you,” he admits, voice breaking, not thinking he would actually say this aloud. “I miss you all.”

Anna frowns benevolently, looking wiser than her young face would suggest. “We know,” she whispers, a small smile on her lips. “We can feel it.”

“We watch over you, brother,” Michael adds, forever oldest sibling, forever in charge. Castiel smiles, examining each of their faces, trying to memorize every detail so he’ll never forget this moment. The moment that had been stolen from him all those years ago.

The moment of goodbye.

“This isn’t fair,” he whispers, eyes wet with tears, “none of it was. That all of you, except me and Father, that all of you were…”

“Of course it wasn’t fair,” Lucifer responds, tone almost biting, and Castiel nearly chuckles through his tears. At least his brother’s attitude hasn’t changed in the afterlife. “But it was the hand we were dealt. So if we can get past the whole, set-on-fire-and-murdered thing, then you can, too.”

He practically stares a hole in the back of Castiel’s skull until the alpha nods in understanding. Then he looks back at his father, shivering with cold in the proximity of the ghosts.

“I have to ask you a question,” Castiel begins steadily, hoping he has the courage to do so, but Chuck just holds up a finger.

“I already know, but I don’t have an answer, Castiel,” he replies softly, arm tucked around his wife. “I don’t know if you did the right thing, tossing your name in as packmaster. But watching you, how you’ve challenged yourself, how you’ve grown…” He takes a step forward and hovers his frigid hand on the center of Castiel’s chest. “I’m proud of you, son.”

Tears roll off the alpha’s face, the tight knot of uncertainty and doubt unclenching little by little.

“Now go,” his mother prods again. “Go and live, Castiel.”

A shining light appears now at the end of the hallway, dazzling in its intensity, and Castiel knows without asking that it’s his way back home. His family clears a path for him and he starts walking steadily, eager to hold Dean in his arms again, to celebrate his victory over death. But he has that feeling again…that he’s missing something monumental…

He pivots suddenly, and calls down the long hallway, “Gabriel?” He squints again, as if maybe the ghost of his brother will appear beside the rest of his family, but nothing supernatural occurs. “Where…where’s Gabriel?”

Chuck opens his mouth to answer, but the light has lengthened considerably while Castiel’s back was turned. It stretches around his feet, curling and tucking itself against him, and he feels his consciousness pulled backwards as easily as a rake tackling a pile of leaves. He falls into enveloping darkness, like he’s funneling down a rollercoaster without a cart or track or safety bar, and he screams and screams and screams until—

His eyes fly open.

He breathes air again with a long, rattling gasp.

“Cas!” Dean is cradling the alpha’s head in his lap and staring down at him, apprehension written all over his face. Fingers graze his forehead, his temple, his neck, as if Dean is inspecting him for visible signs of damage. Castiel groans and coughs, re-experiencing every ache and pain that was absent in his celestial form. He can hardly stand it, how sluggish and broken his body feels, but he wipes a hand absently across his throat. It’s sweaty and grimy, but...

No blood.

“You’re fully healed and back to living, as promised,” Rowena says sunnily, clapping her hands together. “And not to steal anyone’s thunder, but it seems we have a winner!”

There are murmurs and shouts and applause from the crowd, but Castiel can barely process it.

He won the second trial?

He actually…won?

“Cas, you gotta say something,” Dean begs, hands still touching him with a clinical sort of comfort. “Where’re you hurt, man?”

“N-nowhere,” Castiel struggles, throat so dry it feels exfoliated with sandpaper. “I’m-I’m okay.”

The omega seems to sag in relief, some of the anxiety visually released in his shoulders, kissing the alpha’s forehead and clutching his hair. Castiel wants nothing more than to whisk them both back to his house, safe and warm under the covers of their bed. But then Dean lets go of him and stands, squatting down beside John, who’s still…

Lifeless.

“Shouldn’t he be waking up now?” Dean asks Rowena, distrust dripping from his tone. “How much longer does he have?”

At the question, Sam crosses over from the crowd, standing tall beside Dean’s bent-over form and waiting for the witch to answer.

“Hard to say,” Rowena laments, “these spells don’t exactly come with a stopwatch, dear.”

“Well, snap your fingers or wave your wand and make one appear!” Dean shouts, standing abruptly to his feet. “We can’t leave him like this!”

“Dean—” Sam says, his own face slack with worry and fear.

“Don’t,” Dean snaps, putting an assertive hand up. “We can’t just…do nothing, Sam.”

Castiel fumbles clumsily to his feet, thirsty and tired and spinning, like he might pass out at any moment. But his omega is distressed, and he can’t sit by and watch.

“Check on him,” he instructs, glaring at Rowena. “I know you have the power to see where his soul is, and how much time he has left.” He’s not sure if his assertion is even vaguely true, but it seems to hit a nerve, because the witch’s complexion grows red and flustered and she crouches down low. She places her fingertips on John’s temple, shutting her eyes, and Castiel finds himself staring at all the dried blood on the front of the alpha’s shirt.

He glances down—there’s an equal amount on his. He really, truly, was dead. By now the crowd has gathered more closely, not only the pack members but the elders, observing the unfolding chaos.

“He’s fading quickly,” Rowena mumbles, eyes still closed. “He hasn’t moved towards the light yet. He won’t…he’s not going to make it…”

She snaps her eyes open, drops her hands, and regards the brothers with large eyes. “I’m sorry, boys.”

Dean ducks his head down, like avoiding her stare will make her words false, and kicks at a stray branch on the ground. “No,” he says instantly, and then adds, “f*ck that, no! No f*cking way he dies like this!”

Sam is biting his bottom lip, likely in shock, his eyes brimming with tears. “Is there anything we can do?” he asks, eyes on Rowena.

“I can’t bring him back, not while I’m on this side of the veil,” she says, and Castiel believes her, knows there are limits to even her magic. “Although…”

Dean swirls around on his heels. “What?”

“Dean—” Castiel tries to go to him, to put his armsaround his omega, but the other man is too wound up. He shifts away and fidgets.

“Tell me,” Dean demands.

“I could send another soul into Heaven to help him,” she notes calmly, like a doctor explaining a high-risk surgery. “But the person I send would have to be…”

“Dead,” Dean provides bluntly, and she nods.

“Even with my resuscitation spell, I couldn’t guarantee either would make it back in time.” She stands up and straightens, looking entirely more human than Castiel has ever seen her. He looks between the witch, Sam, and Dean, scrutinizing each of their faces, and he knows what his boyfriend will say before he even says it.

“No,” Castiel protests vehemently.

“Someone has to,” Dean shoots back.

“It’s too dangerous,” Sam responds, shaking his head. “If anyone should go, it should be—”

“Me,” Dean says sharply, looking between both alphas now, his stubborn expression carved in stone. “I’m the reason he’s even in this mess, remember? I’m the reason the trials are even happening. If I had just made a decision and voted in the election—”

“Is that what you think?” Castiel comes closer, wrapping his hands around the other man’s elbows. “That’s insane, Dean. None of this is your fault.”

“All of it is!” Dean screams, and Castiel can feel his omega shaking. “I couldn’t choose between you, and ‘cause of that, I practically signed your f*cking death sentences—”

“Stop it,” Castiel interrupts angrily. “I don’t blame you and neither does your father.”

“You can’t do this,” Sam insists, voice cracking. “You’re too valuable, too important to the pack. To all of us.”

“And you’re not, Sammy?” Dean retorts, and looks at Madison as if to prove his point. Slowly the omega’s rage slips off his face, like wet paint sliding off a canvas, replaced with a sort of desperation that makes Castiel ache inside.

“Please,” Dean says to them. “We’re running out of time. You have to let me do this.”

Despair, the deep-rooted kind, burrows itself into Castiel’s chest. “Don’t,” he begs softly, just enough for Dean to hear. He brings their foreheads together, tears gliding down his cheeks.

“He’s my family, Cas. I have to.” Dean blinks away the wetness in his eyes before standing up straight again.

“I just…finally have you,” Castiel whispers, thumbing at the front of Dean’s shirt and staring down at his shoes. Dean tucks a finger under his chin, raising the alpha’s eyes.

“I’ll come back, Cas, I swear to god. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Castiel gives the smallest of nods, realizing he’ll be unable to dissuade Dean no matter how hard he tries. Genuine shock settles into his stomach—how is this happening? They draw together on instinct, the kiss forceful and fervent and slippery with shared tears, and Castiel suppresses a sob the moment it ends. The omega breaks away and stops in front of Sam, hugging his brother tightly, as if this might be the last time. Then he falls to his knees of front of Rowena and she frowns, nodding in understanding, grabbing her knife and beginning her spellwork. Castiel and Sam are standing together, the elders and the crowd a distance behind, when the noticeable spiral of purple magic appears. When she brings the knife across Dean’s throat…

Castiel cries out.

It’s a horrifying sight, the blood racing down, staining the cotton and denim, and Castiel collapses beside him on the ground. He reaches for Dean and holds him as he shudders, shockwaves rippling through his torso as he bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

“I love you, Dean Winchester.” Castiel’s tears are falling freely now, cascading down onto Dean’s clothes and skin, dripping into his blood. The omega closes his eyes, every trace of breath leaving him. He sags in Castiel’s arms.

“Come back to me,” he pleads, because he can’t help himself, because his heart his breaking. “Please, please, please…”

And then Dean is still, motionless.

Dead.

Sam is squatting down beside him, eyes red and puffy, and Castiel can’t even imagine how wrecked he looks. Desperate. Despondent.

“We have to find some way to help them,” Sam rasps, hand gripping Castiel’s shoulder like a lifeline. Castiel isn’t sure how his friend is even using complete sentences at this point, they’re both so overcome with grief. “Cas, you said you got back by going into the light?”

The alpha just nods numbly, wondering what Sam hopes to accomplish by discussing all the details. If there’s nothing they can do to help Dean…then what’s even the point of talking?

“How did you actually find the light?” Sam prods, seeming more focused now. Castiel clears his throat, trying to make himself sound and feel steadier. He tears his eyes away from his omega’s face, settling instead on Sam’s distressed expression.

“I had to go through a series of memories…distorted ones,” Castiel murmurs, without any trace of inflection. If he allows any emotion to return to his voice, he’ll be in tears again. “Usually I forgot I was in Heaven, so each memory required that I realize the situation wasn’t real, and demand exit from it.”

Sam chews his lip, pondering aloud. “But we have no idea where they are…if they’re in the first memory or the last…”

They look at Rowena with piqued hope, wondering if she has any information, but the witch is cleaning the blood off her knife and frowning down at them. The elders are still nearby, along with the rest of the pack, but everyone seems equal parts dumbfounded and horrified.

“Did Heaven seem to be like…our world?” Sam asks quietly, staring down at a patch of grass.

“Not exactly. It felt like reality but there was magic present—everything was the same but slightly different.” Castiel runs his hands through Dean’s hair, stiff and wet with sweat, and he feels his chest rattle with longing. Dean will return to him.

He has to.

“But the laws of physics,” Sam presses, evidently on the edge of something, “might still be in effect? Though slightly altered, because of the dream magic?”

Castiel sighs in annoyance, not sure he can keep from losing his temper. “If you’re trying to distract me, this is honestly a very tedious method.”

The corners of Sam’s mouth move minutely, a gesture that mirrors a small smile. “No, that’s not… Don’t you remember, Cas? We read something about this in Magical Mechanisms and Doorways, when we were researching for the first trial.”

Castiel only has the vaguest recollection of opening this book, much less the concepts inside, but he nods anyways.

“I didn’t think it would ever come in handy, but—” Sam pauses, trying to gather his thoughts. “The book mentioned how light is used as a portal for most spells. So if you combine that with our scientific understanding of how light functions, how light is attracted to other light in a way that’s nearly magnetic—”

Castiel squints, his thoughts muddled. “You mean to suggest…”

“Light expands in our world, right? Luminosity weakens the farther it travels, but light itself stretches twice as far as the original source—”

“So,” Castiel interrupts, a flutter of anticipation vibrating in his chest, “if Dean can emit enough light from where he is, a huge and concentrated amount—”

“It might be enough tousher them into the light. The final one.” Sam is standing up now, hands flapping eagerly. “If it worked, it would probably be significantly faster than taking the long way ‘round.”

“Like a backdoor, a way to gather the light together until it all connects,” Castiel agrees. “It’s a long shot, but we have nothing to lose.”

“But even if it could work, how…” Sam’s enthusiasm stalls, as though he’s found a flaw in their plan. “How do we tell them without dying first ourselves?”

“I...I don’t know,” Castiel mumbles pensively, glancing down again at his omega—lifeless, sagging, limp. He strokes Dean’s cheek with his thumb as if that will magically revive him. But that’s a fairytale solution, a starry-eyed resolution that has no bearing in the real world.

Unless…

He bends over, attempting to avoid the sticky dampness of the blood, and cups the omega’s face between his hands. Dean’s face is slack, his forever pink and enticing lips already slightly drab and off-color. He presses their mouths together, dry and distressed and careful, thinking a pointed idea over and over again in his head. It becomes a chant, a mantra, a prayer.

He pulls away from the kiss after an elongated pause, hoping he waited long enough, that the message will go through.

“What was that?” Sam asks, still standing a few feet away and glancing at him curiously.

“Our best bet,” Castiel explains, thumb still in the corner of Dean’s motionless lips. “If his soul has maintained a connection with his body, and Dean and I have been able to communicate telepathically in the past through touch, then maybe—” He looks down again, optimism coursing through him. “Maybe he heard my message. Maybe he can save himself, save them both. If our theory is right, and ifthe telepathic connection is still active.”

“A lot of ‘ifs’ if you ask me,” Rowena mumbles to herself, but both alphas ignore her, too hopeful to let anything get in the way of their new plan.

“Saved by a kiss,” Sam muses, even managing a low laugh. “If Dean survives this, he’s gonna absolutely hate being the princess in this metaphor.”

Castiel manages to return the smile, if only slightly. “Don’t I know it.”

***

Dean opens his eyes.

He’s standing in the old Winchester house, the one that burned and collapsed during the Demon War, the site of his mother’s death. It strikes him as equally extraordinary and expected, being here again, amazed to see his childhood home returned to its former glory. Glory is too strong a word, Dean thinks, hands grazing the thinly warped wallpaper, eyeing the carpet dingy with foot traffic. It’s not nearly as idyllic as he remembers, not polished or glistening white, but maybe that’s what makes his heart ache even deeper. The realism of it, the startling and accurate details, everything placed exactly how he remembers it.

“John,” calls out a feminine voice, light and airy but full of purpose, and Dean’s heart leaps at the sound, “have you found their shoes?”

“Not yet,” John shouts back from the down the hallway, “can’t find hardly anything in this damn closet…”

Dean crosses into the kitchen tentatively, like a human approaches a skittish animal, but he shouldn’t have been worried. It’s not his Heaven, he remembers, so this dream-Mary can’t even see him. His mother is in her early thirties, hair still long and blonde, wearing flared jeans and a colorful peasant top. She rolls her eyes at John’s comment and Dean swears she catches a glimpse of him, so he ducks behind the curve of the archway, but she looks right through the omega as she sighs. It makes him strangely melancholy, being so close to a reconstruction of his mom but not being able to engage…to hug or talk or smile at her.

“I’ll add it to my ever-growing to-do list,” she replies to her husband dryly, and Dean chuckles to himself. Mary walks through the kitchen and into the hallway, both of them muttering in irritation as Mary instantly locates the boys’ shoes. Their momentary squabble ends in a brief kiss, John thumbing softly at the curve of Mary’s cheekbones, and it feels habitual and intimate.

Dean doesn’t remember this particular day, but he can recall a hundred just like them—his parents’ exasperated arguing, their makeups, and even the times when they didn’t…the weeks John spent on Bobby’s couch. John and Mary had never had a perfect marriage, and it seems that even in Heaven not much has changed. There’s a bizarre comfort in that, though, knowing his dad must miss the authentic, imperfect Mary—not just a symbolic image of the war.

At the thought, Dean’s stomach turns… He’s here for a reason. They don’t have much time.

“Boys!” Mary shouts brightly. “Time to go!”

Dean hears them before he sees them, the thunderous beat of feet flying down the stairs, and then a ten-year-old Dean and a six-year-old Sammy are racing towards the back door. Adult Dean, real Dean, can only gape and stare, trying not to get distracted by the half-dozen layers of holy-sh*t-this-is-surreal going on in his brain.

“Mom,” Sam whines, already unusually tall for his age, “tell Dean that he has to let me play with Cas, too—”

“Cas is my friend,” little Dean argues back, with a possessive sort of vehemence that makes Dean snort. Huh. Cas would never stop teasing him about this if he were here.

Cas…

Dean has to get back home to his alpha, has to move John along before they’re both stuck here forever. It’s not even his Heaven but Dean feels completely sidetracked here, overwhelmed by the immensity of seeing his own childhood put on like a live action play. But this isn’t real, it’s a recreation of John’s memory, and they’re both getting more and more dead in the real world the longer that they stay here.

Dean finally steps away from the shadows, plants himself in the middle of the hallway, and waits for his dad to glance up. John is squatted low, pulling up the zipper on Sam’s jacket, hand ruffling his youngest son’s hair with a playfulness that’s long dormant. It’s the happiest Dean has seen his father in years, approaching two decades maybe, and it’s bittersweet and agonizing—remembering when his dad could be this. A husband, a father, a decent man.

But then John glances up at Dean, planted like an apparition from the future, and every inch of joy slips away. His shoulders hunch up, tense, and he rises to his feet again.

“Dad,” Dean begins evenly, hoping he can start with logic then work his way up to pleas, “it’s time to go.”

John walks in his direction stiffly, as if he’s tempted to run in the other direction. “You shouldn’t be here,” he all but growls.

“Nope, but I am,” Dean answers, almost cheekily, knowing that tone of voice would’ve cost him a great deal fifteen years ago. But what’s his dad gonna do now…kill him?

“And you shouldn’t be here either,” Dean adds.

“This is exactly where I should be,” John argues, pointing down the hallway at Mary and the boys, who seem to be preoccupying themselves with a different conversation. It’s as if they don’t even realize John has left, that he’s speaking to someone who isn’t even there…

“This isn’t real, all right? Just look at them.” Dean nudges his head down and towards the other three. “They haven’t even noticed us talking. This is a…hallucination. A dream.”

“I don’t care,” John snaps. ”Just leave me be.”

Dean takes a staggering step backwards. “You know you’re in Heaven—don’t you?” John bites his lip and looks down. “Why the hell aren’t you trying to fight your way out?”

The alpha scrubs an absent hand against his face and sighs.

“I did at first,” he admits. “I’ve been through…a dozen memories already, maybe more. But this one…”

When his hand slips away, there are tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes, and he looks away in embarrassment.

“What’s so special about this day?” Dean’s voice is faint, low, worried any sudden movements might scare the alpha away.

“Nothing,” John nips, wiping at his wet cheek, “and everything. It was supposed to rain today but it didn’t, so we went on a picnic to the state park. I let you drive the Impala for about a mile in the woods, and I had never seen you so excited.” Dean feels a warmth grow in his chest, but John isn’t looking at him—he’s turned around and staring wistfully at the ten-year-old boy, the one who still worships and idolizes his dad. Figures. “That night, your mother and I…connected for the first time in a long time…”

Dean wants to hear about anything other than his parents’ sex life, but he only nods in understanding, keeping his snarky commentary to himself.

“That sounds real nice’n’all,” he says, and he genuinely means it, apart from the sex, ‘cause gross, “but it already happened. Spending eternity trapped in your own little universe while the angels run the show, that’s lonely.” He exhales, trying to find the right and most convincing words. “That’s not Nirvana…that’s the Matrix.”

“Whatever it is, I’m staying,” John concedes quietly, as if he knew he would always admit this, like it’s an inescapable truth he can no longer hide.

“But you can’t,” Dean persists, losing his patience. “This isn’t your time to die.”

“How do you know?” John rears back, heated once again. “You can’t save everyone, Dean.”

“Everyone?” Dean repeats blankly. “I’m not trying to save everyone, just you. And if I can’t even save my own dad, then who the f*ck can I save?”

John frowns, not meeting his eyes, and Dean stares a hole into the carpet as he waits. They’re at an impasse, it seems, because John’s next words are hushed and reverent.

“I never did right by you boys, not after your mother…” He trails off, face full of melancholy. “When I lost my wife, my mate, my omega, it was like losing the best part of myself. The part that mattered.” He meets Dean’s gaze again, face flush with sudden wisdom. “You already know what I mean. Don’t you?”

Dean thinks about the years without Cas, all twelve of them, fuzzy and distant and dark in his mind. When Castiel came home again it was like Dean had been roused from a bottomless sleep, as if he was conscious again, could comprehend how beautiful and severe and terrifying the world is.

Could he really judge his dad for crumbling after Mary died, for being obsessed with revenge and overcome with grief, when Dean could easily see himself being the same way if Azazel had killed Cas instead? Especially if they had already been married, mated, and with pups…

“I do know what you mean,” Dean confesses roughly. “But we don’t have time to wait—we have to go now—”

And that’s when he feels it.

The tickle of air that’s not his, the soft sweep of lips against him, the vibration of a kiss. Not just any kiss, of course, but a Cas kiss, the telltale feeling of firm tenderness that makes all the breath vanish from Dean’s lungs, his knees wobble. He now knows two things without a f*cking doubt.

One: somewhere in the woods outside of Lawrence, Kansas, Castiel is kissing him.

Two: he knows how to get out of here.

And fast.

“Go upstairs,” he instructs John hoarsely, fingertips tracing over his lips, still lost in the lingering feeling of a kiss. “Grab every lamp, every flashlight, whatever light source you can find.”

John scrunches up his face in question, undoubtedly to protest, but Dean ignores him. “I’ll meet you in the garage!” he shouts.

Dean stumbles around the fake Mary, Dean, and Sam, all who seem to be stuck on some loop without John around to interact with them. He flings open the garage door and flips the light switch, opens the garage to let the afternoon brightness in, and sh*t… This really is Heaven, he thinks. Baby is a shiny jet black, glosser than Dean has ever seen her, absent of any wear and tear that a car naturally amasses after a few decades. It’s a gorgeous sight, borderline spirtual, and he can’t help but whistle. John comes down the steps holding two lamps in each hand, and mentions that there are more waiting on the steps.

“I’ll grab ‘em,” Dean says, bounding up the stairs again.

“Why? What is this?”

“This,” Dean answers, turning around in the threshold of the door, “is our ticket home.”

“Maybe for you,” John insists, “but I’m staying.”

Dean doesn’t bother answering. He’ll deal with that soon enough.

All told, he gathers up seven lamps and four flashlights, a headlamp, and a few portable work lights stowed away in the attic. He even strips every mirror from the walls, and lights a few candles just for good measure. He backs Baby out from the garage and turns on her headlights, then situates the mirrors underneath the highest point of the sun.

“You still haven’t explained any of this,” John complains, watching Dean drag extension cords into the driveway and turn on all the lamps.

“What’s there to explain?” Dean huffs, shoving another plug into the outlet. “‘Everybody needs the light.’”

“Don’t quote Zeppelin to me,” John grumbles, stuffing his hands into his pockets grouchily. “The only reason your mom even gave me her number was ‘cause ofZeppelin.”

Dean halts his mission, if only for a moment, to mumble, “Yeah…I know. Everybody knows.”

He had even told Cas that once, whenever he had made his best friend a mixtape of all his favorite songs. Teenage Dean had subconsciously hoped the gesture would convey all his complicated feelings, would progress their friendship into a different direction. Unfortunately, it had taken literal life or death stakes for them to admit their feelings to each other, and Dean wasn’t about to throw all that progress away.

The sun is low but bright in the sky, rays bouncing to and from each mirror, and the combination of natural and artificial light makes Dean’s eyes squint. Good, he thinks, that must mean it’s working…

“The idea popped into my head,” Dean finally explains, standing up with hands on his hipsand eyes shut. He leaves out the part about the telepathic kiss, about believing it was Cas who somehow zapped the concept straight to his brain. “If the only way outta here is through the light, then all we gotta do is make our spot so bright that it connects with the light, and then—” He makes a whooshing sound, ushering his hands down until they both collide.

“That’s smart.” There’s a pause, a beat of tension. “But I’m still not coming with you,” John repeats, as if he doesn’t think Dean has fully accepted his decision. And he’s absolutely right…there’s no way in hell that Dean is leaving his dad behind. Not after everything he’s done to save him.

“Listen—”

“The best thing I can do for you is to stay here.” John’s tone is resolute, firm. “Let Castiel be packmaster—mate him, have a family, enjoy your life. Forget about me and just be happy.”

Dean forces himself to open his eyes again, in spite of the overbearing brightness. This is either the most selfless or most selfish thing his dad has ever said, and he can’t quite figure out which one it is.

“What about Azazel? The gates of hell? The danger any Novak will always be in?” Dean takes a step forward, voice breaking. “You’re just—what? Gonna check out? Let me deal with all that sh*t on my own?”

“You can take care of yourself, Dean.” John’s expression is narrowed, hard as a stone, and it pisses Dean the f*ck off.

“Seriously? Guy dies to save you and that’s all you have to say to me?” Dean chuckles darkly, angry and disappointed and irrationally so—why is he even surprised? Knowing that his dad would rather be the father of a memory than a living, breathing son shouldn’t hurt so badly.

But it does.

Dean is on the verge of breaking sh*t from sheer frustration when he sees it—a curtain of bright energy coming through the clouds. It makes everything around them glow, the surface of the mirrors dazzling with intensity, and it’s so close now that he can barely stand it. He closes his eyes on instinct, the sound of light bulbs popping and scattering under their shades, and he’s pushing John forward before he can quite understand what the movement means. The alpha trips on a mirror, glass shattering under his foot, and they’re both tumbling with their eyes closed and heading straight for the ground. John’s fist clutches Dean’s shirt and the omega braces himself for impact, knowing they’re about to collide with each other or the ground…he’s not sure which…

But the impending blow never comes.

The brightness fades quickly, like someone spinning an electric dimmer, and Dean gasps with noticeable effort.

His body is shaking.

His body.

His.

“Dean!” There are hands all over him, his chin and shoulders and chest and cheeks, the soothing scent of Cas flooding his senses with an aroma that feels a lot like home. He sits up and groans, achy in ways he wasn’t expecting, and he cracks an eye open.

It’s his alpha. His beautiful, reckless, courageous alpha.

“Cas,” he croaks, fingers skating over his recently slashed throat, but he pulls his hand away without a trace of blood. “Alpha,” he whispers fondly, because he’s so overcome with relief and gratitude and love.

Castiel cups his chin and smiles at him, eyes watery and spilling.

“Hello, Dean,” he says, and leans in for a kiss. But there’s a commotion from a few yards away and they separate, heads turning to the side. Castiel is more aware of the turmoil, and stands abruptly to his feet. Dean cranes his neck, disorientated, and sees that Sam is holding back…

John. The alpha looks flushed red, irate with anger. “You!” he screams, pointing down at Dean. “You had no right to do that!”

Castiel takes a large, unwavering step forward, easing into the other alpha’s personal space with cool indifference. “Your son just risked his life to save yours,” he says coldly. “You should show him some respect.”

In the midst of all the chaos Dean can only sit on the ground, still in a state of shock and recovery, gaping up as the scene unfolds. He’s pissed off at his dad, that’s nothing new, but there’s a bigger part of him that’s used to being the peacemaker…he should really intervene. On the other hand, it’s sexy as f*cking hell to see Cas go all alpha on someone, especially someone who really f*cking deserves it. Dean takes too long to deliberate his next move, though, because John breaks from Sam’s grasp and grips Castiel by the throat.

“Don’t tell me how to treat my son,” he snarls, fist pulled back and ready. But Cas…

Cas gets the jump on him.

His eyes abandon their standard shade of blue, flashing vibrant and rich and on the cusp of red. It’s an old alpha reflex, a show of dominance Dean hasn’t witnessed firsthand in years, and Castiel shoves John to the ground, growling in rage and blind with fury.

And then he punches him.

Castiel punches John over and over and over again, and Dean wonders if he risked his life to save his dad—

Just to watch him die here instead.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

“A man might befriend a wolf, even break a wolf, but no man could truly tame a wolf.”

– George R.R. Martin

Ice, gauze, whiskey. Dean arranges the makeshift medical kit on Cas’ kitchen counter before sinking onto a stool across from his alpha.

His violently shaking, panting, fully raged-out alpha.

Castiel is sweating and dirty, elbows and knees covered in mud and grass and blood. He’s swallowing down a glass of warm whiskey at Dean’s insistence, hopefully to dull the pain and increase lucidity, or even just to help him sleep. There’s a gash on his cheek and a cut on his forehead, things that will heal quickly thanks to the super healing powers of weres.

What worries Dean is the inflamed welt in Castiel’s right hand, the break in the bone around the knuckles that Sam diagnosed as a fracture. At least, they’re pretty sure that’s what is, but Castiel wouldn’t let Sam near him once the fight had ended. That flood of other alpha with a scent close enough to John’s set Cas’ biology into overdrive. Dean supposes he could’ve asked Madison to tend to Cas instead—and he might still ask her to come over later—but his better half is…

Well. Really f*cking unstable right now.

His dad had never even gotten a punch in, which is shocking as hell considering how differently the two alphas have spent their lives. The only damage to Cas’ body was self-inflicted, unintentionally, since he clearly didn’t know how to throw an easy punch. There must’ve been a method to his madness, though, since John has a broken nose and three broken ribs thanks to one supremely beefed-up Castiel Novak.

Dean has spent the last twenty minutes wondering if this is some f*cked up episode of The Twilight Zone. In what world does a sensitive painter type get the drop on John f*cking Winchester?

“Dean.” Castiel’s voice crunches like gravel and Dean looks up at him, weary from the day’s events but curious nonetheless. “Are you…angry with me?”

Dean shakes his head and snorts. If you put their situation in black and white, his boyfriend beating the sh*t out of his dad would probably fall into the “f*ck yeah, I’m angry” category. But their circ*mstances are as sticky and tangled up as a pot of overcooked spaghetti noodles and Dean hasn’t had any time to sort through all the bullsh*t. When pleading and physical force hadn’t worked, Rowena had used magic to separate the two alphas, and Dean had all but drug Castiel home by the collar. So…is he angry with Cas?

He tries to take stock of his emotions. He knows he’s relieved that they all made it out of Heaven alive, he’s frustrated and hurt when he thinks about his splintering relationship with his dad, but when it comes to his boyfriend, he only has a peculiar pride in Cas for having gone all alpha badass.

“Not angry with you,” he replies carefully, honestly. Still, he’s so f*cking done with this day. With these trials. With his inability to be enough for his own goddamn father. “But I am, y’know…angry.”

“Me too,” Cas admits, a simmering fury still present, but Dean doesn’t ask him to elaborate. There will be a time to talk, an opportunity for Dean to come clean about all the things he’s been keeping secret.

But not now.

He reaches for the alpha’s injured hand, plopping the ice pack onto the swollen knuckle. Castiel winces and pulls back, but Dean keeps his grip firm. The alpha growls in a way that sounds involuntary but Dean can’t help glaring at him.

“Don’t make me restrain you,” Dean says grumpily, only realizing how his threat could be misinterpreted in the headspace of a revved-up alpha. The expression on Castiel’s face goes from pissed off to turned on in about two seconds flat, and he holds Dean’s eye contact for longer than feels strictly necessary, hunger and lust burning in his eyes.

“I’d like to see you try,” Castiel rumbles, in a tone that’s carnal and indicative and completely improper, and Dean already feels slick begin to wet the inside of his boxers. Freaking ridiculous, the power Cas has over him. He gulps and glances down at his own messy clothes, wondering what to do next. Disheveled jeans, muddy shoes, blood stained t-shirt. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to get them both out of these filthy clothes… And hey, if he can channel Cas’ alpha rage into a mindblowing org*sm instead, that would only help to benefit everyone.

He shudders when Castiel’s uninjured hand begins to slip beneath his shirt, his fingertips hot to the touch as they meet his bare skin.

“Cas,” he says, breathless, trying to find some hidden willpower tucked away, “let me fix you up first, babe.”

He expects his hulked-out alpha to protest, but he seems to have settled down just enough, the red in his eyes fading back to blue with every passing second. He nods in understanding but doesn’t stop his free hand from wandering, flirty and enticing, palm flat against Dean’s abdomen. The omega tries very hard to keep himself focused on the task at hand, trading the ice for an elastic bandage he wraps loosely. He’s about to suggest he leave to go find materials for a splint, or call Madison to bring one over, whenever Castiel’s finger flicks around his nipple, working the rapidly hardening nub between the soft scrap of nails. Dean moans unexpectedly, the action so surprising and arousing, that the alpha seems to lose every ounce of self-control, crashing into him without a second thought. The chair behind Castiel is flung two feet behind him and he pins the omega against the kitchen counter—lips, hips, arms, Dean is surrounded by all things Cas.

There are so many other things they should be doing right now, and while Cas kisses him within an inch of his life, Dean catalogs them all: put a splint on Cas’ fractured hand; shower for all of eternity; burn their f*cked-up clothes; sleep for more than few hours at a time; fully process and freak-out about the fact that Rowena said that the third trial would be next f*cking week; see if Sam and Madison have managed to drag John to the hospital. All of these things should top Dean’s to-do list, but the moment Castiel’s fully-operating hand slides into his boxers and begins working Dean open with his own slick, his hole tight and slippery and enveloping Cas’ finger with immediate warm suction, every responsible bone in his body decides to peace the f*ck out.

“Oh f*ck,” he breathes, ‘cause Cas is every-f*cking-where, pointer finger curled and nudging his prostate with such unrelenting attention that’s almost too much. The alpha is mouthing at Dean’s neck with his tongue and teeth, sucking and biting in rhythm with his finger, and the omega is breathing heavily now, squirming and shaking and overwhelmed. “Want you…Cas, want you to…”

“Anything,” Castiel groans, rubbing his denim-clad erection against Dean’s parted thigh. “Anything for my omega…”

Dean moans again, this time just from sheer possessiveness…the feeling of being so deeply desired, so wanted by his alpha. It’s intoxicating. The scent of Cas floods his taste buds like the drizzle of melted chocolate, creamy and decadent and irresistible on his tongue, and he buries his nose into the crook of the alpha’s neck and breathes in.

“Need you,” he begs into Cas’ ear, rutting against Cas’ crotch while the finger inside him works double-time. “We…we both f*cking died today and I need you. I need to feel you inside of me, alpha.”

Dean feels off-balance by the confession, spinning and dizzy, and he’s seriously annoyed at himself for making this anything but hot-angry-alpha sex. But it is more than that, and between them it always will be.

“I will never let anything happen to you…ever…again,” Castiel promises, each word tough and sharp as a nail tack. Castiel removes his finger to stroke himself with slick and Dean feels empty and wanting and ready to f*cking go, tugging a few times on his own dick and knowing how goddamn full he’s gonna feel soon, how stretched and wet and desperate his hole is gonna be.

He kicks off his boots in a hurry, then jeans and boxers, shedding himself of every barrier between his needy hole and Cas’ hard dick. Castiel unfastens his own jeans and lets them fall to the floor. He is less naked and more three-quarters dressed, but at the sight of his alpha’s flushed and hard co*ck, Dean vibrates with anticipation.

It seems like a century ago that they were having rut sex, but it’s only been less than three hours and Dean wants it again, needs it, can’t imagine an hour in the day when he’s not writhing on his alpha’s dick.

It takes some finagling, finding the right position, but Castiel picks Dean up and places him on the kitchen island, angled for better access. The omega scoots to the edge, bare ass feeling bizarre on the counter, knees wrapped wonkily about Cas’ middle. He doesn’t even want to imagine the clean-up required to make the kitchen sanitary after this…

“Mine,” Castiel breathes, then lines himself up expertly and bottoms out in one fluid motion. The burn is slight but manageable, reasonable for an aroused omega without much prep, and Dean bites on Castiel’s lips hard as he adjusts.

“Yours,” he sighs, licking the indentation of teeth on Cas’ bottom lip, arms wrapped around the other man’s neck and gripping tight. Castiel is still half-clothed, shirt on with boxers and jeans bunched around his tied boots, but all Dean can think about is touching skin to skin. He separates their kiss long enough to grip the bottom of Cas’ shirt and fling it off, shedding his own in a similar frenzy, and then they’re finally chest to chest. The alpha is scraped and bruised, sullied with loose dirt and sweaty with execution, but Dean licks and kisses and sucks every inch of his exposed neck and chest. It tastes grimy and dusty and all alpha, the mess lewd and exciting.

Dean’s dick is trapped between their stomachs now but he’s more than ready to come untouched, so Castiel grips his hips and begins thrusting, hard and fast and pounding, and it feels so f*cking good that Dean cries out. His co*ck hasn’t reached Dean’s prostate yet, which feels real goddamn intentional considering how easy Cas can find it now, how they’ve spent the past few days mapping out every inch of each other’s bodies. Dean has a surreal moment of self-awareness, realizing they’re f*cking in Cas’ kitchen with his front door still broken and the curtains drawn open, the early evening sun just beginning to set. The possibility of being caught thrills him somehow, makes the act seem even dirtier and frantic than just getting f*cked grimy and covered in dried blood. The wild recklessness of it feels more were than human, animalistic and eager in a way that not even Cas’ rut felt, and for whatever reason an image of himself getting impaled by Cas’ enlarged and thick as f*ck wolf dick pops into Dean’s head. It’s completely obscene and probably f*cked-up but it turns him on anyways, anything Cas-related has that effect on him it seems, and he keens when Cas’ co*ckhead finally brushes his prostate. Hands gripping the alpha’s shoulders, he throws his head back and comes and comes and comes, sticky and hot between them.

Castiel pulls out looking almost surprised, slick running down Dean’s thighs and come messy on his abdomen, and he flips Dean around roughly to finish. Dean grips the countertop and hangs on for dear life as Castiel rockets back into his dripping hole, clutching his hips and driving back in with a forceful pace. He can tell when his alpa is close by the stuttering rigidity of his movements, and Dean whimpers out, “Come…come on my face, Cas…”

For a moment the alpha continues to pump into him, and Dean wonders if he’ll be able to stop in his hopped-up alpha state…but then he does and Dean spins and falls to his knees, feeling sloppy with slick and his own come and grubby from being hot and dirty. He barely gets one lick around the head of Cas’ co*ck before he’s spilling all over Dean’s lips, panting with his eyes closed. Dean’s tongue darts out to mop up the mess, dragging a finger up his cheek and nose and eyebrow and sucking his fingers clean. Castiel is watching him now like a vulture about to dive onto his prey and Dean quirks up a co*cky eyebrow and says, “See something ya like, alpha?”

Castiel clears his throat in a way that almost sounds like a chuckle, like the well-adjusted Cas the omega had grown up with, and he helps Dean to his feet. He leans close and assists Dean with the clean-up, licking his own come off Dean’s face in such an openly explicit way that Dean stops breathing. f*ck, they’ve only been having sex for less than a week…things have the potential the get real f*cking kinky around here. Real fast.

Not that Dean’s complaining. Far, far from it.

“I see many things I like,” Castiel replies seductively, his eyes fully returned to their usual state of gorgeous blue, and Dean hooks his neck onto Cas’ shoulder. The sex, though quick and without a proper knotting, has evidently made Castiel steadier. He’s suctioning on Dean’s neck like hickies aren’t optional, apparently throwing all his alpha-aggression into alpha-lovemaking. Dean eventually drags them both into the shower, covering Cas’ damaged hand in plastic bag he duct tapes closed, and they wash each other long and slow and languid. It seems impossible that it was only a few hours ago that they were back here, anxious about the outcome of the second trial, Dean mourning the loss of something he’s not sure he was even ready for…

Then they’re kissing again under the spray of the shower, Dean’s skin feeling clean and balmy, and he wants to explain why he wouldn’t let Cas knot him earlier but he doesn’t want to have The Kid Talk and The Gates of Hell Talk before they’ve even had The Mate Talk. Everything is hopelessly jumbled up and he feels himself grow tense the longer he stews on everything, not even the magic pull of Cas’ mouth pulling him away from his worries.

“What is it?” Castiel asks quietly, and Dean’s heart begins to race, filling up with panic.

“I, uh, was just thinking...” He scratches at his scalp, wondering if there’s some remaining shampoo in there that Cas hadn’t rinsed out. When he doesn’t elaborate Castiel doesn’t pressure him, just shuts off the water and they climb out of the tub, toweling off and not bothering to redress before sliding into bed. It’s barely past dinnertime, but they’ve both died and come back to life today, so they share an unspoken acceptance of their newfound lazy state. Dean exhales between the cool sheets and the alpha tucks on his side instantly, spooning him from behind and nuzzling into his neck. Dean’s nearly drifted off to sleep when he remembers…

“We need to splint your hand still,” he groans, annoyed at himself for forgetting. Castiel has removed the makeshift dressing and it’s swollen and red.

“I’ll call Madison tomorrow,” Castiel says simply, hand drifting to Dean’s lower stomach with a protective sort of comfort.

“Do you reckon—” Dean breathes, wondering how to work this question. “Do you feel okay?”

“You mean to ask, do I think I’ll accidentally rip someone’s head off?” Cas’ voice is dry and depreciating and Dean smiles at the self-awareness in the alpha’s voice.

“Yeah,” the omega replies lightly, “that.”

“I…don’t think so. I feel better. More in-control,” Castiel says carefully, as if he doesn’t want to make any promises just yet. “I still feel…not normal. But it’s better when I’m with you.”

Dean squints and racks his brain, wondering what would have Cas feeling like this. His boyfriend has never been a traditional alpha, even when he presented his secondary gender as a teenager. It’s a combination of many things, Dean figures—the remnants of his rut, the violence of the trials, his anger with John, his proximity and defense of Dean…

“Hey, Cas, would you—” Dean’s heart is pounding like a war drum, and his mood from the shower has returned, the flood of questions he has about their future suddenly seeming more important than anything else.

“Mmm?” Castiel almost sounds asleep, which is the only reason Dean inhales one long deep breath and asks, “Wouldjaeverwannamate?”

