A Hole in the World

by anneliese-michel

Dean Winchester never wanted to go home again. Going back to Lawrence meant people who knew what he was, who didn't buy into the lie. But with a tragic accident, he's back and dealing with the death of his father, the social stigma and objectification of being an out Omega, and the lingering aftermath of a long-ago crime.

25. Crumblin' Down

Everybody's got their problems
Ain't no new news here
I'm the same old trouble
You've been having for years
Don't confuse the problem
With the issue
It's perfectly clear
Just a human desire
To have you come near
Want to put my arms around you
Feel your breath in my ear
You can bend me
You can break me
But you better stand clear
When the walls
Come tumblin' down

- "Crumblin' Down," John Mellancamp

"So how long were you planning on not fucking telling me, Cas?" At any other time, Dean would feel bad for slamming the door of the Impala, as if he were taking his temper out on an actual baby rather than the sturdy steel of his beloved car, but not today.

He can't deal with more secrets today. And now it's both of them. Sam. Cas. The two people who're supposed to be in this with him, who are supposedly in his corner in this stupid fiasco, who insisted they didn't mind being dragged into his messes, and now he finds out they're both keeping crap from him. Not just little things, either.

'You may be face to face with the guy who left you fucked up in the head' secrets.

'I'm conspiring behind your back with the enemy because I don't think you can hack it' secrets.

He's left pissed and floundering and feeling belittled and betrayed.

Cas isn't helping, either. Whether or not he intends to, he's acting like an Alpha asshole, like it's somehow his responsibility to shelter Dean from the world. Like Dean can't do it himself. He's ignoring the fact that Dean's been taking care of himself his entire life, and yeah things have gotten pretty screwed up in the past, and yeah the few times that he wasn't able to protect himself were traumatic as hell, but he didn't ask for a bodyguard when he took Cas for his boyfriend.

There's just a complete disconnect in Castiel's head about why that's a problem for Dean.

He keeps his own voice lowered to contrast Dean's volume, but he is just as guttural, just as defensive. Resting his elbows atop the car, Castiel squints at him over it, the Impala a shield between them now that they've stopped. "I am telling you now. I think it's something that we should consider. . ."

"You mean that you should consider, right? Obviously you've already been considering it, Cas, or you'd have fucking told me." There's no way in hell he's getting any work done on the beat up Ford taking space in his garage right now, or talking to anyone else who comes up. Not after this. He wrenches the garage door down and locks it in place, anything to keep him from having to look at Cas right now. It's easier to be angry than disappointed. "You'd go to fucking jail, Cas. You get that, don't you? What part of that deal seems like a smart fucking plan?"

"You don't have to throw profanity at me, Dean." It's so absurdly fussy a response that Dean barks a laugh, bitter and rough, and Castiel bristles visibly at being mocked. "I would pay a settlement for the civil suit, and it wouldn't be my money. If I did any time in jail for the criminal case it would be minimal at best. It's assault, not murder. I'm an educated Alpha male from an influential family, and I did it for moral reasons. If I just listened to the potential offerings of the deal, I could negotiate. . ."

"Jail, Cas!"

Somehow, it's not nearly as amusing when Castiel gives the eye-roll when Dean isn't aiming for that response, his head rolling back as he stares up at the ceiling above them, his aggravated sigh echoing in the garage.

"I've already screwed up your job, Cas, do you really think I fucking want that? You'd never be a doctor again. . . "

"It's already unlikely that I will ever be a doctor again, Dean. And it is still possible that I will go to jail. And I can accept that, whether or not you can, because I believe I did the right thing to protect you. I told you that Crowley made it clear that his intention is to attack you, to discredit you, and to . . ."

"Why the hell should that matter? Do me a favor and don't do me any more fucking favors, Cas! We already figured that his plan was to go after me for. . ." Goddamnit he doesn't want to talk about this. "And after you for the thing in the army. The only fucking thing that has changed is that he's trying to get witnesses for it. We're supposed to be fighting this, Cas. Idon't give a shit if he walks into the courtroom a hundred of the assholes who forked over cash to get into that room with me . . ." Castiel's jaw flexes visibly as he grinds his teeth, and sensing weakness Dean stalks closer; if he can break through this façade of control, he can get to the truth underneath, he can make Cas see this. ". . . and has them describe fucking me and knotting me in graphic detail right down to how I begged some of them for it. I don't care! So why the fuck should you care enough to change the goddamn plan?"

