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.

16. Brother Where Are You Bound

Hey brother get off my back
I gotta tell you, you're way off the track
They got a hatred deep down inside
Ain't gonna let them take me alive
I'm gonna burn them down, just wait and see
Ain't gonna let them walk over me
Boy you ain't got no heart and soul
And your mind is weak and your blood's runnin' cold

-"Brother Where Are You Bound," Supertramp

Dean's been in the middle of some pretty tough 'family reunions' before, but even Bobby staring his father down with a shotgun in his hands was warmer than what he's witnessing here. This is downright frigid, as if Castiel believes a cold stare and frozen posture can drive the man before him out of the little apartment without him needing to acknowledge his brother's presence further.

"You're not even going to ask me to sit down, Castiel? That hurts." Lucifer doesn't seem the least bit hurt by it, though he puts on a good face and holds his hand over his chest; the hand holding the silver-framed picture of the triplets. Dean's been in a room with this guy in his white suit and polished shoes for less than a minute, and he already hates him.

Could do with the fact that Lucifer hasn't acknowledged his existence.

"Pretty sure Cas told you to leave, jackass."

Again, Lucifer ignores Dean and he moves to step away from the bookshelf when Castiel's voice rasps out again, his already usually gravelly voice harsh and commanding. "Put it down."

The photograph. Lucifer raises it, looking at the image of the three identical men captured laughing and happy, and he looks sad. Pained. If Dean's bullshit detector wasn't so damned sensitive, he might even be taken in by it. "It's a good picture. Just before you deployed, wasn't it? You did Emmanuel and Daphne's wedding that week. I wasn't there, but. . ."

"You weren't invited." Castiel strides across the room, finally, and plucks the photograph out of Lucifer's hands, setting it back on the shelf and placing his box of possessions from the hospital on the next one, to be sorted. "And you're not welcome here, either. I have already selected an attorney, and I have no interest in your 'services,' Lucifer."

"Sam Winchester." Hearing his brother's name on this asshole's lips sets off every warning bell Dean has, and he leans against the wall by the door, arms folding, and glowers. "Yes, I know all about your little show of independence, Castiel. He's not a bad choice: I've tried to hire him into the firm myself, though I find him a little blindly idealistic, I'm certain with a bit of seasoning he could. . ."

"Become an asshole like you? Keep dreaming." Dean's low growl finally catches Lucifer's fleeting attention.

"I didn't invite you to speak, Dean." Lucifer has blue eyes like Castiel's, but there is nothing to Castiel's wonder in them as he looks Dean over, stripping him down. Dean is just a dog that has been caught chewing on the master's favorite shoes, and there's too much familiarity in how easily he uses Dean's name. "I know you've been trained better than that."

It's a loaded word, rolled off of Lucifer's tongue with meaning that drenches Dean in a cold sweat, leaves him furious and shaken and triggered. Lucifer knows. Somehow, he knows. He doesn't wait to see the effect of his words, merely looks back to Castiel, dismissing Dean once again. Cas is busy attempting to look busy and misses the weight of the interaction as he places medical texts on the bookshelf, carefully lifts another silver frame from the box and places it on the shelf as well, and in all other ways fails to conceal how deeply unsettled he is having Lucifer in his home.

"We all understand that you needed space, Castiel. We've been half afraid you'd gone off to become one of those isolationists in the central states. It took an arrest for us to find you again." Lucifer rests a hand on Castiel's shoulder, and Dean is suddenly resisting the urge to snarl at him, pushing off of the wall immediately and pacing closer to the two brothers. "I want to help you, make this all go away, and bring you home. It's in the best interest of the family. . ."

Castiel twists in place, shrugging Lucifer's hand off of him, blue eyes blazing in anger even as every word falls from his lips clipped and precise, his hands bunched into fists at his sides. "The best interest of the family, Lucifer? That is exactly what you said when we last spoke, when I made it abundantly clear that I want nothing to do with you, or your interpretation of what is best for the family. You sued them when he became ill, as if he was faulty equipment instead of a human being, because that wasn't what Father paid for. Because he was 'flawed.' I lost my brother, I sat at his bedside and took his confessions and administered his last rites as he died, and you only cared about the wasted investment . . ."

The picture of the triplets laughing. The reverential way Castiel handled the image. The sadness in his eyes. The way he shied away from discussion of his family. How broken he seemed for that split second that Dean looked at him in the hospital as watched John's last rites. The quietly envious way Castiel watched every interaction Dean had with Sam.