He can practicallyhear Castiel’s eyes fly open. “Are you asking,” he begins evenly, “if I want a mate or if I want to mate you?”

“Both,” Dean answers timidly, jaw set with tension.

“Yes.” The word rings loud with enormity in the otherwise silent bedroom and Dean is no longer breathing.

“Yes, to…which question?” he breathes, and sighs, ‘cause they can never seem to stop speaking in riddles to each other. The alpha seems to sense his mood, though, and puts a hand on Dean’s hip to flip him over. He obliges, though having this conversation face to face seems like it would be a lot more f*cking difficult. Once their eyes meet Dean softens, some of his nerves driven away by the obvious adoration in Castiel’s eyes.

“I’ve already said this once today,” Cas whispers, thumb brushing Dean’s cheek, “but you were…technically dead by then.” He pauses, as if he’s unable to not comment on how strange that is. “Our lives are different from other people’s, aren’t they?”

Dean laughs, for maybe the first time all day, and nods. “Understatement of the f*cking year, babe.” His hand wanders to Cas’ neck, kneading the tight muscle there. Maybe when all this trial business is over, they can give each other’s full body massages. Hmm… “What were you saying?”

Castiel takes a deep and wavering breath and says, “I love you, Dean Winchester. And you should know that, if I’m still alive and standing by the end of the third trial, I had already planned to get down on one knee and…”

Dean’s eyes are wide and open and full of love, tears escaping out the corners, and he opens his mouth to speak, to reciprocate, whenever Castiel stops him.

“I know, you’re a grown man, a strong omega, so a proposal and a wedding are probably not what you want, but—”

Dean smashes their lips together, heart fluttering and ready to burst, and when he pulls away, he’s smiling. “I was actually gonna say yes. Absolutely, no f*cking doubt about it, yes.”

They kiss and kiss and kiss, and never move beyond that, just soaking in a moment of pure and unadulterated joy. Eventually their lips separate, Dean’s head nestled perfectly on his alpha’s chest, the rise and fall of their chests like a synchronized call and response. Just before Cas falls asleep he mumbles, “Gabriel…I was in Heaven but he wasn’t there…I think my brother might be…”

“Hmm?” Dean mumbles, eyes closed shut, but Castiel doesn’t answer.

They fall asleep instantly.

Dean wakes up a few hours later, disoriented and thirsty, his stomach rumbling. It’s close to midnight now, and he searches around in the dark for a pair of sweatpants to slip on. He slinks around in the kitchen, scavenging for something halfway decent to eat, and groans when he notices the still-broken door. He makes a mental list of things he’ll have to grab from the bunker tomorrow—putty knife, pliers, screwdriver, wood glue, clamps, miter saw, hammer and nails… Maybe it would be easier just to replace the whole damn door. Maybe, Dean thinks with a sort of deep-set excitement, they can remodel this place together. They can add on a few bedrooms and bathrooms and make it a house that’ll last a few decades—plenty of space for a super grossly in-love alpha and omega couple to expand, to raise a family, to even grow old…

He shakes his head at himself for being such a sappy piece of sh*t but can’t wipe the grin off his face, because Cas wants him, not just the wild sex type of want but the romantic, together-forever type of want, and f*ck if that isn’t the best news he’s heard in a long ass time. He creaks around the house softly, stir crazy in a way he can’t quite identify, but when he finally retrieves his nearly dead phone from his discarded jeans in the bathroom, he realizes why.

He has ten missed calls from a variety of people—Sam, Bobby, Jody. Not to mention a dozen texts, but he reads the top one first:

Sam 12:04 AM >> Jody just called, she said she called you too but you didn’t answer. Dad’s in jail, another PI. We gotta go bail him out.

For one moment, one entirely-too-tempting moment, Dean locks his phone screen. He imagines himself ignoring this problem altogether. He’d turn off his phone, slap together a midnight snack and he and Cas would eat in bed, whisper sweet nothings and share in more pillow talk, maybe suck each other off if they were feeling awake enough, and fall back asleep in each other’s arms.

Dean sighs.

This isn’t for you, he thinks in John’s direction. This is for Sammy.

He unlocks his phone and begins typing.

Dean 12:07 AM >> Be there in 5

***

Castiel wakes to a cold bed, hand reaching out and curled in the sheets. The smell of his omega is still present in the room, but fainter now, and he blinks, bewildered by the time displayed on his nearby alarm clock.

One o’clock in the morning.

Why isn’t his mate sleeping beside him?

Dean isn’t his mate, not yet, though he seemed keen enough on the idea a few hours ago that Castiel feels a wave of contentedness wash over him again. The past few weeks have been filled with such nonstop commotion, violence and danger, as if his life is one long trial that Cas has been losing. At this point, though, the outcome of the packmaster competition doesn’t matter to him nearly as much as keeping him and Dean intact, together and united, a full future ahead of them. It’s selfish of him, and maybe proof that he’s not the best choice to lead the pack, but he would sacrifice anything for Dean.

He’s so close to the future he’s been dreaming of since he was a teenager. He just needs to reach out, to claim it.

He shakes his head and stretches his way out of bed, fumbling around in the dark and wrapping himself in the warm bedsheet. He squints into the long dark hallway and calls out Dean’s name, but…he’s greeted by silence. He checks every inch of the small cabin just to be sure, but if his omega was still here, he would be able to scent him instantly. The panic at not knowing where Dean is or why he left hits Castiel like a blow to the stomach, and he hangs his head over the kitchen sink, wetting his neck with cold water to calm down. When did he become such an overbearing alpha? So insecure that he can’t even spend one night alone in bed?

As illogical as he knows it is, he still feels antsy and worked up, fully flustered and on the edge of panic. Finally, thankfully, he thinks to find his phone, which he had left on the coffee table before the second trial—practically a lifetime ago—and there they are.

A half-dozen texts from Dean.

Dean 12:14 AM >> Hey so don’t freak out but we gotta go get dad from jail, apparently he got so f*cking wasted the sheriff arrested him, no idea wtf is going on but I’ll be home soon

Dean 12:16 AM >> i mean, back to your place

Dean 12:17 AM >> which is kinda my home now too

Dean 12:17 AM >> I guess

Dean 12:18 AM >> if thats what you meant earlier when we talked

Dean 12:20 AM >> alright i’m gonna stop now before you send me away to clingy omega boyfriend camp

Dean 12:45 AM >> i love you, Cas. meant to say that earlier

The alpha’s first instinct is irritation at John, wondering if this will be his life now—watching his mate rescue his lost-cause of a father from various bars and jails. But he berates himself as soon as the thought occurs, knowing he should be showing the eldest Winchester more benevolence, though he feels…ill-equipped to do so.

Once he reaches that last text, Castiel smiles down at the phone idiotically. John drama be damned, he still has Dean, possibly forever if he plays his cards right, which is quite possibly the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He holds his phone in his hands gently, still beaming, as he texts back.

Castiel 1:12 AM >> I’m sorry to hear that about your father. I hope you and Sam are okay.

Castiel 1:13 AM >> I love you too.

The alpha waits a few moments for his phone to ding with an immediate reply, but when it doesn’t, he pads around in the kitchen instead. The counter is heavy with the scent of him and Dean, alpha and omega, slick and come, and he feels heady and dizzy from it, belatedly remembering that they never thoroughly cleaned up from earlier. He decides to be proactive and keep his mind preoccupied, getting dressed in wrinkled athletic shorts and a t-shirt before retrieving the spray cleaner and disinfecting wipes, scrubbing the countertops. Afterwards he rummages around in the cabinets for a snack, deciding on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The fracture in his hand is properly swollen and tender now, making it difficult to do much of anything but grumble and wince.

He wanders around the house listlessly, feeling tired and aimless, and ends up examining the bookshelf in the hallway for something to entertain him. There’s a stack of journals visible and his eyes flash in recognition, recalling one of his memories in Heaven of Chuck recording his thoughts and duties into a daily log. He gathers the journals up and spreads them out on the kitchen table, figuring he might have time to do some reading while he waits for Dean to return.

There was something else at the top of his reading pile, though, and it takes a moment of concentrated thinking before it hits him…

He finds the thick textbook, Alpha and Omega Biology and Mating, right where he’d left it: on his bedroom floor, at the start of his rut. He picks it up with his left hand and carries it to the couch, leafing through the table of contents before he finds the most appropriate chapter: “Alpha Biology, Habits, Traits.”

He begins to read:

The biology of an alpha were is very dependent upon the environment. For instance, not being in the company of other weres can make an alpha feel disconnected from his secondary gender, just as being thrust back into the fray without warning could alter body chemistry significantly. The alpha’s pheromones will attempt to seek balance, making the person feel and appear incredibly unstable. Similarly, intercourse with an omega, particularly one that is a potential mate, can instigate flairs of aggressive alpha behavior: dominance and possessiveness being the primary symptoms. Alphas may experience turbulent emotions and respond with violence if provoked, especially around fellow alphas.

Castiel swallows and reads on. It’s not exactly new information—why he beat John to a bloody pulp, why his sex drive is higher than it’s ever been, why he feels raw and ireful without Dean’s presence here to soothe him. On one hand it’s reassuring, knowing there’s a scientific reason for his mood swings; on the other hand, it makes him feel powerless to stop, to correct his behavior. He flicks through the next several pages before finally settling on another paragraph:

Alphas seeking to suppress emotion during periods of heavy alpha dominance should avoid the following: stress and triggers of all types; the likelihood of physical violence; face to face contact with alphas to which they have strong adverse feelings towards; and large gatherings of weres of any second gender (as there is an increased sensitivity to scent). Engaging in sexual activity, particularly with omegas, will decrease feelings of rage but increase overprotectiveness and the desire to claim. While there are some medical treatments available, the heightened emotions of most alphas will naturally diminish within 5–7 days. Please contact your doctor for further options.

Castiel signs and slams the hardcover book shut, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Apparently all the triggers he needs to be avoiding right now are things he literally can’t avoid—John, the trials, the pack. His longing to claim Dean, to tuck him away in their bed for the next century. That isn’t just his hormones…right?

His phone vibrates on the kitchen counter and he takes the opportunity to stretch and stand, exhaling deeply in his chest before reading his latest message.

Dean 2:15 AM >> we’re okay, waiting for the paperwork to process. It’s taking for freaking ever.

Dean 2:16 AM >> whatcha doing up?

Castiel scratches absently at his neck and brings his phone back to the couch, lying horizontal and nuzzling into a cocoon of pillows.

Castiel 2:17 AM >> I woke up. I find it difficult to sleep without you now.

Dean 2:18 AM >> if this is your way of trying to get into my pants, all you gotta do is ask

Castiel grins wickedly, pulling a blanket over his arms.

Castiel 2:20 AM >> I don’t have to try to get into your pants, Dean. I find they usually end up coming off one way or another.

Dean 2:23 AM >> ...i should prolly be insulted by that but it’s honestly kinda hot

Castiel 2:24 AM >> I agree. You without pants is very, very hot.

Dean 2:25 AM >> dude, we are not sexting in the middle of the police station when Sammy is sitting right here

The alpha snorts, shaking his head, and continues.

Castiel 2:26 AM >> But I didn’t even get to tell you what I’m wearing…

Dean 2:28 AM >> Cas come on

Dean 2:29 AM >> ...what are you wearing

He glances down at his shorts and t-shirt, but decides a little white lie won’t hurt, not if it’s for the sake of flustering his boyfriend. Plus, if they continue flirting, he just might end up naked on this couch shortly…

Castiel 2:30 AM >> Nothing.

Dean 2:31 AM >> Christ

Dean 2:31 AM >> walked right into that one huh

Castiel 2:32 AM >> You did, yes.

He chuckles, deciding to make a semi-honest alpha of himself. He shimmies the shorts down to his ankles, petting his half-hard co*ck in a lazy way. It feels slightly strange, coming from his left hand, but his right is too injured for anything strenuous. Despite his cleaning efforts, there’s the distinct whiff of alpha and omega arousal in the air, and it gives him goosebumps.

Castiel 2:33 AM >> I’m sitting here on the couch and all I can scent in the air is you. And the activity we engaged in earlier.

Dean 2:34 AM >> the activity??

Dean 2:35 AM >> dude, the point of sexting is to be dirty with it

Dean 2:36 AM >> not sound like a preschool teacher

Castiel frowns, stroking himself with a little more purpose.

Castiel 2:37 AM >> Your criticism has been noted. How’s this…

Castiel 2:39 AM >> I’m looking at the counter where I f*cked you senseless eight hours ago and getting hard all over again.

Dean 2:39 AM >> f*ck

Dean 2:39 AM >> yeah uh, much better

Dean 2:40 AM >> touching yourself now??

He smirks—he loves enticing Dean, loves to make him squirm. His co*ck has almost reached full hardness, even with the ministrations of his non-dominant hand, and the bottle of scentless lotion on the coffee table will have to suffice. He rubs it on his co*ck, the sound slick and wet and making him shiver.

Castiel 2:41 AM >> Yes. Using my left hand is proving difficult, but I’m imagining it’s your hand instead.

Dean 2:42 AM >> i’d like that

Dean 2:42 AM >> wanna wrap my lips around you too

Dean 2:43 AM >> get u nice and wet

The alpha moans quietly in the back of his throat, nearly dropping his phone on his face in his eagerness to reply.

Castiel 2:44 AM >> I love how your mouth feels.

Dean 2:45 AM >> i know ;)

Dean 2:46 AM >> what else do u want babe

Castiel leans back against the pillow, considering it. There is a daydream he’s had for quite some time, but they haven’t exactly had the time to discuss it…

Castiel 2:47 AM >> Want you to use your slick. Finger me open

Dean begins typing back immediately.

Dean 2:47 AM >> want me to f*ck you with my fingers alpha??

Castiel bites his lip and decides to go for it.

Castiel 2:48 AM >> Maybe

Castiel 2:49 AM >> Want to be filled up with you

Dean 2:50 AM >> jesus that’s hot

Dean 2:50 AM >> i’m getting so f*cking hard

Another moan, this time higher pitch and needy, and it’s been so long since he’s had to do this—stroke himself to completion, have sex without his omega present. He misses Dean, wants Dean, wishes he was here.

Castiel 2:51 AM >> Get home so I can touch you.

Dean 2:52 AM >> f*ck i want to

Dean 2:53 AM >> are you close ?

Castiel 2:54 AM >> Getting there

Dean 2:55 AM >> can i help?

His hand has found a quicker rhythm now, a slide that’s frantic, difficult to maintain. He needs something to push him over the edge.

Castiel 2:56 AM >> Tell me a secret. A fantasy

The omega takes longer to respond and Castiel worries he might have been called back to his family predicament…but thankfully, he starts typing again after a few minutes.

Dean 2:59 AM >> no judging?

Castiel 3:00 AM >> Of course not, Dean.

Dean 3:02 AM >> earlier i got off so fast cuz i was imagining you f*cking me as a wolf, your big alpha dick stuffing me full

The alpha’s eyes fly open wide and he whines, staring at the ceiling, chest panting. Of all the things he thought his omega might want to try, this wasn’t on his short list. But it’s somewhat of a dark and arousing sex dream of his and has been for years. Being so overcome with lust and longing that he f*cks a human omega while he’s still in his were form…

Castiel 3:02 AM >> i

Castiel 3:02 AM >> i find ths very arousing

Dean 3:03 AM >> yeah?

Dean 3:04 AM >> you wanna try it? that huge ass alpha co*ck splitting me open, making me f*cking scream?

Castiel 3:04 AM >> dean

Dean 3:05 AM >> come on alpha, make me feel it

Dean 3:05 AM >> come for me

The org*sm hits him with unexpected intensity, considering it’s just him and his hand, but the image of Dean’s hole stretching around his—

He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to calm down. He’s covered in come, his hand and co*ck and even parts of his thigh. He’s never had this high of a sex drive before, never imagined he would be so aroused he couldn’t wait a few hours for his omega to come home.

Dean 3:07 AM >> how ya feeling

He looks down and groans at the sight.

Castiel 3:07 AM >> Messy.

Dean 3:08 AM >> Lol

Dean 3:08 AM >> Better than blue balls tho

He sits up and stands, heading towards the shower with his phone still in his hand.

Castiel 3:09 AM >> Oh, Dean, I’m sorry.

He starts the water, grabs a towel, and tosses his loungewear into a vague, somewhat-clean-somewhat-dirty pile for later.

Dean 3:11 AM >> Nah, all good. We’re about to see dad so talk later ok

Dean 3:12 AM >> if you’re up for it, Sam says Madison can come over and fix your hand ?

Dean 3:13 AM >> she’s leaving her shift at the hospital now

Castiel 3:14 AM >> Good luck, and sure. Tell him thank you and I’m sorry for the trouble.

Dean 3:15 AM >> no worries. i’ll tell her to give you a few mins

Castiel 3:16 AM >> That would probably be wise. I’m just heading into the shower.

Dean 3:17 AM >> seriously ?

Castiel 3:17 AM >> Yes. I’m very dirty.

Dean 3:18 AM >> dude

Dean 3:18 AM >> not helping

Finally catching on to Dean’s meaning, he smirks, watching steam rise on the bathroom mirror.

Castiel 3:19 AM >> I don’t know what you mean, Dean. Can’t an alpha have a nice, long, hot shower in peace? Picturing his omega here, wrapping his hand around the other man’s hard co*ck and stroking him to completion?

Dean 3:20 AM > BLUE

Dean 3:20 AM > f*ckING

Dean 3:20 AM > BALLS

Dean 3:20 AM > CAS

Dean 3:21 AM > seriously what the hell

Dean 3:21 AM > you are so f*cking evil

Castiel 3:22 AM >> ;)

***

The ride back to the bunker is long and quiet—John’s passed out and snoring in the backseat while Sam and Dean exchange grim looks. Apart from getting his boyfriend off via accidental sexting, Dean had spent the last few hours sitting in the police station, weighed down with guilt. He should’ve seen this coming, honestly, his dad trying to drink himself into oblivion right after the second trial. He had just seen Mary again, could recall in vicious detail what he had been missing all these years. Dying, coming back to life, and still losing the second trial would be enough to make anyone spiral. But someone as unstable as John Winchester…

Well. It’s no surprise that the alpha ended up wandering around the streets of Lawrence clutching a fifth and sobbing incoherently.

“Y’know, Jody said she found him just sitting on the train tracks,” Sam whispers, rather gloomily. His eyes are wrinkled at the edges, tired and drooping, and Dean hopes he doesn’t have to work later today. Sleep deprived doctors aren’t good for much, ‘cept fixing scraped knees and handing out lollipops.

Dean just hums in response, not catching Sam’s full drift, so his brother continues.

“Do you think…I mean, was he trying to…”

The Impala slows as they approach a stop sign, then Dean turns and regards his brother fully. His face is slack but melancholy, a slight panic in his tone, and his implication hits Dean like…

Well, like the impact of an oncoming train.

“Nope,” Dean says resolutely, without giving his logic much thought. Sam sighs, like he’s been readying himself for this discussion, but now Dean has developed a stronger reasoning. “I really don’t think—”

“But if he believes dying again would be his only chance of seeing Mom—”

“You didn’t see him up there, okay?” Dean’s voice is sharp, and he could be plowing through the stop sign by now, but the car is still idling. “He was—f*ck, he was desperate to stay, yeah. But that was ‘cause he didn’t think he’d ever end up in Heaven unless he kept driving down the express lane.”

Sam wrinkles up his nose, confused. “Huh?”

Dean uncurls his fist from the steering wheel, flexing his fingers. “Listen, somebody like Dad—he’s done sh*t, mean sh*t. But he ain’t stupid. He knows his chances of getting into Heaven the normal way are slim to none, so staying up there? With a free pass, reliving a carousel of his greatest hits? That was his only chance, far as he reckons.” Dean gulps, throat dry, and looks away. “And I took that away from him.”

“You saved his life, Dean,” Sam defends fiercely. “You’ve been cleaning up Dad’s messes for…well, way too long. It’s my turn to help.”

Dean finally creaks the car along, tires sounding slick on the road. He wonders if it rained while they were waiting inside the station.

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” he says dismissively, taking an immediate left and glancing at the expansive wheat fields.

“I’m talking about sharing the responsibility of taking care of Dad, so you can take care of Cas.” Sam’s fingers are thrumming on his jeans. “You and him could have something, a future if you want it. I’ve known that since we were kids, and I’m not gonna let Dad take that away from you.”

Dean swallows around the lump in his throat. He checks to make sure that his dad really is passed out in the backseat, before saying in a soft, low voice, “Yeah, we…we do want that. Cas and me. The whole enchilada.”

Sam’s grin is practically electric and Dean rolls his eyes. “Look at that, my bachelor big brother, finally walking down the aisle…”

“There will be no aisle,” Dean says stiffly, though honestly, were marriages and mating ceremonies are really f*cking elaborate, so who’s to say. If he let’s Charlie anywhere near the planning of this, there will not only be an aisle, but a goddamn gay parade. “‘Sides, we’re getting a little ahead of ourselves. There’s a third trial comin’ up next week, remember? And the whole, no new Novaks until that yellow-eyed son of a bitch is gone?”

“Neither are things I could forget,” Sam says gravely, staring out the window absently. It’s completely black outside, no street lamps this deep into the country, still two hours till sunrise. “I wish there was something we could do.”

“You’n me?” Dean turns into the long driveway of the were pack property. He dims his headlights—he knows this land like a second skin, and there’s no need to flash lights into everyone’s windows while they’re sleeping.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, stiffing a yawn. “If anyone can find a way to keep Dad and your future mate alive, and maybe even squash all talk of another demon war, shouldn’t it be us?”

Even though the mate comment is clearly teasing, the omega fights a shiver, trying not to show how goddamn happy that thought makes him. He raises his eyebrows instead, considering what Sam is really suggesting. He’s never thought about it in those terms, but if there’s anybody who can hack this whole damn drama and come up with a plan B, a way to keep everyone they love alive somehow, close the gates of hell permanently and put Azazel in the ground, it’s him and Sammy.

He pulls up close to the bunker, and they heft John in through the doorway, his head lolling to the side. They shuffle down the hallway and plop him onto his bed, still fully clothed and saturated in whiskey, and Dean winces at the sight and smell.

“We oughta clean him up,” he says with some effort, ‘cause he truthfully just wants to get home to his alpha, but Sam shakes his head.

“I already told you,” he says patiently. “You take care of Cas—I’ll take care of Dad.”

It’s a tempting offer, too tempting, and Dean eventually relents on the promise that his brother will call if anything comes up.

He decides to drive to Cas’ cabin instead of walking, that’s how eager he is to return—exhausted from the lack of sleep, but giddy nonetheless. Though it’s been hours since their illicit texting, he’s been half-hard ever since, barely suppressing his scent well enough to hide his arousal from his family. He expects Cas to have fallen back asleep, but on the off-chance he’s still awake…well.

Dean might be getting laid.

f*ck yeah.

He bounds up the steps two at a time and throws open the door. Cas is still awake, which fills him with excitement and longing, but the alpha seems to shrink away…his expression displeased. Is it because Dean smells like other alphas? Like John? Maybe he should take a shower?

“Hey,” Dean says, uncertain now. Castiel is sitting on the couch with his feet spread apart, wearing shorts and a loose t-shirt, reading avidly. Apart from looking annoyed, he hardly regards Dean at all. At least there’s a splint on his hand—Madison must have made good on her promise to stop by. “You, uh, okay?”

Castiel closes the leather bound journal rigidly. His scent is suddenly so hostile and so furious, Dean feels like running in the opposite direction.

He forces himself to stay planted.

“Dean,” Castiel growls, “what exactly do you know about…Azazel, my family, and the opening of the gates of hell?”

Chapter 12

Chapter Text

“If you live among wolves you have to act like a wolf.”

– Nikita Khrushchev

“So,” Dean mumbles, exhausted after monologuing for nearly half an hour, slumped and sitting squarely on the coffee table. “That’s all I know.”

Castiel can’t help it, can’t fight the urge to flee or calm himself down. He blinks and breathes but his vision is still red, his shoulders tight with tension.

His entire body is shaking.

Dean hasn’t moved to sit beside him on the couch, hasn’t tried to put his hands on his boyfriend in a soothing or apologetic way, and Castiel can’t tell if he’s relieved or irritated by Dean’s hesitation. He wants to be comforted just as much as he wants to be left alone, and he’s not sure which impulse is going to win out. He’s thankful that they’re alone, at least, that Madison left shortly after splinting his hand.

“That’s all you know,” Castiel repeats blankly, sarcastically, because that is a lot of information that he has not been privy to. Apparently the Demon War had never been randomized violent mayhem, but rather, a calculated attack on Azazel’s part to kidnap two Novaks and perform the ritual to open the gates of hell. But somehow, either by a fluke or an enemy spy, most of Castiel’s family had ended up dead instead of kidnapped. Bits and pieces of this had been catalogued in his father’s private packmaster journals, though never written down as a cohesive story like the one Dean has just relayed. If Castiel was thinking clearly, he would mention to Dean that Chuck had written about a demon who was a known enemy of Azazel, someone his father had been in contact with…

“Well…” Dean swallows, staring down at his hands. “There’s, uh, one more thing.”

Castiel is on the defensive all over again, feeling frenzied and on-edge, but when Dean finally looks up, his eyes are watering. Whatever half-crazed anger the alpha is struggling with about being left out of the loop, about his family being targeted and killed because of their lineage, he can see that his omega is undergoing sincere pain.

He tries again to steel himself—blinks, breathes. His vision clears, if only slightly, and he stretches forward to touch Dean. His fingers loosen up the omega’s fists, entwines their fingers together. He squeezes.

“Whatever it is,” Castiel says, fighting to keep his voice even, “I won’t be angry with you, Dean.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean whispers, voice breaking, and Castiel wants to wrap his omega into the warm envelope of a hug. But he stays rooted, waiting and listening. “I…after your rut, after all the amazing sex…well, I couldn’t risk getting pregnant. Not with f*cking Yellow Eyes on the loose, trying to kill Novaks. So I…I took…” There are tears now, thick and authentic and trickling down his face, and the implication of what he’s inferring to hits Castiel in the chest. It’s like all the air has been viciously extracted from the room, the cabin, the property, the earth.

“Were you…” Pregnant. Castiel can’t even say the word.

Dean shakes his head and shrugs. “Dunno, probably not. I didn’t even think it could happen outside my heat, but Sam said there are, uh, rare circ*mstances that make it possible.”

“Sam?” Castiel knows his voice is sharp, teetering on the edge of losing what little control he has, but he can’t help it. Another alpha knew about this before Castiel? Another alpha advised Dean to…to…

The realization dawns on him suddenly, like the swinging of a sledgehammer. “He’s the one who suggested it. He brought you the medicine the morning of the second trial.”

“Yeah,” Dean answers, and his voice sounds scratchy and dry. “He was just trying to look out for me. For both of us.”

Castiel jumps to his feet, pacing in a circle, feeling so heated and furious and full of grief that he can’t even think straight.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He tries, and fails, to keep the tone of accusation from his voice.

“Like you said, it was right before the second trial—I didn’t want you to lose focus.” Dean follows him the other side of the room instinctively, but Castiel puts up a warning hand.

“Just…just let me process all this,” he says weakly, wishing he could offer his omega comfort but knowing that he doesn’t have the strength right now. Dean looks miserable and dejected after the rebuke, crossing his arms against his chest protectively.

“I know all this sucks, it really f*cking sucks, but—” The omega looks at him pointedly, chest puffed out, seeming to regain some of his composure. “It hasn’t been a picnic carrying all this crap around, y’know. Maybe I would’ve told you sooner if I knew you weren’t gonna go all…”

“All what?” Castiel demands sharply.

“All crazy alpha on me!” Dean retorts hotly. “In case you haven’t noticed, you haven’t exactly been yourself lately, Cas.”

Castiel laughs hollowly, the gesture sounding maniac to even his ears. “Don’t you think I know that, Dean? Don’t you think I’ve been scrambling to hold onto any resemblance of control, to walk away from these trials the same man I was before?” Once he begins unearthing some of his hidden fears, reservations and worst-case scenarios he hasn’t even allowed himself to fully ponder, Castiel can’t seem to stop. “Don’t you think I want to stay the man you fell in love with?”

“You still are!” Dean shouts, as if he’s horrified that the alpha could think otherwise. Castiel just shakes his head and looks away, but then Dean takes large and pounding steps towards him, pulling him around by the shoulders. He reaches a hand up and doesn’t waver until Castiel’s gaze is on him.

“You are mine, Castiel Novak, just as f*cking much as I’m yours. You got that?” Dean’s chest is heaving, vibrating with angry pants whenever he snaps, “Dammit, Cas, I love you.”

Castiel has never heard the words aloud before, not from Dean, his omega, and it starts to thaw some of the muddled emotions from his hardened heart.

“I…I love you too.” He wavers, unsure of where to go next, if the spat is over or if they’ve just reached an impasse. Eventually he cups Dean’s face between his fingers, brushing away at the streaks of dried tears. “I’m sorry you went through all this alone. It shouldn’t have been like that, Dean. We should’ve faced all those things together.”

“From now on we will,” Dean says resolutely, voice firm, and Castiel sighs.

“And just to be clear, I’m not angry that you took care of it.” He glances at Dean, who only nods in understanding, and the held breath in the alpha’s lungs seems to deflate. “You made the right decision for us, no matter how difficult. I’m proud of you for being so strong.” In fact, Castiel thinks, Dean is almost always cool and quick-witted in a crisis. It’s one of the many admirable traits his future mate possesses.

“Thanks, Cas.” Dean seems to practically collapse under his alpha’s words, his previous staunch posture making him sink against his boyfriend and sigh. Castiel wraps his arms around the other man’s back, holding him close. “You still mad?”

“I’m frustrated that I didn’t know the details of my own life, my own history,” Castiel admits in a whisper, jaw still clenched. “But that’s as much as Bobby and the other elders as it is on you. And I’m scared for you, for the pack, for our future.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Dean echoes softly. “I could never find the right time. But I feel better knowing we’ll handle it together.”

Castiel wants to agree, wants to brush the remaining residue of their middle-of-the-night argument under the rug, hidden away from sight. But he can’t pretend to be okay, not yet.

“I’ll do my best,” he croaks, arms tightening around his omega. “But Dean, I’m…I’m not okay right now. These trials, my rut, being around you…they’ve changed me. I’m self-aware enough to admit that, but I can’t seem to pull myself out of this. The alpha rage is—” His voice breaks.

Blink.

Breathe.

It’s no use.

“It’s unbearable,” he whimpers, vision red again. His hands fall from Dean, clenching into fists at his side.

Dean spreads his palm flat against Castiel’s chest, trying to steady him. “What does it feel like?”

“Like I have no control over my emotions, my actions.” Castiel’s voice is ragged now, his breathing uneven. “Right now…right now I want to break something. I want to punch Sam in the stomach even though I know that’s illogical, that he was doing the right thing by helping you. I want to bend you over the coffee table and pump you full of my seed again and again and again, want to watch you get round and full and pregnant even though you shouldn’t, not right now. I want to kill Azazel with my bare hands, to feel his bones snap, to see his blood. I want to leave and never come back. I want to hide away in bed with you and never enter the outside world again.” He covers his face with his hands, shuddering. “I’m afraid I’m no use to you right now, Dean. Not like this.”

Dean reaches for him, likely to comfort him after that incoherent and crude rambling, but the alpha takes an intentional step back. He begins to strip his clothes off slowly, Dean merely observing with a confused but interested raise of his eyebrow, but Castiel shakes his head.

“Not now,” says, regret dripping from his voice. “Right now I need to be…alone. I need to run, to…”

His skin feels prickly and hot, his ears ringing. He knows then that he’s about to shift whether he wants to or not, and he’d rather not do it inside the house. Fully naked now, his lounge clothes kicked into a wrinkled pile in the living room corner, he gingerly cracks the half-broken door wide. He’s on the porch now and Dean follows on his heels, looking flustered and worried.

“Please don’t leave,” Dean begs. “Not at three o’clock in the morning, Cas, not right after a fight. Not like this.”

“You know I can’t help it,” Castiel rasps out. “I need to calm down, to think.”

“So let’s go to bed. I’ll make us lunch in a few hours, we can talk. We can go for a walk. You can paint. We can f*ck in every position known to man. C’mon, Cas, anything you want. We’ll do it.”

Castiel smiles down at his omega, despite feeling like the insides of his body are pushing against bone and skin, pleading to be transfigured, changed. He can see it in his head, the painting above the mantle, what he thought would be his final farewell to his father. Instead he was face-to-face with his father again in heaven, and the painting…

Well. Perhaps that painting would be his last. It’s a self-pitying thought, he knows, but one he can’t prevent himself from feeling. Packmasters don’t have time to have hobbies, don’t have time to appreciate art. It dawns on him that, if he wins the third trial, he’ll have to do the exact same thing he had set out to prevent John Winchester from doing at the very beginning.

He’ll have to initiate another war.

If he ever wants to be truly safe, if he wants to settle down with Dean and have a family, he’ll have to gather his forces and attack Azazel head-on.

It’s that thought—that none of this has really mattered, that he hasn’t prevented any actual carnage, only increased it tenfold—that finally sets him off. He feels a pinching jilt in his vertebrae, a sharp and fleeting pain in his calves like the slap of an impossibly thick rubber band, and then he’s done it.

He’s back on four paws.

His snout feels cold and nasally, and he sneezes, dipping his head down low. Dean is squatting beside him and rubbing the top of his head with a sad sort of reverence. Come back to me. Come back to me, Cas, Dean chants in his head telepathically.

Castiel licks a flat, dark pink tongue into Dean’s open palm and the omega shivers. Cas remembers dimly that there’s something important he needed to tell Dean, something in the journals that could maybe help them find a way out of this whole mess, but Castiel has been too overwhelmed to think it through properly. Read the journals , he thinks, over and over again, sending the message with a sort of opaque desperation. There’s no one he trusts more than Dean, no one else who can resolve their dilemma.

And then, with one final nuzzle into the warmth of Dean’s neck, he spins around on his paws and leaps off the porch steps, flinging himself into the early morning forest and obscure darkness.

***

Dean doesn’t know how he sleeps, but he does. He does little else, in fact, for nearly three days. He mopes around Castiel’s house, dragging himself from the bed to the bathroom to the kitchen, only doing the bare minimum to keep himself fed and showered. Every passing day is like another plunging arrow into his chest, stomach. Heart. His alpha should be here, should be working through all this with him, but he can hardly fault Castiel for needing space. Hadn’t he done the same thing, right after the failed election, leaving Cas alone to prep for the first trial by himself? The memory only makes him feel more inundated with guilt, wondering if things would have been better if he had confided in his alpha from the beginning.

“No,” he says out loud, though he’s not entirely sure what he’s refuting. “No,” he says again, and it makes him feel better, so he repeats it again, embracing his own stubbornness. It’s the middle of the afternoon and he’s surprisingly been unbothered for that whole stretch of time, since Charlie and Sam and Madison taking over some of his duties as the unofficial pack mayor. They’ve tried to comfort Dean during the wait, urging him outside and asking him to come run errands with them, anything to keep him from fixating on his missing alpha. But Dean has been sulking and isolated, afraid to leave the cabin, worried he might not be here when Cas inevitably returns. The only productive thing he does do is finally fix Cas’ front door, which has been a thorn in his side for, what, a week now? Apart from that he sleeps in their bed and cradles Castiel’s pillow, seeking solace in his alpha’s scent, and passes most of his time in a sort of fever dream.

On the afternoon of the third day, while he’s reaching in the back of the fridge for a beer, his eyes scan the calendar and…he counts. Four. Four days until the third and final trial, four days until either John or Cas become packmaster. The realization makes him dizzy and panicked and he sets the Margiekugel on the kitchen counter with a resounding thud. It’s time to pull his head out of his ass and do something about all this bullsh*t. He can’t fall apart just because Cas isn’t here. He needs to be working towards a solution, brainstorming some way to get them out of this f*cked-up mess.

Read the journals. The thought skates across his mind again, the directive Castiel had given him days ago. He had ignored it up until now, feeling rundown and unmotivated in Cas’ absence, wondering if he’s experiencing separation anxiety from his alpha before they’re even mated. He’s frustrated by his own hormones, by Cas, by the circ*mstances that are preventing them from being together right now. But he swallows down his overwhelming tide of emotions—time to get all Nancy Drew up in this bitch.

The journal Cas had been reading is still there in the center, untouched for days. Dean sighs, unscrews the top off his beer, and begins reading. Most of it is commonplace notes. Meetings with the elders, thoughts on maintaining peace with the human population in Lawrence, the planning of future rituals and ceremonies that apparently took more effort to coordinate than Dean fully realized. With a flush of pride, Dean sees his own name pop-up several times in the packmaster’s musings. In one entry, Chuck had even written his own remorse in naming John as his second. Dean does more for this community than anyone and gets none of the recognition. With a lump of emotion in his throat, the omega swallows and keeps reading.

Castiel must have read this cover to cover, because there’s only a scattering of mentions of Azazel, and only once in a blue moon does Chuck lament about his family’s horrific demise, Castiel’s forced banishment, and the danger surrounding the gates of hell. But it’s enough that Dean understands how Castiel put the fragmented pieces together, and whenever Chuck mentions that his second knows about all of this, and so surely, must his sons, he realizes how that must have seemed to Cas. He wants to argue with the words written in small, looping scrawl, tell Chuck that John kept him and Sam in the dark for most of their lives. Hell, Dean thinks bitterly, there are probably still secrets Dad would take to his grave. But there’s no using arguing with ghosts or John Winchester.

Finally towards the end, in an entry dated only weeks before his death, Chuck begins to mention a strange and charismatic demon. He calls him the King of Hell, an alias the demon provided that seems outlandish as hell (pun intended) but Chuck believed this demon could be the key to finding Azazel:

The King of Hell called me again today and wants to arrange a meeting. I’m conflicted—can I in good conscious work with a demon? He’s a businessman first and foremost, he tells me, and he’s been trying to rid the world of Azazel for quite some time. He thinks partnering with the pack and utilizing all our resources could be the key, but how could I ever trust him?

The subsequent entries mention the King in passing, more secret phone calls and even one clandestine meeting, and it seems as though Chuck was in the process of finally making a move against Azazel just before he died. Dean leans into the couch cushions, biting his lip and thinking. Then he walks into Chuck’s old bedroom, the alpha’s scent almost entirely faded by now, and snoops around the bedside table until he finds it. The packmaster’s old cell phone. The battery is long dead, but he reaches for the charging cable and plugs it up, waiting for it to be revived.

Then he wanders back down the hallway to retrieve his own phone and shoots off a text to Sam.

Dean 3:25 PM >> hey still think we can solve this whole thing? team free will or some sh*t?

Dean 3:26 PM >> If so I got us a lead

Sam 3:28 PM >> Uh, yeah. I’m sorta on temp leave until next week. I’ll come right over.

Dean 3:30 PM >> ok cool. stay put and I’ll swing by and get you

Sam 3:31 PM >> Where are we going?

Dean sits on the edge of Chuck’s bed, the screen of Chuck’s phone lighting up with power. He flips through a dozen texts and missed calls, frowning. He had spent most of his adult life resenting Chuck for keeping Castiel away, but now that he has the full picture, he respects the alpha more and more. He opens Chuck’s contact list, scrolls about halfway down and there it is, just one word attached to a local phone number: King

Bingo.

Dean 3:34 PM >> fill you in on the way

***

The wolf loses track of time. It’s common in this form, considering the nocturnal nature of a were, and eventually, wandering the forest with only the cover of night becomes instinctual to him. He forgets his senses aren’t always this sharp, penetrating and strong. He can hear six miles in either direction, can pinpoint every rustling leaf as it falls from a branch, can sense the sway of grass before he even grazes it. He doesn’t need to eat much, his stomach stays fuller longer as a wolf, but he makes a handful of fresh kills just to taste the blood. Iron twang, bitter salt. He revels in it all, the warmth of the meat that he chews, the strained muscle of rabbits and deer still tight from terror.

To prevent the pads of his paws from wearing down, from being scrapped on twigs or burned by the sun, he glides easily on the edge of toes. His injured hand doesn’t affect him in this form, not much, thankfully reduced to a dull throb that’s easily ignored. He runs, runs more than he ever remembers running, runs until standing or sitting or sleeping feels lethargic and dull. His sense of smell is forty times stronger in his were form and he takes advantage of it, every molecule and whiff, sniffing every inch of the forest floor. He notes the scent of his fellow weres like the imprint of a hand smudging a mirror. Whenever he begins to forget his own name, his humanity fading after each sprint or swim or kill, he’ll go to one tree. This tree, for reasons the wolf does not know, smells like sage.

Smells like home.

This is where he goes when he needs reminding.

He digs the loose soil around the tree, howls, growls, reminding himself of who he belongs to.

Of who is his.

***

“So,” Jody says conversationally, crossing her arms at her desk and looking at Sam and Dean expectantly. “You really weren’t kidding when you said this wasn’t my usual kinda case.”

Dean adjusts himself nervously in the chair beside his brother. After three days moping about Cas, waiting for his alpha to return rejuvenated from his wolf vacation and full of apologies for abandoning his omega to deal with all this sh*t, Dean has finally left the house. Not only has he left the house, but the whole damn property, and he even showered and put on pants.

Small victories, ya know?

“Look,” he begins, unable to keep the impatience out of his voice, “you know the whole story now. Demons are real and f*cking vicious, and this one nasty son of a bitch is pretty intent on killing my boyfriend—” And any of our future pups. “And for whatever reason, this other demon is apparently willing to help us put him in the ground.”

Jody tilts her head, still skeptical but not unkind. “So you boys want me to jeopardize my career to do what…exactly?” She looks at Dean for a moment, then grins. “Congrats on the new boyfriend, by the way. I expect full details later…when we’re not on the brink of a supposed demon war.”

Dean blushes, not sure why is love life is an interest to anyone, thank you very much , but Sam responds instead.

“We’re not asking you to do anything drastic,” he explains eagerly. “We just thought…I dunno, you could look the number up in your database? See if you get any hits? Or maybe we could call him from Chuck’s cell phone and you could trace the number, give us a location?”