"Because you do care, Dean!" Castiel's final thread of control has snapped, his voice raised to match Dean's as he crowds into the Omega's space, blue eyes blazing, hands bunched into fists at his sides, and somehow even with Dean taller than him he manages to loom. "And I 'should care,' because I am in love with you and because I know you. Forcing you to relive that on the stand, in front of strangers and on the record, is one of the worst things I can imagine for you. You should not be made to suffer again for an audience, when this is not your fault. I don't want you near them, near him, because you escaped that, Dean."

It takes ten seconds of ringing silence between them for Castiel to realize that there is no argument coming from Dean. For him to recognize the stare leveled on him as surprise and play back his words to himself.

Ten seconds for him to realize that the first time he declared his love outright, without dancing around the sentiment, it wasn't words whispered into his lover's skin or a stammered romantic moment between them: it was mid-argument, at the top of his voice, crowded into Dean's space and yelling back at him.

Dean knew already, Castiel knows that Dean understood the depth of his affection, but the words have meaning.

It's Castiel's turn to curse now, quietly, emphatically, his face crumpling as he turns on his heel and marches to the stairs, his boots heavy as he trudges up them and into the apartment above, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm.

Stupid. That was stupid. He's angry and mortified, frustrated and just exhausted from fighting.

He makes it three steps into the apartment before the door slams shut in the frame behind him, before he is spun in place by a grip on his arm, before Dean is yanking him towards the couch and kissing him aggressively.

It takes a second for his mind to translate this as not being violence, after their fight, and to let Dean redirect their anger.

It doesn't take that long for him to push back, hands knotting into the thin fabric of Dean's t-shirt, bunching there as he shoves Dean down towards the cushions, fingers catching the back of Dean's knee and yanking him off-balance as he does, forcing him to land on his back and riding him down, Dean's boot-heel pressing into the small of his back to keep him close, to grind them together through their clothes.

Fingers press into Dean's ribs, into his skin, shoving his t-shirt up and out of the way, too impatient to bother pulling it off of him entirely as Castiel latches onto Dean's nipple, worrying it between his teeth and laving it with his tongue as he struggles with Dean's zipper one-handed, his progress hampered by Dean's hands between them, somehow expertly managing his fly and shoving down the front of his pants.

"C'mon, Cas." Dean's voice is almost mocking, definitely challenging, the ire of their earlier fight still apparent as he goads the Alpha, a litany of filth and encouragement, dirty and rough.

He tries so hard, all the time, to let Dean take the lead. But Dean wants this, his lower lip caught between his teeth to stifle his own groan when his fingers find skin, his body undulating beneath Castiel as he jacks Cas's length roughly. Castiel snatches his mate's hands away, fingers tight around his wrists as he pins them above Dean on the couch, and for once, for just this once, he isn't going to hold back.

Lifting his head he fixes a warning glare at Dean, pressing his trapped wrists into the cushion firmly, out of the way of Castiel's progress. "Keep them there."

Castiel barely recognizes his own voice, hard and commanding as it is.

Dean's sudden spike of desire is dizzying, his arousal intoxicating, the unconscious flick of his tongue over his lips the most sinful thing Castiel has ever seen. Lust has wicked the green from his eyes, and Castiel can see the bob of his adam's apple as he swallows, but it's the slight nod of his head that Castiel was waiting for. Dean's consent, his acceptance.

He doesn't wait for Dean to continue trying to provoke him. He peels the denim off of his mate's legs as Dean braces and moves, raising up slightly to let Castiel impatiently strip them. Their clothes are tossed over the couch, landing out of sight and forgotten.

He needs this, he needs Dean to trust him. To trust that when Castiel plants a hand to his chest to keep him down, it's not going to slide to his throat and choke him. To trust that even as he's fingered open, manhandled until he's laid out just as Castiel wants him and swallowed down by Castiel's lips and tongue on him, that the hands on him will mark him, claim him, but will never turn violent.