Dean had succumb to tears at John's bedside at the mere idea of losing Sam the same way. How much more difficult must it be if it was your twin? If you couldn't even look in the mirror without seeing the face of the brother you lost? If you couldn't ever escape it, and if everyone who had ever known you both was haunted the same way by looking at you? If the remaining two of the original threesome couldn't be in the same room without remembering their loss? How else could the son of a wealthy family end up living a lonely, penniless, bus-riding, apartment-dwelling existence in the middle of nowhere Kansas, far away from everything and everyone he knew?

Castiel has been living with the ghost of his brother for years.

"I knew our Father. I loved him, and I knew what he intended was never this. I knew he never would have wanted to watch one of his sons suffer." Lucifer's voice is low, silky, manipulative, but it slides off of Castiel without influence on his furious glare. "He was my brother, too, Castiel. Did you ever stop to think that I was concerned their mistake could affect you two as well? You're hurting, I understand, but this isn't healthy. You're wearing his coat even though it's the middle of summer. Making a shrine to him. . ." Lucifer nods his head now to both silver picture frames, now side by side. "And you're throwing your life away one reckless decision at a time, first in the military with the mess you made of things, and now here in Kansas of all places, looking for pet causes to get you by . . ."

There's no mistaking Lucifer's meaning, and the way he flicks a hand at Dean as if he's the example of ridiculous pet causes makes Castiel scowl, drawing himself up further but still falling short of his elder brother's height.

"You have no idea what you're talking about. And your opinions on my relationship and on my decisions are irrelevant, as is your offer of legal assistance. I want nothing to do with you."

"Sounds to me what the man is saying is 'get thee behind me, Satan.' Door's right there, asshole." Dean doesn't flinch as Lucifer turns to include him in the conversation now, and it's clear in a glance that he realizes he's lost with Castiel. He's not attempting to tempt Castiel back, now; he's eyeing Dean in a predatory manner, and he raises a hand to touch the bruise on Dean's jaw, fingers dragging uncomfortably along the day-old stubble covering it.

"You really should be more careful with your toys, Castiel. You're letting him out like this?" Lucifer steps closer, and Castiel tenses impossibly, eyes flicking to Dean's, and Dean can tell he's ready to fight again. This is a test of some sort, this asshole's way of proving that Castiel's being reckless, and Dean shakes his head slightly, hoping Cas takes it as an order to stand-down, but not sure his restraint will last. Lucifer's nostrils flare, and his blue eyes are dark and hypnotic, dangerous. "Unclaimed, reeking of sex . . . and almost ripe too. All it would really take is the right push and he'd be in full heat, just begging for it." There's that dangerous loaded edge to his words, again, and this time Castiel doesn't miss it. The potential for violence spikes, aggression thick in the room, and Dean knows damned well that nothing makes you crazy quite like family. They're going to end up killing each other at this rate, and he reaches out to press a hand to Castiel's chest, keeping the Alpha at arm's length and anchoring himself against the pounding rhythm of Cas's heart. This display isn't just for Cas. It's to make Dean break, to try and unmake him in Cas's eyes too. "And it's all too ironic, really, when you think about it, little brother."

"Dean is not a 'toy.' Step away from him, now, and leave here." There's a warning growl to Castiel's voice, the deep rumble of potential violence, and his hand knots into the white suit sleeve, but Lucifer keeps his eyes on Dean as he continues.

"Our little Castiel found his faith in a whorehouse, after all. Thirteen years old, just popped a knot for the first time, and I bought him a little present, a few hours of playtime. You've never seen someone so curious and naïve, asking innocent questions and expecting his big brothers to have all the answers . . . but he walked into that room and froze. Couldn't even remember his own name when the attendant asked. Decided he was going to be celibate for the rest of his life, and bolted. I should have guessed I'd just bought him the wrong whor . . ."

"Finish that word and I'll knock your fucking teeth in." Dean smiles, his own teeth bared, letting himself be drawn into the ratcheting tension finally, and any moment this could spill into something other than ugly words. "Breaking and entering. . . that's a crime, isn't it? I mean, I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure mine could get it excused if I had to kick your ass on the way out the door."