The brothers exchange a hopeful glance, their backs to the closed office door, and the sheriff sighs. A few tense, quiet moments pass before she finally relents, “I’m not saying yes, just…show me the phone number.”

“Awesome,” Dean grins, retrieving his old packmaster’s basic flip phone from his back pocket. He finds the number for the mysterious King of Hell and slides the cell into Jody’s hand, elbows posed on the arms of his chair while he waits.

“Hmm,” she mutters, looking puzzled. “That’s weirdly…familiar…”

“What?” Sam and Dean ask at the exact same time, but Jody is unclipping her own cell phone from her belt and flipping through the contacts. After a few moments her hand stops searching and she narrows her eyes, glaring up at them.

“This isn’t the phone number of a demon,” she insists. “This is Fergus MacLeod, a man I went on a date with a few months ago.”

“Uh…” Dean blinks in awkward panic. This was certainly not where he thought their investigation was headed. Yikes. “Hate to break it to you, Jodes, but I’m pretty sure you went on a date with a demon.”

“No,” Jody answers, though she’s losing some of the conviction in her voice. “He was cultured and wealthy, handsome in a sophisticated sort of way, had a fabulous accent, was charming and entertaining and interesting but had never been married before—” She pauses, the color draining from her face. “Oh my god, he was a demon.”

Sam manages to frown sympathetically while Dean fights the urge to snicker.

“Well, this is even better than we hoped,” Dean points out to Sam, while his friend glares at him in irritation from across her desk. “What? All I’m saying is you can…y’know, work your womanly wiles on him or whatever, and get us a face to face meeting.”

Jody snorts. “Just how much influence do you think I have? I sort of…blew him off. We went on one date, drinks at that classy bar Deoch. You know it?”

Dean’s stomach drops just at the mention. He did not exactly have a stellar experience last time he went to that pretentious f*cking bar. “Heard of it,” he brushes off casually, not wanting to get into the details.

“So call him—the King of Hell or Fergus or whatever his name is,” Sam suggests, eyes lighting up with an idea. “Ask him out for another date—”

“And then we’ll swoop in and corner him,” Dean finishes.

Jody’s eyes widen. “You can’t be serious.” When neither of them refutes her claim, she leans over her stack of paperwork looking incredulous. “You want me to go on a date with a demon… again ?”

“You don’t have to actually go through with it,” Dean says brightly. “Not completely. Just set it up and we’ll do the rest.”

“And what if he doesn’t like this ambush method? What if he gets violent?”

“We’ll take care of it. We’ve been training for skirmishes like this for, well—” Sam exchanges a gloomy sort of grimace with his brother. “About twelve years.”

In the end Jody sends a text message, which Dean considers tacky while Sam declares his older brother embarrassingly old-school. After a few exchanges the date is set for that very night, at the same bar, and Jody tells them she’ll only wear a venue-appropriate dress if she can sport her thigh-gun holster underneath.

“Hmm…” Dean mumbles, feigning thoughtfulness.

“What?” Jody demands wearily.

“Little kinky for a second date, even for a honeypot.” Dean smirks, standing up and stepping out of the doorway before the sheriff can physically throw something at him.

They slip back into Baby to run home and change, Dean stopping by the bunker instead of Castiel’s so he can fetch his nicest button-up and denim jeans. John is nowhere to be seen, which is honestly the least surprising thing to happen all day, and the brothers head back into Lawrence a few hours later with one goal in mind.

To make a deal with the infamous demon Fergus MacLeod.

***

The wolf rolls around in a new cluster of wild sage, heart aching, unable to keep a lamenting whine from escaping his opened muzzle. Eventually he sprints back into civilization and pads up the stairs of his cabin, scenting the air for his omega, wanting to pull him into his arms. His arms, his fully-functioning human arms, but the trouble is—he can’t will himself to turn back. He’s never stayed shifted this long before and the cognitive part of his brain, the human part, is terrified that he may be stuck like this forever.

But his ability to scent is still magnified, impossibly honed from spending days and days as a wolf, and he puts his nose to the ground and finds it instantly. The scent of sage, of omega, of Dean.

He follows it for miles and miles, exiting the safe countryscape of the pack and heading into town.

***

Dean orders a whiskey, though his goody-two-shoes of a brother sips his club soda with a disapproving glare.

“We’re about to corner a demon,” Sam hisses quietly. “Don’t you think you oughta be—I dunno, sober for that?”

They’re sitting in a corner booth of Deoch, close enough to spy on Jody sitting solo at the bar, but hidden far enough away that they’re not outwardly noticeable. Dean shrugs and polishes off his glass. He’s feeling antsy just being here, remembering the one and only time he’s been at this bar and how f*cking awful it was, how that alpha douche had nearly had his way with Dean. It only makes him miss Castiel more, with a desperate sort of sting that he’s been ignoring all day long. It’s almost as though he can feel his alpha yearning for him, searching for him, and it makes Dean dizzy and off-kilter.

“I’m gonna get another,” he grumbles, ignoring Sam’s bitchface of clear disapproval. He starts to stand next to Jody, who’s looking surprisingly lovely in a black dress and matching pumps, but catches himself at the last minute. He wedges himself in the middle of a group of corporate men in suits, orders another whiskey, and then the door opens.

The demon is possessing a man of average height, slightly round stomach, brown hair with a beard. His suit is dark, all black with a silver patterned tie, and he saunters into the room with a cool sort of sauveness that part of Dean…admires. He tries not to stare as Fergus plants a kiss on Jody’s cheek, and she’s flushed and hesitant, but an excellent and experienced cop, so Dean knows she won’t blow her cover.

Not yet.

“What would a stunning creature, such as yourself, care to drink?” the demon croons, but Jody’s answer gets lost in the crowd, the stream of muffled voices that Dean can’t quite make out. There are so many people in the upscale bar, so many scents of human and the occasional were, that Dean blocked them all out the moment he stepped through the door. Looking back, that’s the only reason he’s caught off-guard when the man beside him turns around, smirks, and says, “Hey, handsome...don’t I know you?”

It’s like being doused in ice water, seeing the charming grin and raised eyebrows and form-fitting suit, and Dean freezes the moment Dick Roman slides his palm against the small of his back. He’s so dumbfounded, so flooded with trepidation and alarm, that the commotion around him barely registers. He’s momentarily forgotten his mission, his friend who’s risking everything to help them, his brother observing the scene in an unlit corner booth. And then there are shrieks and yells, the sound of furniture shifting and glasses being dropped, and in what feels like no time at all, a magnificent brown wolf Dean would recognize anywhere is launching his paws on Dick Roman’s shoulders, pinning him to the ground.

“Cas!” Dean shouts, with recognition and relief and fear. And then he watches the wolf open his jaw wide, canine teeth sharp and deadly, and sink them into the tender flesh of Dick Roman’s neck.

Chapter 13

Chapter Text

“I have wolf blood and wolf bones... Don't expect me to graze with sheep.”

― Melody Lee

Red.

That’s what the wolf sees, tastes. The tang of iron, of steel, dripping off his canine teeth. Does red have a scent? Right now he can’t remember. But if it does then it’s bitter, nauseating, insistent and unpalatable in a way he doesn't comprehend. There’s a fire spreading from his jaw to his underbelly, a burning rage, and he needs to act, to finish something. Something violent —

“Cas!”

A name. That’s a name. A familiar one, he’s sure of it, but he’s too…distracted…

His mouth is full of blood. Human blood. But that can’t be right. The wolf doesn’t hunt humans, and besides, he isn’t hungry. He’s attacking out of fury, a righteous instinct that he can’t quite grasp. He removes his widened jaw, raises his teeth for just a moment, and blinks. There’s an alpha man below him with an infuriating scent, a deep wound on his neck, and above them both—an omega. A gorgeous one.

The wolf’s omega.

“Cas,” the omega says, voice both firm and desperate. He puts a cautious, calloused hand through the wolf’s mane, making physical contact and staring into his eyes. You are Castiel Novak. The thought enters the wolf’s brain like a door suddenly thrown ajar and he whines audibly. He doesn’t understand. He can’t have a name. He’s a wolf.

Not a man.

“You are a man,” the omega insists, both aloud and in the space of their shared thought-plane, believing the statement with such fervency that it ricochets within the wolf’s consciousness. Part of the wolf believes this man, this omega, this gorgeous messenger he wants to mount, to mate, to never leave again.

“Dean,” the omega names himself softly, though the scene around them is chaos. The wolf shuffles uneasily, muzzle to the ground. Where is the injured human? When was he moved? Are those the sounds of sirens?

“I’m Dean, and you’re Cas.” And you’re gonna bring your ass back to me right f*cking now.

Something significant is finally unlocked inside the wolf then.

The wolf, the alpha, the man.

Castiel.

His name is Castiel.

I can’t, he thinks weakly at Dean. His thoughts are still jumbled, his vision red. He’s only just remembered that his other form, his everyday form, is that of a man. I’ve been a were too long and I can’t shift back.

Dean squats low, expression heavy with worry. There’s partially dried blood on his hands and Castiel prays it’s not his own. He glances up and over the wolf, looking flushed with panic at something Castiel can’t see. You can’t stay here. The police will ask too many questions.

Castiel feels dread, lead-heavy, fill his stomach. Without Dean he’ll forget again, he’ll be lost, he’ll turn feral—

“I’m not gonna let that happen to you,” the omega bites out sharply, replying to the flash of anxiety Castiel didn’t even know he was projecting. Go wait for me. Castiel pictures home, the outside of his father’s cabin, but Dean shakes his head. He closes his eyes, concentrates, and then Cas sees it. A field, the one from his altered memory in heaven, the place where he and Dean would go as teengers to drink and stargaze. Where they silently pined for each other.

A private place where no one will look for them.

“I’ll meet you,” Dean whispers, standing to his feet. Castiel hesitates, fearing what may happen to him if he leaves Dean’s side, but staying at the scene of his attack could be unwise.

Go, Dean demands, yelling in his head with the urgency of a curse, and Castiel slips out the open door on all four paws.

He flees, returns to the night.

He howls.

***

Dean watches Dick Roman sitting in the ambulance, feet dangling off the open edge of the back door. There’s a medic applying a thick wad of gauze to the bite on his neck, pressing down tightly. The alpha is cursing audibly about wanting that damn wolf found, and Sam nudges his brother in the elbow, grimacing.

“What’s our play here?” Sam mumbles quietly.

“Ignore him to death?” Dean offers hopefully. Strangely he’s feeling better now, stronger, not nearly as paralyzed by the sight of the sexist, aggressive alpha he had nearly been assaulted by years ago. Something about seeing Cas so far gone made him switch into cool-headed, problem-solving mode. He needs to get out of here, needs to go find Cas, but there are too many loose ends here that need tying up. Like the outraged, injured, high-society sleazeball alpha in the parking lot.

“Not an option.” Jody slinks forward, huddling closing to the brothers. “Dean—the way you reacted to him—” The sheriff bites her lip, choosing her words thoughtfully. “You’ve obviously met him before. What did he do?”

Sam looks floored at the suggestion but Dean just sighs, hanging his head. “Let’s just say…he likes to rough up omegas. Force them into sh*t.” His voice is grave, carved in stone. “Never had the chance with me, but he damn well tried.”

Sam glances between them as though he wants to ask a million questions, but at that instant, Dick begins shouting at an absurd volume about funding a force of private detectives willing to hunt and kill that dangerous were. Dean’s stomach flips nervously at the thought, and he takes a step forward through the doorway, intending to punch that piece of sh*t alpha’s teeth in, but Sam wraps a hand around his shoulder.

“So we blackmail him,” Jody says simply, as if the thought should have occurred to them already. Dean raises his eyebrows, not quite following.

“If he’s tried that with you, Dean, I don’t doubt he’s tried the same with others,” Jody explains, with a concentrated frown. “All we have to do is imply that we know more and threaten to start digging. Stop this witch hunt in its tracks and keep your boyfriend safe.”

“That’s not exactly ethical,” Sam points out cautiously, though he doesn’t seem to completely disapprove. Jody looks grim, but despite her obvious discomfort, she shrugs.

“I protect my own,” she says forcefully, looking between them both. “I’ve been watching you boys haul your dad in and out of lock-up for over a decade. You’re good people, and Dick Roman—” She slants her eyes at them darkly, her voice low. “Let’s just say, the Feds already have a charge or two against him. He’s going down either way, but I won’t let him drag your boyfriend down with him.”

“Thank you,” Dean exhales earnestly, heart thrumming in his chest. “Jody, I…I don’t deserve your help, but for Cas’ sake, I’ll take it.”

Jody nods in a measured way. “Just make sure you bring him around soon to meet me. On two feet. With opposable thumbs.” She smiles benevolently. “Gotta make sure he’s worth the trouble.”

“He is,” Dean says instantly, meaning it with every ounce of conviction he’s got. “He’s going through a lot right now and isn’t really himself, but—but he’s—” He pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a whole host of unwanted emotion burning the back of his throat. “He’s f*cking amazing.”

Jody smiles again, looking sincere and pleased, but before she can respond the color seems to slowly drain from Sam’s face.

“Oh no! The demon!” The alpha swings his head around, searching. “Dean, we didn’t even get a chance to talk to him!”

“I talked to him for you,” Jody whispers, pulling them close. “Once he heard Dean call the wolf ‘Castiel’ he seemed…different. Interested.”

“Must’ve recognized the name,” Sam muses, while the other two nod in agreement.

“I don’t know how, exactly, but he also figured out I was working with you,” Jody continues. “He left once the police arrived, but he texted me this seconds later. I think it’s for you.”

She pulls her phone from her small leather handbag and spins the screen around, revealing a list of random numbers—

38.93261599217925

-95.33959552645686

“Latitude and longitude,” Sam says, working it out easily and already pulling his phone out and entering the specifications into a map app. “Dean, this is is Saunders Mound—”

“Ten miles outta town, near Clinton Lake,” Dean finishes.

“He sent another text too.” Jody’s voice is steady, her expression blank. Dean can see now why she’s the sheriff—she really is badass, completely calm in the face of danger. “Tomorrow night. Midnight. He wants to meet you.”

Dean nods stiffly, exchanging a resolute glance in Sam’s direction. He had hoped to confront Fergus MacLeod tonight, to make significant progress on the Azazel and gates of hell front, but reconvening tomorrow will give him to time to go find Cas.

Cas…

“I’ve gotta—” The words have barely left his mouth before Sam is pushing his car keys into his hands. Dean must’ve left them in the booth when he left, in a gesture that seems like a lifetime ago, to order a second drink.

“You go find Cas,” his brother instructs. “Jody and I will deal with this…dick.” He casts a distasteful frown at the alpha in the ambulance, but Dean almost chuckles at the word play. He has a surge of love, of thankfulness, for his little brother.

“You sure?” he asks, just in case, but they wave him off immediately. He exhales one more muted thank you before slipping out the door, extracting himself from the unfolding mayhem and walking down the block towards Baby.

***

The sprint back into the woods, to the place where Dean instructed him to wait, feels laborious. Dizzying. The only comparison Castiel can think of is drunkenness, maybe an extreme case of vertigo, as he watches his paws weave left and right and left and right, ears tucked down, head spinning. He wants to be human again, to have hands, to speak words, and there’s a tidal wave of panic crashing into him the longer he stays a wolf.

He hopes, prays that Dean has some inkling, some idea of how to help him turn back.

The only thing worse than dying in the third trial would be forfeiting altogether, sacrificing his future with Dean because he’s lost himself and transformed fully into a wolf. That’s not a helpful thought and he knows it, not a great tactic for calming himself down enough to think clearly, but he arrives in the field with little else to do. His only available pastime is to wait, think. Stew. About the trial, about beating John Winchester, about heaven…about Gabriel. Where is his brother? Heaven or hell? Or… Is he still alive somewhere, waiting to return to his family, to be rescued?

Castiel digs his wet nose into the loose dirt, an absent sort of gesture. If he had hands right now he might be picking mindlessly at stray blades of grass instead. The mental image of himself as human rouses another flash of panic, and without being able to use words, to cry tears, he howls into the summer heat with a lingering sort of melancholy.

Dean is taking a long time, too long, and the wolf is bored waiting here, feels restless and disinterested. What is he doing here again? He forgets for a minute as he daydreams about catching a doe, about the snap of its neck between his teeth. No, no, he needs to stay. He has to stay. He has to wait for Dean.

To keep busy, he catalogs his problems. He has a lot of things to worry about, and he rotates through them like a carousel—the outcome of the third trial, dying, losing, or becoming packmaster; becoming packmaster, which is a worry all on its own, filled with challenges and rituals and responsibilities he can scarcely prepare for; the gates of hell, Azazel, his inability to start a family with Dean before he kills the yellow-eyed demon before he ends up dead. How will he ever solve any of these problems, much less all of them? Maybe he should just stay a wolf after all. It would be simpler for him, for Dean, for the entire pack…

But his train of thought is disrupted by a scent. Woodsy, sharp, sweet. Sage.

Dean.

He growls in the back of his throat and launches his hind legs into action, breathing desperately through his snout as he follows that amazing smell. He doesn’t have to run far, since Dean is jogging towards him in the dark. He squats low after a few feet and waits for Castiel to come to him, and the wolf does, whining the minute he’s close enough to rub his flank against Dean’s shin.

“Hey, hey,” Dean soothes, caressing Castiel’s fur lovingly. His lips are puckered and pink and Castiel can’t help it, he nibbles lightly on the side of his omega’s chin, enjoying the brush of five o’clock shadow. “Mmm, that feels good.”

The omega looks at him in the dark, green eyes shining. Thanks to the bright moonlight and heightened were senses Castiel can see the man’s shape almost perfectly, can even spot the freckles scattered across his boyfriend’s cheekbones.

“Not the biggest fan of this one-sided convo, babe,” Dean whispers, barely masking the concern in his voice. “How ‘bout you change back now?”

Help me, Castiel thinks, and Dean’s fingernails scratch between his ears until he feels like purring.

“Just concentrate,” Dean instructs, and even in his wolf form, Castiel fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Oh, thanks. I hadn’t thought of that.

Dean chuckles in surprise.

“Glad to hear you’re feeling like your old self, grumpy,” he teases, still petting his coat. “No, I just meant—focus on one emotion. That’s how I always shift back. It’s about—I dunno. It’s hard to explain. Like finding a bridge back and walking across it. That bridge is an emotion, a strong one.” Dean drops his crouch and sits on the ground, dress clothes getting dusty with dirt. He scoots closer to Castiel, arms wrapped around his sides.

“C’mon, Cas, focus babe,” he pushes sweetly, forehead touching the sweep of Castiel’s fur. He’s a calming presence, but not calming enough, and the only emotion Castiel can feel is…

Panic. Despair. Dread.

What else does he have to look forward to, as a wolf or a human, but causing and receiving more pain?

“Us,” Dean answers, a defensive tone in his voice. “Focus on us. Focus on how I’m not gonna let you give the f*ck up, okay?”

Dean nuzzles him again, sighing and shaking. “Just one thing, Cas. One emotion. Lose yourself in it…”

He’s breathing heavily on Castiel’s thick neck and the wolf shivers. Dean’s scent is so revitalizing, so strong and soothing, and he feels himself relax minutely. The omega parts his lips, licks them, his airflow tickling Castiel’s skin in a way that makes his heart race…

Oh. Oh.

He gently nudges Dean down, and the omega compiles mostly out of curiosity, Castiel supposes. But he looks so stunning like this, so vulnerable and trusting and at the alpha’s mercy, and he feels the anxiety begin to slowly fade, replaced by something much more—

Raw. Ravenous.

He lays a paw against Dean’s neck, laying his skin bare and beautifully golden, and licks his wide, flat tongue slow and sensually. Dean hums and lays still, eyes wide but understanding, waiting for more. Castiel has finally zeroed in on an emotion, has decided how he’s going to usher himself back into his humanity.

He’s going to f*ck his omega senseless.

***

It goes without saying at this point, but Dean likes to consider himself self-aware enough to admit it.

He’s totally about to get f*cked.

He’s totally about to get f*cked by a huge-ass wolf.

Not just any huge-ass wolf, of course, but Cas, Cas in complete-f*cking-crisis mode. Clearly his boyfriend has decided that the only emotion he can focus on right now involves some down-to-clown alpha pheromones, and honestly, Dean’s not complaining.

Not one little bit.

Wasn’t he just fantasizing about this, like, yesterday? Or a few days ago, to be precise, but Dean feels pretty justified speaking in hyperbole right this second. ‘Cause, yeah…his wolf boyfriend is nudging him to turn onto his belly, whining, desperate for him. The roughness of the motion is sending a flurry of flips in Dean’s stomach.

He wants this.

Badly.

It’s not that nobody does this, but it’s almost always mated couples, thanks to all the trust and intimacy required to be, ya know, f*cked by a massive wolf. Dean never imagined he would ever have the opportunity, not after Castiel left for good, though it’s not the kind of thing alphas and omegas talk about in conversation. But Dean is suddenly wishing he had done more research on this particular kink of his, maybe read a book or at least watched some were p*rn, before wiggling out of his jeans and boxers and baring his ass to the warm summer air.

He gets on hands and knees, presenting like a proper omega, feeling nervous as Castiel circles his nakedness like prey. Then he swallows. Hard. He decides he might as well go full monty here and tosses off his button-up and undershirt, then digs his palms back into the dirt, breathing out. He’s already half-hard just from the anticipation, and he can smell Castiel’s arousal surrounding him—suffocatingly sweet, intoxicating. Castiel leaves little nips and licks all over his body, on his neck and back and thighs, and his skin is vibrating with a combination of need and nerves. It’s like the wolf version of making out, a gentle form of foreplay, and Dean huffs a chuckle at the thought. The laugh gets caught in his throat, though, when an impossibly huge and wet tongue wedges itself between his ass cheeks.

He moans instinctively, louder than he would ever expect when having semi-public sex in a field, and he tenses up when Cas’ tongue laps him again. His slick is starting to trickle, damp and pleasant, and he cradles his head and pushes his ass further towards the sky. He’s gotten rimmed before, by a few others and by Cas himself, but this feels—different. Wilder. It’s not quite as skilled, seeing as Cas is lacking fingers and thumbs at the moment, but it’s sloppy and heady and carnal in a way he’s never experienced. He cranes his neck into a more comfortable position and reaches his arms backwards, separating his cheeks for better access, and suddenly that unbelievably wide wolf tongue is inside him.

He howls but doesn’t waver, a fresh layer of slick running down his thighs as his boyfriend f*cks him with his tongue. He reaches into Castiel’s mind, tries to follow his train of thought, but there’s nothing much going on in there beyond lick lick lick and f*ck f*ck f*ck. He’s thrown himself into the act and Dean moans from the lewdness of it, the recklessness. He’s getting stretched all to hell and it feels so goddamn amazing, his hole dribbling now with slick and saliva, but he needs more.

Needs so much more.

“Cas,” he whines, then realizes he’s currently face-planted into the dirt, so his words might not be very coherent. f*ck me, he thinks pointedly, begs. f*ck me, alpha.

The wolf growls in the back of his throat, his tongue still penetrating him without remorse, and the vibration is so strong it reminds Dean of a f*cking vibrator being shoved inside him. He moans and pushes his ass against the alpha’s tongue, daring him to go deeper, to give the omega exactly what he wants. Castiel seems to finally get with the program and pulls his mouth away, giving Dean the opportunity to slide two fingers into his hole—easy. Before he can add a third, though, thick paws are wrapping around his middle with surprising dexterity. Dean removes his fingers and pushes himself down lower, elbows sinking down into a stance of total compliance. Castiel humps against Dean experimentally and the omega hasn’t turned around yet to see the monster co*ck he’s about to be f*cked with, but he knows it’s unsheathed by now, can feel the hardness bumping against his cheeks. Castiel is a massive alpha wolf and he can only picture what it looks like, his dick rutting against him.

Castiel is frantically grinding down and Dean’s own dick is thick and hard, pulsing with need. He lets himself be humped for another excruciatingly tense moment or two before separating his cheeks again, pushing himself backwards, and guiding Castiel’s slippery length towards his entrance. The girth alone is unbelievable and Dean cries out when Cas bottoms out, more immediate pain than pleasure, but he adjusts remarkably well considering the wolf has little control over his motions. Paws lock hard on Dean’s hips as Cas pounds against the curve of his ass, and the omega is stuffed so f*cking full, insides drenched hot with spurts of precome as Castiel rams into him. He grunts and groans as the wolf thrusts mercilessly, little finesse or technique here beyond smack smack smack, an unyielding collision that has Dean trembling. Castiel is gripping Dean’s backside like it’s a f*cking lifeline and he can feel the wet stickiness of the dick going in and out of him, the friction of it startling and good and making Dean’s fingers dig into the soil beneath him.

He realizes that Cas isn’t gonna hit his prostate from this angle, and as much as he’d love to come untouched on his alpha’s wolf co*ck, the chances are getting slimmer the longer Cas thrusts into him. Even in his current form Dean can tell his boyfriend is getting close, so he props himself up by the elbows and takes himself roughly in hand, pumping his co*ck with precome smearing at the tip. The sounds from his lips alternate between harsh, needy moans and jilted whimpers and Castiel is f*cking wild behind him, yowling with over-stimulation. Dean focuses on the feeling of the growing, swelling dick filling him up, making him full and satiated, and Cas’ erratic motions are jerking his body forward and back. It’s rough and messy and completely f*cking thrilling, and when the wolf finally starts to come Dean thinks he might not ever stop, ropes and ropes of white hot come packed inside him until sem*n runs down his thighs.

His body is debauched, it’s official, his hole wet and wrecked as the knot starts to catch. It shifts slightly against his rim, nudging a sensitive spot he’s been hoping would be prodded, and the omega comes with a gasp and strange sensation on his hips.

There are hands.

Human hands.

Hands with long, slender fingers.

Holding him.

“Dean,” Castiel rasps out, voice like gravel from lack of use, and the corners of Dean’s eyes are wet with relief. There’s still a knot catching on his rim, but it’s human-sized again, a nearly perfect fit.

“Cas,” he sighs happily, reaching a hand up, their fingers entwining together. “Cas. Thank f*cking god.”

“God had very little to do with this interaction, Dean,” Cas deadpans, and Dean snorts, chuckling openly against the ground.

“I wanna see you,” Dean mumbles, chest aching. He hasn’t seen Cas’ actual face in days. “Can you—move us?”

It seems to take the alpha longer than usual to process the request, but after a long pause he’s gliding Dean backwards and into his lap. They both moan at the sudden adjustment, and Dean swings his left leg over so he can straddle his boyfriend properly. The new angle hits his prostate just right and Castiel’s lips find his, kissing him lazily through his second, unexpected org*sm. He comes all over their stomachs while Cas is sucking forcefully in the dip of his collarbone, undoubtedly leaving marks.

“f*ck,” Dean breathes, feeling wet and dirty and sore all over, wondering when his alpha’s knot will go down so they can go home and shower. “That was…wow.”

“Indeed,” Castiel muses quietly, still worshipping Dean’s body with his mouth. But the more minutes that pass, the more evident it becomes that Castiel is thinking, absorbing everything that’s transpired the past few days.

“I—Dean—” He pulls away, breath ragged. “I’m so sorry. I never expected to stay shifted for so long. To endanger myself, you, everyone around me. My attack on the alpha in the bar—I can’t believe that I—”

Dean places a sturdy finger against his boyfriend’s lips, silencing him.

“Don’t,” he commands, voice both benevolent and firm, and Castiel seems to melt beneath him. “Just—just let me kiss you. Okay?”

He waits a beat, halfway expecting his pragmatic boyfriend to object, but to his surprise Castiel surges up to meet him. Lips covers his, teeth and tongue leaving his chin red and rubbed raw, and they lose themselves to sensation again.

And again.

***

The next day Castiel calls recovery. He has to familiarize himself with walking on two feet, not trotting on four paws. Has to re-acquaint himself with eating cooked meat with plates and cutlery, not devouring a fresh kill. Has to sleep overnight, not hide and nap in shaded corners during the heat of day. And talking—that’s something he yearned for when it was unattainable, but now he misses the quiet simplicity of being mute, resents the way his throat feels hoarse and strained. It’s disorientating, like slipping into an old coat that feels two sizes too small, and it hits Castiel just how close he was to losing his humanity. Without Dean he would undoubtedly have regressed fully into an animal, and he shivers on the couch and pulls the blanket closer to him, imagining the ill-fated outcome.

He’s so lost in his own thoughts that he almost doesn’t notice how Dean, bowlegs already widening his gait, is shuffling uncomfortably across the kitchen. Castiel frowns, head tilted over his shoulder.

“Dean,” he says, with some effort due to his sore throat, “are you okay?”

“‘S‘fine,” the omega answers, opening the fridge door wide. Dean had left for the grocery store early that morning and returned with bags of various food and fixings, including pounds of pork, beef, and American cheese. The combination sounded like unappealing hangover mush to Castiel, but Dean had deemed it his mother’s best casserole, and the alpha can still recall a vague memory of eating the original version of Winchester Surprise over fifteen years ago. He smiles now watching Dean arrange his ingredients, greasing the casserole dish as he simultaneously sorts through his baking supplies. He wonders if his boyfriend intends to bake a pie…

If so, his heart just might burst with affection.

“Little sore is all,” Dean says conversationally, though he looks at Castiel and winks. The alpha fights the urge to blush and rises to his feet, walking over to his omega and hugging him from behind. He lays a small, chaste kiss on his neck, breathing in his scent.

“Apologies,” he says sincerely. Though sex is his wolf form was quite memorable and fulfilling, he believes it’ll be more of a special occasion treat. Not only is he somewhat uneasy about the prospect of shifting again, but his size seems to have left Dean feeling discomfort. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Mmm, rub my shoulders later if you want,” Dean breathes, leaning against him easily. “Been feelin’ a little tense the past few days.”

Castiel nods in agreement—that’s an understatement for them both. He only has three more days until the final trial. He should feel nervous, and he does, but unlike the first two he can’t think of any clear way to prepare. In just a few weeks he’s transformed himself from a lonely painter pining away for his childhood best friend, to a freshly toned and knowledgeable alpha were with a lover he wants desperately to mate. His journey back home has been anything but lackluster, and he’s apprehensive at the thought of who he’ll be by the end of all this. Can he recover the pieces of his old self while holding onto the aspects of his stronger, more unpredictable self? Can he suss out the best qualities from these two extremes, remain a man that Dean will love and admire?

Or will he die before he ever finds out?

“You’re thinking way too hard, babe,” Dean muses, kissing the edge of the alpha’s nose before pulling out a wide skillet. “Dinner’ll be ready in about an hour, and don’t forget we’re meeting with that Fergus guy at midnight, but in the meantime—” He glances sideways at Cas’ painting equipment, shoved in an unused corner. “Why don’t you, ya know, tinker around for a bit?”

Castiel grimaces down at his hands. Just hours ago Dean had filled him in on the situation with Fergus MacLeod, the mysterious demon that his father had been on the verge of making a similar agreement with. “I still don’t like the idea of making deals with demons, Dean.”

“We’re just going to hear him out,” Dean points out reasonably, swishing oil around the warm pan before dropping in the ground meat. “If we get a shot at killing Yellow Eyes and making you safe, not to mention save the whole world from the literal gates of hell, then I’m gonna take it, Cas.”

Castiel nods mutely, still feeling soured by the idea but knowing that Dean’s heart is in the right place. It’s possible that he’s still feeling flushed and overprotective of his omega, disliking the idea simply because he doesn’t want Dean to be in danger again. His head is still a bit muddled from everything he’s been through lately and he knows he’s not thinking clearly, not completely. So he shrugs with nonchalance and wanders back over to the couch, thumbing through a Vonnegut novel that Dean’s been rereading. It’s not holding his attention though, and he doesn’t want to bother his boyfriend, who looks completely in his element multitasking in the kitchen—transferring the meat mixture into the dish while rolling out dough for the pies. Dean’s suggestion to tinker around for a bit was one Castiel ignored initially, recalling his stubborn belief from days previous that he’d never paint again. But he finds himself fiddling around with some spare canvas, mixing a few paints and making some broad brushstrokes without a goal in mind.

Time moves quickly, as it always does when he loses himself in color and texture, and before long Dean is calling his name softly and telling him it’s “eatin’ time.” They sit down at the small oak table, devouring their hearty plates of food, while Dean steals glances at the drying canvas and beams at Cas.

“What?” Castiel finally asks, voice full of weary amusem*nt.

“Nothing…” Dean smirks considerably. “Just good to see you—keepin’ busy and whatnot.”

Castiel rolls his eyes outlandishly.

“Smugness is not a good look on you, Dean,” he teases.

“Uh, yeah it is,” Dean says co*ckily, with a grin. “From what I’ve heard, you seem to like all my looks.”

The alpha blushes and looks away, finding he can’t quite argue. Their ankles brush comfortably as they continue talking, discussing nothing in particular—why Dean loves baking, how Mary’s crust achieved the perfect flakiness, and who in their right mind could prefer cake over pie. Afterwards Castiel does the dishes while Dean mixes apples, sugar, flour, and spices for the filling, humming a Metallica song and looking downright chipper. Once the kitchen is relatively clean, apart from Dean’s in-process baking corner, Cas returns to the project perched on his easel. After a while Dean slides the pie tin into the oven, kisses Castiel on the cheek, and reads Slaughterhouse Five leisurely on the couch while the alpha paints. It’s a gorgeously peaceful and domestic scene that makes Cas feel warm and tingly all over, a rare moment of relaxation and contentment, and he realizes that nights like this are what they’re fighting for. And…

And this is why Sam and Dean needs to meet with Crowley alone, and leave Castiel at home.

Once the epiphany hits him he wanders over to the couch, rubbing the dried flecks of paint off his hands. He lifts Dean’s legs and pulls them into his lap, hand massaging his ankles absently, and Dean shuffles the book to his chest and sighs pleasantly.

“Is this when you give me that full body massage?” he asks suggestively, and Castiel huffs out a small chuckle.

“If I remember correctly, the request was for a shoulder rub,” Castiel retorts playfully. “You’re getting rather greedy.”

“What can I say? Night like this, a guy could get used to it.” Dean gives him a mischievous, lopsided grin, but there’s sincerity in his voice that makes Castiel’s heart swell.

“I love you,” Cas says evenly, watching Dean’s expression soften, his cheeks tinge pink. “And it’s because I love you, and trust you, and respect you, that I’m…I’m not going with you tonight. To meet the demon.”

Dean squints in confusion. “Uh, wanna run that logic by me again?”

Castiel sighs, the pad of his thumb drawing soothing circles into Dean’s shin. “I’m feeling better today because your presence and scent soothe me, but I haven’t been around anyone else in a while. Not without getting violent or reacting unpredictably. I don’t trust that my—my alpha instincts won’t kick in tonight, won’t ruin the pack’s chance to make a deal because I’m feeling territorial and overprotective towards you.” It goes against every impulse, every instinct in his body, but he breathes in through his nose and continues. “Not to mention that, I know logically you can take care of yourself. You’re one of the most skilled fighters and cool-headed thinkers in a crisis. If I had to choose anyone to be on my team, it would always be you.”

Dean’s expression is a mixture of cavalier embarrassment and immense delight, and the blush spreading on his cheeks is such a stunning sight that Castiel reaches over, tucking a hand under his chin. “But if you don’t come back to me safely, tell that demon he’ll be dead within the hour.”

Dean snorts and nods, easing the tension from the severity of Cas’ statement by kissing him briefly on the lips.

“So let’s review,” Dean says conversationally, rearranging himself on the couch so his head now rests in Cas’ lap. He plays with the material of the alpha’s t-shirt and smiles up at him. “You’re a wild alpha sex-god in bed, yet you send me on a potentially dangerous mission without you ‘cause you trust me more than you trust yourself. You respect me, take care of me, let me take care of you. You literally painted me a series of love letters for like, twelve f*cking years. And most importantly…you do the dishes.” He grins goofily up at him, fingers brushing Castiel’s chin. “Marry me, Cas?”

Castiel sweeps his omega’s cheek with a finger, kissing his other hand gently.

“That’s the plan,” Castiel replies, feeling so joyful he could burst. He knew Dean had been joking, but not joking at the same time, and he intends to take full advantage of every opportunity to tell his omega how much he wants him. “I would’ve married you ten years ago, Dean.” He lowers down to kiss him again, Dean rising to his elbows to give him better access. Sometimes Castiel forgets how good their kisses truly are, how unusually breathtaking, and Dean moans into his mouth and massages the tip of his tongue with his own. At that moment, though, the oven beeps. Dean groans for an entire differently reason this time, disentangling himself and checking on the pies.

They spend the rest of the evening in a similar fashion, watching television and eating warm apple pie and vanilla ice-cream, snuggled and warm and blissful on the couch. Around ten o’clock a lazy make-out session turns into a rather eager blowj*b on Castiel’s part, and then Dean strokes him to completion in the shower, sighing against his wet skin and leaving a trail of kisses beneath a tender spot on his ear. He lets Castiel spoon him in bed for an hour, but eventually Dean rises and dresses fully again, choosing a pair of worn jeans and a flannel with the sleeves cuffed. Castiel watches from his side of the bed, shirtless with only a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips, feeling disquieted at the sight of his omega leaving him…going off into unknown danger. He’s feeling thoroughly put-out and irritated with his clear-headed self from hours ago, lifting the bedsheet to go find his own change of clothes. Around that time Dean spreads his hand against his bare chest, pushing him softly back into the mattress.

“Don’t,” Dean says gently. “You were right earlier, and you know it. We can’t let our relationship jeopardize the safety of the pack, Cas. I got this, okay?” He bends over, kisses his alpha’s forehead. “I love you,” he mumbles, lips brushing his nose and cheeks and chin. Before Castiel can protest, Dean is standing and leaving, closing the bedroom door behind him.

Castiel lies still as a statue, body tense and cold in a harsh, immediate sense. He had been cozy and relaxed just moments ago, and Dean had been safe and protected in his arms, but now…

Now his future mate is on his way to a clandestine midnight meeting with a smarmy demon.

He shifts uncomfortably in bed and stares at the clock, realizing he won’t be getting much sleep tonight. He’s still fighting the urge to run after Dean, as ridiculous as that is, and stares up at the blank ceiling, willing himself to fall asleep instead. If you go to sleep now, you’ll wake up and Dean will be back. He’ll be in bed beside you. Safe. You’ll both be safe.

He shuts his eyes closed and fluffs Dean’s pillow between his hands, breathing in the mollifying scent of Dean, of sage, of mate. He’s almost asleep and lucidly dreaming, picturing his boyfriend beside him in bed, whenever he hears stirring in the house. He cracks an eye open—one o’clock in the morning. Dean can’t already be home yet…can he…?

He smells it first, the unknown scents, musky and dirty and wrong. He leaps out of bed at the same moment his door is viciously burst open, a group of strangers standing in his doorway. He scents them on instinct, but they’re not weres, they’re—darker, sourer.

Demons.

He searches around for a weapon, for an escape route, for a piece of furniture he can throttle in their direction. But one unremarkable-looking man wearing a hood pulls out a sleek handgun from the waistband of his jeans and shoots Castiel squarely in the shoulder. The pain comes in a sudden and staggering burst, a burning sensation that spreads, and it must be a silver bullet, only that would make an alpha drop so easily to his knees.

“Got him,” he hears someone announce, maybe the hooded man, his tone triumphant. “Someone tie him up—he’s looks more beefed up than his brother.”

A surge of hope, of confusion and fear, crowds the inside of Castiel’s fast-beating heart. Gabriel? Is he alive? He growls in frustration, eyes clenched tightly in pain.

“Somebody knock him out!” This voice is higher, a woman’s, and he tries and fails to stand on his feet.

“Do whatever you like,” Castiel whispers coldly, vision blurred and head dizzy. “But by the end of this, your coward of a master, Azazel, will be dead.”

And then the front of his temple meets the blunt end of a pistol, and he falls backwards, crashing into the dresser with throbbing impact. The pain in his shoulder grows unbearable and he’s sweating and nauseous, unable to fight the urge to faint any longer.

He breathes, adrenaline making him tremble, and his vision fades to black.

Chapter 14

Chapter Text

“I am not a wolf in sheep's clothing. I'm a wolf in wolf's clothing.”

— Ricky Gervais

Castiel wakes with the dawn, sunlight streaming down through the windows of…

A van.

A moving van. It’s unfamiliar and empty, a service vehicle with no back seat. Castiel is stretched diagonally across the space, his arms and legs bound tightly. He’s lying uncomfortably on his side but he doesn’t stirr, doesn’t struggle against the confines of the thick ropes. He’s sure that his kidnappers will have no qualms about knocking him out again, perhaps even more forcefully this time, so he breathes through the pain of the gunshot wound, throbbing and tender in his shoulder.

He opens his eyes.

He takes in his surroundings.

It’s morning, early enough for the heat of the summer sun to be tepid, which means they’ve been driving for…five hours? Six? He cranes his neck to try and catch a highway marker, a discernible billboard or landscape feature that’ll help him piece together the details of his kidnapping. But the demons are driving too quickly, recklessly over the speed limit if he had to guess, and this stretch of road and sky is offering no clues. He waits, neck strained and sweating, for what feels like eternity…but there it is, the clipped hint of a sign. A large, black “W” on a road sign.

West. They’re heading west.

He settles himself back down gently, trying not to draw attention to himself. The two demons up front are having a whispered conversation now, and he holds his breath, eavesdropping with every remaining ounce of willpower in him.

“—still don’t get why we’re waiting—” It’s the man’s voice, the hooded one with the gun stocked with silver bullets.

“Stow the bullsh*t, Tom,” the woman replies sharply, voice high and nasually. “When he gives us a job to do, we don’t ask questions.”

The man, apparently Tom, curses under his breath but doesn’t say anything deciperable. They fall silent again, an awkward tension in the vehicle that even Castiel picks up on. Apparently these are both henchmen of Azazel’s…but they don’t seem to get along very well.