Dean's willing and instinctive submission is beautiful not because Castiel wants to break him, but because he wants to be the one to put Dean back together again. There's something vulnerable and sensual in seeing Dean throw his head back, the pale column of his throat working as he grinds out curses and encouragement and unashamed moans and cries, egging Castiel on. Dean's arms cord as he clutches the edge of the cushion above him, desperately trying to follow the Alpha's growled order even when he spills down Castiel's throat and clenches around his fingers. He's still breathless and fuzzy-minded when Cas hoists Dean's other leg onto his shoulder as well, and slides home in one powerful thrust that presses him up towards the arm of the couch and tears a hoarse cry from him. "Fuck, Cas!"

In this moment Dean is his. No one can take this from him, take Dean from him, because Dean has given himself over to Cas. There is no courtroom, no looming threat, no trauma, no risk that they'll be separated by the outcome of the trial. No Alastair, no former 'clients' or childhood assailants to cloud Dean's eyes with fear. There is only the two of them, the shared taste of Dean on his lips as he kisses his mate, the breathless little grunts and cries he punches out of both of them with his movements. One foot braced to the floor for leverage, his other knee sunk into the couch, Castiel pistons into Dean; short, powerful thrusts that have Dean hardening again between them too quickly, his cheeks ruddy and his toned chest heaving as he drags his breath in counter to Cas's rhythm, just to lose it again the next time Cas drives him into the couch.

"Touch yourself. Come for me, Dean." The hoarse order tears Dean's eyes open again and puts him in motion before he can really consider it, fisting himself rapidly, eyes locked with Castiel's.

Cas is so close, his knot swelling to fill Dean, to claim him, to keep him, and he can't pull back enough to truly fuck into him like he wants to so he grinds into him instead, hard against Dean's prostate. When Dean finally spills between them again, Castiel clutches Dean's legs in a bruising grip and lets go of that last bit of restraint, turning his head and biting into Dean's thigh as he comes.

Dean is his.

xXx

Time enough has passed for Dean to drag the blanket down from the back of the couch to drape over both of them, but Castiel is content with never moving again. Dean has his face buried against Cas's shoulder and his fingers into Castiel's hair, one leg loosely tangled around him and the leg bearing the imprint of Castiel's teeth half off the couch. The Alpha is heavy against Dean, compact muscles and his boneless slump rendering him an immovable weight that keeps Dean there just as much as the knot, or the arms around him.

"Don't take the deal, Cas." Dean's voice is sex-hoarse and solemn, a plea, and Castiel manages just enough energy and will to hear him that he tilts his head and shifts slightly, brow knitting faintly. He doesn't want to argue any more, doesn't want to think this was Dean's way of making sure he'd be listening, giving in not because he wanted to, but because he wanted Cas receptive to hearing him. He doesn't want sex to be a tool between them, meant to twist them to each other's side.

Dean's eyes are closed, though, and the pain etched on his face drags Castiel back the rest of the way from his sated lethargy to blink at him, to pet a hand down his sweat-slicked side beneath the blanket. "Dean. . .?"

"Even if it guarantees no jail time, even if you think it's the smarter move, or you think you're saving me from . . . whatever. We. . . I. . . need to fight this." Castiel brings his hand up slowly, cupping it to Dean's cheek, his thumb tracing a line of moisture that isn't from sweat, tracking the side of Dean's face and the bolt of his jaw. Castiel's growing alarm leaves him cold as he waits for Dean to continue. "It's not that I need some kind of revenge or whatever. I can take them getting away with it, Cas. Shit, I don't ever expect the law on my side." His huff of sardonic laughter is thick with the tears he hasn't shed.

"Then why. . .?" Dean turns his head, cheek still cupped in Cas's palm, and this close Dean's eyes are impossibly green, sorrowful and lost. In contrast his voice is firm, unyielding, still laced with the anger of before.