"The door of your house, Dean? You have insinuated yourself into my brother's life fairly quickly, haven't you? How soon after you met did he risk imprisonment and bankruptcy for you? Did he lose his career for you? Break lifelong vows for you? Invite you to share his home?" Lucifer's posture has never shifted into threatening, but he hasn't allowed himself to be cowed by Castiel or Dean either, and his words are eerily calm given the violent regard of the two men before him. "I look out for the good of our family, and my father's legacy. I expect you would do no less for your brother and father if they needed you."

The words are barbed, and Lucifer extracts himself from Castiel's grip easily, brushing out the wrinkles in his suit, and the look he gives his brother is full of pity and sympathy. "I'll be in touch if you decide to stop your self-imposed exile and accept who you are. I'll give our family your regards, but Castiel. . . Jimmy is gone. It's time you move on."

The name seems to twist something painful in Castiel's expression, but does nothing to damage his resolve. Dean stays next to Cas, the unnecessary restraining hand on Castiel's chest as Lucifer sees himself out without closing the door, as if inviting his brother to see reason and come with him. Moments later Dean hears the distinctive roar of the Aston Martin in the lot below, and only then does he turn back to Cas.

He has a damned lot of questions right now for Castiel, about Lucifer, about what he said and about how well he seemed to know the most painful part of Dean's own history. He's feeling every one of those accusations acutely, too, twisting him up and screwing with him, undermining the relationship they're only now building. But Castiel's eyes have slid to the picture frames, and Dean finally lets himself follow Castiel's gaze to the second picture.

The man in it isn't Castiel, but could have been: same messy hair, same stubbled jaw, same vibrant blue eyes that Dean's starting to realize must have come from their father. Off-centered and clearly a candid shot, Jimmy Novak flashes the brilliant, jubilant, tired smile of a new father as he lays with a baby nuzzling into his chest, tiny fist clutching the fabric of his t-shirt and refusing to let go.

This is the image he took to work with him to remind him of why he labored under Zachariah, why he tried to heal people.

It must have been taken just a short while before the first picture, then, where the blonde woman holds the baby girl in her arms beside Jimmy; the most animated of the triplets in the image, full of life and joy and joking with his siblings as a party goes on in the brownstone behind them, Emmanuel with his new wife and Jimmy with his new baby, and Castiel tucked between them sheepish but happy.

This is the image he put in his apartment, his best representation of home.

Lucifer struck enough blows today. Dean has to step away, turning to clear the room, and he feels Castiel's regard on him, waiting to see if he'll run again, if he'll walk right out in Lucifer's wake and leave him alone with his grief and his clearly fucked up past. Cas has had a shitty day, and Dean's not going to make it worse. Not right now. Everything else can wait. He closes the apartment door, walks back to Cas, takes him by the hand, and draws him down onto the couch, folded against Dean's side. It would be more comfortable for both of them without the trenchcoat, but for now Dean doesn't try to pull it off of him.

Dean wore his mother's ring and a dime-store pendant his brother gave him when they were kids until both were taken from him, and he drives his father's car. He has no right to question the sentimental value of simple things.

"He was the best of us." It's the first thing Castiel's said since Lucifer walked out of the room, since he had nothing left to rail against, and it sounds hollow and quiet. "I listened to all of his sins and offered him Heaven's forgiveness, but there was nothing that compared to what I had just done, and I was the supposed saintly one . . . he was good. If it had to be one of us. . . it shouldn't have been him."

Now isn't the time for Dean's questions.

Wrapping his arms around Castiel, he presses his lips to Cas's forehead and rather than offer useless comfort to a man who knew all the tricks of it, he lets Castiel talk about the brother he lost. His best friend, the glue that held the threesome together through six years of faux-childhood in the crèche that Dean can't even begin to imagine, and on through adulthood together. The brother who died of a simple twist of their tampered-with genetics, refusing damaging treatments so that he could donate everything to ensure his own daughter would survive if it passed on to affect her.

He can see, now, how it could be hard for Cas to stay a priest, to believe in a just God after coming back from a war and senseless torture against his captured flock, just to watch his brother waste away.

Castiel's words are quiet, slow, and trail off into soon after: a thumbnail portrait of a life, but he gets the feeling it's the most Cas has spoken about it to anyone.

Dean does the only thing he can, for now.