He lies frozen and still, waiting for more conversation to occur, more hints of their end-location or his kidnappers’ full identities. When several minutes pass and nothing else occurs, the alpha gets impatient, adjusting himself until he’s lying on his back. He hisses between his teeth, trying not to cry out from the pounding in his shoulder. The silver bullet lodged inside him weakens him significantly, and he can’t seem to summon up enough strength to think clearly, let alone concoct an escape plan or use physical force to break free.

Finally, and with too much effort, he sits up fully. He knows he’s more likely to get discovered this way, but he refuses to lie here for hours on end, frightened and docile. He blinks, blurry vision sharpening gradually, and then he sees the full picture. There are zipped duffle bags and crates full of tools filling up the open interior. But more importantly, much more importantly—

There’s another person, bound like Castiel but also gagged. His eyes are closed shut, long hair messy, blood staining the front of his shirt.

Gabriel.

Gabriel, who is injured and passed out, but very clearly twelve years older and very clearly not dead.

Castiel’s heart is racing now, fighting the urge to shout in equal excitement and horror. He wants to shake his brother awake, to ask him how he’s alive and where he’s been for over a decade, if he knows why they were kidnapped and where they’re heading—

Realization sinks into Castiel’s stomach, heavy and fast as an anvil. With Gabriel here, he can answer that last question now. Two Novaks, Azazel’s henchmen, a van driving west…

If he has to guess, they’ll be at the gates of hell by nightfall.

***

Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel. It’s fifteen minutes till midnight and Baby is creeping along the edge of Clinton Lake, headlights off, going 10 MPH around the rough terrain of Saunders Mound.

“Dean,” Sam says impatiently, and by his tone of voice Dean can tell this is not the first time his brother has attempted to get his attention. “Did you hear a word I just said?”

Dean blinks rapidly to attention, turning his head minutely to look at his brother. “Uh…”

Sam sighs, rubbing a hand over his furrowed brow. “Where’s your head at, man?”

Dean doesn’t answer, just parks the Impala on a slight hill—a vantage point to see in all directions. The demon didn’t give them an exact meeting spot, after all, so they need to be ready to locate him. He cuts the engine, trying to sort through his own muddled emotions.

“Are you okay?” Sam asks, more softly this time.

“I…I don’t like leaving Cas behind,” Dean admits, feeling a strange ache deep in his chest.

“But it was his idea,” Sam reminds him, as if that should be the end of this discussion.

“Yeah, but—” The omega feels unsettled, panicked and on-edge. “What if something happens to him?”

“While he’s sleeping in his locked house?” Sam chuckles good-naturedly, reasonably, and Dean feels immensely grumpy and patronized by the sound of it. “C’mon…I care about Cas, too. But we oughta worry about ourselves right now, okay? He stayed behind so we wouldn’t lose focus.”

The validity of that statement hangs between them, heavy and unanswerable, and Dean just hums noncommittally in the back of his throat. Truthfully he can’t explain why he feels so uneasy at the thought of Cas being away from him right now, but something deep in the pit of his stomach tells him it’s something more than mate separation anxiety.

Not that they’re technically mates yet. Jesus.

Dean really, really hopes they get the chance to be.

“If this was Madison you left behind—”

“Hey, I did leave Madison—”

“Madison doesn’t have a demon bounty on her head,” Dean snaps. He can’t explain it, but things feel one hundred percent wrong. Sam has such tunnel-vision about their current mission, and would probably chastise the hell of him for risking their meeting by turning around and checking on his boyfriend. Not that Dean could blame him. Cas is definitely sleeping, warm in bed, looking adorable as hell.

Of course he is.

Dean shoots his boyfriend a text anyways, hoping he doesn’t wake him, but he needs to hear from his alpha right now…he needs to know he’s safe.

“I can’t believe you never told me,” Sam mutters, looking out the window distantly, and Dean tucks his phone back into his pocket.

“Told you what?” His tone is defensive, but he can’t help it. He feels a Sam-sized lecture coming on.

“About that Dick guy,” Sam answers, and his voice is sad now, melancholy. “Dean, if I had known an alpha messed with you—”

“You’d what, Sam?” Dean feels a flurry of unexpected anger coursing through him. “Come and save me? Protect the defenseless omega?”

“I would’ve helped you,” Sam bites out. “This isn’t an alpha or omega thing, Dean, and you know it. It’s a brother thing. We protect each other, we have each other’s backs. At least…” He chuckles darkly, gaze fixated out the window again. “I thought we did.”

f*ck. Dean sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes shut. If he’s not dealing with his dad and boyfriend endangering themselves or each other, he’s having to manage the emotions of his little brother. Could everyone get off his dick for like, five seconds?

Except for Cas. Though Dean means that in a very literal sense…

He thinks back to the blowj*b he’d gotten hours ago, how Cas had swallowed him down like his co*ck was f*cking dessert, how they had maintained eye contact the entire time. The promise of being with Cas again right after this bolsters him, makes him take a deep breath to try and get through this argument. This meeting. Everything.

“We do,” Dean concedes to brother, wiping thoughts of Cas and blowj*bs out of his head for now, ‘cause yeah…ew. Not with Sammy around. “But you gotta know that what happened with that asshole at the bar—it’s not something I go ‘round advertising. It was an embarrassing f*cking night for me and not one I wanna relive.”

Sam swallows, nods. “I get that, but I dunno…I just feel like we’re—” He looks away again. “Distant lately, y’know?”

Dean thinks back to a year ago, when Sam had moved out of the bunker and into his own house with Madison. How lonely, how abandoned he had felt at the time.

“I get that,” he says, ‘cause he really does. “Things have just been f*cking crazy, you know that. But once things settle down we’ll work it out.” He nudges his brother on the elbow, their eyes connecting again. “Whatever you want. Saturday morning waffles. Bro bonding on the lake. I’m game for anything. You and Cas are the most important people in my life, so we’re gonna get this sh*t squared away, okay?”

Sam smiles faintly, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds good.” There’s a beat of silence, a pause that feels substantial, before he continues, “As much as I miss hanging out, I really am glad you have him.”

“I know,” Dean says, waving a nonchalant hand. He exhales, glad the tension seems to have eased. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed talking to his brother until they finally had time alone, could unpack their circ*mstances fully. A thought occurs to him and he clears his throat, trying to act casually. “So, uh, since we’re already having a chick flick moment and whatnot. Can I ask you something?”

Sam looks pleasantly surprised. “Sure.”

“Say that, uh, an alpha and omega had—or, y’know, got busy while, uh, the alpha was still…not strictly human.” He feels sweat forming on his forehead. This was a terrible idea.

“Wanna run that by me again? Maybe in English?” Sam says sarcastically.

Dean huffs a breath in annoyance. “Fine. So me and Cas, we kinda…f*cked while he was still shifted.” His face is burning red, his skin tingling with embarrassment, but he can’t back down now.

“Oh,” Sam says blankly, though his expression is a mix of awkward disgust. “That’s, um…I know alpha and omega mates do that, but it’s kinda gross and private, dude. Why would you tell me that?”

“Because you’re a freaking doctor!” Dean shrieks, voice absurdly high-pitched. “And I dunno, you said we’re ‘distant’ so I thought I’d tell you some secret sh*t. And the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I’m gonna get pregnant and pop out a bunch of literal f*cking wolves because I obviously couldn’t put a condom on Cas, they don’t exactly come in size Crazy Huge Wolf Dick, so—”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Sam begs, hands flying over his ears. “Seriously? Are you trying to make me never look either of you in the eye again?”

“Hey, you asked for this, buddy. ‘Distant’ my ass,” Dean retorts, throwing his hands up. Before Sam can argue, he says, “I really just wanna know… seriously…am I running the risk of getting knocked up?”

Sam bites his lips, looking equally like he might laugh or cry, but composes himself eventually. When he answers, he’s using his Official Doctor Voice. “The research in that area is limited. The best answer I can give is that it isn’t likely, but it isn’t impossible either.” He exhales noticeably, chest flattening. “You should probably take some more medicine, just as a precaution.”

It’s Dean’s turn to be quiet and introspective, staring forward at his dash. Every molecule in his body is telling him to ignore Sam’s advice, to play Russian roulette and see if something good happens. No matter how illogical that might be—Azazel is after all Novaks, Cas could still die in the third trial, and they’re not even mated or married yet. The cards are stacked much more firmly in the “this isn’t the time to start a family” category, but Dean is filled with a stubborn certainty that he needs to wait it out and see what happens.

“You have forty-eight hours after the sexual encounter to decide,” Sam supplies. “At least for non-invasive options.”

Dean nods mutely but doesn’t offer any other commentary. He’s done keeping stuff from Cas—this is something they need to discuss and decide on together. Maybe in the morning, after a good long cuddle fest…

“Thanks, Sammy.”

Sam still looks flustered and uncomfortable by the topic, but he nods anyways. He tilts his head through the rearview mirror and squints his eyes, leaning forward. “Is there… Do you see something between the trees?”

Personal issues momentarily forgotten, Dean is immediately on alert. He doesn’t make any sudden movements, but does peer forward near the mirror. It’s faint and well-hidden, but he spots it—the shape of a truck. A ‘86 model with a heavy metal grid.

“f*ck,” he breathes, hoping for Sammy’s sake that he doesn’t sound as alarmed as he feels. “What’s Dad doing here?”

Sam is throwing open the passenger door and slamming it without any further discussion, and Dean flings his open a moment after, scrambling to keep up. He has no clue how John followed them here—only Cas, Jody, and Bobby knew, the latter of which was only a precaution in case they ran into any long-term trouble…

But as they approach both doors to the GMC are opening and shutting, the sounds conspicuous in the empty air. John’s feet hit the ground with a thud, his expression guarded, while Bobby… Bobby… looks borderline embarrassed at being caught.

“What the hell?” Dean asks the pack elder, shootin’ straight as always, and the beta just shrugs.

“Figured you boys needed back-up,” he says calmly, though from the complicated look on his face, that can’t be the only reason.

“You didn’t even notice us watching you,” John critiques cooly. “Getting a little rusty there, boys.”

Sam snorts in irritation. “We’ve worked hard to come up with this lead—”

“‘Worked hard’?” John’s voice is demanding, incredulous. He takes a step towards his younger son, the toe of their boots almost colliding. “You do a little detective work and suddenly you know everything there is to know about this war?”

Bobby steps between them looking tired. “You two ain’t helping,” he mumbles. “This was Dean’s plan, so we oughta let him take the lead.” He glares at John pointedly, and it becomes clear that this was a stipulation of John’s involvement—his promise to follow Dean’s leadership, however begrudging. “Right?”

“Right,” John says tightly, eyes flitting over to his eldest. “So, where’s Crowley?”

“‘Crowley’?” Dean repeats.

“Yeah, Crowley,” John answers impatiently.

“We’re meeting a demon named Fergus MacLeod,” Sam offers, sounding a bit more steady now that his brief argument with John seems to be on the back burner.

“Fergus MacLeod…huh.” Bobby swivels his baseball cap around, scratching absently at his temple. “That name sounds awfully familiar. Who the hell is Fergus MacLeod?”

Dean feels a patch of goosebumps gathering on his bare forearms, and he turns around just as the demon begins speaking.

“What riveting investigators you plaid-clad symbols of testosterone turned out to be,” comes a smooth and sardonic voice. There’s now a figure standing behind them—so unexpectedly, he must have teleported—and it’s the demon from last night.

A short and haughty man in a dark suit.

“Who are you?” Sam asks crossly, while Dean takes a step forward, sheltering everyone behind him. “Fergus MacLeod or…Crowley?”

The demon looks unimpressed and nonplussed by the four weres gathered around him, and slips his hands into the pockets of his slacks nonchalantly.

“Not even a ‘hello’ and already we’re on a first-name basis? I’ll have to keep my eye on you.” He winks outrageously and Sam flushes in irritation. “I’m Fergus and Crowley, though I prefer ‘Crowley’ in all my professional dealings. Which, I suppose, will determined what you call me.” He claps his hands together, eyebrows raised. “So, what can I do for you boys? Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Bobby interjects derisively, as if the other option would be ludicrous.

“Ah, well then…call me Crowley.” The demon snaps his fingers and al the headlights of both vehicles are illuminated, providing a flood of soft yellow light to continue their conversation. “That’s better. After all, half of my deals are made from my pretty face alone.”

Dean snorts before he can stop himself. “Yeah, you’re practically a male model.” He turns, exchanging a brief glance with the rest of his crew, before turning back to face the demon. “Listen, we hear you know how we can take care of the Yellow-Eyed Demon in a, uh, permanent sense.” He waits for Crowley to give something away, to blink or nod or shake his head, but his expression is unnervingly blank. “Is that true?”

Crowley whistles, walking around in a circle. “Now, who told you such a salacious little rumor?”

“I know people,” Dean mumbles vaguely, not wanting to give his cards away, but Crowley shoots him an impatient glare until he relents. “Fine. Chuck Novak. Remember ‘im?”

“Heard the name once or twice,” Crowley says noncommittally. He takes a deep breath, looking between the four men. “Allow me to speak in hypotheticals for you, gentlemen. Or gentle-wolves? Do you have a preference?” When no one answers his question, Crowley shrugs carelessly. “Imagine I wanted a certain demon…off the gameboard. Imagine I wanted a powerful ally to do the deed, maybe someone who wouldn’t mind getting his hands dirty so none of this…unpleasant business…could be traced back to me. Perhaps I would reach out to the leader of the largest werepack in Kansas. Someone who, I knew for a fact, my enemy also wants dead.”

“I get why Chuck wanted Azazel dead…but what’s your motivation?” Sam asks bluntly. “No more competition?”

“Ah, there’s a brain in that giant head of yours after all, Moose,” Crowley coos, and Sam narrows his eyes. “But no, not exactly. Let’s just say I’m not your typical, gloom-and-doom demon. My brother-from-another-devil wants to usher in the apocalypse, but I’m quite happy to have things stay as they are.”

“Why?” John barks. “You’re a demon, and all demons are the same. Evil.”

Crowley smirks impishly, as if his evilness can’t quite be helped. “I’m no Sunday School teacher, but I can assure you, you’d rather be in bed with me than Azazel.” He takes a long step, feet circling each other. “You’re right to be suspicious, but I’m your ally. The enemy of my enemy and all that. I need Azazel in the ground—in fact, my delicate arse depends on it.”

“Meaning?” Bobby asks flatly.

“Meaning I’m a businessman. I wheel and deal in human souls, but if there are no more humans topside thanks to a hell-on-earth scenario, well…” He plasters a sheepish expression on his face. “It’s not very conducive to my way of life, now is it?”

Dean’s mind is racing. Crowley’s explanation makes sense, but he’s still a smarmy, smug and arrogant asshole of a demon. Can they actually trust him?

“What was your plan?” Dean demands, voice low and rumbling. “You…you told Chuck how he could kill Azazel? Didn’t you?”

“Ah, ten points to the Squirrel.” Crowley does a ridiculous, congratulatory bow. “Yes, I told him I have a very…powerful weapon in my posession. One that could kill a demon.”

“You mean send it back to hell,” Sam corrects, but Crowley shakes his head.

“I mean dead, in the ground, six feet under.”

Dean spins back around, looking at his family with skepticism, but his dad has gone slack and sheet white.

“You have the Colt,” John whispers reverently. “But I’ve…”

“Spent twelve years searching for it? Yeah, sorry about that.” Crowley pulls on the cuffs of his suit jacket, looking anything but apologetic. “When there’s a rare weapon that can kill you, and you’re otherwise immortal, it’s good practice to keep that weapon close by.”

“I thought it was…just a legend,” Sam says, and Dean nods in agreement. The story always went that an eighteenth century gun maker, Samuel Colt, made a gun with a limited amount of bullets that could kill any supernatural creature. It had never occured to Dean that, after the Demon War, their dad had become obsessed with finding it. But it all made sense now—his secrecy, his office covered in papers and photos, his tendency to leave for weeks at a time and come home more frustrated than before.

“Roy and Walt…” There’s the slide of gravel slipping under boots, and then, Bobby is whispering to John loud enough for them all to hear. “You’ve had them lookin’ all this time?”

John looks affronted but Crowley just smirks. “Oh, Tweedledum and Tweedledee? I’ve seen them around. Charming little henchmen, aren’t they?”

“Not exactly the word I woulda used,” Dean grumbles before he can censor himself, and Crowley practically beams at him.

“I’m not usually quite so bold, but I like you, Squirrel.” He comes closer, invading Dean’s personal space. “I see an epic bromance in our future. Don’t you? co*cktails with fancy little umbrellas in them, late-night karaoke sessions, secret plots where we kill off our mutual enemies…”

“Sounds like quite the fairytale,” Dean quips mockingly, floored by this weird confession and fighting an uncomfortable chuckle. “But, uh, I already got a guy for all that. So if you’ll just hand over the Colt…”

“Oh, right,” Crowley mumbles, as if he’s just now sussing all this information out. “You’re betrolled to that feral Novak wolf—”

“He’s not feral,” Dean snaps, then remembers the one and only time Crowley has seen Cas, last night at the bar… “He was just having a bad night.”

“Only a few weeks in, and you’re already making up excuses for him?” Crowley frowns benevolently, as if he’s genuinely worried about Dean’s relationship and not just trying to rile him up. Dean knows he shouldn’t take the bait, but he can’t help but asking…

“How do you know it’s only been a few weeks?” The fact that this demon knows so much about his personal life is unnerving as hell.

“You would be amazed at all the things I know,” Crowley says offhandedly, though he’s distracted now, rummaging inside his pockets. His phone is buzzing—Dean can hear it thanks to their close proximity. “Duty calls, ‘m afraid. Feel free to take a moment, debate my offer amongst yourselves, while I take this call.”

“And what exactly is your official offer?” Dean calls, as the demon takes a step back for privacy.

“The Colt in exchange for Azazel’s head on a stick, your compliance in some of my future endeavors, and of course, the Colt returned to me once you’re done playing the role of stunningly handsome protagonist.” He spins away from them then, ear pressed to the receiver. Dean shuffles backwards and creates a tight circle with Sam, John, and Bobby. They’re all silent, watching him expectantly, and Dean realizes they’re waiting for him to speak first.

Huh.

That’s new.

“So, whaddya think?” he asks everyone open-endedly.

“We can’t trust him,” Sam announces immediately.

“Obviously not,” Dean agrees. “Doesn’t mean we can’t still use him.”

“I agree…” John pauses, looking between his sons. “With Dean. We make the alliance, get the Colt, kill Yellow Eyes. There’s no other option here.”

“Sounds great, until we’ve put the pack in a demon’s debt,” Sam points out heatedly. “I doubt he’ll be coming over in the future to borrow a cup of sugar.”

Dean bites his lips, debating every variable. “Bobby?”

Bobby is looking down at his shoes, shaking his head. “I see both sides of the coin. But if we take the deal, the reward oughta outweigh the risk.”

Dean nods, then leans back and onto his heels, thinking. What would the reward be? John could finally get revenge on Azazel, and maybe—just maybe—get some closure in Mary’s death. The risk of another demon war would be greatly minimized, which keeps the pack safe…but puts everyone in a gray area with Crowley, which could prove even more dangerous. But Azazel would be dead, Castiel would finally be safe, the gates of hell would stay shut, and they could start a family without fear.

The risk? Apart from aligning themselves with the demon version of a used-cars salesman, and Dean having to put up with weird flirtations and innuendos for the foreseeable future, this mission would be a purely defensive tactic. It would be striking before Azazel has the chance to try again, which is both a positive and a negative approach, depending on how proactive the pack wanted to be. Anyone who tags along for the mission would be in immediate and real danger—is Dean willing to put all his loved ones in harm's way for the potential promise of peace?

“Miss me?” Crowley’s voice breaks through the pile of pros and cons amassed inside Dean’s brain, and he spins around, watching the demon stow his phone away again. “I just received a very interesting tip.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks edgily, on the verge of saying snarky but stops himself.

“I have scouts stationed at every major interstate and highway, and they just spotted Azazel’s two favorite abominations driving along I-70W in a stolen van.”

“Headed west?” Dean asks, stupefied, trying to piece it all together.

“I’d bet all the jewels in my treasury that they’re headed to Wyoming,” Crowley says casually, though this clearly has an effect on everyone but Dean.

“What? ” he demands, panicked, looking from Sam to John to Bobby. “What does that mean?”

“One of the main entrances to the gates of hell…” Sam looks miserable, sick to his stomach. “Don’t you remember? It’s in Fossil Butte Cemetery. Wyoming.”

“But that’s—” Dean processes the information then shakes his head, firmly in denial. “That doesn’t make a lick of sense. Why would they head to the gates when they can’t even open them?”

“Who says they can’t?” Bobby points out, and Dean feels like he’s been suckerpunched.

“Uh, I say so. They need living Novak sacrifices, and Cas is sleeping in bed right this f*cking second.” But even as he’s saying it, he thinks back to that weird and terrified feeling from earlier…rattled and unnerved, as if something had just happened to Cas and he had felt it. Telepathically, instinctively, down to his bones. Sam is regarding him now with equal parts horror and pity, as if he’s just had the same thought. Bobby looks grim, and even John appears concerned. “I’m gonna call him.”

But Castiel doesn’t answer. The phone rings and rings, and Dean calls once, twice, a dozen times before he starts to spiral.

“Sam, we gotta go—”

“We’re twenty minutes outside of town.” Sam grimaces, then pulls out his phone. “I’m gonna tell Madison to go over and check on him.”

Dean nods dimly, all the sounds around him fuzzy in his ears. Hadn’t Cas mentioned one night in bed that he thought Gabriel might be alive? Hadn’t Bobby told him there were signs, clues that another Novak was alive? How could Dean leave Cas unprotected at a time like this ?

“Dean,” Sam says, slack-jawed and sweating. He passes Dean his phone and the omega holds it up to his ear, croaking out a, “Yeah?”

“He’s not here,” Madison shouts, voice shaking. “I’ve looked everywhere. Dean, there are—signs of a struggle in the back bedroom—the dresser is flipped over—”

The rest of her words are lost in a meaningless jumble, and Dean lowers his hand, cell phone sliding from his grip. His body is pounding with adrenaline, his temples shiny with sweat, and he almost laughs manically when he remembers how worried Cas had been about Dean staying safe tonight.

When he himself was hours away from getting kidnapped.

He needs to hear his alpha’s voice, needs to wrap him up into a hug, needs to keep him safe from every ounce of danger…

He glares at Crowley, who’s been watching the omega’s meltdown with sophisticated disinterest, like someone watching country club caddies collect golf balls.

“I’m in. We’re in,” Dean spits out. “On one condition.”

Crowley seems surprised by the prospect of negotiation, likely hoping the news of Cas’ suspected kidnapping would make him too emotional or desperate to think clearly.

“The pack only owes you one favor. One. And we can borrow the Colt from you whenever we want.” Dean’s hands are in fists and he’s trying hard to keep his cool, but he seems to be managing, because Crowley only glances at him with newfound appreciation.

“One favor, but you can only borrow the Colt once,” Crowley offers.

Dean takes a step forward. It’s not a bad deal—there aren’t any other demons on his hit list right now apart from Yellow Eyes. “Fine.” He goes to shake hands on it, but Crowley wags a finger at him.

“A deal with me requires something a bit more personal, bowlegged beauty,” he murmurs. “Though I don’t know if you’re at liberty to seal the deal.”

He’s right, unfortunately—Dean isn’t the packmaster. At best, he’s the future son or husband of packmaster, which doesn’t quite carry the same reverence or respect.

“I’ll do it,” Bobby says gruffly, taking a step forward. “I’m a pack elder. I’m good for it.”

Dean is flooded with relief, but still manages to say, “Bobby, you sure…?”

But Crowley is already pulling Bobby into a harsh and vehement lip-lock, and Dean looks away on instinct, wondering if there’s ever been an interaction more awkward than the one he’s witnessing right now. When he hears the smack of lips parting, he grimaces and warily eyes them again.

“Not bad,” Crowley compliments, slapping Bobby haphazardly on his stubbled cheek.

“Call each other later for pillow talk,” Dean hisses loudly, before Bobby can form a response. “Just hand over the Colt, Crowley.”

The demon sighs dramatically. “All business with you, darling,” he says somberly, like they’ve had discussions like this before, and Dean nearly loses his temper again before he realizes Crowley is finally reaching into his suit jacket. He pulls out a slim, silver revolver and puts the weighty weapon into Dean’s outstretched palm.

“I would head to Fossil Butte Cemetery right about…” Crowley checks the watch on his wrist. “Now. Those annoying little fleas Meg and Tom have over an hour on you boys.”

Before Dean can ask for further information—like who the f*ck are Meg and Tom?—he blinks, opens his mouth to speak, and then…

The demon is gone.

Teleported off to nowhere.

Dean rolls his eyes at the lack of goodbye and cradles the Colt carefully in his hand, intending to wrap it in a handkerchief and hide it in the Impala for now. He sees his dad eyeing the weapon, but the last thing he’s gonna do is let that loose cannon have free rein on a magic weapon that only has thirteen bullets.

Even if he is Dean’s dad.

“Let’s go,” he commands without preamble. “It’s a fourteen hour drive, but we gotta make it in thirteen. Twelve if we can swing it.”

“Dean,” Bobby says slowly, his tone thoughtful, but Dean flings open the driver-side door. “Dean…”

“We don’t have another f*cking option, Bobby,” he snaps, already gearing up for an argument, but the beta silences him with a deadly glower.

“Will you hush up for one minute and listen to me, boy?” he growls, suddenly every bit as scary as an alpha, and Dean finally stops and regards him fully. “Y’know how I said the demon’s name sounded familiar?”

Dean nods stiffly, not understanding why they’re not getting this show on the goddamn road already. “So?”

“So, I realize now why that last name sounded familiar. I’ve heard it before, and you might’ve too, though it’s been a long time.” Bobby looks at them all with wide, worried eyes. “The witch, the one whose magic has been fueling the trials all this time—”

“Rowena,” Dean breathes, feeling as though he might faint. “Rowena…”

“MacLeod,” Bobby finishes somberly. “Can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

Chapter 15

Chapter Text

“Those are the voices of my brothers, darling; I love the company of wolves.”

― Angela Carter

Castiel’s head sways as he pries his eyes open. He leans against a pillar, back aching, bottom sore against the concrete floor. His hands are uncomfortably raised and cuffed in heavy chains, and he’s still wearing only a pair of sweatpants—his bare torso covered in dried blood, the wound in his shoulder throbbing. He flings his head around wildly, scanning the room.

He’s inside a warehouse, empty and drab and gray. The only light in the room is coming from rectangular, industrial windows near the ceiling. He has no sense of time, no sense of place, no memory of ever exiting the kidnappers’ van.

But he does remember one thing.

One person.

“Gabriel?” he calls quietly into the air. It’s likely that the demons are nearby, ready to greet him with another punch or cut or bullet wound, but he’d really like to stay conscious long enough to locate his brother. “Are you there?”

He hears shuffling from the other side of the pillar, the sound of someone’s head thudding softly against the surface.

“Hey, baby bro,” Gabriel greets, and his voice is weary and tired but he still manages to maintain some of his trademark playfulness. “You good?”

“I…” Castiel looks down at the blood on his chest, clears his throat dry as sandpaper, and ignores the rumble in his stomach. There’s panic coursing through him, fear and anger and resentment, and an ache that’s tender and relentless and Dean-shaped. He’s quite the opposite of good. “I don’t even know how to begin to answer that question.”

Gabriel snorts, but the gesture turns into a cough, dry and rattling. Despite his own desperate circ*mstance Castiel is flooded with concern, imagining the endless torture his brother must have endured at the hands of Azazel.

“How are you alive?” he says, voice breaking, finally asking the question he’s been wondering since he spotted his brother hours and hours ago. “Have you been—a prisoner this whole time?”

“Hell no,” Gabriel replies breezily. “If that were true, they would’ve taken Dad years ago and opened the gates then. C’mon Cassie, try’n keep up.”

Castiel squints in annoyance. His brother has returned for all of three minutes and they’re already bickering.

“Apologies,” he bites out sarcastically. “I should’ve thought through the logical probability of your capture after spending twelve years assuming you were already dead.”

“Apology accepted,” Gabriel answers, and Cas can practically hear the absurd grin on his brother’s face. He fights the urge to growl in irritation. “Jeez, lighten up bro. I can tell you’re brooding from over here.”

“I’m not brooding,” Castiel says sharply. “I’m…I’m kidnapped, about to be sacrificed for a ritual that’ll bring hell on earth, and arguing with a brother who I thought was dead.” Now that he’s summarized his situation aloud, he feels shaky and on the verge of tears. “I—I miss Dean.”

“Aw,” Gabriel quips, his tone ridiculous and sentimental. “You finally tie the knot with your green-eyed bestie? In…more…ways…than…one?”

Castiel knows Gabe is trying to make some sort of knot-related sex joke, but… “The mechanics of that are impossible,” he deadpans, and Gabriel laughs. The dark-haired alpha shifts against his restraints, his wrist rubbed raw. “Please, Gabriel, just be serious and tell me where you’ve been.”

The other alpha sighs, the sound of his boots scuffing the floor as his knees bend. “They nabbed me a few days ago, right before they got you.”

Relief. Castiel is flooded with relief. So his brother hasn’t spent the last decade or so being tortured by demons. But then, that means the night of the demon war… “So how’d you get away?”

“That night I shifted, got into a scuffle with a demon and managed to break free. I overheard two of them discussing the gates and Novak blood and hightailed it outta there. But Mom, Anna, Luc, Michael…” Gabriel is less lighthearted now, more somber and silent. He swallows hard. “Let’s just say it was too late to help them. So I ran by myself, went deep into hiding. I thought about reaching out to Becky—”

“That’s where I was, for about a year,” Castiel interjects, a surge of excitement in his voice. “Inias rushed me out, under Father’s orders. Put me on a bus to Ohio.”

“I knew that if you were alive, that’s where you would be,” Gabriel muses. “But I couldn’t risk drawing attention to you, to us. So I moved to Las Vegas…and got a new identity.”

“What’d you do there?” Cas whispers curiously.

“Mostly women…drinking…gambling. I made some money that wasn’t strictly legal, but got me by.” There’s a pause, a significant beat of silence between them, and Castiel feels restless. “When I thought it was safe enough, I hired a guy to drive to Becky’s house and look for you.”

Castiel smiles in spite of it all—the capturing, the danger, the years they’ve spent apart. Because his brother still loved him enough to look for him, still cared. “That was thoughtful of you.”

“Yeah, well…” Gabriel laughs without any trace of humor. “Don’t get all warm and fuzzy just yet. He told me you were alive. An art major in college, wearing one of those annoying hats that only look hot on French girls—”

“I never wore a beret,” Castiel interrupts.

“Whatever,” Gabriel replies impatiently. “Point is, I knew you were topside but I was too scared to tell you I was, too.”

“You were on the run,” Castiel defends, though part of his does feel a little…jilted. He spent all of his adult life feeling alone, never knowing he still had a living brother.

“I was a coward,” Gabriel responds fiercely. “The minute things grew difficult, I just looked out for myself.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, has no idea how to comfort his brother when part of him agrees with the criticism. So he purses his lips instead and stares at the dusty floor, wondering if they have any hope of getting out of this mess. After a handful of minutes that feel entirely too long and too tense, he asks, “Why are we here?”

“Huh?” Gabriel sounds like he was on the verge of falling asleep again.

“I said, ‘why are we here?’”

“You don’t really understand the concept of kidnapping, do you?” Gabriel mumbles, and Castiel huffs out a breath angrily.

“No, I mean…why aren’t we already at the cemetery?” He peers at the window, stretching himself forward as far as possible. “It’s nearly morning again…that means we spent a whole day in the van, driving to Wyoming, and then—” He bites his lip, calculating. “All night chained up here. They could’ve taken us to the gates already.”

“So?”

“So, this matters,” Castiel retorts. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned from the packmaster trials, it’s to notice everything and trust nothing.”

“Sounds like the tagline of a Liam Neeson movie,” Gabriel chuckles, but before Castiel has time to roll his eyes, his brother’s tone turns serious. “Wait—did you say packmaster trials? When did Dad give it up?”

Castiel feels like an anchor has been dropped inside his stomach, dragging him deep into the ground. “Well, when…when Father…”

He can’t bring himself to say the words, but he can feel his brother’s shock like a physical presence beside him.

“How’d he go?” Gabriel asks quietly.

“In his sleep,” Castiel breathes. “Peacefully. At least, that’s what the elders told me.” Gabriel is silent again, evidently absorbing the knowledge that their father has passed, and Castiel doesn’t pressure him to speak again. Instead, he can’t stop gaping at the light cascading into the window. It’s a new day, an important day, but he can’t remember why…

“So you’re gonna be packmaster?” Gabriel whistles low, and Cas imagines him shaking his head. He knows his brother is compartmentalizing Chuck’s death, putting his initial grief into an unused corner of his mind until he’s ready to face it. At least, that’s his best guess. “Cassie, no offense, but I never saw that as part of your ten-year plan.”

Part of Castiel is irritated and cross at the rebuke…but a larger, more honest part of him knows his brother is right.

“I didn’t have any other choice at the time,” he admits, which is the closest he’s ever going to come to saying—I never wanted the job, but now I’m potentially stuck with it. “John Winchester wanted to reignite the demon war. Though…that’s already happened now, hasn’t it?”

He rattles his chains as proof. The back of his throat burns with rage, but Gabriel just gasps dramatically. “You’ve been fightin’ to the death with your hubby’s dad?”

“We’re not fighting to the death,” Castiel says dryly. “And Dean is not my husband.” Yet, he thinks.

“Oh come on,” Gabriel teases. “You two have been practically married for like, fifteen freakin’ years.”

“Yes, well…” Castiel shakes his head. “If we can’t find a way out of this, neither of us will be doing much of anything.” He leans all his weight against the pillar, thinking in concentrated waves. They need to escape this place—and fast. If the demons are gone for now, it means they’ll be back any minute to retrieve them. “Have you tried shifting?”

“Can’t,” Gabriel replies, his voice clipped. “Not with sliver in our system.”

Castiel groans—how could he have forgotten that? And when did Gabriel get shot? The bullet in Cas’ shoulder is heavy and tender and slowly poisoning his blood. “What about these chains?”

“What about them?” Gabriel jiggles them obnoxiously. “Chain-length metal, bro. I know you’re all alpha’d up, but even you can’t break this sh*t.”

Castiel thinks about asking how his brother can tell he’s all “alpha’d up,” but that would only distract from the situation at hand. He tries to keep a mental record of all the things he knows: they’re in an abandoned warehouse; Gabriel is alive; their capturers are two of Azazel’s demons; they’re in Wyoming; and today is…today is…

“It’s the third trial,” he whispers, dread and realization hitting him forcefully. “That’s what I’ve been missing. The third trial is today.”

“What happens if you don’t make it?” Gabriel wonders. “Is that like…forfeiting? Would Papa Winchester automatically win?”

“I have no idea.” He bangs his chained wrists against the column in frustration. Another period of silence stretches between them, and after a while, he hears the soft snore of his brother sleeping. It’s strange how much the sound comforts him, even here, and he closes his eyes and synches up their breathing, figuring he should rest now before he can’t anymore…

Until there’s a stinging slap against his cheek.

His eyes fly open.

“Ready, handsome?” asks the blonde-haired demon, smirking down at him. “That’s a rhetorical question, actually. It’s definitely showtime.”

Castiel growls, half-asleep and cranky. “If it’s the same to you, I think I’ll skip today’s showing.”

“Good one,” Gabriel calls approvingly, but then he cries out as he’s pushed forward, landing firmly on his knees on the hard concrete floor.

“I’ve got this one, Meg!” Tom announces triumphantly, pulling a handcuffed Gabriel to his feet and vehemently shoving him through the span of the warehouse.

“Don’t you hurt my brother!” Castiel yells, feeling his inner alpha rearing up defiantly. The female demon, Meg, cackles and yanks the alpha to his feet. Any other day he might’ve been able to overpower her, to think of a maneuver to slip away or trick her, but he’s injured and exhausted and half-crazed. So he lets himself get pushed around, get propelled out of the building and back into the van, if only so he and his brother don’t get separated. Meg ties a thick blindfold over Castiel’s eyes, and he breathes steadily through his mouth, trying to center himself and not focus on the fact that he’s…

He’s about to die.

The drive is short, under two miles if he had to guess, and he tries to reposition himself so he’s closer to Gabriel in the backseat. But by the time his elbow finally collides with his brother’s back, the van is being parked and the door is sliding wide open. Hands are reaching for him roughly, forcing him to his feet and pushing him to walk up a rough terrain of gravel and grass.

And then he’s forced on his knees.

“I’m going to kill you all,” Castiel growls, eyes struggling to see through the blindfold, and he hears Meg laugh raucously in his ear.

She leans in close and whispers, “I can’t wait to see your face when you see everyone who’s joined us today…” She trails her lips over the shell of his ear and he shudders in disgust. But before he can struggle back to his feet, another pair of aggravated hands are untying the folded stretch of fabric and slipping it off his eyes. He blinks repetitively, the setting sun stark and bright, and then…

And then, when he spots everyone around him, he gasps in horror.

***

Dean dreams. He dreams and every dream is twisted up like velvet waves, like a black curtain ruffled and laid heavy over him. He doesn’t remember much, only that it happens in flashes, images of horrible violence and fear and dread.

But there’s one dream that finally wakes him up.

The fall.

Castiel is falling from heaven and Dean is watching him, situated on a bolt of lightning, arms outstretched and shouting, trying to save him. No matter how hard he tries or how far he reaches, the only thing he manages to gather in his hands are wisps of evaporating cloud. Cas. The only thing he remembers is the terror on his boyfriend’s face as he plummets down to earth—

“Dean!” Sam’s voice is laced with concern, his large palm shaking Dean by the shoulder. “C’mon, wake up!”

The omega straightens from his leaned position against the window. They’re in the Impala, idling just outside the cemetery for over ten hours now. He can’t believe he allowed himself to doze off for even a minute…f*ck. He’s shaking visibly, the terrifying omens from his dreams making him feel unsteady.

“Shouldn’t have let me sleep,” he grumbles, wiping drool off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Yes, I should have,” Sam argues impatiently. It’s nearly sundown now, and apart from the occasional bathroom break and food run, they’ve been on a 24/7 stakeout. “You drove a thousand miles yesterday, then spent all day staring at this cemetery—where nothing is happening, by the way—waiting for Yellow Eyes to show.”

“What else am I supposed to be doing?” Dean snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. He roots around the undercarriage of the seat, looking for something to eat or drink…they’re low on supplies again. John has been spent some of the day resting in the backseat, but at the moment, he’s circling the perimeter and searching for a hidden entry spot for their ambush.

“You’re supposed to be taking care of yourself,” Sam says, gentler than Dean figures he deserves, as the alpha produces a bottle of unopened water from his satchel and offers it to his brother. Dean sighs but nods in thanks, taking a long sip to wash away the stale taste in his mouth.

“Taking care of Cas is taking care of me,” he says, capping the water and thrumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “I just…”

“Just what?” Sam asks, forehead crinkled.

“I just—f*cking hate this waiting,” Dean groans, the honesty of his statement somehow making him angrier. He’s not exactly a patient guy, not when someone he loves is in danger, and if he doesn’t get to injure some demons real goddamn fast, he’s gonna end up accidentally punching a random trucker at the next gas station. “I need to be doing something, solving something, not just—sitting here.”

“You could’ve walked with Dad, or gone around town with Bobby,” Sam points out, rather unhelpfully…in Dean’s opinion. “There’s an abandoned warehouse a few miles away that’s empty, but Bobby says it has some sort of…residual magic in it.”

Dean snorts. “Bobby spends too much time drinking the witchy woowoo brew with Pamela. Nobody has enough magic to hide two alpha weres in plain sight.”

Sam just shrugs and glances out the window, looking unconvinced. He’s always held witchcraft in high regard, considered it an actual discipline and respectable practice rather than what Dean defines it as…

Dangerous as f*ck.

“Do we have a game plan?” Sam asks abruptly, and Dean turns in the seat to face him.

“Yeah,” Dean resolves briskly. “Step one: rescue Cas. Step two: kill that yellow-eyed son of a bitch. Step three: pizza and beer.”

Sam huffs lightly with exasperation. “Yeah, I got that. I mean more…who’s holding the Colt, who’s grabbing Cas and Gabe? That kind of thing.”

“We don’t even know if Gabe is alive or with Cas—” Dean begins to defend.

“He’s the only Novak who can be alive, and they need two to open the gates,” Sam argues. “We’re just putting two and two together here. Literally.”

Dean hums in quiet agreement. “Well, when it comes to Yellow Eyes, I’m killing the bastard,” he says, answering Sam’s earlier question, hesitating only slightly because he never considered the option of whisking his alpha off to safety instead. “Dad and Bobby are back-up. You, uh, get Cas’n company.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, like your alpha is gonna let me pull him away while you’re surrounded by demons.”

Dean frowns, tilting his head to the side. “Honestly, I don’t really care what Cas wants as long as he’s f*cking safe. So grab him, gag him, tuck in the backseat with a blanket, read him a bedtime story…I don’t care. He’s been through enough, okay? Like a dozen lifetimes of sh*tshows squeezed into a few weeks. I don’t want him anywhere near this when it all goes down.”

Even as he says the words—meaning it with every fibre of his being—Dean knows there’s little to no chance Sam will actually be able to drag Castiel away. Unless his alpha is already unconscious or gravely injured, which Dean can’t even consider as a possibility right now, he knows his stubborn-ass-of-a-martyr boyfriend will stick by his side no matter what. He’s not even sure if his alpha instincts would let Cas leave him during such a precarious situation, though if any alpha could have the strength to overcome their biological impulses and think clearly, it would be Cas. That is, after all, how they got in this mess to begin with…if he hadn’t been so logical about staying behind during their meeting with Crowley, Cas would never have been left alone long enough to be kidnapped.

Damn it all to hell.