"Because if you take the deal. . . you're not just selling yourself out, Cas. You'll be paying those assholes for what they did to me then, and what they tried to do to me again. Then I'm still just an Omega whore for sale. And I can't. . . I can't take that from you too, Cas. So please just. . . I'm telling you, don't take the deal."

Not after how things fell apart with his father. Not after five years of coming to believe that someone he loved, that he idolized, sold him like some kind of animal. Years spent trying desperately to convince himself that he's worth more than someone would pay for him and only half believing it.

The morning Castiel realized he was in love with Dean, he speculated that Dean would break his heart someday. He didn't understand that it would feel like this, the twisting stabbing ache of realizing that it's just as much his own fault that Dean doesn't fully trust him as it is any past trauma or phantom scars. The nausea of realizing he never even considered the implication this would have for Dean.

He could have destroyed them, while fully convinced he was doing the right thing.

Castiel's apologies and assurances and affirmations of his love are a quiet litany as he carefully moves them on the couch, enfolding Dean against him and promising, but Dean has fallen silent and is still in his arms.

xXx

"Is everything okay? Between you two?" Sam's hazel eyes are worried, the sad puppy face as he tries to pinpoint what it is that's off between them, tries to win some sort of answer out of his brother and his client as they settle into chairs at the motel table.

Castiel doesn't have an answer for him. They've been quiet around each other since Dean climbed off of the couch and went to scrub himself clean, erase any scent of himself, and locked the bathroom door behind him for the shower.

It's been an intricate dance of close-quarters and troubled minds, and somehow despite being precisely what they've done since the day Cas moved in with him, it lacked the same intimacy, the unnecessary touches and the quick smiles from Dean. They worked around each other, getting ready to meet Sam at the 'war room' for dinner, but not together.

"We're fine." Dean's brusque dismissal doesn't convince any of them, and as Charlie finishes setting up their computers she raises both eyebrows disbelievingly, and exchanges a look with Sam that puts Dean's teeth on edge. "Just drop it, and tell us what we're here for and what the plan is."

Charlie looks alarmed when Sam jerks his head towards Dean while looking at her, prompting her. She may be a whiz on the computers and research end, but Dean is pretty sure they should never let her in a courtroom. He and Sam can manage a silent conversation with looks, hell he and Cas are pulling it off these days, but she makes faces and shakes her head and mouths 'he's your brother' before being goaded into starting, the entire exchange brief but catalogued by narrowed, suspicious green eyes that she forces herself to meet when she turns.

"This is actually kind of part of why we're here, and why Sam called me in. He was worried about how the jury's going to perceive you guys, when you're asked stuff you don't want to talk about, because of your. . ." She lets her breath out in a sigh, and with it all inclination to beat around bushes, blurting out her point without softening it. "You get pissed, and Castiel turns into a robot. And not the cute one the audience roots for, the scary Cylon who's deciding how best to kill you. It'll play into how Crowley's going to try and portray you and hurt your case."

Castiel narrows his eyes slowly, hands flat on the table, and Dean's chin rises stubbornly, arms folded over his chest defensively. Sam has to fight the urge to slap both of them upside the head with the fact that they're proving the point without saying a word. Instead, he tries to appeal to his brother's reason.

"Dean, our entire defense is a sympathy one. The jury has to believe Cas felt strongly about helping you, and they have to see you as a . . ."

"Little Omega who needed someone bailing him out?" His eyes slide towards Sam, furious, and Charlie makes a cutting motion over her neck repeatedly, warning Sam to shut up, though all three of the Alphas in the room with him know how angry he is steadily becoming.

"Look. You guys. We have tonight to figure out what we're doing, and we need to be ready to go by Sunday night. So whatever's doing this. . . whatever this is, we gotta deal with it." Charlie pulls a hairband from her wrist, tying her hair back and shoving her feet into ridiculously colorful Keds, jerking her chin at the door and speaking to her boss. "Why don't we divide and conquer, or we're not gonna be ready. Dean. . .?" Dean's eyes slide to her, jaw bunched, and she holds the door for him. "You've gotta know someplace good around here, right? I'm starving. I'll buy, you drive? We can bring dinner back for everyone."