He stays.

xXx

The morning dawns on them tangled together on the couch, and Dean has a crick in his neck and the sun in his eyes and the folds of Castiel's coat seem to have embedded themselves into his cheek. It's too hot, and he's full of restless energy and anxiety, and he knows it's just the precursors of what's to come, what tomorrow will bring.

Cas is finally sleeping in, and Dean doesn't want to disturb him, but they need food for the next few days and he already knows Castiel's fridge and pantry are pitiful. Getting off the couch without waking Cas is a study in the art of stealthy falling-on-his-ass, but before he prises away he gets the jabbing awareness that this close to his Heat, even in his sleep, Cas is definitely. . . responding to him, and miserable overall or not there are parts of the guy that seem pretty damned happy to have been uncomfortably crammed together on a couch with him.

Dean's a walking, talking chemical factory and he's drugging the poor bastard. And that shouldn't make him want to unwrap Castiel like a Christmas present and fuck him in his sleep. Dean's self-disgust leaves him cold, chases away the lingering warmth, and he puts himself as far away from Castiel as he can.

He closes the bedroom door after him, and then the bathroom door as well to insulate Cas from the noise of his shower, and slathers himself in the pungent soap and shampoo he managed to leave in the bathroom from his duffle bag, brushes his teeth from the toothbrush he left at the sink, and every little token of how much he's managed to move himself in is a stabbing reminder of Lucifer's words. He pops another birth control pill from Jo's pack, and tries not to let himself think what it's for, or what it means that he's taking them.

He shaves and throws on aftershave for good measure, drowning out scent triggers, and slips naked into the empty bedroom to grab his clothes. The dryer sheet he tucks between them is doing its job too, but he's getting down to the bottom of his bag; he never expected to stay this long, didn't pack for it. Somehow all of his dirty clothes are mixed in with Castiel's in the hamper in the corner of the bathroom, and it's just another little stab of his invasion into this man's world. Standing in a t-shirt and boxers now, scrubbing a hand over his wet hair, he frowns at the bag before padding to Castiel's closet. It wouldn't hurt to layer the sensory lie a little deeper, throw some Alpha in there: he's been getting too many comments and leering and creeps like that Officer and those prisoners recently for him to be comfortable in his own skin right now, let alone everything. . . else.

Yes, he's borrowing his boyfriend's clothes and living the cliché. Cas wore his, turnabout is fair play. Plus Cas has been riling him up or knotting him sore and full, so he's not going to wear second-day jeans today because walking around smelling just-fucked and ready-to-fuck defeats the purpose. It's not invasive or presumptuous, and is probably a lot more likely to look ridiculous, if all Cas has is frikkin' pleated suit pants a size too small for him.

The camouflage BDU pants folded in the top corner of the closet shelf catch his eye, and fucking score. Yeah, it might be a bit pretentious and douchey if you weren't military yourself at some point, but as much as his Marine father threw plenty of military crap at them, Dean never would have been allowed to enlist because of the Omega laws. At least he won't be uncomfortable, and it's one frikkin' day.

He wouldn't mind seeing Cas in his Army uniform sometime, though. And now Mister Problems-with-Authority is finding himself on the receiving end of a new kink with that visual image, and he needs to keep his head firmly out of the gutter this close to his Heat, and he definitely needs to keep that image from morphing into Castiel on his knees in his trim black priest suit and clerical collar, or all Doctor Sexy'd out and dragging him into janitor closets. This shouldn't be affecting him this much, his heat has never started hitting him with symptoms off schedule except for when it was the drugs slipped into his drink at the bar and Alastair's smirking face . . . fear and anxiety twist his guts into knots again, leave him leaning against the closet doorframe panting and staring up at the clothes until the terror fades, the arousal thoroughly chased away.

After a long moment finding his own equilibrium again, he hooks the pants down from the shelf and then ducks the sudden avalanche of photographs and papers that patter down with them, drifting to the closet floor. He stares at them for a long moment, torn: he shouldn't pry, but he needs to pick them up anyway, and he desperately needs a distraction, something to take himself out of his own head. The photographs are easiest, from there. A blonde girl with bright blue eyes and straight, honey-blonde hair smiles out of school portraits, scattered as they are she seems to age and regress and age again, a woman's neat handwriting on the back naming her Claire and listing her age each time, and each portrait is clear proof that regardless of Lucifer's accusations Castiel was never as out of touch with his family as he let his older brother believe. There are a few crayon drawings and then penciled letters addressed to Uncle Castiel, too, creased and folded from being tucked into envelopes, and damned if that doesn't break Dean's heart. He's pretty sure he's staring at evidence of where Castiel's substantial paychecks end up, because this little apartment and take-out food don't explain it. There are other letters as well—addressed to "Cassie" and "Hey, bro" and Dean doesn't read them, just stacks them neatly back on the pile. He'd like to think its proof that at least Castiel has some siblings who aren't complete douchebags.