Dean rubs his temples, clearing his head. This is why he hates sitting here, watching and waiting—way too much time for thinking. Thankfully, he’s rescued from his thoughts when the phone rings, vibrating in his pocket. He checks the screen before answering.

“Whatcha got for us, Bobby?” he asks, trying to keep the hopefulness out of his voice.

“I see him,” Bobby breathes on the other end, “him and Gabriel both. They’re roughed up, but alive.”

Dean feels immediately relieved and on-edge. “Outside that warehouse you were staking out?”

“Yep, they’re in an unmarked van now. I’m staying a few streets behind, but I think they’re heading in your direction—”

“Dean,” Sam whispers urgently, slinking down deep into the Impala’s seat. He tilts his head forward. “Look!”

Mouth still hanging open and phone pressed to his ear, Dean turns and spots them: there’s a middle-aged man and a young woman passing through the gates of the cemetery. He’s inconspicuously dressed in jeans and a cargo jacket, his hairline receding and his face looking neutrally smug. Dean recognizes him instantly, the memory of spotting Azazel during the demon war burned into his brain. The woman is a different story—she’s a total stranger, but unnaturally gorgeous, hair long and blonde and sporting a vibrantly white gown.

“Got ‘im,” Dean whispers, both to Bobby and Sam. He checks the rearview mirror, searching for his dad…

“Wait for me to get there,” Bobby commands, but Dean’s hand is already on the car door handle. He’s noticed some movement in the woods, perhaps the size of a large animal, and he knows without knowing that John is about to pounce on Azazel any minute. Without the Colt, which is currently on Dean, that’s essentially a suicide mission.

“Can’t,” Dean hisses, opening his door as Sam, confused but compiling, follows along. “Dad’s on the loose out here, and fifty buck says he’s ready to hunt a demon.”

“Balls!” Bobby swears, hitting his steering wheel. “The van will be there in two blocks, but I’m right behind it. Take care of them, Dean.”

“I will. Or I’ll die trying.” Dean means it as a cheeky one-liner, but as he ends the call, the truthfulness of the promise hits him. He very well might die out here today, but as long as Cas and Sam and John and Bobby walk away unscathed, well…

Maybe that’s what matters most.

The brothers crack open the trunk gingerly, gathering various guns and weapons, but the only one with real impact is tucked into the waist of Dean’s jeans.

“Should I call him?” Sam whispers, and Dean knows immediately who his brother means.

“Nah, if he’s nearby that might cause him more trouble,” he points out, leading the way as they circle the black, iron-rod gate. “I think I saw something back there, in those woods.” He waves concisely with his hand and Sam nods in understanding. They tread noiselessly across the grass, their gait light but wide, as they stay hunched low. He still hasn’t lost sight of Yellow Eyes or the blonde, who are looking at the ornate doors of a tomb and speaking in whispers. The closer they are to the edge of the forest, the more Dean must resist the urge to shout his dad’s name. They shuffle along the tree line, but there’s no John in sight…not even the hint of his scent…until Sam nudges Dean in the side and points.

On the other side of the tomb.

Their dad is standing on the other side of the tomb.

“Son of bitch,” Dean grumbles. This is not a great tactical position—there’s no entrance that will guarantee their concealment—but there’s really no other choice. If Dean doesn’t bring the Colt over there, and quick, John will be caught face to face with Azazel without a sufficient weapon.

“We gotta jump the gate,” Sam says gravely, and Dean stiffly nods, heart thrumming in his chest. He keeps waiting to see the van finally make its grand entrance. Despite everything, he’s most antsy to see Cas and make sure that he’s okay. But for now he has to focus on the task at hand, so he steels himself best he can and grips the metal post, launching himself deftly and landing on the other side. Sam follows him a moment later and they stagger forward on tip-toes, hoping beyond hope that they won’t lose the element of surprise. Azazel and the woman are still on the other side, but taking gradual steps in order to circle the tomb, and in his panic Dean increases his pace and begins to sprint. Sam is way ahead of him, though, his long legs striding forward easily.

“Dad!” Sam murmurs breathlessly.

John looks flustered but relieved once they finally reach him, and they all crouch down in position. With hand signals alone, they work out a makeshift plan—the minute it’s clear, Dean will take his shot on Azazel; John and Sam will restrain the woman, and if she’s a demon, begin a exorcism. There are two against them, and three Winchesters. It’s almost an easy fight. This will work, Dean thinks. And it might’ve, if the light and airy accent of a Scottish woman hadn’t startled them from behind.

“Och, lookie here!” Rowena calls, her tone delighted. “Three little wolves, so far from home.”

Trepidation and shock fill Dean as he turns, spotting the redhead witch looking down at him and grinning.

“Rowena,” he sneers, at the same time as Azazel and the woman come around the corner, drawn in by the commotion.

“You,” John snarls, lunging towards the yellow-eyed demon. Afterwards, several things happen at once: Sam throws his arms around John, holding the alpha back with every ounce of available strength; Dean pulls the Colt from his waistband and co*cks the hammer, ready to pull the trigger, when Azazel lifts his hand in a forceful motion. The revolver lands in the grass between them and Dean just stares down at his empty palm, knowing intellectually that the demon has telekinetic powers but still feeling a wave of fear at the immensity of his strength.

“Boys shouldn’t play with Daddy’s gun,” Azazel says, with a smirk. “But it’s good to see you—Sam, Dean.”

Dean tries to take a step forward, to dive desperately for the gun, but his limbs are immeasurably heavy now, and he’s sinking down to his knees without any control over his body. Sam and John are in the same position, and before long, all three Winchesters are on their knees. Rowena circles behind them, the length of her coat sweeping the dusty soil, and she folds her arms and stands beside the other woman.

“Wish I could say the same about you, John,” Azazel continues, smiling so wide that there’s a prominent dimple displayed on his chin. “But y’know, you have made it your life’s mission to kill me. So that puts a damper on our reunion.”

“Go to hell,” John growls in response, and Azazel just chuckles.

“Or maybe—” He takes a large step and squats low, eyes parallel to the eldest Winchester, the yellow in them flashing. “I’ll just kill your boys while you watch. That would surely be more fun than you insulting me. Don’t you think?”

“Don’t touch them!” the alpha shouts, a tone of despair in his voice that Dean’s never heard before. “Do whatever you want with me, but let them go.”

“Why, John…” The demon rises and puts his hands on his hips conversationally. “You’re a sentimentalist! If only your boys knew how much you loved them.”

Dean sweeps his eyes around for some form of escape, but his arms and legs are still locked firm as a statue, so he opens his mouth instead.

“You know what I find annoying, Sammy?” he calls out loudly, waiting until he has the demon’s attention before speaking again. “When people talk about me like I’m not f*cking here.”

“Ah, there he is,” Yellow Eyes says appraisingly. “The mouthiest omega in Kansas. I see you’ve only gotten sweeter with age.”

Dean laughs forcefully. “Yeah? Well…this omega is gonna kick your ass, pal.”

“Oh gosh,” Azazel says mockingly, putting on a fearful falsetto. “Well, this is embarrassing, ‘cause where I’m standing…you’re at my mercy, I have my witch and my demon ready, and the two sacrificial lambs…or, should I say, wolves…are being hand-delivered to us right now.” He smirks, raising a hand to his chin. “Shall we join them?”

He flicks his wrist carelessly and Dean, Sam, and John are launched into the air. They’re separated now by several feet and leaned against headstones, the corner of one which caught Dean’s forehead and scratched him up bloody. But he barely registers the pain, because situated in front of the tomb doors are two blindfolded alphas on their knees, with two demons standing smugly behind them.

Cas. Bloody and shirtless and looking uncontrollable—maybe even savage.

Dean’s heart pounds wildly out of his chest. He has to do something.

“I’m going to kill you all,” he hears Castiel growl, and the female demon bends over him, mouthing sloppily over his ear and whispering something to him. Dean struggles against Azazel’s invisible hold, a rash impulse to reach his alpha overpowering all his other senses, but then the male demon is finally untying Cas’ blindfold. The alpha blinks dazedly into the setting sun, looking unsettled and confused, and then…

Their eyes meet. Long and lingering and full of yearning.

“Dean,” he whispers reventently, as if the omega is a beautiful mirage.

“Hey, babe,” Dean mutters, hoping his laissez faire attitude will bother the annoying ass demons who are eavesdropping. “Fancy seein’ you here.”

The female demon—who Dean distantly recalls Crowley calling Meg—slaps Castiel across the cheek audibly. “Do you like your surprise?”

“I think he’d like it more if you got your demon-whor* hands off of him,” Dean snaps, unable to keep the wrath and fury out of his voice. Gabriel is shuffling in front of him, trying to rise to his knees, but they’re both being held down by Azazel’s henchmen. Sam and John are too far away now, Bobby is their only backup, and Yellow Eyes and Rowena are sharing a significant look.

“Alrighty then,” Rowena says pleasantly, clapping her hands together. “Who’s ready for the third trial?”

Something sinks into Dean’s stomach, reverberating as if he’s been suckerpunched.

“I thought you were opening the gates of hell,” Sam calls out, as confused as the rest of them.

“Oh, sweet Samuel,” Rowena purrs. “All those brains and you haven’t puzzled it out yet?” She gives him a closed-mouth smile with her gaudy red lipstick. “The trial, the gates—they’re one in the same today, my dear.”

Then her eyes flash purple, and the spell begins.

Chapter 16

Chapter Text

“There are nights when the wolves are silent and only the moon howls.” — George Carlin

Castiel never believed the old adage, the proverb, the saying. How, in the seconds leading up to your death, could your life “flash before your eyes”? How could one condense a lifetime of memories down to the barest of recollections?

“How?” Dean yells furiously in the direction of Rowena, hands gripping a nearby headstone and looking distraught. Castiel feels that same question deep inside his bones— how, indeed. How did he ever think he could live without this man? How could the universe give him the gift of a rare, lifelong love if it always intended to cut his life short?

“The gates,” Sam answers, his voice carrying over the sound of Rowena’s chanting, “they were opened by ancient were ceremonial magic. That requires channeling an outrageous amount of mystical power and energy—”

“Get to the part we don’t already know,” John interrupts weakly.

The year after his family died, Castiel became obsessed with the relationship between death and remembrance. In college he pored over academic studies, absorbed the words of near-death experts in the field, studied the impact like a scientist and tried to make sense of what his family went through. But when logic and philosophy, theology and counseling, couldn’t fully answer his questions, he turned to the two things that never abandoned him.

Painting and Dean Winchester.

“I’m not a witch, so I don’t know if I’m right,” Sam admits, biting his lip and looking at Dean, “but if I had to guess, I’d say Rowena is manipulating the packmaster spell to count this as the third trial. She had to wait for the right day and time, but now she’s channeling centuries’ worth of power and magnifying her own abilities to open the gates.”

For years it was only the memory of Dean. That was all Castiel could summon at the time. But he thought of him often—that whole year in Ohio, later on in art school, then as he traveled all over the world, drafting paintings in his studio in Chicago. After a while Dean became less of a tangible, physical possibility and more of a daydream, a symbol, the promise of friendship and love and its continued survival beyond the confines of Castiel’s imagination.

His reason for creating.

“Why does she even need to channel sh*t?” Dean shouts back. “It’s just a normal f*cking spell!”

Returning home. Hadn’t Castiel done that—returned home? It’s funny how fuzzy his brain feels, how bewildered and apathetic he suddenly is…here, at the end of all things.

“It’s a spell that took a whole coven of witches to properly perform the first time,” Sam corrects, eyes still locked on the redhead. “What she’s doing right now is nearly impossible. ”

Seeing Dean after twelve years of long-distance worship made Castiel feel more vulnerable, more exposed than he’d ever felt.

What if the art was better than the man?

He had spent hours on the plane considering that very quandary, which seems laughable now, hilarious on a cosmic scale. How could anything be better than the real Dean Winchester? Not preserved on a canvas or hanging in a gallery, but living and thriving right before his eyes, the most brave and gorgeous and good person to ever exist.

“Cas, you okay?” Dean calls, expression deeply worried, and Castiel stops laughing. He can’t even remember what he even thought was funny.

“I think he’s going into shock,” Sam announces clinically. “He’s lost a lot of blood…”

Castiel looks down at his chest as if it’s a marvel, a surprise twist he wasn’t expecting. Wow, this is his body. Is his soul really connected to it? Where will his spirit go after he dies? He wonders if he’s saying these questions aloud or just in his head…

“f*ck,” Dean mumbles anxiously under his breath. “Just hang on, baby, please. Stay with me, Cas.”

During his research, Castiel once read that those who endure near-death experiences commonly describe the vibrancy of it. This is especially notable during “life review,” the phenomenon he’s always been skeptical of—when life’s greatest moments are replayed like a film trailer.

Panoramic, 3-D, holographic. Those are the words he had read. But the flashes he’s seeing now, the images, he could’ve never imagined…

“Freckles,” he mumbles, and even as he watches his real-life boyfriend’s face turn soft and pale, he also recalls a comprehensive catalog of every time he’s seen Dean’s freckles: summers by the lake, autumn nights in the field, wrestling together as children, kissing Dean’s cheekbones two nights ago in bed. It’s happening all at once now, the memories existing outside of time with heightened detail, a private slideshow just for him. It’s breathtaking, all the Deans and all their freckles, and Castiel wants to live inside this warmth for the rest of eternity. “I never painted them, Dean, but I wish I did…so gorgeous…sunkissed…you’re beautiful…”

“Please,” Dean begs, voice cracking. He sounds like he’s crying but Castiel can’t figure out why. He’s going to die, he knows that now, he’s accepted it. He’s so very, very tired… “Don’t you dare give up.”

“The spell is draining him,” someone says, probably Sam, Castiel can’t quite tell the difference anymore. “Dean, if she’s channeling the energy of the third trial, then that means…the alphas, too…”

There’s the sound of shuffling, of yells and whispers. Dad, someone yells. Castiel closes his eyes but another voice is shouting his name, close to his ear, a tone so familiar yet so astonishing that he can’t believe he momentarily forget.

“Gabriel…” Speaking hurts but he somehow manages, the bone-deep weariness of his body barely allowing him to stay upright.

“That’s it, baby bro,” Gabriel coos, but Castiel’s vision is milky at best, and he can’t discern his brother’s expression. “Just hang on…”

“These displays of love are quite touching,” Azazel says from behind them, self-righteous and smug, “but futile. You will die, all of you. I wish it could be different, but that’s the cost of doing business, ’m afraid.”

“What about you, blondie?” Gabriel asks, and Castiel is only dimly aware that his brother is addressing the female demon with long, blonde hair that they’ve never met. He’s struggling to keep up with the conversation, drifting in and out of consciousness. “You’re okay being a piece of meat for this jackass to hard-boil?”

“You’re funny,” Lilith says evenly. Her voice is so close…is she kneeling beside them? “Arrogant, insignificant wolf. Totally oversold on your own importance—”

“Sh, Lil,” Gabriel whispers. “No flirting in front of my baby bro.”

The demon seems surprised enough to laugh. “Did you know that the demon sacrificed to close the gates was Cain?” Castiel cracks an eye open just minutely, and he can see her grin—two rows of impeccably white teeth. “Seems unavoidable that a woman should die to clean up his mess.”

“Lilith escaped from this very gate centuries ago,” Azazel says conversationally, running a gentle hand through her loose curls. “It’s poetic, don’t you think, that she should die to open them again?”

“Not…exactly…the…word…I…would…use…” Castiel wheezes and coughs, head lulling as he fights to regain control. “It’s more like—” He opens his eyes and stares right into the yellow-eyed demon’s flashing gaze. “Bullsh*t.”

“Oh, look at you, Tiger! Trying your damnedest to recover!” Azazel announces cheerily, pushing Castiel’s shoulder down. “Y’know, I can see why the Novaks and the Winchesters have been in power for so long. You’re tough bastards, I’ll give you that.”

“Hey, now,” comes a slick and carefree voice with a thick accent, “the wolves are adorable, it’s true… I’m tempted to take one home as a pet. But I’ve always heard the MacLeods were the most impressive pieces on the chessboard. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Castiel hears gasps and movement all around him, the chanting of Rowena’s spell dramatically diminishing. Everything around them is utter chaos, too many people moving and speaking all at once, but Castiel is close enough to hear Rowena as she whispers in complete and utter horror, “Fergus?”

***

There’s no sugar-coatin’ it.

Everything has gone to sh*t.

If Dean hadn’t seen it for himself, he never would’ve believed it. Crowley had appeared right in the nick of time, just as Dean and Sam had been helplessly watching the lifeforce of both John and Cas begin to drain away. Dean had spotted the hint of a black suit first, in the outskirts of the distant trees. Crowley had then teleported right between Rowena and Azazel, the omega comprehending now who had he spotted minutes ago in the woods.

It had never been John…

It had always been Crowley.

The moment the sauve, dark-suitted demon arrived, the forceful grip Azazel had on Dean’s body had seemed to evaporate. Yellow Eyes was distracted by Crowley’s arrival, and they’re channeling their demonic powers on each other now as Rowena struggles to regain her footing. Gasping for air, Sam and Dean use this momentary window to rise to a standing position. Without even speaking, they seem to agree—Sam will check on John, Dean will check on Cas. The omega sprints down the cemetery path faster than he ever remembers running, and then he’s on his knees and parallel to Cas’ face, grasping him by the chin.

Dean’s alpha is woozy, bare chest covered in dried blood, the bullet wound in his shoulder looking discolored and nasty.

“Cas,” Dean mutters, cradling his head and shaking his neck gently. “Cas!”

“‘m here,” his boyfriend rasps. “Dean, are you…”

“Save your energy, okay?” Dean turns his head to check, and thank f*ck—John is on his feet, shouldered by Sam. He seems to be doing better Castiel, but then again, he hasn’t spent a whole day locked up and injured. Dean reaches for the thick chain handcuffs on the alpha’s wrists, pinning him from behind. The skin around them is puffed red and rubbed raw.

“Jesus, babe…” He looks up, glaring at all the demons. Meg and Tom have come to the aid of Azazel, Crowley is battling them all behind the tomb in hand-to-hand combat, and Rowena seems to be looking around dizzily, as if wondering if anyone has noticed her. “I’m gonna kill these sons of bitches.”

“How…?” Castiel mumbles softly, and Dean squints, remembering his boyfriend doesn’t know anything about the Colt. The Colt…

Abandoned in the grass, right in the middle of all the turmoil.

Before he can decide what to do next, Dean feels a hand on his back and he flinches… but then sees the flanneled forearms and the baseball cap.

“Nice of you to join us,” he growls at Bobby.

“Yeah, well, didn’t really wanna come in half-co*cked like you,” the elder shoots back. His eyes widen on Castiel, gray and clammy and muttering to himself, certainly looking the worst out of everyone in this battle.

“Is he…?”

“He’ll be fine,” Dean snaps, because the alternative is not a f*cking option.

“Yeah, well, not if we don’t get them both the hell outta here.” Bobby frowns, looking grim. “Let’s get ‘em up.” They maneuver Cas and Gabe to their feet, both standing in the middle to help shoulder either Novak.

“I got ‘em,” Bobby says. Cas is the only one who truly needs the assistance—Gabe is shaken but standing firmly on his own two feet. Gabe, who Dean spent the last twelve years thinking was, without a doubt, dead…

It’s been a crazy f*cking day.

“You get the Colt and end this,” Bobby says resolutely. Dean looks between them all, resisting the urge to stay with his alpha, to get him somewhere safe. But if he doesn’t kill Azazel, then this will just keep happening again and again…and Cas will never truly be safe. Dean leans forward, kisses his boyfriend on the forehead, and shuts his eyes just as they begin to water.

“Just hang on, Cas,” he whispers, petting his hair roughly, matted with blood and sweat. “I’m gonna end this for you. For all of you.”

He turns and runs back towards the mayhem, willing himself not to look back, not to freak out about how Bobby’s escape plan is going. He nearly collides with his dad and brother on the way towards the tomb, and they say “the Colt!” in complete unison. They split up, Sam taking the left side of the ornate structure and John and Dean taking the right. Dean peaks over the side and spots it: the revolver is lying in the grass, momentarily forgotten, while Azazel has Crowley pinned to the side of the tomb with his telekinetic powers. Crowley is writhing and rising up towards the roof, and it’s so similar to the way Mary was murdered all those years ago that something in the omega—

Snaps.

He tackles the yellow-eyed demon, ramming him into the ground. In his peripheral vision he sees Crowley slump, gasping from the impact of Azazel’s attack, and Dean certainly hopes Fergus MacLeod is truly on their side…’cause if not, he’s just rescued another potential enemy. He manages to wrestle Yellow Eyes to the ground for a split-second before the surprise seems to wear off, and the demon pushes him off with a concentrated thrust. His legs kick into the empty air as he flies backwards, nearly striking the side of the tomb in a crash that would’ve surely knocked him out cold. Instead he rolls and groans in the dirt, wheezing, and when he reaches his hand down to stand up, he feels something slick and cold and metal fit into his palm.

The Colt.

But he’s distracted by the scene on his left, watching Meg and Tom close in sinisterly on Sam. Sam ducks, avoiding stray punches and assaults, but then Meg kicks his feet up from under him. Then they stand above Sam, sneering, Tom co*cking a gun that’s undoubtedly full of wolf-killing bullets.

“Sam!” Dean shouts, because there’s no way he’s losing his brother here tonight, there’s just no f*cking way… “You have to shift!”

The words roll off his tongue so easily that he’s surprised by them, but he’s right, Sam’s only choice now is to transform into a wolf and rip the demons limb from limb. The alpha evidently agrees because he shrieks out, his clothes tearing and shredding into ribbons, and then Meg and Tom are scrambling backwards as the large, black alpha wolf leaps in the air. If Dean didn’t know better he’d say his brother’s were form is identical to John’s, but the small patch of gray fur on his left paw has always made Sam easy to identify. Sam’s wolf brain is buzzing with adrenaline and the aggressive urge to kill, Dean can feel it tickling the inside of his mind. He’s distracted the two demon henchmen so well that Meg never sees it coming when Crowley meets her head-on, pulling out a blade from his blazer and slinking it into her stomach. She gasps and falls backwards, her insides lighting up, illuminating the outline of her skeleton, dead. Sam opens his large, gaping wolf jaw and growls at Tom until he’s pinned on the ground, whimpering.

Dean breathes out in respite, knowing now that Sam is a much better position, but then he hears his dad shout, “Dean— now!” He spins around on his heels, and John has somehow wrestled Yellow Eyes into a vulnerable position, hands pinned behind his back.

“Shoot him!” John cries, and Dean releases the hammer, hand firm and eyes narrowed. But Azazel is struggling forcefully out of his grasp, the alpha’s strength nowhere near enough to hold a powerful demon steady. Dean knows the difficulty of hitting his target has just expanded tenfold.

“But I might hit you—” he argues, and John huffs an impatient breath and shouts again, “Now!”

Dean, ever the good son, the rule follower, the soldier…

He pulls the trigger.

***

Castiel is squished between Bobby and Gabriel, dragged halfway to the cemetery gates, when he hears it.

The crisp, reverberating sound of a gunshot.

He pictures Tom’s handgun, the one he’d been shot with only a day ago. The chamber chock-full of wolf-killing bullets.

“Dean!” he cries, turning backwards. Bobby reaches for him, grasping his arm to keep him nearby, but Castiel pushes the elder away. “That…the gunshot…it could be…”

The possibility of his omega being on the other end of that bullet sends a shockwave of strength and adrenaline through him, like a jolt of electricity, and he needs nothing quite as badly now as he needs to see who just got shot.

He takes off running, stumbling and tripping back down the path, heading back towards the outside of the tomb.

“Castiel! It’s not him!” Bobby calls, but Castiel ignores him, because how could he possibly know that? There’s only one handgun that the alpha knows of, and even if the bullet didn’t hit Dean, there’s still the possibility that Sam or John are lying in the grass right now, drenched in pools of their own blood…

His ears are ringing, his vision fading around the edges, but he manages to make it—taking in the rapidly unfolding scene. Rowena is standing beside Crowley, both looking pleased and smug; Sam is in his wolf form, utterly distracted, the demon Tom worming his way from under his paws; Lilith is slinking away and into the shadows; John and Dean are hugging…smiling…but why…

Azazel is horizontal on the ground, his vessel limp and lifeless. Something like incredulity and relief bubble inside Castiel’s chest. The demon who’s been hunting him and his family for years, who threatened hell on earth, is dead.

Azazel is dead.

But how?

There’s a revolver in Dean’s hand, but the omega hasn’t spotted him yet, his back turned and as he grips his father tighter. Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever seen father and son hug, and his heart aches for his boyfriend at the sight, knowing the immensity of this moment and feeling gracious to be gifted the opportunity to see it. From the side of Dean’s shoulder, John meets Castiel’s gaze—open, welcoming, thankful. It’s the warmest expression he’s ever seen on the alpha’s face, and it’s directed at him.

Castiel feels like grinning, like weeping, like hugging his newfound family with every remaining ounce of strength inside him. The weeks of animosity, of him and John vying for packmaster, seems overwhelmingly absurd now. Perhaps with Azazel gone, John will finally start to heal…will be a proper father to Sam and Dean, and a supportive father-in-law for Castiel. Maybe John will become the packmaster after all, or maybe Castiel, or Gabriel…he really couldn’t care less at this point because they did it. They defeated their enemy and they survived it.

Across the way, he sees Tom finally fight his way onto his feet. Sam, still in his wolf form, has his head turned…not noticing the smarmy demon as he spots the discarded bodies of both Meg and Azazel, a reckless rage growing on his face.

Then panic settles onto John’s face and only Castiel can see it.

“No!” John cries, pulling away from Dean and diving forward. His feet leap across Azazel’s body and his boots collide with Castiel’s shins, chest puffed up, arms open in a protective stance, and then Cas sees it over John’s shoulder—

The barrel of a gun.

Tom’s shaking hand.

The raucous ringing of another gunshot.

John gaze goes wide with shock as he falls against Castiel, both alphas tumbling downward, John panting as his shirt is stained with a growing blot of red.

“Dad!” Dean screams, and Castiel scrambles to his knees, placing his hand on the bullet wound and applying frantic pressure. The bullet had been meant for Castiel, that much was obvious, but John had impeded its path…had stepped in front of it and allowed himself to be struck in the chest.

John Winchester saved his life.

“No,” Castiel rasps, the surface of his palms wet now with blood. “John, you…you shouldn’t have…you couldn’t…”

The commotion around them dims. Distantly Castiel can hear Sam shifting back into his human form, naked and sprinting to his father’s side. Sam and Dean are on the other side of him as Castiel cradles the alpha’s head. He thinks he sees Bobby and Gabriel finally rejoin the fray, maybe even witnesses the beta wrestling Tom to the ground and stabbing him with Crowley’s abandoned blade. Crowley and Rowena peer over them, shoulder to shoulder in a way that Castiel knows should be significant, but he’s too preoccupied to make sense of anything. His brain waves are whittled down to John, blood, dying …

He feels devastated for Dean, for Sam, for the entire pack.

“Dad,” Dean whispers, his voice faltering. “You’re—you’re gonna be okay.”

Sam is crying, shaking his head at Dean, and pulling the worn t-shirt up to examine his father’s wound. There’s blood gushing, spilling, more than Castiel has ever seen. It reminds him of his stint as a wolf, all the fatal bites he delivered while sinking his teeth into deer.

“No, I won’t be. I’m dying,” John says softly, as if it’s a revelation that no one else could see coming. “But that’s okay, ‘cause you boys have each other.” His eyes glance up, searching for someone… “And Dean still has Castiel.”

Dean looks up at Cas, face stained with tear tracks, and for the briefest of seconds their eyes meet. The look is agonizing and aching, and Castiel grips his omega by the shoulder, offering what little solace he can through touch.

John is gazing pointedly up at Dean now. “Son, he’s your Mary…I’ve known it for a while now…”

A tear rolls from Dean’s eyes and off his nose, and he rubs away it with the back of his hand. “You saved him for me.” He exhales, shaking. “Oh god. Dad…I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t be. This is—the best thing—I’ve ever done—” John’s breathing is ragged now, uneven, his body trembling violently. “I’m not a perfect man, and I wasn’t a perfect father, but maybe…maybe I’ll get to see her again…”

Sam grasps his father’s hand, both of their knuckles turning white as he squeezes. “You will,” he says firmly. “Tell Mom we say hi. Okay?”

“I will.” John smiles, clearly comforted by the thought, and his breath quiets and fades until…

Until John Winchester breathes his last breath.

***

The backroads stretch into oblivion, endless fields of wheat and corn and rapeseed oil, but still Dean drives. He wants to put as much distance as he can between them and the cemetery, as if space will make the reality of what happened today fade into distant memory.

They only make it a few hundred miles before Sam voices his medical concerns—they’re run ragged. Dean is running the risk of falling asleep at the wheel, and Castiel’s bullet wound might be infected. Dean tightens his grip on the wheel and says nothing, but he pulls off at the first country town and finds a cheap motel room. Cas is passed out in the backseat, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, and Dean cradles him with a hefty amount of effort, carrying him bridal-style and sinking down into their shared bed. Sam sits on a separate bed parallel to theirs, frowning, talking on the phone in a low voice.

“Bobby and Gabe are gonna keep going,” he tells Dean, once the call ends. “They, uh, want to get there before—” Before Dad’s body, rolled up in a tarp in the truck bed, starts to decompose. Dean swallows hard. John deserves a proper burial, a ceremony at home. They can’t rob him of that, so they have to keep going.

“What all do you need to patch up Cas?” he asks, voice rumbling from emotion and disuse. It’s the first thing he’s said in hours, and it’s nearly midnight now.

“I wish I had my medical kit.” Sam buries his forehead in his open palm, closing his eyes. “Short of robbing a hospital closet, I can make-do with pliers, a needle and thread, hydrogen peroxide, antibiotic ointment, gauze pads, gauze wrap, adhesive tape…” He rattles off a full list, including food and water and a change of clothes for them all, and Dean drives Baby to the closest twenty-four hour supermarket. The bright overhead lights make him squint, his eyes red and puffy. As he wields his cart down the aisle, it’s strange to him that all these people he’s passing…late night shoppers, tired cashiers…

Nobody knows that they just saved the f*cking world.

And the only real casualty was John—a gruff and standoffish man, obsessed with revenge, who’s final act in this world was to guarantee Dean’s lifelong happiness by saving the man he loves.

Is it enough to redeem John in his eyes?

“Sir?” the girl at the checkout counter is peering up at him. There’s a cart full of groceries at his feet, and he stirs, realizing how distracted he’s been. The girl can’t be more than sixteen, and Dean wonders if it’s even legal, having her work this late. “That’ll be seventy-nine dollars and eleven cents.”

“Uh, right.” Dean sorts around in his wallet, pulling out four twenties and passing them over the lane divide.

“Thanks,” she says brightly, cracking open the change drawer. Another grocer comes up behind her, a pimply teenage boy who can’t be more than seventeen, and she lights up when he smiles and waves. The interaction is quick but revealing, and as she drops eighty-nine cents into Dean’s outstretched palm, he leans casually over the barrier.

“Friend of yours?” he asks, and she blushes.

“My best friend,” she replies, though there’s something in her voice, something familiar…

“You should tell him,” Dean says, and then pushes his cart back towards the entrance. He doesn’t look back to see if the girl understood his true meaning. He said it more for his benefit than hers…but after the day he’s had, maybe he’s earned a moment to be selfish. A moment to think about Cas, reflect on their friendship, and be thankful that his best friend is now…so much more.

Twenty minutes later, he carts the supplies into their hotel room and cracks open a bottle of water. Sam is freshly showered, though wearing his soiled outfit from before, and Dean tosses him an off-brand pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. Sam comes back from the bathroom changed and looking grateful, then sorts through the makeshift medical supplies, sterilizing everything thoroughly over the bathroom sink. Castiel is still passed out and shivering, but Sam stirs him awake and asks Dean to help hold the alpha steady.

“Once I get the bullet out, he’ll start healing immediately and feel a million times better,” Sam explains, and the omega just nods, already ready for that time to come already. “But digging it out…won’t be a picnic.”

It’s a gruesome experience. The infection has festered from having the bullet lodged inside his shoulder for so long. Dean cups his boyfriend’s face and helps him breathe through it, whispering words of encouragement in his ear as Sam’s pliers plunge in and in and in. When it’s finally dislodged, the bullet hitting the bedside table with a thud, they all breathe a sigh of relief. Sam takes a few more minutes to clean and dress the wound, sewing it together lightly, but they all know it’ll be sealed up and healed in just a few hours. Thanks to the excruciating process of locating the bullet, Cas is wide awake again. Between the three of them, they drink two gallons’ worth of water and chew through stale protein bars, infomercials streaming on the background television set. Once they’re semi-hydrated and sated, Sam announces he’s going to get some much-needed shut eye. It only takes ten minutes for exhaustion to set in and for the alpha to start sweetly snoring. The minute he hears it, Dean takes Castiel by the hand and leads him into the bathroom, shutting the door gently and flipping the switch for the exhaust fan.

“What are you…” Castiel blinks, looking sleepy, as Dean begins to undress him.

“We gotta shower,” Dean explains, shuddering at the amount of dried blood still caked on his boyfriend’s torso. “I’ve seen you covered in enough blood to last a f*cking lifetime.”

Castiel strokes his thumb against Dean’s forehead, grazing a cut there—maybe the one he got after colliding with a headstone? “That makes two of us.”

They strip silently after that, Dean turning the water more lukewarm than hot so it doesn’t irritate their injuries. Even so, the spray feels soothing and warm and the pool of water at their feet is filthy, dark with dirt and blood. This motel isn’t the kind of digs that offers complimentary shampoo, but Dean did manage to swipe a bar of soap from the store earlier, and they take turns washing each other with a threadbare washcloth. Eventually, after twenty minutes of concentrated effort, they’re clean…almost as if…

“We can’t forget,” Dean mumbles sleepily, surprised he’s saying this out loud, and Cas pulls back to look at him.

“We’ll never forget,” Cas replies, practically reading his mind, dropping the soap on the tub’s edge and cupping Dean’s face with both hands. “What your father sacrificed for me, for us…” He kisses Dean’s cheeks, his nose, the unscathed side of his forehead. “It was the most selfless thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I…” Dean swallows, feeling like an exposed wire, shaking and out of control. “I don’t know how to do this. To grieve someone so rash…so infuriating and complicated. With so much good and so much bad.”

“I know,” Cas says, honestly and sympathetically, and Dean remembers with draining clarity that his boyfriend lost his own father just weeks ago. “It won’t be easy, but I’m here for you. We’ll get through this.”

Dean nods, comforted by the thought, his head feeling heavier than humanly possible.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better.” His fingers trail over Castiel’s spine soothingly, and Cas hums in agreement.

“Me too.”

“We actually did it,” Dean murmurs, with a large amount of disbelief, sighing and stretching in Castiel’s arms. His hand sinks lower to find the dip in the alpha’s back, settling there comfortably. “We killed Yellow Eyes.”

Castiel hums, swaying their hips together. “And Crowley came through. But Rowena…” He trails off, squinting down in confusion. “Whose side was she on exactly? Or that other demon, Lilith?”

Dean chuckles and shakes his head. “I’ve been wondering the same damn thing.”

“They owe us some answers,” Castiel says, tone turning intrigued. “But first…”

“First?” Dean licks his lips and shivers—the water is turning cold, but sheer adrenaline and being this close to Cas’ naked body has made him half-hard on instinct.

“First…” Castiel wraps his hand into the nape of Dean’s neck, draws him closer, and kisses him without reservation. The lips are wet and parted and Dean leans into it, hands grasping Cas’ waist, feeling rejuvenated in a way that he hadn’t been expecting. He rubs his growing erection against his boyfriend’s upper thigh and Cas pulls their lips away, both exhaling shakily.

“Second?” Dean asks, eyes locked meaningfully on Cas’ lips.

Castiel grins rather wolfishly, and lathers his hand generously with soap. “Second…”

He wraps his soapy fingers around Dean’s co*ck tightly, kissing into the curve of the omega’s neck and pushing him against the shower wall with every stroke. Dean moans softly, his vision beginning to turn white, his hands settling onto his stomach—

His stomach.

His short window for dealing with their unprotected forest sex has long expired, he abruptly remembers. But he hasn’t had any time to ponder it further, to freak out or feel excited by the prospect of starting a family so soon. But, for the first time in a long time, the possibility of bringing a new Novak into the world doesn’t have to be terrifying. Maybe it can be something that resembles love and potential. Friendship and hope. Everything Castiel—his best friend and boyfriend and future mate—embodies.

The org*sm flows from Dean easily after that, as if all the tension from today’s battle has been gathering there for hours, and he breathes through it, exhausted and satisfied and absolutely spent.

They dry off lazily with cheap towels and get dressed in the lounge clothes Dean bought earlier. The minute he situates the pillow under his head, the top sheet and blanket fitted over them, Cas’ hand circling his waist and holding him close, the omega drifts off into a profound, dreamless sleep.

But when he wakes up hours later—Castiel sleeping soundlessly at his back—his worries have returned, compounded into one substantial question. With John gone and the third trial forfeit, Cas never truly wanting to be a leader to begin with, and Gabriel absent for twelve years…

Who the hell is gonna be their packmaster now?

Chapter 17

Chapter Text

“The gaze of the wolf reaches into our soul.”

— Barry Lopez

It’s impossible to compare the impact of war.

But knowing that doesn’t make Castiel’s thoughts any less wandering.

“Ready,” Dean calls, knees in the dirt and palms up, as Castiel silently passes him the freshly sculpted tree branch. Assembling a funeral pyre isn’t nearly as intuitive as the alpha had assumed, and while he certainly could hack the process if necessary, it’s been such a difficult few days that he’s content to let his omega take the lead. They’re all grieving, all processing the aftermath of yesterday in different ways, and Dean’s desire to take care of everyone continues to make him a natural leader. Castiel smiles softly at the thought, resisting the urge to bend over and kiss his boyfriend on the forehead.

“You’re doing it again,” Dean mumbles, and though he sounds distracted, he’s obviously amused. “Staring.”

“Never said I wasn’t,” Castiel replies flirtily, crossing his arms and looking his fill. If this morning’s weather is anything to go off of, it’s officially summer, which…Castiel has no qualms about. Dean is golden brown and firmly muscled, still wearing denim and a form-fitting t-shirt when all Castiel can think of is stripping him bare.

Which isn’t exactly appropriate, right before his father’s funeral, so he keeps his thoughts to himself.

“How’s ‘bout staring at those branches instead?” Dean quips, and Castiel blushes, rousing himself back to full awareness. Despite everything they’ve gone through lately, being around Dean still makes him feel distracted in the best way. After the first demon war Castiel had lost so many people—his mother, Anna, Michael, Lucifer. He had grieved Gabriel fiercely, never knowing that his brother had slipped away in an eleventh hour exit. They had said goodbye to Mary Winchester that night, not to mention Ellen’s husband and Bobby’s wife. From the outside, their second run-in with Azazel had left the majority of them unscathed. Not only had all the carnage taken place a thousand miles away from here, leaving all their homes and infrastructures intact, but the only real casualty had been…

John.

He swallows, hacking off the bumps and grooves of a branch with a machete knife. Dean squats low, finagling the wood and tying the bundles together, while Castiel continues to cut down and carve. His boyfriend has always had an engineer’s brain, a natural and inventive way of solving puzzles. But more than that—he navigates the complicated structure with such precision that it’s impossible to forget just how many funerals Dean has witnessed. Likely more than he would care to recall.

They finish in record time, no thanks to Castiel’s preoccupied thoughts and amateur whittling skills, and Dean heads in the direction of the bunker where his nicer clothes are hung. Castiel frowns, realizing he’ll have to head back to his house instead, and feels hesitant to be apart from Dean for even a little while. Dean’s lips graze his absentmindedly in a farewell kiss, and as he turns to separate, Castiel ends up blurting out, “Why don’t you just move in with me?”

Then he realizes how truly, truly terrible his timing is.

Dean’s eyes go wide for a moment, evidently more concentrated on showering and changing for his father’s funeral than having a impromptu discussion about the future of their relationship. Understandably.

“Uh, yeah, I mean—” Dean scratches the back of his neck. “It’s just that the bunker has been in the family for a while now, and with Sam’n Madison in their own house, nobody else is there to take care of it—”

Castiel takes a step closer, drawing Dean in by his lower back. “Of course, I…I shouldn’t have suggested it, today of all days.”

“S’fine,” Dean says noncommittally, looking down at his feet. “I do wanna—y’know, do that, I’m just not sure…”

“It’s fine,” Castiel says briskly, trying to make himself mean it. “We’ll just—discuss it later. Whenever you’re ready.”

Dean offers him a half-smile, gives his wrist a squeeze, and then he wanders in the direction of the bunker. Castiel just stares, standing there longer than strictly necessary, feeling strangely melancholy as he watches his boyfriend head home alone.

***

The air inside the bunker is empty, stifled and stagnant, and Dean hates how much he hates it. But he really freaking does. This place was never a home, not really, not for anyone ‘cept him and Sam. For John it had been a preventive measure, a defensive weapon during war; for Mary it been a failed safehouse, an experiment gone wrong. His parents wouldn’t expect him to keep this place after their deaths, and neither would his brother, who had built himself out a nice two bedroom house above ground.

So…why does the thought of leaving this place make Dean’s stomach churn?

He’s barely been away from Cas for an hour, having driven together in the car the eight remaining hours from Wyoming, then tossed on some work clothes and gotten down to business on the pyre…but already he feels that familiar itch to be reunited, to touch him and kiss him and see him smile. It’s freaking ridiculous and sappy and he should be thinking about a million other things right now. Instead he showers, the sound of the pipes reverberating in the concrete walls, and the expansive underground space makes him feel more alone than ever. He dries off, feet padding into his bedroom as he sorts through the options hanging in his closet. He and Sam will both be expected to dress more formally tonight, while performing official ceremonial tasks alongside the elders. The rest of the pack will be fully shifted, and Dean wonders with some trepidation if Cas is worried about transforming. It hasn’t even been a week since he nearly turned feral, and he knows enough about his boyfriend to figure that he would rather avoid shifting for months or even years than risk losing himself again. Towel wrapped around his waist, he grabs his phone from the charger and fires off a text before he has the chance to doubt himself.