Divide and conquer, and he's not even with his brother. He's being dispatched to pick up dinner like some kind of servant to the trio of Alphas running his life now.

Dean's silent and simmering in his anger the entire elevator ride down to the lobby below, and Charlie doesn't mention it, doesn't try to coax him out of his annoyance until they're in the Impala and he's fitting the keys into the ignition. "So what, we're supposed to go out and 'girl talk' until. . ."

Charlie shakes her head, rolling her eyes. "You know, for someone who's dealt with this for years, you're seriously going to pull a sexist line at me, Winchester? Do I look like I'm good at 'girl talk?'" Charlie spreads her hands, and indicating herself counter-intuitively. Because yeah, she looks like a cute ninety-pound chick in pink and grey checked plaid over a Wonder Woman t-shirt. Dean tries to tell her as much with a look, and she shrugs, shaking her head.

"You're with me because your brother won't nut up and talk to you like I've been telling him to, okay? And we're the ones getting dinner because I've worked for him long enough to know that his idea of dinner would be all of us eating rabbit food." She has a point there, and Dean grudgingly admits it to himself. "So get your panties out of a wad, dude."

"So 'girl talk' is sexist, but 'panties in a wad' . . ."

"Anyone can wear panties." Charlie counters smugly, and blinks as his silence drags on under the pretense of getting them out of the parking lot and onto the street. She turns in her seat to look at him with widening eyes and a grin. ". . . Woah, TMI."

"I didn't say anything." Dean growls, embarrassed, and Charlie laughs, drawing more damning defensiveness out of Dean. "And it was just the once."

"You didn't have to say anything. You're like. . ." She waves her hands airily in his direction. "Broadcasting. And I'm so not judging." He knows the commentary isn't over yet. Lower lip caught between her teeth, Charlie faces front again, and gives it two beats before continuing. "Was she hot?"

Rhonda Hurley was indeed hot. And the only other Alpha Female he'd ever been around, brief as that encounter was, though Charlie doesn't know that story and never will. He answers by flicking her off, winning him another laugh and a smile, and despite himself he begins to relax.

"C'mon, Dean. Find us someplace good. I haven't gotten to just go hang out and have dinner in a restaurant without getting looks in years. We can be each other's beards. An Alpha and Omega walk in, we'll let them just assume which one of us is which. Please?"

It turns out Charlie Bradbury doesn't do puppy eyes, but she's got a killer lower lip pout and childlike hopefulness when she tries. And he understands, completely, what it's like to secretly worry about something as stupid and simple and easy as just going out to eat by yourself.

And that's how Dean Winchester ends up on a platonic date with a lesbian Alpha.

xXx

By unspoken agreement they're on dessert before the conversation switches back towards business. As Charlie chases the last of her milkshake with a straw and Dean folds the menu closed after ordering the to-go meals for Sam and Cas, he frowns at the reminder of the fact that his brother and boyfriend are doubtless talking about him.

"So, what isn't Sam telling me this time?"

Charlie doesn't seem thrown by the change of topic and tone, but she stops trying to fish the cherry out of the bottom of her cup and looks up at him, sucking whipped cream off of her fingers. It's such a bizarre thought, out of nowhere, that he recognizes again that this thing with Cas is serious, and seriously having an effect on him, because it registers more like a kid-sister thing than a hot lesbian thing. He feels a brief pang for the death of a lecher who had always been predominantly a bullshit lie anyway, part of his front. Maybe this is what settling down feels like.

"That you're benched until you hit the stand." When Dean bristles, she holds a hand up, her eyes imploring. "That's not our call. That's pretty much just the way it always is, and Sam didn't think to mention it. You want your strongest witnesses to go last, because that's the impression you want to leave with the jury. You can't have witnesses in the courtroom until after they testify, or they're being influenced by other people's testimony."

If they do this, he's leaving Cas on his own to listen to whatever filth gets spewed about him, as the assholes who raped him, possibly even the man who broke him, sneer at him from the stand.