Dean 6:17 PM >> You feelin ok about tonight?

He waits to see if Castiel starts immediately texting back, but when no three-dot bubble appears in their message thread, he frowns and locks his screen. God, he really f*cked up earlier. He was just so caught off-guard by Cas’ offer, but of course they’re gonna move in together…they’ve been discussing marriage and mating since practically the first handjob they ever exchanged. Dean snorts, unsurprised that the most important relationship in his life is measured by handjobs, because duh. Handjobs are amazing.

Truth is, the more time he spends by himself, the more he wishes that he wasn’t. He throws on his nicest and darkest pair of jeans, a thin flannel that could pass as a button-up, and a pair of clean boots. He still has over an hour until they’re all meeting down by the brush, so he texts Charlie on a whim, and they plan to meet up at the community center in the middle of the property.

He shuts off the lights and walks up the inner steps, closing the heavy door of the bunker behind him, and tries not to read into the fact that he still has no text from Cas.

It’s sticky warm outside still, though nightfall is coming, and mosquitoes buzz in his ears in a way that makes him irritable. He admires all the buildings and structures as he passes, proud to have had a hand in re-establishing this community…however small his contribution might’ve been. He waves at everyone he passes, even stops to hear a few condolences here and there. He finds Charlie camped out in the large community pantry, counting boxes of non-perishables and adding the information to a record cataloged on her iPad. She dusts her hands off as soon as she spots him, leaping up to give him a massive hug.

“Hey,” she says simply, mouth muffled by the cotton of Dean’s shirt.

“Hey,” he replies, tone light and airy compared to the intensity of their hug.

“So, uh…” Charlie squeezes him tighter. “According to Madison, a lot of sh*t went down yesterday, huh?”

Dean chuckles, always thankful to have Charlie break the tension. “Yep. So much sh*t, one might call it a sh*t show.”

“Understatement of the freaking century.” She pulls away finally, and Dean notices smudges on her cheeks—probably from unpacking boxes. He rubs one out with his thumb, and she squirms under the attention. “Seriously, though…how are you?”

“Uh…” Dean glances down, feeling uncomfortable with the current trajectory of the conversation. “Ya know.”

“No,” Charlie says patiently. “I don’t. That’s why I’m asking.”

She just stares up at him, knowing how uneasy he is but not offering him an olive branch of conversation.

“Well, my boyfriend was kidnapped, I killed the psycho ass demon who murdered my mom, and my dad was shot saving Cas…” He swallows a dry lump in his throat. “I’m just peachy.”

“Dean—”

“Need help with these boxes?” he interrupts, a hopeful tone in his voice, and she sighs and nods. He’s relieved for the distraction.

He hasn’t visited the food bank in a while, but Charlie has integrated their new system beautifully. They spent several weekends this winter structuring their new process, working out the kinks and planning the best way to ration the shared food so orphans and elderly receive the largest portions. Bringing Charlie in on the project was a no-brainer for Dean—between her giving nature and instincts with technology, they’re ushering the pack into the twenty-first century.

“Thanks for all the work you’ve done on this, Char,” he says, lifting a heavy box of cans and situating it on the top shelf. “‘Specially while I’ve been so, uh, preoccupied.”

“No duh,” she says casually, nudging another box with her foot to indicate that it’s ready for Dean’s hoisting skills. “Thanks for being such a bomb-ass delegator. Ya know, most people are way more micro-managey with their projects.”

Dean snorts, shuffling around the contents of an overpacked container. “Nah, I just know there are people ‘round here a lot smarter than me. I have ideas, sure, but people like you come along and make them a zillion times better.”

“Humility…on a Winchester, no less,” Charlie jests, tilting her head with exaggerated surprise.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean rolls his eyes and adjusts another box of canned goods. When he stumbles back to his feet, Charlie is looking at him curiously.

“You know I’m kidding, right?” Her expression is open, earnest. “You’re legit one the smartest people I know. And I’m friends with the hackers who basically invented the Dark Web.”

“Somehow that is…not surprising,” Dean jokes, focusing on the last half of her statement rather than all the mushy stuff that came before. He knows he’s not dumb, but sure ain’t Charlie or Sam or Cas level smart.

“Oh, come on,” she ribs him, elbow digging into his side, “I thought having a six-foot-tall, sexy-alpha-painter-true-mate boyfriend would make you realize how freaking awesome you are.”

“Wow, that’s a mouthful…” Dean mumbles, then adds, snickering, “That’s what she said.”

“Don’t you mean he said?” Charlie corrects, with a pointed giggle. Dean laughs with her and positions the last box, feeling momentarily unburdened until he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He scrambles to check messages:

Cas 7:02 PM >> Yes, I’m fine.

Cas 7:02 PM >> I’ll see you soon.

Well, it’s not exactly waxing poetic…but at least it’s something. He tucks his phone away and looks at Charlie, biting his lip. He knows they’ve spent the past few minutes shooting the sh*t, and he doesn’t wanna kill the lighthearted mood right before spending the whole night being somber, but…

“Can I ask you something?”

She waves a nonchalant hand, neck craned down towards her iPad. Dean’s sorta glad she’s distracted, ‘cause having this type of talk has always made him feel awkward as f*ck.

“Do you think it’s too early for me’n Cas to move in together? And…uh, all the other stuff that comes with that?”

She looks up instantly from her screen, red hair hanging down in waves. “If it was anybody else—maybe,” she admits, but then adds, “but dude, it’s you and Cas. You’re epic together. Cosmic. Nobody will think you’re rushing it.”

Dean huffs out nervously, not meeting her gaze. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She drops her iPad lightly on the counter and takes a step forward, bracing her hands on either side of Dean’s shoulders. “Can I ask you a question?”

Dean glances up finally, trying to read her expression—but it’s carefully masked. He nods.

“If Cas hadn’t left, if he had been around when you were eighteen, and twenty, and twenty-five…” She’s fighting back a grin. “Whaddya think would’ve happened?”

Dean feels his cheeks warm, tinged with pink. “We, uh…”

“You both would’ve been sportin’ mating bites like, ten years ago,” Charlie supplies encouragingly, hands gripping Dean tightly. “Why overthink it now?”

***

Castiel sits on his haunches, the intensity of the fire making his fur feel prickly with heat. His older brother, a large white alpha wolf with streaks of gray in his coat, is plopped down beside him. They haven’t officially explained his reappearance yet, there’s been no time, but those on the inside—the Winchesters, the Novaks, the elders and their friends—have obviously already heard about the run-in with Azazel. The remaining pack members are just staring at the wolf, the man they thought long dead, with a sort of supernatural reverence. They need to come clean about everything, and soon…but John Winchester’s funeral isn’t the time or place to celebrate Gabriel’s victorious defeat over death.

“We welcome you Luh, Madadh Alluidh, Mac Tire, descendants of Odin,” Pamela commands. “Tonight we unite as a pack to celebrate the life and death of Second in Command, John Winchester.”

Once the initial ceremony is in full swing, the torches are lowered and the family members are called. Sam and Dean are standing in the glow of the flames, expression solemn—mirror images of one another, Castiel thinks. He digs his paw into the loose soil, fidgety and uncomfortable, until Pamela finishes the official monologue relayed at every pack funeral. After several days stuck as a wolf, on the verge of his losing his humanity until Dean brought him back, the alpha finds that he…dislikes being in this form again. At least for now.

Truthfully, in spite of everything he’s gone through, all the ways he’s grown and changed and gotten stronger, he misses who he was. He wouldn’t trade these past few months for anything—the kidnaps and near-deaths, the trials and the heartache—because it guided him back to Dean.

But there’s still a very prominent part of him that wonders if he belongs here long-term, especially now that he’s not obligated to become packmaster. Should he pack up the belongings in his Chicago studio, and get himself another apartment in Lawrence? He’d be close to Dean, close enough to still see him several times a week, but he could maintain his independence and not rush his boyfriend to move in together. Castiel still wants it, still feels his best when he wakes up next to his omega, but this isn’t some archaic arrangement they have. Just because they know they want to end up mated and married, doesn’t mean Castiel has a claim on Dean, or can pressure him into moving forward if he still needs time.

“And now, sing to the Fallen! Sing your song of celebration!”

The howls of the wolves are raucous and sad and Castiel joins in, transferring his own muddled emotions into the chorus. Dean meets his eyes across the flames, twitching his lip minutely in a silent request, and Castiel treads through the crowd and comes to his side. The minute Dean’s hand reaches down, scratching the wolf between his raised ears, Castiel’s own feelings of uncertainty and doubt are overwhelmed by Dean’s…sorrow and confusion, uncertainty and self-consciousness, and greatest of all…

Love.

His love for his father, despite how complex that love might be. There’s a different kind of love there for his brother, his family, his pack—simple and pure, nurturing and proud. And then, like a subtle current of electricity, Castiel feels the love Dean has for him—fervent, passionate, fraught and forlorn. His omega is worried about them, and it makes a sympathetic whine escape Castiel’s snout, burying the edge of his nose into the folds of Dean’s jeans. He’s torn between wanting to comfort him about his father’s loss, and initiating another conversation about their own future. But he can’t really do either at the moment, because the flames are diminishing and the Winchesters must collect their father’s ashes, consuming them soon in whatever way they deem worthy. Castiel thinks of the painting hanging above the mantle in his father’s house, the gritty color heavy with his father’s remains, and the thought makes him melancholy. Have they finally stopped losing people they love? Who will he and Dean become in the wake of their fathers’ absences?

Ellen steps up as the crowd begins to disentangle, and calls, “Emergency pack meeting tomorrow morning at sunrise. All voting-age members are required to attend.”

She exchanges a glance with Bobby, and he grumbles deeply in his chest, adding, “We have updated news on the demon war. And then, it’s time to reexamine this new packmaster situation.”

Castiel can feel eyes on him immediately, gazes split between him and Gabriel. Anyone out of the loop likely assumes that one of the Novak brothers will claim the role, particularly in the wake of John’s death, but…

Castiel has his doubts.

Dean squats low, still running his hands over Cas’ thick and coarse fur, pulling stray twigs and blades of grass from his mane. “Can we…” Dean licks his dry lips and turns, looking at the tent behind him. “I gotta do this, but after—meet me at the bunker?”

Castiel channels an affirmative response into his boyfriend’s consciousness, simultaneously remembering how they first discovered this connection two months ago—after his own father’s funeral. Dean frowns down at him, expression woeful.

“I had the same thought earlier,” he whispers quietly, and Castiel blinks in surprise, not realizing he had been projecting that thought at all. The strength of their psychic bond has only grown in the passing weeks, and he can’t imagine how formidable it’ll be once they’re mated…

He pulls away, grateful they have a plan for the evening, and trots back in the direction of the cabin with Gabriel. His brother is crashing tonight in Chuck’s old bedroom, sticking around for tomorrow’s meeting, and Castiel wants to know if his brother plans to stay long-term or leave—to claim his rightful role as packmaster, or push it onto Castiel or someone else. Just by being in their wolf forms, Cas can tell that they’re both…ambivalent about that decision. He figures everything will come out tomorrow morning, whether they’re ready to have this conversation or not.

After dropping off his brother, he treks up the hill and down the sloping valley, spotting the bunker from yards away. He shifts back on the outer doorstep, feeling shaken and sore, but relieved to be back on two feet again. He grabs the spare key from its typical hiding spot—twelve years later, and this knowledge is finally coming in handy—and slips inside. The underground home is naturally cool, the lack of daytime sunlight making the air stale, and he shivers from the sudden change in temperature. He feels awkward being stark naked in Dean’s family home, still half-expecting to see John or Sam or even Mary turn the corner, so he pads quickly into Dean’s bedroom. He riffles through the drawers, not sure if he’ll be spending the night here, so he borrows an old pair of jeans and a Metallica t-shirt. He’s not sure how long Dean and Sam will take to finish up the ceremony, so he ambles around the expansive floor plan. The only room in the house that looks like a home is Dean’s room—everything else is vaguely bland and impersonal.

However, Castiel wouldn’t dream of criticizing the size of their library, which was most certainly spearheaded by Sam. He’s standing in front of a grand bookshelf, nose tucked between the pages of a modern art history text, when he hears the wide metal door creak open. Castiel turns to watch Dean amble down the steps, book still cracked open in his hands, and his omega is regarding him with…obvious interest.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets, as Dean comes behind him, settling his chin on the alpha’s shoulder and slipping his hands over his boyfriend’s stomach.

“Hey,” Dean breathes quietly, lips chastely brushing Castiel’s neck. “Hmm, you look good in my clothes.”

A small smile covers Cas’ face, and he closes the thick volume, sliding it haphazardly back on the shelf. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Dean tightens his grip, fingers fidgeting with the tattered edge of Castiel’s borrowed shirt. “And this whole, hot librarian vibe. I…don’t hate it.”

Castiel snorts, shaking his head. “How are you feeling?” he asks, thinking of the ceremony, the ashes…

Dean’s body grows tense behind him, exhaling out in such a rush Castiel gets goosebumps. “I just drank my father’s ashes in a shot of whiskey, so…” He squeezes his alpha again for good measure before taking a step backwards. “I feel like I sorta need to go brush my teeth before I kiss you.”

Castiel laughs then, incredulous that they can be talking about this in such a lighthearted way, but he’s honestly thankful for it. He’s had too many nights of doom and gloom…he’s ready to stand hand-in-hand with his omega in the sun.

“Much appreciated,” he says playfully, and Dean heads in the direction of the bathroom. Without having much else to do, Castiel wanders into his boyfriend’s bedroom, sitting upright on the mattress and admiring the side table filled with photos and knicknacks.

“Gettin’ down to business, huh?” Dean says, standing the doorway with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” Castiel deadpans. “I am sex-crazed alpha, luring you to bed. Haven’t you heard?”

Dean rolls his eyes, kicks off his shoes, and joins his boyfriend. He falls into Castiel’s arms easily, head tucked perfectly on his chest. “I was thinking more like…we can hold each for the next century.”

“I’m partial to that plan.” Castiel strokes his hand through Dean’s hair, feeling their heartbeats stir, rhythmic and in unison. They stay like that for a while, gripping each other in a gentle and unhurried sort of way, and Castiel thinks Dean might’ve fallen asleep when—

“What are you gonna do tomorrow?”

His words are muffled, lips trailing on Castiel’s shirt, but the alpha knows exactly what he means.

“I’m going to recuse myself,” the alpha says, voice coming out huskier than he intended.

“Thought you might,” Dean mumbles, leaning into him closer. “And Gabe?”

“Maybe the same, if I had to guess.” He stills his hand, palm lying flat on the crown of Dean’s head. “What does that mean for the pack?”

“Nothing good.” Dean takes a deep breath, frozen in place. “And what about…”

“Hmm?”

“What about us?” The question comes out in a rush, and Castiel squirms beneath him, wishing he could angle the omega’s chin so he could read his expression. Usually his boyfriend’s emotions are broadcasted all over his face. “What does it mean for us?”

“It means whatever we want it to mean.” Castiel tries to keep his voice light and noncommittal, but it’s difficult when he doesn’t quite know what Dean is thinking. “Earlier I was considering…maybe renting an apartment in town, a space to paint.”

Dean pulls away abruptly, an elbow planted on the mattress, his face full of disbelief. “You want to rent an apartment?” He’s so flabbergasted that Castiel feels like crawling into himself and hiding away from the scrutiny.

“Well…” He pauses, while Dean glares up at him with a look that’s eerily similar to his brother’s infamous bitch-face. “You seemed uncertain earlier, and I didn’t want to pressure you—”

“You didn’t want to pressure me?” Dean’s volume is rising, the surprised tone morphing into distress.

“Are you planning to say anything, other than repeating what I’ve already said?”

Dean narrows his eyes. “Not a great time to be a smart ass, Cas.”

Castiel is tempted to ask when is a good time to be a smart ass, but that’ll certainly only add to Dean’s annoyance, so he reigns in his response.

“I’m not sure what I did wrong,” he mumbles, feeling justified in his puzzlement. “I asked you to move in with me, and you said no—”

“No, I didn’t,” Dean interrupts crossly. “I didn’t say no, I was just…distracted. If you haven’t noticed, there’s been a mountain of crap comin’ our way since the minute you came back, and I just need a minute—”

“I understand,” Castiel says, hoping they’ve maybe reached common ground here. “If you need some space—”

“No! God.” The frustration is his voice makes Castiel tilt his head. “Cas, can you listen to me for two freaking seconds?”

“If you’ll actually say what you mean, I would be glad to,” the alpha retorts, feeling his own irritation begin to flare up. “Because you’ve been baffling me all day, obscuring your true meaning and avoiding this conversation—”

“Just…stop. Okay?” Dean stews angrily for half a second.

But Castiel can’t take the silence.

“Dean—”

In a flurry of movement, the omega launches himself on Castiel, pinning him down and pushing their lips together forcefully. Castiel is confounded for a moment, still angry from the argument they’re in the middle of having, but then Dean licks sinfully into the seam of his lips and Castiel loses all sense of control. He flips them around, grateful that Dean’s memory foam mattress is wide enough for two grown men to roll around on, and his omega feels hot to the touch and pliant beneath him, deepening their kiss with every passing moment. Castiel nips at Dean’s lip before soothing away the throb, sucking the plumpness with a gentle pull until Dean whines, erection growing hard between them.

After a few intense moments of making out Castiel pulls away, panting into the shared space between their lips. He nudges Dean’s legs to open wider, until the front of his own zipper is rubbing against Dean’s building erection, and commands, “Talk to me.”

“Uh…” Dean closes his eyes as the friction between their bodies grows, seeming glued to the top of the mattress. “Now? How—how exactly do you expect me to—”

“I’ll make you a deal.” Castiel is feeling worked up and wicked, and he grins down at his boyfriend, frustrated in every sense of the word. “I’ll make sure you come, if you talk to me about your feelings honestly.”

Dean’s eyes widen, a mixture of arousal and bewilderment. “I’m a grown-ass man, Cas. I can come whenever I damn well please.”

“True.” Castiel leans down, wet lips zeroing in on the deep curve in Dean’s neck, the place where a mating bite would go. He continues thrusting lightly, their lower-halves kneading against each other in a delicious rhythm, and he finds the shell of Dean’s ear and whispers, “But it’ll be much more fun if I make you come instead.”

Dean moans, nodding his head into the pillow. “Okay, okay…” He breathes as Cas’ fingers unbutton his jeans, snaking a hand and cupping him outside his underwear. Dean’s whole body shudders. “I want…”

“What do you want?” Castiel purs, thinking this is quite possibly the best way to have a serious conversation.

“You,” Dean gushes, and Castiel rewards him by stroking him lightly from outside of the cotton.

“Go on.”

“I want you. I—I don’t want you to leave, or have your own apartment. I want to live with you and I don’t care where, my place or yours, who gives a sh*t as long as we’re together.”

Castiel’s heart is pounding in his chest. “That’s what I want, too.”

“I’ll build you a painting studio with my own damn hands if I have to. And then—” Speaking of hands, Castiel has wrapped a dry one around the base of Dean’s dick, circling the tip, hard and hot beneath him. Logically he knows it can’t feel that good, so dry and sudden, but the way Dean is writhing beneath him, it seems like the best sex of his life. “I’m gonna marry the f*ck out of you, Cas. And mate you…and be with you for as long as you’ll have me…”

“Dean…” Cas bends down again, overcome with emotion, with joy. Even though he knew all of this deep down, it’s so reassuring to hear it out loud. Their kiss lingers, urgent and sloppy, as Castiel increases the speed of his strokes. “I love you.”

“f*ck, Cas…I love you too.” Dean grabs Cas’ face, covering every free itch with frantic kisses. Cas’ forearm is sweaty with exertion, and he’s about to flip Dean onto his stomach, cover his tongue with sweet slick and give Dean a rim job that’ll leave him sobbing in the bedsheets, when…

Dean’s phone vibrates on the end table, rattling loudly against the base of a nearby lamp.

“Ignore it,” Cas decides, dropping his hands from Dean’s dick long enough to gather the jeans down to his knees and ankles.

“f*ck yeah.” Dean lifts his hips and Castiel fully strips off the denim, hands rubbing the omega’s bare shins and thighs. The phone stops vibrating for ten blissful seconds…and then begins again. Dean growls in frustration, erection tenting his boxers as he stands, and he snatches his phone from its resting place. He checks the screen and his eyes go wide.

“You’ve gotta be f*cking with me,” he rumbles, and Castiel thinks, yeah, that was the plan…

Dean answers the phone in a frustrated bark. “What?”

Castiel crosses his ankles and waits, hoping this call with be over soon so they can resume more important activities. But the way Dean is furrowing his brow tells him otherwise…

“Fine,” Dean snaps, ending the call and looking up at Castiel with exasperation. “Can you call Sam and Bobby and tell them to get here pronto?”

“Why?” Castiel probes warily.

“Because,” Dean reaches down low, grabbing his jeans and throwing them back on. He tucks his erection away with a painful-sounding hiss. “We got company.”

Chapter 18

Chapter Text

“For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.”

— Rudyard Kipling

“Hello, boys,” Crowley calls, sitting casually on the map table as if his presence was expected, “apologies for the interruption. From the scent rolling off you, I’ve thwarted a very satisfying moment.”

“Not thwarted—just delayed,” Dean snips co*ckily, feeling somewhat disgusted at the thought of discussing his sex life with Crowley, but knowing it’s best practice just to brush the demon off. Cas is trailing behind him, following his lead, so Dean barrels forward. “Finally here to explain how you’re related to that two-faced bitch witch, and who the hell’s side she was on?”

Crowley smirks happily. “I’ll let the ‘two-faced bitch witch’ speak for herself, actually.” He looks over his shoulder, and the petite redhead ducks from behind a bookshelf, a long, sweeping black gown gathering at her heels. Dean’s shoulders tense—thanks to her, Cas was kidnapped and almost killed—and reaches backwards towards the hutch, fumbling for the stray gun hidden in a drawer.

“Unless you have witch-killing bullets on-hand, why don’t we just forget that little plan?” Rowena says, eerily reading his movement, while a hand fluffs her bangs absently. “You know a regular bullet won’t kill me, dear.”

“No, but it’ll hurt like hell,” Dean snaps, and he feels Castiel’s hand steady him from behind. “Seriously, gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”

“Because she and Crowley were working together,” Sam calls from the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time. Bobby follows him, albeit more slowly, until they’re all standing in a weirdly shaped trapezoid. It’s not that Dean hasn’t suspected the same thing from Rowena, but he’s still way too skeptical of the witch to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“By the way,” Bobby growls, “if anybody’s interested, there’s another demon hiding behind that shelf.”

Dean gaps, looking at Crowley accustatorily, as Lilith slinks forward from the shadows.

“What the hell!” Dean shouts. “Am I running a demon halfway house?”

Lilith is wearing tight jeans and a low-cut, black top, smiling at them all. “Whoever lives here should really update the wards,” she comments. “Any demon with half a brain could bust in.”

“Yeah, well…clearly the ‘half-brain’ part holds up,” Dean bites out sarcastically, and Sam and Bobby take a step closer, planted now between Dean and Cas and their host of enemies.

Or…allies?

Dean still can’t quite tell.

“As much as I’m loving the gates-of-hell reunion tour,” Dean says levely, “does someone wanna tell me what the f*ck is going on?”

Crowley clears his throat, adjusting the cuffs of his suit jacket. “I assumed from the modest amount of voicemails you’ve left me—upwards of twenty, I’d say—you’d like some answers about what happened yesterday. No?”

“It was more like fifteen,” Dean grumbles stiffly, but nods. He had hoped to catch Crowley on the phone and interrogate him—not endure an unscheduled house call right before getting laid.

Jesus.

What is his life?

“Where to begin?” Crowley sighs dramatically, wandering around the edge of the table. “I suppose the first perpetrator against the demon you so differentially call ‘Yellow Eyes’ was actually…Lilith.”

Sam peers at her curiously. “I thought you were working with Azazel?”

Lilith, seeming to enjoy the current attention washing over her, smiles and twirls her hair. “Let’s just say, years ago when he decided to try and open the gates, I wasn’t pleased to discover my role in his plan.” She sweeps forward, paying particular attention to Sam. “Turned out, I was never meant to survive this war.”

“Isn’t it an honor?” Castiel asks, surprising Dean with the curiosity of his question. “Sacrificing yourself for something you believe in?” His own ancestors had done the same, Dean recalls, in order to close the gates.

“Right. Except…” She pauses for effect, eyes shifting from Cas to Dean, then Sam and Bobby. “All I wanted was for things to go back to the way they were. No gates of hell, no grand plots, no dying.” She smiles, her light pink lipstick stretched across her lips. “The old days, when it was all baby blood, all the time.”

Dean grimaces. “Remind me again why I’m not kicking you out of my f*cking house, lady?”

“Because haven’t you heard? I saved the world,” Lilith brags with an exaggerated tone. “Twelve years ago, when Azazel came here intending to kidnap the Novaks, I had infiltrated most of his followers already. I set them on a new course…my course. They were told to prevent Azazel from taking the wolves he needed for the ritual.”

Dean squints, trying to put two and two together. “We never could understand why some of Yellow Eyes’ demons killed Cas’ family, rather than kidnapping them…” His eyes widen with understanding at the same moment Castiel lunges forward, a murderous snarl on his face. Dean grabs his side, barely restraining him, and Sam comes to his aid in pulling the alpha backwards.

“You killed my family!” Castiel yells, shoulders shaking as he struggles against the hands constricting him. “My mother! My sister! Two of my brothers!”

“My demons did, yes,” Lilith replies, not looking the least bit remorseful. “They took their instructions too literally, I’m afraid.”

Dean just glares at her, disbelief and fury coursing through his veins. “You know we have a weapon that can kill anything, right?” He looks at Sam—they stashed the Colt at his house, since they figured the bunker would be the more obvious place for someone to look. But Lilith doesn’t need to know that it’s not currently within reach. “I suggest you leave and never come back, unless you want a bullet in your brain.”

Lilith pauses, seems to consider the seriousness of his threat, then waves nonchalantly and teleports away. Castiel stops his attack almost immediately, but the scent of pissed-off alpha is giving Dean a headache. They’ll be dissecting this newfound information for a long time, Dean knows. He squeezes his boyfriend’s hand reassuringly.

“So, okay,” he summarizes, gaze back on Crowley, “that bitch ‘helped’ to save her own skin. And you allied yourself with her, since you had a common enemy. Am I right?”

Crowley stares down at his cubicles. “You’re not wrong.”

Dean sets his eyes on Rowena next, scowling. “And what’s your story? Underneath all the lies, you’re an innocent little girl scout?”

“Oh, hardly.” Rowena tosses her hair over her shoulder with a flourish. “I’m much too Scottish to help a non-profit organization sell mediocre biscuits.”

Dean can’t help it—he scowls again.

“I’m simply a mother helping her son,” Rowena clarifies lightly, as if they’re suddenly participants at a freaking PTO meeting.

“What the hell does that mean?” Dean demands. “So Crowley’s your pride and joy? Cool, you two are adorable. What’s that got to do with us?”

“Oh, you Winchesters…” Crowley pulls out a chair, the sound echoing in the otherwise silent room. “Years ago, when I knew Azazel was plotting to open the gates, I asked my mother to insert herself into the lives of the local wolves. Become their friend, help them with spells—”

“Yeah, like her protection spell that conveniently went down right before Yellow Eyes attacked,” Dean snaps, voice and anger rising.

“That was a tragic error,” Rowena defends, sounding somber.

“After all the people you’ve double-crossed, you really expect us to believe that?” Sam demands, voice dripping with skepticism.

“Witchcraft is not fool-proof, Samuel.” She frowns but holds her head up high. “Am I blameless? No. But I am not the villain you or your brother make me out to be.”

“She played Azazel like a handcrafted French fiddle,” Crowley adds approvingly. “He thought she was allying with him just to spite me, but in reality, Mother and I settled our differences long ago. She’s playing a different tune, as it were.”

Crowley practically stares a hole in Dean’s brain during the duration of his speech, maintaining so much eye contact that Dean shuffles uncomfortably on his feet. “We are duplicitous, but powerful,” the demon says evenly, “and the next packmaster should be lucky to consider us allies.”

“Whoever that ends up being, I’ll be sure to pass along your regards,” Dean replies sardonically. “So…is that it? Can you leave now and never come back?”

The demon stands and chuckles, sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

“Just remember the conditions of our deal,” he says, eyes flashing at Bobby, and the elder nods with obvious irritation. “You’ll be seeing me again one day. Now, who’s walking me over to the Moose’s house to fetch the gun?”

Dean and Sam share a look of incredulity.

How does this guy know freaking everything?

“We still have our one use,” Sam reminds him, and Crowley nods without concern.

“Of course. When Dean calls, I’ll always answer.” He gives the omega an outrageous wink and pulls Sam in by the elbow, meandering firmly up the steps. Bobby follows them up the staircase and out the door, but Dean and Cas stayed planted in the center of the room, staring at Rowena and waiting for her exit.

The witch steps quietly towards them, the sound of her heels clicking against the floor. She only stops when her and Dean’s noses are practically touching, and whispers, “Come now, Dean, cheer up. You won . ”

Dean’s shoulders stiffen, thinking that he’ll only ever truly win when every monster and demon and witch is locked away in hell. “Yeah, well…” He smiles at her hollowly. “Somehow this win feels a lot like losing.”

She frowns at him sympathetically. “How wise…” She pats his shoulder politely. “Good. You’ll need it.”

And before he can reply, she evaporates into thin air—brisk and easy as blinking. Dean’s hand is left grasping the empty space the witch left behind.

***

The next morning Castiel lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. Beside him Dean hasn’t stirred, the back of his head squarely on the pillow, softly breathing. Cas shuffles to his side and stares up at his boyfriend—the high cheek bones, the long eyelashes, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. How did he get lucky enough to not only wake up next to him, but to potentially do it every morning after this…for the rest of their lives?

Focusing on Dean and their relationship helps him avoid thoughts of Lilith, of the demon war and the death of so many members of his family. But it’s an uphill battle. Last night he dreamed about them, for the first time in a long time, and was evidently tossing and turning enough that Dean held him until the nightmares eventually passed. It’s not even that they died…Castiel accepted that long ago. He knows no one else will be returning home like Gabriel did, bursting with stories of tricks and dubious money-making and life in Vegas. But at the center of him, he’s still at peace with their deaths. What he’s struggling to confront is this newfound information—how they had died simply to keep another demon topside. It’s insulting and horrific, maybe even meaningless, and part of him wants to take the Colt back from Crowley and hunt Lilith to the ends of the earth.

But…Dean…

He can’t let himself become another John Winchester, so obsessed with revenge that he loses sight of the loved ones who are still alive. Without Dean, Cas might be tempted to embrace the darkest side of himself, might go looking for more death and destruction and not care about the consequences.

Dean sighs in his sleep, reaching a hand out dreamily to touch Castiel. At the sight, all the rage and fury in the alpha’s heart begins to disperse. How could he ever risk this? He reaches a hand up to pet Dean’s hair, settling his thumb on the other man’s parted lips, incredulous that he’s allowed this. He peers at the alarm clock and sees it’s half-past five in the morning… He groans, wanting nothing more than to swiftly fall back asleep, but they have a pack-wide meeting in an hour. He thinks back to the night before, to the conversation and the heated exchange him and Dean were having before being rudely interrupted.

He grins to himself in the dark.

They’re both wearing only boxers, having gone straight to sleep after the late-night, unexpected ambush. Castiel ducks his head under the covers, scuffling to the edge of the bed, and crawls on Dean’s side of the mattress. The omega’s legs are long and straight—well, as straight as they can get—and he brushes his ankles and shins with the barest of touches. He breathes through his nose, adjusting to the sleep-warm temperature, before experimentally touching Dean’s co*ck through the fabric of his boxers. He’s half-hard, evidently fallen asleep that way, and he rouses slightly in his sleep at the gentle caress. Castiel smiles to himself and loops his fingers into the waistband, sliding the garment down and off. He widens Dean’s stance, crouches down in a somewhat comfortable position, and opens his mouth wide.

He takes Dean’s length in his mouth, feeling it harden immediately against the roof of his mouth. Dean’s breathing has increased, his legs twitching faintly, and Castiel sucks him down deeper and breathes carefully through his nose. He feels the smallest hint of precome down his throat, salty and bitter, and he groans. At the sudden vibration Dean moans in his sleep, a high-pitched sort of whine that Castiel relishes. He loves taking Dean apart, making him feel good, driving him wild. He pops off, catching his breath, and admires Dean’s hard and shiny co*ck standing at full attention now. Castiel scents the arrival of Dean’s slick in the air, almost surprised it can happen in his sleep, and fights the urge to wake his boyfriend up fully with teasingly slow rim job. But this isn’t about what Castiel wants, it’s about Dean, so he licks the head of co*ck with determination while he strokes the base, using his free hand to graze Dean’s ball delicately.

Dean groans louder, the muscles in his abdomen tightening, and Castiel is feeling quite pleased. So responsive, he thinks. He spends several minutes varying up his method, sometimes offering long strokes before licking the underside or rubbing the head against his plump, wet lips. It’s only when he takes the now fully aching co*ck in his mouth again, hollowing out his cheek and moaning at the weight in his mouth, does he finally feel Dean begin to rouse fully.

“What the…” Dean’s hands fly to the comforter and he flings it off his torso, exposing a hunched-over Cas with wild hair and his mouth stuffed full with Dean’s dick. “Holy f*cking hell.”

He reaches over turns on the lamp, the light bathing them in yellow, and Castiel continues to suck seductively as Dean’s eyes meet his—widening.

“Oh my god, Cas,” he groans, running a hand through Castiel’s messy hair, “you’re gonna be the f*cking death of me.”

Castiel pulls off finally, still pumping Dean’s spit-wet co*ck with his right hand, and grins. “I did promise you last night I’d make you come…”

Dean sighs, shuddering into the mattress. “And you are a man of your word.”

Castiel hums in approval, huddling forward to offer up his mouth again, but Dean’s voice stops him.

“Can’t let you have all the fun, though, can I?” He disentangles himself and stands, examining the space of the mattress as if it were a puzzle, then pushes Castiel down flat, stripping him fluidly of his boxers. The alpha lets himself be manhandled willingly, knowing that whatever addition to their morning wake-up call his omega has in mind will likely be…exceptional. He’s proven right when Dean straddles him backwards, and it’s only when his slick-covered hole is in front of Castiel’s face and there’s suddenly a wet mouth licking his co*ck that the alpha fully understands what a truly inspired idea this is.

“Oh, Dean…” He can’t see Dean’s mouth working, but he feels the slide of a tongue and the thrust of his hand, and it feels like the most provocative sensation in the world. He shuffles both of their pillows behind his head, allowing him better leverage, and then he massages the globes of Dean’s ass with intrigued vigor. Dean’s crack is dripping with slick and he separates both cheeks before licking a skilled, flat tongue right over his omega’s hole. Dean moans around Castiel’s co*ck and it makes Castiel moan in return, their shared ecstasy and pleasure building rapidly and catching fire. Their scent is spicy sweet and arousal swirls around them in rich bouquets, and it’s intoxicating and heady, the things they’re doing to each other and the way they make each other feel.

“So beautiful…gorgeous…” Castiel is babbling in between licks, amazed that this omega is his, lapping up the slick as it trickles from his tight, puckered hole. He hasn’t penetrated Dean in what feels like much too long, and though his co*ck is dying to be buried to the hilt, Dean’s mouth is doing some spectacular work. So he spears his tongue in instead, just the tip in and out, gliding easily with slick, and it’s messy and carnal and Dean whimpers from overstimulation. Castiel can’t decide if he wants to add a finger or stroke his boyfriend’s co*ck, but when Dean takes his alpha’s dick down deep, swallowing pointedly in a way that stimulates the head, Castiel loses all semblance of control. He rubs his hand with slick and then reaches forward, taking Dean firmly in-hand as he buries his tongue deeper into the tight drenched heat of his hole. Dean pulls off from Castiel’s co*ck suddenly, hand grasping the split-slick shaft, and he keens before crying, “Cas, oh god, I’m gonna—”

Then he spills all over Cas’ chest and abdomen.

He’s shaking, whimpering from the aftershocks, but it only take a few moments of labored breathing before he returns to his task. Without any distractions his blowj*b technique is expert level, every swipe of the tongue and back-throat swallow making Castiel writhe beneath him, holding onto his omega’s hips so roughly he worries he might leave marks.

“Ah, Dean…I…” He intended to give more warning, but the simmering heat of anticipation grows powerfully in his belly, and he comes in Dean’s mouth. The head of his co*ck hits the back of the omega’s throat and makes him cry out, squirming and flailing, but he continues sucking him down steadily until Castiel feels absolutely spent. Dean falls gingerly backwards and onto the bed, covered in sweat and still panting.

“Well…” he says, then turns to Castiel with a self-satisfied grin. “Mornin’ sunshine.”

Castiel chuckles, winding his hand around the omega’s shoulder and bringing him close. “Good morning, Dean.”

They hold each other for a few minutes, but eventually the time on the clock and the cooling come on Castiel’s torso forces them up and out of bed. They shower in a relaxing, blissful sort of silence, speaking mostly through touches and pecks on the lips. It’s only when a question occurs to Castiel that he knows it’s time to speak again.

“What you said last night…” Dean pauses the washcloth scrubbing Castiel’s stomach, sudsy and warm, and looks up at him.

“Yeah?” Dean says softly.

“You meant it?” Castiel looks down, irritated at himself for disrupting their cocoon of gratifying morning sex, but he can’t help but need just a little more validation.

“Cas…” Dean washes his back, hands slippery with soap. “You know I’m not really into the chick flick thing.”

“I know,” Castiel says dryly. “You seem to forget—I had to entice you with sex just to discuss your feelings.”

Dean snorts, seemingly with equal amusem*nt and embarrassment. “Yeah, true.” He takes a gulp of air and looks his alpha squarely in the eye. “I meant every word of it, okay? I’ve been so lost on you for so long… I can’t believe you’d ever doubt it.”

Castiel softens, some of the anxiety in his heart loosening. “I just…” His thumb brushes Dean’s cheek, his freckles, admires the flecks of gold in his green eyes. He’s overwhelmed by all the beauty. “Sometimes I look at you and can’t believe you’re mine.”

Dean closes the space between them, a subtle smile curling the edges of his lips. “Likewise.” He kisses him, a comforting closed-mouth brush, before wringing out the washcloth and hanging it on a nearby hook. “Pretty sure that’s just what it feels like, being in love.”

***

Light is settling through the leaves, making shadows on the ground as they approach. Dean and Castiel amble towards the front of the crowd, the pack seeming more lively than Dean expected at six-thirty in the morning, but he still smiles and shakes hands, greeting everyone with his usual familiarity. He has a good relationship with everyone here, whether it’s settling a community dispute, helping a farmer with their harvest, tinkering around on their cars, slipping a little extra food bank provisions to the families in desperate need… He’s never not taken care of his own, and even though they’re not blood, they might as well be.

Finally they reach the front, where Sam and Gabriel are chit-chatting with all the elders. Castiel goes to Gabriel side, pulling him away slightly from the crowd, and Dean raises an eyebrow…but lets him go. The Novaks have a lot of decisions to make today, and they need their privacy.

“How’d it go last night?” Dean asks his brother in a low whisper. When Sam just squints in confusion, he clarifies, “Giving Mr. Slick and Oily the Colt back.”

“Uh, well…first of all. That’s now the unofficial name of your sex tape,” Sam says straight-faced. Dean glares in feigned irritation, but honestly, he’s kinda proud of Sammy for that one. “Second, it was…fine. Though he told me something interesting that Rowena said about the third trial, and I wanted to tell you before—”

“Morning, all.” Sam is cut off by Rufus, who’s stepping up on a milk crate so he can be seen by the entire crowd. Dean looks at Sam impatiently, wondering what information Crowley or Rowena could have concerning a trial that was ultimately forfeit, but Rufus continues. “We wanted to meet this morning because, traditionally, sunrise symbolizes rebirth and new beginnings. Or at least, that’s the new age crap Pamela told me whenever she scheduled this meeting.”

The brunette narrows her eyes for melodramatic effect, but the pack is full of scattered chuckles. “And we are certainly in a time of transition. We’ve lost not only our packmaster, but his second in command, and the results of the deuchainn aon-mhara were largely inconclusive. We now have two Novak alphas with a reasonable claim to the title, but…well, we’ll let them speak for themselves.” There’s some murmuring in the crowd, and Rufus steps off the makeshift pedestal and turns to the elders, looking discouraged. “What exactly do we tell them? Where do we even start?”

“At the beginning,” Dean says, answering on instinct even though the question isn’t posed to him. “And be honest. You’re supposed to be leading them, not policing them.”

Ellen widens her eyes, clearly impressed with his answer, and steps closer to clap him on the back. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” She pushes him forward then, the bottom of his boots nearly colliding with crate. “Get up there and tell ‘em.”

“Me?” Dean asks incredulously. He looks at his brother and Cas, hoping one of them will agree that this is lunacy, but neither of them seem to.

“Nobody’s been more involved than you,” Bobby points out. “And they’ll listen to you.”

Dean shrugs, not sure what information the beta is basing that off of, but whatever. He’ll be the mouthpiece of the higher-ups if they’re too worried to get their hands dirty.

“Alright, alright,” Dean calls out loudly. “Uh, so, y’all know me. But hey again, good mornin’. I got a crazy ass story to tell, and when I’m done, we’ll answer questions…’cause you’ll probably have ’em.” He takes a deep breath, waiting for someone to call him out, to tell him he’s not qualified to delivery any of this news. Instead, and real f*cking surprisingly, everyone seems glued to his every word…

So he blinks in surprise, opens his mouth, and begins.