The food is heavy in his stomach. He feels ill, and Charlie's look is a bit too sympathetic. "Look, it blows, I know. But if you go right before Cas, you can take a seat and be there when the verdict comes in, and before that when he takes the stand. . . and we're kind of banking on that. Sam needs you there when Cas goes. Because the only thing Sam knows Cas gets all emotional about is you. Sam's back there right now prepping him on what he's going to be asked and how he should react and stuff that's been gathered and what he's going to see through the trial, but he's also telling him that no matter who's asking the questions, the person he's going to be talking to up there is you. You, you're going to talk to me."

That last part throws Dean, leaves him blinking at the petite redhead across the table.

"No offense, you seem awesome… but I don't know you."

"Exactly." Charlie says, like he just stated the brilliance of this bullshit plan for her. "Look, hear me out. You get angry telling this to Sam. Like. . . really, really defensive. Sam said you were biting his head off in the pretrial when he had to ask you about the assault."

Dean grinds his teeth, but doesn't argue the assessment.

"And I get that, Dean. No one's telling you how to feel, or how to react, or how to cope. This is. . . it's a really shitty situation, and I'm pissed at what Crowley's trying to do and it's not even aimed at me. I can't imagine how this is for you. And you're having to tell Sam about it, and . . ." Charlie blows out a breath, leaning back into the bench behind her and shrugging. "I've known Sam for a few years, now. . . since college. He talks about how he always had you to look up to, how you pretty much raised him." Dean grimaces, and Charlie rests her hand on his on the table. "I think you try to live up to that. So this is a lot harder to tell Sam. And it's hard to tell Castiel because you two are shacked up."

"So I'm supposed to spill my guts to you now." Dean summarizes flatly, and after a moment Charlie sighs and draws her hand back across the table, looking up and waiting for the server to finish trundling from the kitchen with their to-go bags. She doesn't answer until they're out of the restaurant, the plastic bags swinging between them.

". . . I think it'll be a lot more genuine if we don't try and coach you into what to say, if you don't sound scripted, so I'm not. . . I'm not going to throw twenty questions at you. I don't want to make you keep going through this. But I think, maybe you should know a little more about me, and how Sam and I met."

"I'm listening." Dean rumbles when she pauses too long. Charlie is pursed-lipped, trying to determine where to start.

"Look, I didn't go to Stanford. Not. . . really. I mean, I got all of the professors' class notes for anything that I was interested in, and I've got transcripts that say I went to class, and I probably would have kicked ass, but I didn't go. Foster care. . . wasn't my thing, so I pretty much just made up my life for myself. I'm a code-monkey and a lot of things are digital, so I just . . . did my thing. After a few years fleecing Stanford kids, I got a reputation as the girl to go to if you wanted a test, or a 'study guide,' or a website built, or something hacked. I was just an email address and a . And so when this huge scary Alpha kid showed up on my doorstep like the one-man Brute Squad, I freaked. I still have no idea how he found me."

A life of practice and an obsessed father, though Dean doesn't say as much. He's starting to guess where this story is going, and he's not sure he wants to hear it any more. Sliding into the car, carefully setting the bags down on the center of the seat, he waits until she's strapped in before confirming his suspicions, eyes fixed straight ahead and key still in his hands.

"Sam had you looking for me, didn't he?"

Charlie looks relieved that he figured it out on his own, nodding. "He pretty much lived at my place for four months, slept on my couch and looked over my shoulder. I kept his grades up whenever he missed classes, same as mine, kicked him out when he needed to actually be there. I was all but his assistant starting then. I built him a website to collect tips through, and hacked a lot of law enforcement agencies and was pretty much dispatch for the search. And then when he graduated, he got me the job."

"You don't know me, Dean, and I don't really know you. . . but I sort of figured things out while I was getting everything together to look for you. You don't have to try and pretend, y'know? Just. . . when you're up there, you tell me. My story is messed up enough that I'm not going to think any less of you, and I already know the outline."

xXx

". . .none of them would have made it out of there alive without him."

The recorded voice on the television filters out to them as Charlie opens the hotel door, and Dean sees his brother first, sitting to the side, laptop open in front of him and another playing video through the larger screen to Castiel.

Cas, who glances his direction for a split second, but doesn't otherwise move. Hands clasped against his jaw, eyes narrowed, shoulders pulled in defensively, he lets his attention remain on the doe-eyed redhead on the screen in front of him.

"You testified on his behalf, at the disciplinary hearing?" Charlie's voice asks in the recording, Charlie herself off-screen, and the unfamiliar redhead nods.

"I did."

"Can you tell the court why?"

"Father Castiel saved their lives, and risked his own doing it when he could have walked away. Anyone else in uniform, they would have had the President pin a ribbon to him. Instead, they discharged him without. . ."

The video feed cuts off, Sam finally recognizing that they've entered the room, and Castiel ducks his head down briefly, letting out a controlled breath before unfolding from his hunched position at the table.

"I thought witnesses shouldn't be influenced." Dean's first remark makes Sam grimace, and if he weren't looking for it, watching Castiel's face carefully from across the room, Dean probably would have missed his boyfriend's flinch.

"This one's for Cas's trial. He's defendant, not witness, and it's a deposition in his defense and he can't influence her answers. He asked to . . ." Sam responds, ready to give a law lesson as he comes near his brother, ready to apologize for not letting him know the witness thing either. Dean shakes Sam off before he can reach him, putting Sam's food down on the table. He doesn't want his brother's comfort, his apologies. Not yet. He gets that this time, it was probably just an oversight. He understands that Sam, who apparently thinks in legalese like a huge geek, just assumes he knows it too because he's supposed to know everything. But after Alastair this morning and the witness crap tonight, he needs Sam to give him space.

His brother's a smart kid. He looks morose about it, but takes the food as the gesture it's meant to be, and sits back down. Dean doesn't offer Cas his food: he extends his hand, clasping Cas's wrist and drawing him to his feet instead, planting himself between Cas and the other two Alphas in the room.

"We've got tomorrow and Sunday for this, right?" he asks Sam, a challenge in his stare, and he already knows the answer so he continues without pause. "It's been a long-ass day. We're getting out of here."

Because Castiel is miserable.

He doesn't know how Sam can miss that, how Charlie doesn't see it, but he knew it the second they opened the door.

Dean doesn't linger long for farewells, dragging Cas out behind him. They're silent down to the car, the dissonance that had cropped up only hours before still lurking between them, though Cas does nothing to try and win his wrist back from Dean. He's grateful for the rescue, though the responsible choice would be to stay, to commit to the legal discussions.

They don't drive home. Tires rumble over gravel roads, Led Zeppelin plays low enough that he would have to strain to make out the words, and Dean steers them with the air of someone who knows precisely where he's going, bringing them west and out of the city, until Cas is squinting against the light of the setting sun.

He doesn't know this place, the pale ash-blighted grass field overlooking wilted trees, but it's secluded and quiet, one of the county's many creeks sluggishly tracking through the land and eventually meandering to join the river. Dean takes them off of the road, bringing the car gently to a halt in the grass, and then he throws open his door, taking Castiel's food with him. Castiel follows once Dean climbs onto the hood of the car, laying himself out with his back to the windshield.

There is no summer storm to watch this time, no tarp between them and warm hood of the car. The air tastes faintly of ash, and the stream nearby glubs sickly, thick and muddy, but when Dean leans against his side and rests the Styrofoam takeout box on his lap, stealing a fry, it feels almost natural, almost normal.

The day has been an emotional rollercoaster, between Gabriel's arrival, Castiel's confession to Dean, their argument, the sickening realization he had about his own selfishness, realizing he will have to face most of his criminal trial without Dean, and hearing himself praised as a hero for murder when he'd chosen the video hoping for the comfort of seeing a familiar, friendly face.

When he gives up picking at his food, Dean moves it aside, curls his arm around Cas's waist and draws him in to rest his head on Dean's shoulder, the both of them watching the first stars come out. He doesn't know if this is truce or forgiveness or merely pity, but he curls into Dean's side and tries not to question it.

When he feels Dean press his lips to his temple briefly, his mate's breath ruffling his hair in a warm gust, Castiel can't help but feel this is the last calm before the storm.