He tells them everything. The truth about the demon war, Azazel’s plan for the gates of hell, how the elders always suspected the fifth body burned hadn’t been Gabriel, how a demon named Lilith had orchestrated all the Novak murders, how Cas and Gabriel had ultimately escaped that night. He mentions Chuck’s intention to partner with Crowley, how Sam and Dean met with him and made a deal, how they raced to Wyoming to save the world. He explains that Rowena promised Azazel to channel the energy of the trials in order to open the gates, but she had supposedly been allying herself with Crowley, and in the end, Yellow Eyes had been thwarted thanks to the efforts of the whole group. His voice breaks when he recounts it, but he even describes how he shot Azazel, only to watch his dad take a bullet for Cas and bleed out in the grass. The pack is stunned, though not full of questions as he had suspected but…overwhelmed with information.

“And uh, now we’re here,” Dean says, scratching the back of his neck. Telling that whole freaking story took almost half an hour, and the sun is rising high now, making his t-shirt cling to his back. “So we have two Novaks but no packmaster.” He spins around, wondering if Cas wants to “take the stage,” but it’s actually Gabriel who comes to his side and nudges him down.

“Wow, that was actually a damn good speech from Green Eyes over here. Beauty and brains…am I right, Cassie?” Dean and Castiel reply with paralleled scowls, but Gabriel continues. “Hey, fam. Long no see, it’s great that I’m not dead, yada yada. Even though I’m only here because I got kidnapped, it’s nice to see you all…who knows, maybe I’ll keep dad’s house for visits or something.” He claps his hands together. “But I’m here in an official way to say that…just talked it over with the baby bro, and the Novak era of packmasters has ended.”

There are ripples of questions, low grumbles of confusion, but Gabriel presses on. “Cas and I were never supposed to be packmaster. We never wanted it, and after everything that’s happened lately, y’all deserve someone who’s invested in this community. Who genuinely wants the job. Not some rando, out-of-town alpha leading you by birthright.”

Dean is surprised by how much he agrees with Gabriel, but honestly, he does. He’s always thought that a packmaster should have sincere love for this place, this rough-and-ready family…but as the figurehead, they can’t be scared to actually talk to the pack members, to engage with them on an individual level. It’s a tough job, and he dreads whoever they’ll end up with. The only good alternatives in his mind are already elders, or aren’t alphas—which is a bylaw they’ve never omitted.

“Well,” Dean says, feeling somewhat discouraged, “then we have an open election for any legal-aged alpha—”

“Hold on,” Sam interrupts, all attention turning to him. He steps forward but doesn’t use the crate—the freakishly tall weirdo doesn’t need it. “I actually have another idea, and this’ll sound super biased coming from me, but I don’t care because it’s the right call for the pack.” He inhales and Dean stares down at the grass, wondering if this has anything to do with Rowena and the third trial…the info his brother was about to share earlier.

“Our new packmaster,” Sam announces with a smile, “should be Dean.”

Dean’s first immediate thought is Dean who? Until he realizes that…uh…his brother just volunteered him to lead the largest were pack in Kansas.

What the absolute f*ck?

His heart is racing and he glances up, expecting to hear outrage and shock. Instead, Cas just stands beside him and entwines their hands together, beaming at him like he’s staring into the sun.

“I know he’s not an alpha, and I mean this with the utmost respect—” Sam looks down at the elders, and Bobby nods in understanding. “But that rule is just…archaic and outdated. There’s no one stronger or more level-headed in a crisis than Dean. There’s no one who cares more about the pack or puts the pack first. Dean was only fifteen when the demon war happened, and he helped rebuild our homes, took care of orphans and elders, never once stopped long enough to be thanked. He did all of this knowing he would never be packmaster, would never get recognition or glory.” Sam’s voice is shaking, breaking a little with every word. “From the moment that we lost Chuck, Dean was always the best option, and I wish I would’ve stood up months ago and told you that. I know he would take care of you all…of all of us. He’s taken care of me my whole life.”

Is it possible to have an out-of-body experience in broad daylight? ’Cause Dean is pretty sure his soul has left the freaking building. His cheeks are burning hot, and he wants to run and hide from the compliments and hug his brother all at once.

“Not to mention,” Sam says, with some finality in his voice, “that Rowena said Dean technically entered and won the third trial when he killed Azazel and prevented the gates from opening. So, there’s that.”

Dean feels dizzy, his mind blown while at the same time, he thinks he really should’ve seen that coming. What the hell… Is this really happening?

“So if the elders agree, I say we open an official vote right now for Dean as packmaster.” Sam glances down at them, and the four elders have created an enclosed circle, their voices whispered. Finally, Ellen pops her head from the discussion and says, “The elders…” Her eyes float over to Dean, her face full of pride. “Agree with Sam. Dean Winchester has our vote for packmaster.”

Before Dean has the opportunity to check and see if he’s actually dreaming, because good god how is this real, Bobby grumbles in his direction, “Go stand over there, son, so this can be official.”

The fact that Dean is pointed to the same corner where his dad had stood two months ago, waiting for Dean to cast his vote for packmaster, is not lost on him. That had been one of the worst days of his life, having to decide between his loyalty for his family and his love for Cas, and he never in a million years thought all that heartache would put him here…

Dean Winchester, the first omega packmaster.

The first the official votes in his favor are Sam and Cas, because of course they are. The alphas stride towards him side by side, with equally delighted grins on their faces, and when they reach Dean they all embrace each other…the three of them hugging tightly, as Dean sighs into the hug, appreciating them so much he thinks his insides might burst. It’s hard to tell exactly who comes next, but soon he’s been ambushed with excitement by Charlie and Madison, Bobby and Ellen, Pamela and Rufus. There’s also Ash, Jo, Linda, and Kevin, and even the dozen or so wildcards who had supported John during the election—Christian, Gwen, Mark, Johnny, Tyler, Arlene, Robert, Ed, Moishe, Martin, Cole, Tara, Jim. He honestly loses track, everyone is gathering around him and telling him congratulations, and he’s a bit confused before he jumps up a millimeter and checks where the crowd had been originally standing.

No one is left standing.

That means no one has chosen to vote against him.

His pack has voted him in unanimously.

Once the realization sets in, his hands are shaking with exhilaration, his face aching from the constant smile. He pulls Castiel to him and kisses him, brief and chaste but full of joy, and when they pull away Dean whispers in his ear, “You know what goes great with a packmaster swearing-in ceremony?”

Cas looks distracted, considering one of the elders is calling his name from behind, but he tucks in closer to Dean and shouts above the noise, “What’s that?”

Dean cups his boyfriend’s jaw, staring into his eyes and pouring every ounce of love into the gaze. “A wedding.” Castiel’s mouth goes slack, a look of awe overtaking him. “Wanna make an honest packmaster outta me?”

Castiel, forever the direct communicator, responds eagerly with kiss…and Dean knows without a doubt that this will be one of those moments he relives, over and over again, in heaven. After he lives out a long and happy life, of course, as a brother, husband, and—

Packmaster.

Chapter 19

Chapter Text

“Even the lone wolf has a thirst for love.”

– Anonymous

In his vacant apartment Castiel sorts—oil, acrylic, water-based, gloss.

“Keep or toss?” Dean asks, holding up a dried-out palate of winter shades.

“Toss,” Castiel mumbles absently, distracted by the sheer amount of things left to get through. Consolidating and packing up all his belongings from his studio in Chicago is taking surprisingly longer than he anticipated, considering it’s mostly full of art supplies. But Castiel’s entire life was his art, and now he has a decade worth of materials that he needs to wade through.

It’s already late afternoon and they’re barely halfway finished. According to Dean, they need to be back on the road by tomorrow morning…they have to be, in fact. This is a very important weekend, what Charlie has rightfully dubbed The Weekend to End All Weekends, and they should’ve packed up Castiel’s apartment ages ago instead of leaving it for the last minute. But they spent the past three weeks lazing around, establishing a new routine and figuring out what their relationship looks like when it’s not benchmarked with near-death experiences. For Castiel it was a lovely, loved-filled few weeks with his omega…but that carefree attitude feels like a lightyear away now.

Glancing at everything he has left to do, Castiel is twisted up with stress. Being back in this apartment has flooded him with memories, forcing him to reflect on what kind of person he was when he lived in Chicago, and what kind of person he’ll be now in Kansas. He doesn’t have the time for these questions, and he certainly doesn’t have time for an identity crisis, not when there’s so much to do.

“I can picture you here,” Dean is saying thoughtfully. Cas looks up, jolted from his internal spiral, and spots Dean—who has momentarily abandoned his pile and is admiring the view out the bay window, looking down six stories and into the street below. “The light…the view…”

Castiel is still on his knees, sorting through the endless mess and feeling frazzled. “The loneliness,” he quips under his breath. There’s a beat of silence and then the shuffle of feet, a pair of hands sliding on his shoulders and kneading the tense muscles there. A container of old primer slips from his hand, clattering to the floor.

“Hey…” Dean’s voice is low, his touch soothing, and Castiel closes his eyes and tilts his head back. “That doesn’t have to be you anymore, y’know.”

“I know,” Cas agrees quietly. Not only does he have Dean, who is his ideal company, but he has Gabriel and Sam and Bobby and Charlie, and a whole pack of others he can reconnect with. There are even his old friends from high school he’s hoping to spend time with—Balthazar and Hannah—much to Dean’s adorable disgruntlement. But acknowledging that he has loved ones in his life again is daunting, overwhelming and terrifying in a way that he can’t quite put into words. He was alone in the world for most of his adult life, and never thought he’d be part of a community again.

A family.

Dean halts his impromptu massage and lowers himself to the floor, bottom planted on the floor as his hands absentmindedly caress Castiel’s forearm. Their eyes meet, Dean’s gaze soft but penetrating, and he asks, “What’s really going on here, Cas?” When the alpha is silent, Dean just sighs, seeming to lose his bravado. “If you’re having doubts about this weekend—”

Castiel’s stomach lurches. “What? No!” He untucks his feet from under him, trying to get Dean’s attention, but his omega’s gaze is suddenly glued to the floor. So Castiel does something a bit more drastic to rouse him—swings a leg over, straddling him, wrists crisscrossed and resting on Dean’s neck. He waits for green eyes to find his, and though it takes a few beats of concentrated staring, his omega doesn’t disappoint. The golden flecks, the lift of hopeless in his eyebrows, the lip he’s biting insecurely…

“The only thing I’m not doubting, and will never doubt, is how I feel about you.” He rests their foreheads together and Dean relaxes minutely but still looks contemplative.

“Then are you…I mean, the whole packmaster nomination was so out of left field for me…you went through all those trials, and it was just handed to me—”

Cas puts a gentle finger over his omega’s lips.

“This again?” the alpha asks with a patient smile. They’ve had this discussion several times over the past few weeks, but Dean is still feeling insecure. “Nothing was handed to you, Dean. You’re the most hardworking person I know. And the only problem I have with you becoming packmaster instead of me,” Castiel speaks clearly, emphasizing each word, “is that I didn’t suggest it myself. It’s perfect. You’re going to be an amazing leader, and I’m honored to not only stand by you, but to be led by you.”

“Cas…” Dean ducks his head down in embarrassment, but his grin is practically beaming. “How did I get so freaking lucky?”

“Well, you are known to make deals with demons…” Castiel smirks playfully and Dean just rolls his eyes.

“Okay,” Dean says after a beat, seeming to regroup, “all my guesses have been way off base. Obviously your problem has nothing to do with me.” He chuckles awkwardly, as if their current conversation has revealed his secret egotism. “So…what’s wrong?”

Castiel pulls away an inch, contemplative. “I suppose I’m just nervous.”

“About?”

He tilts his head, thinking hard. “About finding myself again.”

Dean frowns, slipping his hands around Cas’ waist. “Whaddya mean?”

“I mean…am I a city-dwelling, professional artist? Or a were married to the packmaster in the middle of the woods?” He exhales, positive he’s explaining himself very poorly.

“Why not both?” Dean asks the question genuinely, curiously.

“Because…” Castiel shifts in Dean’s lap, hoping his weight isn’t too heavy. “They’re sort of contradictions, aren’t they?”

“Hell no.” Dean snorts, shaking his head in his usual, self-deprecating way. “And even if they were, you think I’m not a walking, talking contradiction?”

“Dean—”

“I’m an omega packmaster,” Dean interrupts. “Well, about to be. The first ever. Armed with just a GED and ‘give ’em hell’ attitude.” He grins and Castiel rolls his eyes—this is Dean’s typical stance, discounting his worth at every turn. Good thing they have a lifetime together to work on that… “But I’ll figure it out. And so will you. You can be more than one thing, Cas. It would be boring as f*ck if you weren’t.” He grips Castiel’s hips lightly, every touch comforting, and Castiel smiles and sinks further into him.

“But my mother…” Castiel begins, gnawing on his lower lip and trying to choose his words carefully. “She was such a traditional spouse of the packmaster.”

“Yeah?” When Castiel doesn’t elaborate, Dean just shakes his head. “I’m not expecting that of you, babe. We’re anything but traditional. Hell, me even accepting this gig is breaking like, a dozen ancient ass rules.” He nuzzles his lips against Castiel’s neck, his breath warm and appeasing. “I might technically be your packmaster, but you know you’ll always be my alpha…”

His mouth grazes Castiel in enthusiastic exploration, each quiet exhale tickling the other man’s skin. Dean wets his lips, returning with a firm kiss that makes a rumble escape the back of Castiel’s throat. Their combined scent is thick now, heady and sweet and spicy, and it makes him feel a wave of contentedness. “I want you to be happy, Cas…I want to make you happy…”

“I am,” Castiel says breathlessly. “And you do.” He cranes his neck pointedly as Dean leaves a trail of sloppy kisses. To even out his breathing, he focuses on a slab of primary paint colors, the various shades of reds and blues…

“I have an idea,” he whispers, more to himself than Dean. “Something I want to add to the wedding ceremony.”

“Anything,” Dean replies easily, gripping his waist tighter, and the alpha grins, surprised by how much better he feels after they talked everything out. “We’ll just have to make sure to tell our high-strung wedding planner-zilla.”

“I’ll tell Charlie,” Castiel replies, giving Dean a rueful sort of glare. “But first—” He grimaces, looking down at their current mess. “Packing.”

Dean groans dramatically. “Wouldn’t you rather, I dunno…” He squeezes down on the top of Castiel’s thick thighs, rolling his hips up in a way that makes them both instantly at…attention… “Mess around? Then call in a deep-dish pizza?”

Castiel chuckles, feeling half-dazed. How this man can take him from uptight and worried, to amenable and turned-on, in less than ten minutes?

”In that order?”

“Yep,” Dean answers without a trace of shame.

“Not sure that’s a very practical use of our time,” Castiel says matter-of-factly, though he’s largely goading Dean now.

“Hmm…true.” Dean tilts his head, as if lost in thought. “Well, here’s my counterargument.”

He pushes up slowly, kissing Castiel neck and chin and cheeks, for nearly five minutes, until the anticipation makes everything feel heightened…

“Dean…” Castiel is feeling teased now and he doesn’t like it, considering he’s not usually on the receiving end of this kind of behavior. His resolve crumbles by the time Dean reaches the shell of his ear, nipping sensually on his lobe, and then he dives down, gripping Dean’s face and pressing their mouths together in a searing kiss.

And that’s how they close the chapter on Castiel’s life in the city: wrapped together in a dusty paint tarp, grinning and devouring post-sex pizza, and finally, packing up Cas’ remaining boxes well past midnight.

The next day they head back west.

***

Dean swings the ill-fitting cape around, adjusting the itchy wool collar.

“I look like a douchebag,” he announces, lifting his arms up high as the fabric sways down around him.

“Uh,” Sam says, spatula in-hand and looking incredibly amused, “only when you do that.”

It’s early Saturday morning, on perhaps the most intensely perfect day of Dean Winchester’s life, and he’s starting it off by wearing a freaking cape.

A cape.

“You do sorta resemble a…rustic wizard,” Charlie grins, biting down on a piece of bacon. Dean glares at her theatrically and says nothing. When they decided to host a breakfast at Sam’s house for close friends and family—on the day he got sworn in as packmaster, and then, legally secured a hot ass husband—he didn’t imagine everyone sitting around, roasting him and his cape.

But now that he’s here and this is all really happening, he can’t imagine it any differently.

“I think you look handsome,” Cas pipes up, coming behind Dean to hand him a fresh cup of coffee and laying a quick peck on his cheek.

“Hey! No casual kissing on the wedding day!” Gabriel heckles, throwing a dirty napkin in his brother’s direction and making Castiel scowl. He lays another kiss on Dean defiantly, before grabbing himself a plate from the cabinet.

“Eggs are up!” Madison announces, scraping a mound of scrambled eggs into a bowl and thrusting it into the middle of the table. Bobby and Ellen each take generous helpings, while Jo and Rufus are bartering over the last sausage link. It’s a busy day for everyone—they’re all involved in the two ceremonies one way or another—and Dean’s inner omega is pleased to see them all eating happily. He feels a hand caress his back, and knows from the comforting scent alone that it’s Cas.

“You should eat something,” the alpha whispers, the only one in this chaotic breakfast to notice that he hasn’t made himself a plate yet. Dean bristles, holding up his piping hot cup of coffee. “I’m good,” he dismisses, but when Cas looks at him doubtfully, he adds in a quiet tone, “I wanna make sure there’s enough for everyone else first.”

Castiel looks at him like he’s the most generous person on the planet and Dean shifts on his feet, blushing at the intensity of his alpha’s gaze. Before he can reply, Cas gets pulled into a discussion by Ash and Charlie about the possibility of offering free, pack-wide wifi. Dean takes a step back, folding the ridiculous cape on the edge of the counter, his heart dangerously full as he watches everyone he loves talk and laugh.

For a moment he feels wistful, wishing all of Cas’ family could be here too, his siblings and his parents, not to mention Mary and John. The sting of losing so many people so early in life will never fade, not really, but looking around Sam’s crowded kitchen puts everything into perspective for Dean. They’ve been through hell…they’ve fought and died and come back and lost loved ones and saved the world. And now they can live every day remembering what it took to get here, why family and love made every hurdle worth it in the end.

“Nope, he definitely isn’t paying attention,” Charlie calls down the table, and Dean blinks and glances down, elbows crossed at his chest. Nearly a dozen pairs of eyes are staring up at him, everyone looking various levels of amused.

“Uh…” He looks between Cas and Sam, hoping one of his go-to people will help, but neither are offering up an olive branch. “What?”

There’s a trickle of laughter around the table before Sam finally says, “We were just singing your praises as future packmaster.”

“Yeah…somebody add ‘great listener’ to the list,” Gabriel says sarcastically, and Jo punches him playfully in the shoulder.

“It’s probably a good thing you didn’t hear us,” Bobby grumbles good-humoredly. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ a big head.”

“Yeah, long live King Winchester!” Charlie adds playfully.

“Personally,” Cas interrupts, in a flirty tone that always makes Dean’s palms sweat, “I’d love to see you in a crown.”

There are some over-the-top boos and dramatic thumbs-down, but Castiel just ignores them, winking at Dean in a way that lets him know he’s gonna get good and laid tonight.

Tonight, after their wedding.

Holy sh*t.

He moves through the tight crowd to stand beside Cas, slipping a comforting hand around his waist.

“Alright, alright,” he says, waving his free hand around to get his rowdy ass family to settle down, “seriously, thanks everyone.” By the time silence is achieved, everyone is looking at him expectantly…even Cas…so Dean takes a deep breath and thinks, what the hell? If he can’t be sappy today of all days, then when can he be?

“Today, tomorrow, yesterday—for what feels like forever—you’ve all meant so much to us. You’ve done so much for me’n Cas.” His eyes scan the room, meeting every open and receptive expression, and exhales, trying not to get emotional. “I sure as hell wouldn’t be who I am without the people at this table.” He glances sideways and looks at Cas, heartbeat fluttering at the realization that this is actually his life. “Or the man beside me.”

For the first time today, no one jeers or cracks at a joke at their PDA, and in the sweet silence of the moment, Castiel whispers softly, “I love you.” He doesn’t wait for Dean to reply, but turns his gaze back to their friends, their family, their pack, and says, “I love all of you.”

The rest of the morning passes in a similar fashion, conversation alternating between sentimental and sweet mixed with teasing jokes at their expense, until it’s nearly time to meet the rest of the pack for the packmaster ceremony. Dean tries to help Sam and Madison with the dishes, but they prod him along to go get ready, and he stands in their guest bedroom arranging the outrageous packmaster cape around his shoulders. Eventually Ellen comes in and rescues him from a badly wrinkled collar, explaining to him yet again that it’s were tradition for the packmaster to be covered in cloth until the ceremony is complete. Dean would never tell anyone this, not even Sam or Cas unless he was five whiskeys in, but when he was a kid watching Chuck get sworn in, he daydreamed about wearing this exact garment one day. At the time it seemed impossible, illogical, a joke. An omega packmaster? Dean, a leader?

Now he looks at himself in the wardrobe mirror and thinks… maybe I should’ve believed in myself a little bit more.

The elders leave breakfast first, intending to gather the necessary items for the ceremony. The remaining group walks down to the meadow together, Cas and Dean hanging near the back and holding hands. Charlie is using the walk as an impromptu wedding planning meeting, having wrangled virtually everyone into helping her set up, but Dean tries to keep his mind clear as the gravity of what he’s about to do settles inside him.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Cas says softly into his ear, nudging Dean by the shoulder. The omega nods. “I painted you once as a packmaster.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise. “Oh yeah?”

Castiel hums contentedly. “I never put them in any gallery…it was just for me. A dream of mine.” Dean’s face softens, his limbs feeling light and airy. He squeezes Cas’ hands, rubbing their thumbs together.

He loves the f*ck out of his future husband.

“I must’ve painted you as a wolf a hundred times,” Castiel comments casually.

“Ya know,” Dean says, awed and laughing, “that would be really freaking creepy if I hadn’t been super in love with you for like twelve years.”

Castiel snorts, his smile wide and gummy.

“Hey, don’t let Dean fool you,” Charlie interjects, obviously abandoning her meeting and eavesdropping from a few yards away, “he was obsessed with you, dude.”

Before Dean can argue on his behalf, Sam jumps in. “Yeah, he begged Chuck constantly to let you come home.”

“Everyone thought he was gonna go down a bachelor. He had like, a three-date rule,” Jo explains. “All the girls in town thought he had major commitment issues.”

“Oh yeah, and all the alphas thought he was stuck-up,” Ash adds.

Castiel looks positively gleeful at this juicy info dump, but Dean just rolls his eyes, cheeks burning.

“Hey!” he calls out, addressing his so-called friends. “I’m about to be the packmaster in like, twenty minutes. Can y’all at least pretend to respect me?”

“Absolutely not,” Charlie grins, but she elbows him in the stomach and nods. The rest of the walk is entirely less embarrassing, thank f*ck, as Dean tries to focus on preparing himself for the pending ritual. Once they reach the meadow he sees everyone gathered, the remaining pack members standing in a discombobulated line. After a few moments of quiet muttering, Ellen steps forward in her official-sounding voice and declares, “It is time for the pack-wide offering of blood.”

As usual, the elders have it all arranged: Pamela is holding the knife, Rufus is holding the goblet, and Ellen is shepherding the crowd. Bobby pulls Dean off to the side, and the omega says a quick goodbye to Cas—a squeeze on the wrist and a peck on the lips—before separating himself from the pack. He watches each person’s face as their palm is cut open, their blood trickling down into the open cup. Sam and Madison are obviously having medical concerns about forty people getting slashed by the same knife, but in the end they do it, too. Whether it’s intentional or not, Cas goes last, not even wincing as Pam slices into his outstretched hand. He stares at Dean with wide and loving eyes, as if he’d be willing to sacrifice more than just a drop of blood…but would lay down his life for his omega instantly.

The fire in his eyes makes Dean ache.

But then Bobby is ushering him forward, placing him in the center of a circle crafted with small stones, and instructs him to kneel.

All around him, the pack members are heading off, some ducking behind trees for privacy, shredding their clothes and shifting. Still on his knees, the cape heavy and hot around his neck, Dean thrums his fingers against his jeans and nervously fidgets. It’s been too long since he’s shifted, and if he’s not careful, he’s liable to transform by accident from pure restlessness.

“Nervous?” Bobby prods in a low voice, as wolves begin to gather around Dean.

“Nope,” Dean lies, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He’s not nervous about the ceremony—there’s no guesswork in that. Kneel here, stand there, repeat these words. But being a good leader? Giving his friends and family and fellow pack members everything they deserve?

That is f*cking terrifying.

“You’ll do fine,” Bobby tells him, but Dean still won’t meet his eyes. “Dean?”

The omega sighs, feeling a lecture coming in, and raises his gaze. But Bobby doesn’t look gruff or irritated—he looks patient, and loving, and kind.

“You are a better man that your daddy ever was,” Bobby says simply, and Dean opens his mouth to argue, but finds that he…can’t. His eyes water and he stares at Bobby, who was more of a father to him than John Winchester ever proved to be, and feels entirely overcome.

“Bobby…” His throat is constricted, his shoulder slumped, and the beta just nods wisely and touches Dean on the shoulder. It’s all they can manage, but right now, it’s more than enough.

More and more wolves begin to join them, and Dean spots his own hulking alpha—possibly the largest, after Sam—and feels a pull to him, a need to step closer and scratch Cas softly between the ears. But he stays planted and waits for further instruction, until eventually, Bobby calls out the standard greeting.

“We welcome you Luh, Madadh Alluidh, Mac Tire, descendants of Odin.” The remaining three elders stand behind him, somberly waiting, and Dean’s heart is racing out of his chest. “Today we unite as a pack to celebrate the election of a new packmaster. Folklore dictates that The New Wolf shall rise from the center of a stone, solid as the earth and sustained by the blood of the pack.” There’s the sound of shuffling above Dean’s head, and Rufus begins pouring the goblet of blood over the circle of rocks, chanting a ritual prayer in Gaelic. “Historically, the packmaster is cunning and wise, loyal and fierce, intelligent and brave. This alpha—” Bobby stops his rehearsed speech, evidently hitting a snag before continuing, “or omega, should personify everything weres consider worthy, with the greatest of these being your family and your pack.” Dean nods without meaning to… But the priorities that Bobby is describing, those are his .

Bobby circles him, aligned until they’re almost facing each other, and he asks, “Will you, Dean Winchester, lead this pack to the best of your ability?”

“I will.” Dean’s voice shakes, but he says it all the same.

“Will you treat and protect every pack member with respect and care, as if they were your own family?”

Dean is tempted to reply I always have, but he doesn’t wanna f*ck with the official ceremonial lingo, so he repeats, “I will.”

“Will you do everything to further the continuation of the pack, and usher in a new generation of wolves?”

Dean touches his stomach on instinct, wondering if anyone else catches the movement. “I will.”

“Rise, Packmaster Winchester.”

Dean shuffles to his feet, feeling clumsy but determined, and Bobby nods—it’s time.

“Who do you name as Second in Command?”

Dean looks at the front row and spots Cas and Gabriel, both who fully supported his decision weeks ago when he decided, “Sam Winchester.” He voice breaks a little as he adds, “My brother.”

There had never been another option, and though things might get hectic with Sam’s scheduled at the hospital, there was no one Dean trusted more to give him advice and take over in his stead.

“Let it be so,” Bobby proclaims, and the remaining elders repeat the same phrase together in a harmonious chant. This is their cue, and Sam trots over to his side as Dean fumbles with the clasp of the cape. He unties it finally and throws it off his shoulders in one tremendous flourish. He’s just wearing jeans and a flannel, like he always does, but he feels a surge of confidence as every wolf begins to howl, unprompted, in recognition of his newfound packmaster status. Bobby tries to finish the ceremony with the usual command—Sing your song of celebration—but for the first time it’s unnecessary. The weres are already united, cohesive in their joy, and after a while, their brand-new packmaster cups his hands around his mouth and joins them.

***

An hour later, everyone back on two feet, Castiel finds Charlie surrounded by—

Flowers.

Or, he should say, a massive and unruly mix of stemmed flowers bundled in paper, with a scattering of empty vases at her feet, and a long burlap rope with petals tied at the sides.

“Can I…” He looks at all the chaos and swallows. “Help?”

It’s not as though he expected his wedding in the woods to be glitzy or glamorous, especially not with a planning window of four weeks, but he did expect…flowers in vases at this point.

“Nope,” Charlie says sunnily. “Got it covered.”

They’re outside the community center, most of their friends and pack members buzzing around, carrying tables and chairs or mysterious tote bags filled with god knows what. Castiel begins to doubt if he shouldn’t have taken a more active role in planning this whole thing.

“Um,” he shuffles on his feet, uncomfortable. He looks around for Dean, hoping to have an ally in the whole, make-Charlie-ask-for-help mission. “Are you sure?”

The redhead omega sighs dramatically, fist clutching a bundle of purple, long-stemmed milkweeds.

“Your lack of faith in me is very inspiring,” she says dryly. “Shouldn’t you be with Gabe, getting changed?”

Castiel bites his lip, looking around the empty meadow nervously. There are about ten round tables situated on the grass, half of them strewn with wrinkled tablecloths, and two buffet style food lines and he just realizes he has no clue what they’re serving. Charlie had listened to some of their input and ideas, but at the end of the day she begged them to be surprised, and they had both relented without much argument. At the time, it had meant more hours to spend together in bed, which was always high on Cas’ priority list. But now it was two hours before the wedding, he was struck with nerves. Not about Dean, or their decision to get married and mated, but…they’ll only do this once. Shouldn’t he have done a better job of making sure it’s perfect and memorable for his omega?

“I—” He was going to say, I really think my presence is needed more out here, but at that moment, his older brother claps him heartily on the shoulder.

“C’mon, baby bro,” Gabriel chirps. “Lets go get ready, and leave Red here to do her thing.”

Castiel opens his mouth again the argue, but from the ground, Charlie sends him a sharp look that would be harmful to his health to ignore.

“Very well,” he says gravely. “Just…let me go say goodbye to Dean.”

“It’s two hours apart,” Gabriel points out, with an eye roll. “You’re not going off to war.”

Castiel glares at him, tempted to say they actually did survive a war less than a month ago, but today is a day for celebrating—so he keeps his mouth shut. He leaves his brother to chat momentarily with Charlie, circling the community center before finally peeking his head inside. His finds his soon-to-be husband alone in the pantry closet, shuffling boxes around on a shelf, and watches him work for moment without announcing his presence. Dean has furrowed his brow in concentration, counting boxes and occasionally entering data onto an iPad. While some might be irritated at their significant other for squeezing in an hour of work on their wedding day…but Dean is a lifelong leader now, holding down a position that never stops moving or demanding more time and attention. Watching him work, Castiel realizes that there’s space in their relationship for them each to maintain their independence and ambitions. For him to paint and create, for Dean to lead and govern. They might be the most well-adjusted, crazily in love and profoundly bonded alpha and omega couple in the history of forever.

“You’re really making this a habit, huh?” Dean is leaned against an industrial-sized shelving unit and looking at Castiel teasingly. “Take a picture next time, babe.”

A thought occurs to Castiel then.

An enticing one.

He brings himself up to his full height, broadening his shoulders.

“I can’t,” he whispers, making his voice intentionally husky, “or my husband might see it.”

“Oh?” Dean’s face switches from playful to mischievous. “Well, maybe you oughta go focus on him then.”

Castiel takes slow, enigmatic steps into the closet, his eyes piercing and full of heat. Part of it is an act, of course, but part of their unexpected roleplaying really is turning him on. He invades Dean’s personal space, a hand resting on either side of the shelf and pining his omega to him.

“But how can I focus on anyone else with you in the room?” Dean looks stunned to silence and enthralled by what’s going on, and when Castiel leans forward and scents the curve of his omega’s neck, Dean shivers. “You smell…mouthwatering, omega.”

Dean sways against him, looking mesmerized by the gleam in Castiel’s eyes. “Not so bad yourself, alpha.”

Castiel tucks his lips and nose in closer, panting quietly in Dean’s ear and giving them both goosebumps. “I would be very pleased to find you in my bed tonight,” Castiel rumbles, and he can feel the energy around them shift—the scent of arousal clouding the air, the electricity between them pulsating.

“What would we do?” Dean asks, voice shaking, clearing his throat halfway through the question.

“We certainly wouldn’t sleep.” Castiel leans closer and closer, lips almost brushing Dean’s skin, and his omega hums with impatience and need.

“What’s wrong with…right now…?”

“No bed,” Castiel rasps.

“Not needed,” Dean quips back hoarsely. He’s half-hard now, Castiel can feel the weight of his co*ck pressed into his thigh.

“Unfortunately I have a previous engagement.” He circles back around to face Dean fully, speaking so closely that their noses brush. “But I’ll find you after.” He sinks his hand down to Dean’s growing erection, cupping it gingerly through the denim. The omega gasps at the sudden contact. “Save that for me.”

Before Dean can reply, he takes a large step backwards and leaves the room and the building. When he’s hit again by the sunshine and the fresh air, the scene of all his friends and family gathering for their wedding, the thought of having a thrown-together event doesn’t stress him out quite as much anymore. Either way, at the end of the night, he’ll be sunk into the hot wet heat of his omega…

And then he’ll hold him, his husband and packmaster, until they gather enough energy to do it all again.

***

It takes Dean an embarrassingly long time to will his erection down. He fans himself with a stray stack of Charlie’s papers, thinking of every unsexy thing known to man, but in the end, he’s forced to shuffle awkwardly back to the bunker and put the shower on cold-blast. He’s tempted for a moment to raise the temperature back up, lather his hand with soap and take care of the issue himself, but he thinks of Cas’ request…

Save that for me.

Just the memory of it turns him on again, much to his shame, and he has to stand under the spray of water for a solid ten minutes before the blood has traveled away from his co*ck. Stupid teasing Cas and his stupid sexy alpha voice and his stupid super-hot roleplaying out of nowhere. f*ck if he doesn’t love it though, the unpredictability, the newness and excitement of being with someone forever who arouses him so much, who always keeps him guessing. He dries off feeling much calmer, towel wrapped at his waist, and walks into his bedroom to find his brother sitting at his desk. He’s already in a gray suit with a dark navy boutonniere pinned to his lapel.

“Putting the finishing touches on your speech?” Dean quirks, heading towards his closet.

“As if I haven’t had it written since the day after you got engaged,” Sam replies, somewhat of a brag in his voice, and Dean snorts. Nerdy habits die hard, apparently. He ducks into the walk-in closet and gets dressed in a simple navy suit Madison helped him pick out last week, making it more casual with an open blazer and no tie. He adds long patterned dress socks, navy and gold, and shiny camel-colored dress boots. He adjusts the white collar of his shirt, allowing himself a moment of appreciation because damn, does he look tan this summer. He runs a hand over his face, wondering if he should’ve shaved, but he prefers a little bit of shadow…plus, his skin is less likely to be irritated by Cas’ stubble if he has a layer of his own. And no way he’s asking Cas to shave, ‘cause yeah…it’s sexy as f*ck when it’s wild. He adds a little gel to his hair, and spritzes on a cologne that accentuates his own natural, sagey sent.

“Ready yet, Cinderella?” Sam jokes, though there’s nothing but teasing affection in his voice.

“Guy only gets married once,” Dean grumbles defensively, finally tearing his eyes away from the full-length mirror. Sam is holding the ceremonial robe in one hand, and Dean groans, realizing it’s wool. Again.

“Didn’t our freakin’ ancestors know that wool is ridiculously hot?” He lets Sam help him into the long garment, the color light with tinges of cream and gray. “Cas’n I should’ve gotten married in the dead of f*cking winter, apparently.”

“Like you could wait that long.” Sam fixes the folds at his shoulders and Dean turns around, catching a wistful expression on his brother’s face.

“Dean, I…” Sam looks elated and emotional and a little teary, and the sudden change in mood makes Dean step back and point a finger at him.

“Nope, we’re not doing this,” he declares firmly. “I’m not gonna be some weepy groom who spends the whole day crying. I refuse.”

“Dean,” Sam continues, voice shaking, “I just want you to know that—”

“Sammy—”

“I would never be who I am without you,” Sam says in a rush, before his brother can interrupt again, and Dean’s cheeks turn red. “You’ve been a parent to be more than any brother should, but if I had the choice, I wouldn’t change a thing. If we hadn’t gone through all that, we wouldn’t be here now.” Sam takes a step forward, planting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “You deserve to be happy more than anyone, Dean, and I’m so glad that you finally are.”

Dean’s eyes graze the floor, as if he’s spotted something incredibly interesting down there.

“Uh,” he clears his throat, then makes himself look up at Sam, “thanks, Sammy.”

“You’re welcome.” Sam squeezes his shoulder, then releases his grip. “And it’s because I love you that I’m not gonna say any of that during my toast.”

Dean gives an exaggerated, relieved sigh. “Thank god.”

“Yeah, I’m just gonna tell the story about how I caught you writing ‘Mr. Dean Novak’ in your notebook your freshman year of high school.” Sam grins and takes a pointed step out of the room, while Dean follows swiftly after him, shouting, “Say what now?”

Later, Sam and Dean arrive outside the community center to find it…completely transformed. He hadn’t wanted to tell Cas, but just hours ago, he had been pretty concerned about the state of their wedding venue. Not for himself, but for Cas, who had been through such hell lately that he deserved fancy flowers and sparkling wine glasses, whatever his weird little heart desired.

But somehow Charlie, with the help of all their friends, has given the space an awesome f*cking makeover. There’s a delicately ornate wedding arch carved with silver vines, rows of padded white seats, and two separate aisles denoted by a trail of white rose petals.

“There you two are,” Charlie says, changed into a yellow-patterned dress and dragging Dean by the sleeve of his robe. “Sam, you go wait under the arch.” Dean takes a step to follow him, but Charlie holds a hand up and points to the nearby oak tree. “You’re over there, sparky.”

There’s music playing from a few yards away, and Dean realizes Kevin is playing a solo arrangement of “The Imperial March” on his cello. Holy sh*t. Charlie is an amazing ass wedding planner. It looks like the reception space is still being set up by a small crew, and there seems to even be a caterer milling around, but Dean is too distracted to notice. He wants to see Cas, who’s undoubtedly being held on the other side of the arch and out of sight. He can’t see the crowd but Dean can hear them buzzing now, the chatter involved with getting over forty people together in one small space. Finally, after a waiting time that fills his stomach with nervous energy, Charlie is back at his side.

“At the next song change, you can start walking,” she instructs, then points at the ground. “Follow the petals to the altar.”

Dean’s palms are sweaty, and he’s tempted to be snippy and reply ya think? But he just claps his hands together and nods. He feels absurdly hot in this stupid robe, and even though he’s packmaster now, he can’t help but think he looks undignified in it. If only he could see his alpha, get some reassurance, touch his face and kiss him…

The song changes to a slow and sweet rendition of Princess Leia’s theme song and f*ck, this is it, Dean and Cas are getting married. Holy crap. Dean follows the path of flower petals, and from several yards away, he sees Cas doing the same. Spotting his alpha instantly makes his heart pound, but for a much different reason than before. As the future spouse of the packmaster he’s not wearing an annoyingly unflattering robe, but looks like a goddamn vision in his light linen suit, his hair elegant tousled, the top buttons of his navy shirt unbuttoned just enough to make Dean’s mouth water. Everything fades away as they approach each other, and it’s insane to think that it’s only be hours since they last saw each other, because Dean is eager as hell to get his hands all over his husband.

Well…soon to be.

They finally meet in the middle, standing directly beneath the arch with Pamela in the center. She’s wearing a knee-length summer dress with gold-patterned flowers, her curls tucked into a bun. Sam is standing beside her, closest to Dean, with Gabriel nearest to Cas. The crowd is packed but quiet now, but Dean hardly sees any of them right now. Because…

Because his alpha is beaming at him.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel whispers, low beneath the music.

“Hey,” Dean replies simply, looking his future husband up and down with appreciation. “Looking hot as f*ck, Cas.”

Castiel chuckles demurely under the praise, looking pleased. “You look…” He stares at the thick wool robe with some confusion. “Hot in a different way.”

Dean laughs in response, full and without any trace of self-consciousness, and Castiel gives him a broad and gummy smile. God, Dean wants to lean over right now and kiss him. The music dies away slowly, and Pamela puts a hand on either side of their shoulders, smiling up at them.

“We welcome you Luh, Madadh Alluidh, Mac Tire, descendants of Odin,” she says, addressing the crowd, then adds, “and guests.” There must be humans in attendance, and Dean’s tempted to turn his head to remind himself who’s visiting, but he can’t tear himself away from the deep blue of Cas’ eyes. “Thank you for being here to celebrate and witness the union of Castiel Novak and Packmaster Dean Winchester. The pair have opted for a unique arrangement of both traditional were rituals as well as modern expressions of love.” They join hands naturally, clasping down low, and in the corner of his eye Dean sees both their brothers smile. “Most of you know that Castiel and Dean have had an unusual love story. Friends since childhood, they both had teenage crushes on one another that they thought we wouldn’t notice…” Pamela pauses for dramatic effect. “But we did.”

There’s a rumble of laughter, and Cas squeezes his hand as Dean’s cheek glow pink.

“Their teenage romance was disrupted by war and heartache, but miles apart, Dean mailed his old friend a postcard once a year. Castiel would respond with a painting, usually of Dean in his wolf form, many of which are hanging up in galleries all over the world.” Dean feels the air virtually sucked out of him, being hit again by the magnitude of his love and pride for Cas. “After the passing of our previous packmaster, Castiel was finally granted permission to return home, and…we all know what’s happened since. Trials, hardship, loss. But the difficulties they faced have only sweetened the love between these two…a true mate pair if I’ve ever seen one.”

Both their hands are starting to sweat and Dean feels awkward, having the soap opera of their relationship aired out in a summary for all the wedding guests. But still—it’s sweet in a strange way. It feels deeply significant, powerful and true.

“Following the tradition of packmaster weddings, which dictates that the pack and their friends are influential in this union, we now invite everyone to approach. Each of the best men are holding baskets of ties and garland, such as vines and flowers, which have been spelled for elasticity and strength. Please knot your offering to the larger thread, held first by Dean and Castiel, and we will conduct the Gaelic and Celtic gesture of handfasting the bonds of their union.”

The grooms are handed a sturdy green vine, nearly a stalk, with their entwined hands up to chest level. They watch as everyone they care about approaches, beginning with their brothers, and then Bobby and Ellen, Charlie and Madison, and pretty soon the entire pack has contributed to the cord. Dean is pleased to see Jody, who he can’t wait to hug at the reception, and even gives a smile to Balthazar and Hannah. It takes several minutes and Kevin is still playing his cello softly, the handfasting cord growing longer and longer as fifty people contribute to it. Finally, the last addition is securely tied, and Pamela gathers it from the alpha and omega. She instructs Cas and Dean to hold each other’s forearms as she wraps it around their skin and chants a Celtic prayer. When she knots the end, Dean is tempted to whisper to Cas looks like we finally tied the knot, but he thinks it might be too cheesy of a pun…even for him.

“A packmaster and his mate do not lead alone,” Pam explains, once the cord is securely fastened around their arms, “it takes a community of friends, supporters, family members, and loved ones to keep a leader rooted in the earth, the moon, and most importantly, the wolf. Do you, Dean and Castiel, accept the patronage of your pack, promising to hold their welfare as important as your own?”

Dean looks at Castiel evenly, watching his lips, and in unison they say, “We do.”

Pamela grins encouragingly and unknots the lengthy, patchwork vine, passing it Sam, who nestles it into his basket. She turns to Gabriel, who seems to know his next instruction and retrieves a polished and sliver, two-handed cup. “This quaich and its two handles represents the symbol of two families coming together, two homes which are now made one.” Sam squats lowly, trading the basket of florals for a porcelain canteen, which he passes to the elder.

“This represents the blood of the wolf, the pack, and the shared ancestral blood that now flows between these two houses.” She pours deftly and slowly, and Castiel’s eyebrows raise at the apparent blood they have to drink, but Dean gets his attention and mouths, “Red wine.”

The alpha visibly calms, and receives the goblet with both hands—hooking his fingers onto the front and staring at Dean intensely as he sips. With Pam’s approval, he passes it to Dean, who does the same. The wine is robust and dry and Dean licks his lips, a movement that Cas tracks with such enthusiasm that the omega smirks in response. He passes the quaich back to Pamela, who passes it Gabriel, while Sam is busy making preparations for their next ritual.

“Being packmaster requires intelligence, precision, and the ability to not only give instructions…but to listen to them when needed.” Pamela pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, small and black, and passes it to Castiel. At the same time, Sam appears holding a massive, unruly bundle of fine sheep’s wool.

Great, Dean thinks, more freaking wool.

“Castiel will now blindfold his future mate. Both will kneel, and the packmaster’s objective is to find the miniature pearl hidden in the folds of the floccus, only searching through the instructions given to him by Castiel.”

Cas looks absolutely giddy at this prospect but Dean just eyes the whole thing with amused resignation. He kneels dutifully and Castiel knots the blindfold at the back of his head, while Dean wonders if his ego can handle being publicly embarrassed by his inability to crack this stupid puzzle. The sound of Kevin’s string instrument is filling up the open air again, and everyone watches but can’t quite hear the grooms’ whispers to each other.

“Place your right hand in the center of the wool,” Castiel says quietly in his ear, kneeling so close to him that his lips brush Dean’s ear. The omega shivers, and he grumbles, “So not helping.”

“You look very arousing like this, Dean,” Cas says silky. “I can’t wait to see what you’re wearing underneath that robe…”

Dean breathes, in through his mouth and out through his nose, trying to stave off the apparent scent of his arousal. “If you make me get all hot to trot in the middle of our wedding,” he grumbles, “I’m gonna hate you for the rest of our lives.”

“Love you, too.” Castiel places a chaste kiss to the back of his neck, then says, “Go on…put your hand in the bundle.”

Dean does so tentatively, eyelashes fluttering against the confines of the blindfold, and the mound of fleece at his knees is itchy and rough. He’s sweating under his enormous robe.

“After today,” Dean complains, “we’re burning every piece of clothing we have that’s goddamn wool.”

“Use your other hand to separate the remaining half,” Cas explains calmly, as if Dean hadn’t said a word. “Now dig…not there but further…no, not that far, you’re practically in the grass, Dean…”

“Thanks, babe,” the omega replies dryly, hands itchy as he digs further into the wool. “This is very helpful.”

Their squabbling continues for nearly ten minutes until the attendants of their wedding begin to notice, chuckling and heckling them, and Dean is about two seconds from wringing Cas’ neck with the wool or pushing him to the ground and making out with him. He’s letting out an exasperated huff when his fingertips collide with the smooth surface of the pearl, and he snatches it up triumphantly, sliding the blindfold off and grinning like a fool. There’s a smattering of claps and Castiel rolls his eyes good-naturedly and helps Dean to his feet.

“We make an entertaining team,” Cas undertones in his ear, and Dean nods in agreement.

“At least we’ll never be bored,” he says, smirking, as they rejoin Pamela in front of the altar.

“Well,” she says loudly, a grin plastered on her face, “that was certainly…interesting…”

Dean flushes and Castiel just flashes another one of those gummy smiles, and how long exactly is Dean supposed to wait until he gets to freaking kiss his husband already?

“To end our ceremony, we have a request from our groom. Well, one of them.” Her eyes flash at Castiel with some affection, and then Sam is handing her two small dishes filled with non-toxic face paint. She hands the blue to Castiel and the red to Dean, and Castiel takes the lead, dipping two fingers into his bowl and streaking Dean’s cheeks and forehead with color. Dean shudders at the cool temperature, the strange texture on his skin, but does the same to Cas…who looks absolutely adorable with paint on his face, if Dean does say so himself.

“It was Pablo Picasso who said ‘why do two colors, put one next to the other, sing?’” Pam’s voice is tender and soft. “Love shows us that it’s okay to show all our colors. And Dean and Castiel—” They quickly swap bowls and reapply a thin coat of the opposite color, and with a little elbow-grease, the shades turn a deep, dark purple. “While asserting their own distinct hue, they combine to create a new shade of true, unflinching beauty. Love that is truly worth preserving.”

Dean is about to die inside from how freaking sappy this all is, but it was Cas’ only real request for the wedding, and it sorta gives him belly flips thinking about how sweet the gesture is. God, does he wanna have five seconds alone with his husband already…

“Now, repeat after me Castiel.” Pamela looks between them, looking thrilled and expectant, and Dean reaches for his alpha’s hand.

“With all my heart, I Castiel, take you Dean, to my husband.”

“With all my heart, I Castiel, take you Dean, to my husband,” Castiel repeats reverently.

“I promise to be your lover, companion, and friend.”

“I promise to be your lover, companion, and friend.” Castiel stares sweetly, openly, into Dean’s eyes.

“Your sounding board in leadership, your ally in conflict, and your greatest fan.”

“Your sounding board in leadership, your ally in conflict, and your greatest fan.” Dean’s eyes are not watering, thank you very much.

“I will be your comrade in adventure—”

“I will be your comrade in adventure.”

“Your comfort in disappointment—”

“Your comfort in disappointment.”

“Your accomplice in mischief—”

Castiel smirks and Dean chuckles. “Your accomplice in mischief.”

“Your strength in times of need—”

“Your strength in times of need.” Dean sucks in a breath, exhaling slowly. Is this really happening? Is he allowed to be this happy?

“I will listen with understanding, and trust you completely, all the days of my life—”

“I will listen with understanding, and trust you completely, all the days of my life.” Castiel’s gaze is impenetrable and Dean wants to kiss every square inch of his face.

“You are my person, Dean Winchester,” Castiel says, no longer repeating a vow but speaking directly to him, “my love and my life, my omega, my packmaster, today and always.”

Pamela looks surprised at the edit to her call and response, but after that improvisation Dean’s had quite enough of waiting—he reaches forward and draws his alpha to him, crushing their lips together prematurely. The kiss is simple but dizzying and he hears laughs of commotion all around them, but Dean really doesn’t give a damn what anyone else thinks. He just needs to be married to this man already.

“Dean,” Pamela says gently, and Castiel breaks the kiss first, hand cradling Dean’s elbow. “We still have your vows to walk through.”

“I’ve been in love with Cas for most of my life.” Dean strokes his cheek, their eyes locked. “So, yeah, check ‘yes’ to all of the above and let’s get this show on the road.”

In the end, Dean does end up echoing the marriage oath, though he says them so quickly he think he might burst. Cas, for his part, looks absolutely absorbed at every word stumbling from Dean’s mouth. They exchange rings, gold for Dean and silver for Cas (luckily wolves aren’t bothered by silver that’s outside the body, only inside). During the exchange, Pamela recites an ancient prayer for lasting love and fertility from a Gaelic verse.

“By the power vested in me by the earth and moon, the wolf and pack, and the state of Kansas…” Castiel is gripping his hand so tightly, Dean wonders if his hand might break. “I now pronounce you husbands and mates. You may now claim one another.”

And then world fades. Castiel grips the back of his neck, fingers caressing his skin, and Dean bears his neck in open invitation to his alpha. Cas brushes his collar away, cups his chin, and leans in closer. Dean does the same, both of their necks craning for perfect access, and their lips brush each others’ skin. Dean parts his mouth, exhaling with a rush of excitement and anticipation, and they both—

Bite.

It’s not lust they feel, not exactly, not with everyone else present. It’s more an instantaneous pleasure, a sweep of contentedness stronger than any drink of whiskey or any drug. It’s a wave of euphoria that makes him tremble, his heart race and his palms sweat, and…

Dean.

He hears Cas’ voice in his head, clear as the direct broadcast of a radio station, only now it seems that since they’ve mated, their telepathic abilities have only increased. Hell yeah, Dean thinks with excitement. This gonna make sex even more mind-blowing…

“Is that so?” Castiel whispers, licking his lips away with the last trace of Dean’s blood, and the omega only gapes at him. He’s never known any mated couples who could do this in their human form, but here they are, Dean and Cas, mated for all of two seconds and united in a way others could only imagine.

“This is…” Dean is a loss for words. Their scent is completely mingled now, the honeyed taste of sage on his tongue, and Dean wants to revel in it for hours, days, weeks. The paint has dried on their faces and they really oughta clean it off, put some ointment on their bites, and get ready for their reception…

"I present to you the newly married couple,” Pamela announces, as the guests stand and clap, “Packmaster Dean Winchester and his mate, Castiel Novak!”

But all Dean wants to do is kiss his husband. And so he does. His chin and nose and neck, his paint-covered forehead and cheeks, and finally—lips.

He kisses his husband’s lips until he thinks he can’t anymore.

Chapter 20

Chapter Text

“Perhaps it was the eyes of the wolf, measured, calm, knowing. Perhaps it was the intense sense of family. After all, wolves mate for life.” —Unknown

The reception is bigger and better than Castiel ever imagined. There are a dozen round tables with lace tablecloths, simple candle centerpieces situated in the center. Every surface seems to be adorned with flowers and ribbon, and it’s just this side of extravagant, but Castiel honestly…loves it. Mostly because he loves Dean, and always has, and it’s a love that’s threatening to tumble out of him in waves, every emotion heightened and dizzying.

There’s so much to take in: ice buckets full of El Sol and Margiekugel (“Thank god nobody’s forcin’ us to drink champagne,” Dean had mumbled happily) and a buffet line brimming with freshly-grilled cheeseburgers and well-seasoned fries. Instead of a traditional wedding cake, Charlie arranged a smorgasbord of sweetly-flavored pies from a local bakery. By now, everyone’s eaten and mixed and mingled, and night has properly fallen over the property. The community center’s external lights give off a soft glow, not to mention flickering candles and strings of fairy lights are flickering on every available surface. Cas has chatted with Balthazar and Hannah, who offered the newlyweds their best wishes, and he promised his friends to stop by the art supply store soon to restock on some essentials. Then Dean introduced him to Jody, whose only prior knowledge of Cas was that of a feral wolf attacking a man in a bar, so Castiel worked hard to alter her first impression. It took less than ten minutes for them to begin laughing, swapping embarrassing stories about Dean, which was always a crowd pleaser. Around this time, his omega was suddenly very interested in dragging Castiel onto the dance floor…

Everyone’s taken full advantage of the open bar. Sam and Madison are sobering up by sharing a slice of cherry pie, Pamela and Ellen have let their hair down (literally) and are still throwing back tequila shots, and Rufus, Bobby, and Ash are having a disagreement about ancient wedding rituals that’s getting surprisingly heated. One such tradition included Cas and Dean drinking a ceremonial goblet of mead fermented with honey, the pack’s adaptation of an Irish mi na meala—ensuring a good start to a new marriage, endowing powers of virility and fertility. Castiel was elated by this offering, having a personal taste for honey—not to mention a burning to see his omega pregnant one day—but Dean had only winced, searching around for his glass of iced tea.

A ritual that Dean did love, though, was the casting of the wishes. Every wedding guest was given a small stone, tossing it into a small well of water and offering the couple a personal blessing. Less welcome were the handfuls of loose coins the elders had gifted all the children, who would occasionally come up and pelt the grooms with change because an old proverb promised it would bring the couple prosperity. When a nickel accidentally smacked Dean in the eye while he was devouring a quarter-slab of apple pie, he had grumpily outlawed that tradition for the remainder of the evening.

While the ceremony had felt like an intimate exchange—a demonstration just for him and Dean—the reception had been all about their family, their friends, their pack. There is a feeling of bittersweetness, maybe even melancholy, because Castiel wishes his entire family could’ve been in attendance. But having his brother back after spending twelve years assuming he was dead is enough to make him feel more grateful than upset. Sam and Dean had both gotten a little dewy-eyed during the Bobby’s toast honoring “all friends, family, and ancestors lost,” doubtlessly thinking of Mary and—more recently—John. Castiel has his own fallen loved ones to remember, but had stood between the brothers with a hand on either back, knowing the Winchesters are his family now. He’ll do anything to comfort them, protect them, keep them safe.

All in all, it’s been the most amazing day of Castiel’s life. Truthfully, he’s elated and delighted and…absolutely exhausted. His omega is practically brimming over with joy, taking in all these little moments and feeling overwhelmed by them. Castiel can feel that now, can scent it…his mate’s emotions. Dean’s happiness is sweet, a gentle cloud he wants to bask it; his fatigue, however, makes Castiel feel twice as tired. Their bond is incredibly strong, bordering on eerie even, but it’s a magnetism that Castiel can’t believe he ever lived without.

“We can take a step back, if we need to,” Castiel whispers in his husband’s ear. It’s nearing midnight now, and he’s hoping to steal a quick moment away with Dean, just to catch their breath. His groom yawns and shakes his head, rallying to restore his depleted energy.

“By a ‘step back,’ do ya mean…” Dean pauses for dramatic effect, his eyebrows wagging suggestively, and Castiel chuckles and looks away, his face flushed.

“I didn’t realize public sex was so enticing to you, Dean,” he says cheekily, voice low and teasing.

“Any type of sex with you is enticing to me,” Dean replies instantly, before leaning in closer, his lips tickling Castiel’s ear as he whispers, “Or did you already forget about that night in the woods…”

Castiel swallows, the trousers of his linen suit suddenly feeling significantly tighter than before. The memory of their time together when Cas was still a wolf is making his alpha instincts stir, begging him to growl, to chase, to take.

“That is not something I’d likely forget.” His eyes scan their guests, hoping no one’s close enough to eavesdrop. There’s a heat in Dean’s eyes and he threads their hands together, tugging his alpha off to the side for privacy, but before they can effectively make their exit…

“There they are!” Jo calls triumphantly, and the music dims. Dread creeps into Castiel’s stomach.

“We got ourselves some runners!” Sam shouts, forehead heavily glistening thanks to all the beer, the summer temperature, and his natural tendency to sweat. Dean just glares at his brother in feigned irritation and pulls on Castiel’s hands again.

“Yeah, yeah, leave us alone, we’re tired,” the omega protests, though good-naturedly, but Pam and Ellen are shaking their heads.

“Hell no,” Ellen declares, “we didn’t give you the best damn wedding this pack has ever seen, just to see you skirt the most important tradition.”

“As packmaster, your elders demand it,” Pam adds with a smirk.

Dean looks pointedly at Castiel, as if waiting for him to dispute this tradition as well, but Cas just scratches his forehead with his free hand. It’s been so long since he’s attended a were wedding…he had been a child last time, and had evidently blocked out the ritual that occurs at a wedding’s end. “What exactly does this entail?”

“It’s the ruaig mìos na meala,” Bobby offers, as if that should explain everything, and Castiel kicks himself mentally for postponing his Gaelic lessons with Sam.

“The honeymoon chase,” Dean translates for him instantly, before Castiel can even show his confusion. “We’d have to shift. The alpha is supposed to chase the omega, and everyone chases behind us until, uh…”

“The alpha catches his prey,” Jo supplies, in an exaggerated tone and with an outrageous wink. Dean’s cheeks burn pink and he scoffs, looking away, but his scent gives him away to Castiel. There’s a spice there that wasn’t present before—intrigue, interest, arousal.

Castiel slips his blazer jacket off, folding it over a nearby banquet chair. Immediately there are whistles and catcalls, but he’s only maintaining eye contact with Dean, who’s eyes have gone round.

“Cas…” He swallows as Castiel kicks off his shoes.

“What’s wrong, Dean?” He unbuttons his slacks, the omega’s eyes locked onto the motion as if he’s never witnessed something quite this interesting before. “Worried I’ll catch you?”

The crowd turns raucous, chuckling and heckling and begging Dean to “take it off, already!” Dean plasters on his co*ckiest facade, the one Cas has spotted when his omega is secretly nervous about something, and he says, “Okay, okay…we’ll just see who’s fastest, Cas.”

They decide, rather consciously, to diminish the awkwardness of standing naked in front of everyone by putting on a sort of strip tease. They face each other with Cas down to just boxers and a button-up, Dean still pulling his suit jacket off, and they start flinging items of clothing into the crowd. The late hour helps, darkness settling over the property with most of their party-goers several drinks in. Castiel’s shirt lands on Jo’s shoulder and she shouts rowdily. Dean’s slacks fall quite awkwardly at Bobby’s feet, who merely rolls his eyes and grumbles something incomprehensible. By the time they’re both down to their underwear, the distraction of their guests has faded into the background of Castiel’s mind, because his husband is…

Inconceivably stunning.

Just when he thinks he’s gotten used to the miles of tanned, tone skin, the vibrantly green eyes, the sprinkling of freckles and adorably distinct bowlegs, Castiel loses his breath all over again.

“Need a shot for good luck?” Charlie hollers in her best friend’s direction, seeming to only be half-joking because her and Gabriel are fighting over a bottle of whiskey, but Dean dismisses her with a quick “nah.” He actually hasn’t consumed much alcohol tonight, if any at all, Castiel notes…it’s unusual for his husband.

“Well, what are ya waiting for?” Pamela yells, grinning. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

Castiel slips his boxers down to the ground, thankful that him and Dean didn’t end up having time for an impromptu makeout session like he’d hoped for, because being half-mast in front of all these people would have been…awkward. He openly admires his omega, though, who’s very much a show-er (not a grower) and Castiel is reminded of his promise from months ago to try bottoming for his husband at least once. The thought makes his skin feel hot to the touch, and he wonders if he unintentionally sent that image to Dean via their psychic link, because his omega is smirking at him now quite alluringly.

“Try’n keep up, babe,” Dean says co*ckily, and then he closes his eyes, shifting fluidly into his sleek and attractive, charcoal-colored were form. It’s so easy for Dean, it’s like someone putting on a coat or slipping off a pair of mittens. It takes Castiel longer and with more concentration, though their mated bond now allows Dean to slip into his consciousness and help him along, centering Castiel and encouraging him to clear his mind. The transformations still feels excruciating, but it’s the fastest shift the alpha has ever managed, and he looks down at his paws and feels a renewed sense of vigor and energy. His omega is backing away slowly, as if anticipating that Castiel is going to pounce on him any second, but the alpha isn’t sure when the chase is supposed to start. He has no clue what he’s waiting for—someone to wave a flag and shout “go”?—but Rufus gruffly yells, “C’mon already!” Castiel has his head turned, listening, and that’s when Dean launches himself into the air.

Castiel blinks back around, only see the whip of his omega’s long, bushy tail as he bolts down the hill. His ears raise in alarm and his hind feet push off from the ground, senses on overdrive as he follows the aromatic trail of his mate’s scent. His nostrils flare as the bouquet overtakes him, their shared aroma driving him forward, his large paws digging into the earth as he runs and runs and runs. Dean is several yards ahead of him, and the wedding party (most remaining on two-feet) is following from a distance, still shouting and jeering at them playfully. Cas never thought he would actually embrace this tradition—figured it would be like many of the other rituals today, a pleasant sort of going-through-the-motions—but this. Chasing his omega with the intention of pinning him down, of making him feel pleasure, of having his way with him? This is what Castiel has been yearning for all day. And while most of his fantasies had featured them as human, in the privacy of their home, the undomesticated, uncontrollable lust pumping through his veins is enough to make the wolf want to take his husband right here, right now.

A flood of omega arousal hits him, both the scent in the air and the emotion shared through their bond, and he hears Dean whimper with need, urging his alpha to claim every inch of his body. Castiel growls in response, losing himself fully in the motion of the run, twigs and rocks flung wildly in their wake. Dean’s led them into the woods, their spectators slowing down to a small trickle as they enter their first mile, but Castiel feels like he could keep doing this for forever. The adrenaline, the anticipation, the restlessness…it’s elating, freeing and exciting, and he can tell Dean feels the same. There’s eventually a second mile, then a third, and they’re alone now in the woods, blood pumping and hearts racing, inexplicably turned on and entirely unkempt. By the fourth mile Dean begins to lag, either from an intentional wish to end their chase or a lack of longevity, Castiel can’t tell. But they’re right on the edge of the woods, Castiel’s backyard visible, when the omega falters just long enough for Cas to soar into the air. They collide with a fierce tumble, the wolves somersaulting down the slope of the hill, twisted up together.

When they’re finally level, heads slightly dizzy and chests panting noisily, Castiel pushes Dean down to the ground, his stance dominating, growling and bumping his nuzzle against Dean’s neck. His omega whines and submits beneath him, bearing his neck in invitation, and Castiel opens his mouth and bares his canines. He licks Dean’s mane for a moment, flicking his wide, flat tongue through the fur. Eventually he steps back and nudges the omega off his back, the shared scent of their excitement making him feral and mindless with unadulterated want, and the small gray wolf presents himself to the alpha. There’s slick dripping from the tightness of his hole, and Castiel howls and licks it up eagerly, the taste addictive and sweet. But now isn’t the time to be coy, as Dean’s consciousness is begging and pleading for Castiel to take him, knot him, make him come. The alpha can’t deny his mate even if he wanted to, wrapping his front paws around the omega’s middle and mounting him roughly. His impossibly huge alpha co*ck slides into Dean’s dripping, eager hole, and the thrusts in and out are short and pounding, aggressive in a way that feels reckless and brutal.

Castiel doesn’t know when exactly they decide to shift back into their human form, but he’s only been mounting his omega for a few intense moments before he feels a thought slip into his consciousness, a request, I need to kiss you. They begin to transform back in perfect sync, as if being tied together really is uniting them as one, and Cas feels next to no pain as his sturdy paws lengthen into palms and fingers. Dean’s skin is sticky with sweat and loose soil, and their breaths are labored and erratic. Castiel kisses his omega’s back absently before gently pulling out, Dean moaning softly as the hard co*ck slips free and leaves him empty.

“Do you want…” Castiel’s voice is a low, gravel-filled rumble and he isn’t sure how to phrase his question. As usual, his omega seems to follow his train of thought easily.

“Want you,” he mumbles, shifting from his belly to his back until they’re finally face to face. He reaches a hand up, cupping Castiel’s chin, and begs, “Kiss me and f*ck me and knot me, please, alpha.”

Still coming down from his recent transformation, the alpha growls and dives down, mashing their lips together in a ferocious kiss. Dean moans lewdly as Castiel’s tongue slips into his mouth, his teeth nipping on the omega’s lower lip, and they exchange messy, half-crazed kisses, writhing around as their dicks rub against each other with maddening friction. Dean’s hands fist fervently into Castiel’s hair, tugging hard and impatient, the strands becoming even more disheveled and dirty. Castiel breaks free to leave bruising, enthusiastic kisses all over his omega’s neck. He sucks and licks and kisses over the claim mark, completely unblemished now thanks to their supernatural healing powers, and Dean whines under the attention. Cas feels teeth raking over his own skin, and he lines his throbbing co*ck back up, both of them moaning with pleasure as he sinks into the hot, narrow heat. He lifts Dean’s leg up higher towards his hips, and the omega cries out from the impact of thrusts now assaulting his prostate. Castiel is quickly becoming undone from the shameless display of neediness from his omega, his co*ck slick and wet and painfully erect, and he pants, “Not…gonna…last…long…”

The head of his co*ck brushes Dean’s prostate again and the omega whimpers. “f*ck, Cas…oh f*ck, give it to me, that’s it, right there, alpha!” Castiel plunges relentlessly deeper, his omega wailing from overstimulation, and he again finds the patch of skin where Dean’s mating bite was placed. He nips at the sensitive spot wickedly, sucking and biting and moaning, though he’s careful not to break the skin again…which takes serious effort. With a final thrust Dean comes with an urgent cry, untouched between them, chest heaving and muscles clenching down around Castiel’s co*ck until the alpha follows suit, his knot swelling at the base and locking them together, filling his omega relentlessly with warm come.

The minutes following are quiet and calm, the sounds of their breathing and the rustle of leaves soothing as they hold each other, kissing and whispering softly.

“Was it as good as you hoped for?” Cas asks faintly, thinking of his teasing display this afternoon in the community center closet, and Dean’s eyelids flutter open. His omega looks dazed and completely sated, squeezing his muscles down around Castiel’s co*ck and milking the alpha’s release further without apology.

“It was better,” he mumbles blissfully, eyes half-lidded, and Castiel breathes through his nose and tries to will his knot down with sheer force of will. His husband is on the verge of falling asleep beneath him, and he needs to get both of them inside and showered and tucked away in bed.

“And the wedding?” Castiel’s voice is muted and low and practically slurred, still distracted by thousands of overstimulated nerve endings on his knot.

Dean yawns beneath him, head tilted on the grass. “Freakin’ epic.”

Castiel smiles his brightest, gummiest smile. He strokes Dean’s hair with one hand and the omega practically purrs beneath him. “Don’t fall asleep, sweetheart.”

“Can’t help it,” Dean breathes faintly. “I‘m just too…”

“Too sleepy?”

He sighs drowsily. “Too happy.”

Castiel didn’t think it was possible to love this man, love this day, love his life, more than he already does. But as he bends down and kisses Dean’s forehead, he realizes how wrong he’s been. His feelings aren’t finite, aren’t contained by time. Not even his art can completely capture the complexity of it. His love for his husband will only keep growing, changing and fluctuating and developing deeper as the years pass. He doesn’t know what the next two, three, or five decades hold for them, but he hopes he’ll be a ripe old age when he lays on his deathbed, thinking, I’ve finally reached the pinnacle. I’ve loved Dean Winchester more than a person has ever loved anyone.

***

Dean wakes up naked in bed, skin balmy, a blanket wrapped around his middle. A mop of messy brown hair is snoring beside him, his alpha on his stomach and his faced buried in the pillow, and Dean grins and stretches towards him, kissing his forehead. Sunlight is streaking in through the window, but he has to check the digital clock on the bedside table to acquire any concept of time. It’s nearly ten o’clock and his stomach rumbles… He scratches his head and discovers there are still twigs and blades of grass in his hair. Wow, he had really passed the f*ck out last night. Cas must’ve carried him to bed.

He is partially clean, though, and when he ambles into the connecting bathroom he sees a washcloth on the counter, still damp. He pictures his alpha carrying him home bridal style, tenderly dropping Dean onto the mattress and wiping him up. He smiles at the thought—he sure as hell married up—and does his morning routine. He showers, wishing his husband would wake up and join him, but knowing his exhausted alpha deserves to sleep in. Dripping wet, arousal burns low in Dean’s belly, he had never believed that newly mated couples basically f*cked like rabbits for a few days, but…his rapidly hardening co*ck would beg to differ. He doesn’t stroke himself though, wanting to save his morning wood for the hunk snoozing in bed, and dries off gingerly, slinging on a pair of sweatpants and creaking the door open and closed, sneaking off to the kitchen.

He’s already mentally cataloging the food in the fridge—the eggs and milk will spoil soon, maybe he should use them up—but nearly chokes on his own spit when he sees Gabriel sitting at the counter, scrolling on his phone and drinking coffee.

“Uh, what are you…” He glances down in panic, not exactly sure there’s a polite way to ask what the f*ck are you doing here? Gabriel glances up at him with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mornin’, Cinderella,” he says, tone airy and goading. “How was the ball?”

“Um, good. Great.” He goes over to the coffee pot, fixing a fresh pot mostly on autopilot. When the brew finally starts dripping, he spins back around to address his brother-in-law. “Not to be a total dick, but you’re kinda crashing our honeymoon.”

“You mean my baby bro didn’t spring for the Hawaii getaway?” Gabriel asks in feigned shock, and Dean rolls his eyes. He might’ve slept like the dead, but he’s not nearly caffeinated enough to endure this conversation.

“We’ll go somewhere later,” Dean says defensively, wishing he had put a shirt on. “I can’t exactly leave for a week, ‘soon as I become packmaster.”

“And that, my fearless leader, is why you were the better choice for the job.” Dean straightens up a little, surprised by the compliment, and grabs a mug from the drying rack.

“Thanks, but, uh…again. Whatcha doing here?”

Gabriel sighs dramatically, as if he’s clearly the misunderstood one in this scenario, and walks over to the dining room table. He comes back holding a heavy cardboard box as Dean sips his coffee and eyes the alpha wearily.

“Cassie doesn’t know, but the elders salvaged some old stuff from the house fire. Gave it to Dad for safekeeping, and it’s been in the attic every since.”

Dean wrinkles his nose inquiringly, and pops the box open with his free hand. “What is all this?” He shuffles some things around, frowning. They must be nearly thirty years old. “And how’d you find it?”

“Blankets, books, mobile. All Cas’ from childhood. Well, babyhood. Is that a word? It should be.” Gabriel empties the rest of his coffee cup and smacks his lips together in a satisfied way. “And because I’m a nosy bastard. Which is why I’m giving this to you, and why I’m heading back to Vegas now, so you and Cassie can hump like teenagers and you can tell him the good news.”

“Good news?” Dean’s throat feels dry, his stomach fluttering with nerves. He puts a hand on his stomach, already feeling a little softer than usual. “How…?” He sets his mug on the counter with a definite clink. “How do you know? I haven’t told anybody.”

Gabriel snorts, placing his empty mug in the sink. “‘Turns out I’m not just the hot brother, I’m also the smart one.”

“Debatable on both accounts,” Dean retorts, crossing his arms now. He peeks over the edge of the box again, looking down at all that history, a treasure trove for someone like Castiel who lost so much, so young. “But, uh—” He scratches his face nervously, looking down. “Seriously, how did you know? And have you told anyone?”

“You’ve been having a boatload of unprotected sex and apart from the ceremonial wedding wine, haven’t had a drop of alcohol in three weeks,” Gabriel says, shrugging. “Doesn’t take a genius—two plus two. Cassie could’ve figured it out if he hadn’t been so distracted lately.” Dean hums low in agreement, and the alpha continues, “And not a soul. Though your baby bro suspects too, so might wanna call him after you drop the news to your hubby.”

“Figures,” Dean sighs. “Looks like we’re gonna spend the next sixty years surrounded by our nosy brothers.”

“As if you’d have it either way.” Gabriel raises his eyebrows, then breaks out into a smile. “Anywho, I’m gonna head back to Sin City. Was kidnapped in the middle of the night, y’know, so…lots of loose ends to tie up. In fact, there’s this sweet little S&M club I joined, and there’s an omega who’s probably still tied up, waiting for me to—”

“Okay, yeah, thanks for stopping by,” Dean interrupts in a rush, pushing his brother-in-law out of the front door with both hands. “Drive safe, fly safe, just, uh, see ya at Christmas or whatever.”

Gabriel tips his head, winks at the box one more time, then saunters off the porch and out of sight. Dean lets out a relieved sigh, running a hand through his still-damp hair, and opens the fridge. He’s still freaking starving, and needs to do something to keep his hands busy, so he pulls out all the ingredients to make pancakes from scratch—milk, eggs, butter, and lots of dry baking ingredients he finds in the cabinet above the microwave. He’s stirring the concoction together, lost in thought, when he feels hands wrap around his waist. He experiences a millisecond of panic, but then Cas’ scent—which has somehow become their scent—crashes into him like a soothing wave.

“Surprised to see you up before noon,” Dean quips, abandoning his spoon to grasp Cas on the forearm. The alpha places a small kiss on the back of his neck.

“The bed was cold without you,” Cas complains, snuggling his face in closer. “You’re my furnace.” His breath is warm but minty, and he’s wandering around completely naked, much to Dean’s approval. He can feel the beginning of an erection rutting against the cleft between his ass cheeks, and he pushes against the rising stiffness, making Castiel’s breath quicken.

“Something I can do for you, alpha?” he whispers, back curving erogenously, and Castiel hums and slips a hand to the front of Dean’s sweatpants.

“Yes,” Castiel replies, voice rumbling. “Let me make you feel good?”

He thumbs the head of Dean’s co*ck, stiffening immediately under his touch, and Dean shifts his neck, giving his alpha better access.

“That…” He shudders as Cas nips at his earlobe, wrist flicking around his co*ck and gathering beads of precome to stroke him more smoothly. “Feels amazing.”

In the center of his chest, he can feel his bond with his alpha growing and developing even now, like a mechanical tether pulling them together. Panting and head tilted, he leans his head back on his husband’s shoulder, reaching inside himself and following the charged energy of their bond. He gets lost in sensation, Cas’ lips and hands working so rhythmically and so well together, that he almost doesn’t realize it when he’s…

Feeling what Cas feels. The hard co*ck in hand, the sweet taste of omega on his lips, his erection rutting against Dean’s ass and seeking an urgent release.

“Holy sh*t,” Dean shouts, and it’s so suddenly that Castiel nearly drops his hand.

“Dean—”

“Keep going. But can you…” He licks his lips, trying to explain it. “You feel our bond tugging on you, right?”

“Yes.” His alpha’s tone is absolute but curious.

“Well…follow it.” Dean’s having trouble concentrating—he doesn’t know whose pleasure to focus on, his own or his alpha’s, and right now both are existing in such an intense overlap that he’s not sure he’s gonna last much longer before coming. “And keep pushing, lose yourself in it, and then…”

He doesn’t know if his instructions are making any sense, but Castiel’s breathing gets more and more ragged, his hand fondling Dean more and more desperately. As Dean’s climax begins to build, co*ck hard and aching and ready to blow, it’s not Dean who lets out a needy moan.

It’s Cas.

“You’re about to come,” he says, incredulous, then corrects himself, “ we’re about to come.” Dean’s only response is a breathy whimper before he spills all over his alpha’s hand and inside his pants. From behind, a cry escapes Castiel’s lips at the same time, and Dean feels his back sticky and his sweatpants damp.

“Jesus f*cking Christ,” Dean mumbles, feeling energized and confounded, turning around to face Cas, “did we just…”

“Have a telepathic org*sm?” His alpha looks wrecked, his chest still panting, his neck flushed from the sudden intensity. “I believe so, yes.”

“Holy hell.” Dean grabs a wet paper towel and cleans them up the best he can, but he needs to change his pants pretty desperately. “I’ve never…I mean, I didn’t even know that we could…”

“Me either.” Castiel is gripping the kitchen counter as if it’s his only tether to earth. “I don’t think it’s common.”

That’s putting it lightly, Dean thinks. “Must be a ‘true mates’ thing,” he mumbles thoughtfully, and Cas quirks an eyebrow at him until he blushes. “Like you didn’t know.”

“Oh, I definitely knew,” Castiel says confidently. “I’ve known you were destined to be mine since I was seventeen.”

Dean’s gaze softens, and he cups his husband’s face and brushes their lips together tenderly. “Big ol’ sap.”

“Your sap,” Cas mutters, and Dean just kisses him again, wondering if they’re always gonna be this sickeningly sweet together. Honestly, he’s betting on it. Pancakes momentarily abandoned, Castiel hops in the shower while Dean cleans himself off with a washrag and changes into another pair of comfy pants. Wearing real clothes during their honeymoon-at-home seems counterintuitive to all the sex they’ll be having, and anyways, the summertime heat is making him feel dizzy. Or that’s the pregnancy , he thinks dimly, shaking his head. He needs to go to the doctor soon, needs to figure out how far along he truly is, needs to know how in the world he’s gonna handle being pregnant while leading the biggest were pack in Kansas. Something tells him that he and Cas can handle just about anything that comes their way, and as he finally pours the batter into the frying pan, he knows he’ll feel better once he tells Cas everything.

By the time they sit down for breakfast it’s nearly eleven, and Dean has assembled a casual feast—not only pancakes but eggs and bacon and sausage.

“Fuel for all the fun we’ll be having?” Castiel jokes, but Dean just looks him straight in the eye without a hint of humor and says, “That’s the plan.” He doesn’t miss the whiff of alpha arousal scenting the air again, the hard swallow of orange juice Cas is choking down, and he grins to himself and spears a sausage link. Thirty minutes and six pancakes later, Castiel is rinsing off Dean’s plate and eyeing his omega humorously.

“I feel a fat joke coming on,” Dean grumbles, still snacking on bacon, and Cas shakes his head and chuckles.

“No, nothing like that. But…well…” He tosses a dishrag over his shoulder, kissing Dean’s nose lightly. “Six pancakes is a lot. Like, two entrees at IHOP a lot.”

“How is that not a fat joke?” Dean laughs, throwing his hands open argumentatively. “It’s not my fault I’m eatin’ for two!”

The easy smile fades off his face, the piece of bacon falling from his fingers. “Uh…”

Castiel’s face is full of shock and disbelief. “You mean—” He shuts the water off, the dishes momentarily abandoned. He looks at Dean’s still-flat stomach, as if it might sprout wings and hand him a baby, his face in total awe. “Did you just imply that you’re…pregnant?”

Dean’s throat feels dry as a canyon, but he manages to rumble out, “Have been for, I dunno, three weeks?”

Castiel takes a few large steps, closing the distance between them and pinning Dean to the counter. He gathers the omega in his arms, damp and soapy hands clutching his back, and Dean shivers. “Sorry,” Cas mumbles, pulling away momentarily to find a dish towel and dry the water off his hands. When he turns back around his expression is less shocked, more elated and thoughtful. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

His alpha doesn’t seem upset—if anything, he’s delighted. Dean can smell it in his scent. “I dunno, it’s still so early, and we had the wedding, and…” He feels Cas’ eyes as they bore into him, and his gaze leaves the floor, returning the look with a level sort of confidence. Dean decides to be truthful, ‘cause if not with Cas…then who? “Honestly, it felt too good to be true.”

Castiel’s expression softens, his hands resting gently on the omega’s hips. “What did?”

“All of it.” Dean feels an emotion begin to bubble to the surface and he’s not entirely sure how to process it. “You and me finally getting our sh*t together. You surviving the trials. Defeating Azazel. Me becoming packmaster. And now this…” His eyes are watering and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself down with little effect. “ A baby? No f*cking way I get to be this happy. We don’t live in world where happy endings are real, much less happening to someone like me.”

“Take a deep breath.” Castiel speaks steadily, hands cupping his omega’s chin, and Dean does as he’s instructed. “Please listen to me.” He wipes a tear from the corner of Dean’s eyes and he glances up finally, seeing nothing but affection and compassion reflected in his husband’s eyes. “I need you to believe something for me.”

Dean exhales in a huff. “Already don’t like the sound of this,” he grumbles, but Castiel just continues to beam at him openly.

“I need you to believe that good things do happen, Dean.” He says it so easily, so full of hopeful and optimism, that it nearly knocks the omega off his feet.

“Not in my experience,” he whispers.

“Well, then your experience is incomplete,” Castiel says simply. “Because you know what happens next?” Dean shakes his head, feeling emotional and drained, and waits for Cas to continue. “Well, we’ll clean up the kitchen. Talk some more, maybe take a nap. At some point I’m gonna prep myself open and ride your co*ck for as long as humanly possible, which I’m eager to experience.” Dean’s interest in piqued and he nods automatically, making Cas chuckle. “We’re gonna shower, eat, sleep. And then we’re going to tell Sam and Madison—” He entwines their hands, squeezing tight. “And find an OBGYN. We’re gonna buy the books and take the vitamins and—”

“Pretty sure only I have to take the vitamins, babe,” Dean teases quietly, but Castiel is only spurred on by this.

“See! You already know so much more than you think you do.” He places a large, flat palm against Dean’s stomach, and the omega inhales a long breath. “Then you’re going to get to work leading this pack. And I’ll be here everyday, supporting you and taking care of you, leading you and being lead by you. Taking care of our family and painting and enjoying your company during every free second.”

Dean huffs, looking away with a chuckle. “You make it sound so easy.”

Castiel examines his face, looking pensive. “None of this will be easy. But it’ll be worth it because we’re worth it.” Their foreheads rest against each other, Castiel petting his omega’s back in gentle, unhurried strokes. It’s relaxing and Dean’s eyes flutter shut.

“So, we make our own future?” he asks faintly, already feeling immensely better but needing Cas to reassure him one more time. But his husband, his alpha, his mate, the father of his future child, just looks at him and rolls his eyes dramatically.

“What do you think?” he asks, almost mockingly, and it’s such a fitting response to such a serious question that Dean laughs. Whatever retort he considers gets buried by a kiss, a sudden and soothing gesture, and he wraps his arms around his alpha and deepens it instinctively. Whatever’s to come, they’re no longer stuck in the in-betweens, the what-ifs. They’ve made it through the worst of things, grief and loss and war, and now there’s only the most difficult challenge remaining for Dean and Castiel.

Now, they get to live.