One photograph gives him pause, though—it's not a portrait like the rest, and that catches his eye. Sepia filtered desert sunlight hits the sand that forms the entire backdrop, leaving the figures in it nearly silhouettes. Castiel is on one knee beside a stretcher, head bowed in prayer over a hand clasped in both of his, a battered leather Bible resting on the prone man's chest and a silver cross catching the sunlight against Cas's flak jacket, hanging just lower than his dog tags. Somehow the picture manages to be hopeful and heartbreaking at the same time. The man on the stretcher is reaching the other hand to him, but there's pain in the barely visible lines of Castiel's face. His hair is matted to his head with sweat and sand, and he has a thin beard from neglect painting his cheeks.

Dean flips the photo, and careful cursive writing slants across the back of the image.

Father—

Have faith. Remember that you did the right thing in terrible circumstances. Alfie wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you. None of them would. Trust in God, Castiel, as you asked us to. He knows that you did what was righteous and just.

- Anna

Frowning, Dean carefully sets the picture aside and looks through the rest of the mess on the floor until he finds a typed and printed packet of papers, folded in half, "After Action Report" in capital letters across the top of the page, beneath the US Army insignias. He doesn't read it, not fully, but phrases jump out at him from Cpt. Anna Milton's account of events.

"Five soldiers and unit chaplain captured by enemy combatants."

"Injurious violation of the Geneva Convention including torture of Prisoners Of War in interrogation."

"Witnessed by unit chaplain Lt. Novak." The phrase appears again and again, nearly six weeks of slowly increasing mistreatment of the five POWs while their chaplain by law had his hands tied. Unarmed, required to remain a noncombatant, free to go: and Castiel had stayed. By the accounts, he snuck them the food and water that he was given, treated their injuries and ministered to them, and kept them alive as best he could while the enemy took pleasure in knowing that the Catholic priest couldn't act against them. Until they crossed a line and killed one of his men. Until Castiel snapped.

Dean knows before he flips to the final pages what he's going to find. Castiel has never tried to hide this from him, though he clearly can't talk about it easily. He mentioned it that first morning, looking at the photograph on his shelf. Crisis of faith in God and in country. . . acted outside of accordance with those conventions. Castiel saved his soldiers at the expense of breaking every rule of his profession, and to do it he had attacked their guards unarmed and unassisted, and then led the soldiers home. He carried a First Sergeant on his shoulder until Milton's patrols found them and took them back in, and if he had to guess 1SG Samandriel is the "Alfie" that Anna mentioned—a last name like that, Dean would bet some smart-assed drill sergeant in training had nicknamed him "Alphabet" and it stuck.

This is the report Cas told Sam to look up, to prepare to defend. Because the prosecution is going to label Dean a whore, and they're going to call Castiel a vigilante and a killer. From everything Dean can tell, Castiel believes it of himself. Thou Shalt Not Kill, and he'd gone against that commandment and taken justice into his own hands; Dean's sure this is what he was thinking of, when he compared his life to Jimmy's.

They make a pretty fucked up pair, Dean and Cas. He's hoping their individual screwed up pasts don't combine to send them both to jail.

Dragging a hand down his face, Dean carefully gathers up all of the rest of the papers without looking at them, lays them on the shelf, and gets dressed to go shopping. He leaves a scribbled note on the coffee table in front of Cas, palms his keys, and slips out before the doctor wakes. For now, that last piece of the puzzle that is Castiel is enough to leave him thoughtful, and gives him something to mull over other than the fear of his impending heat.

xXx

A distant buzzing, repetitive and annoying, sends Castiel burrowing his face deeper into the couch cushions. When it ceases, he's nearly back to sleep when the phone in his pocket begins ringing insistently, and he struggles with his trench coat and in-the-way wallet to free it, smashing it to his ear and grunting in greeting. He's exhausted, hungry from skipping dinner last night, inexplicably aroused, pleasantly cocooned in Dean's scent if not his warmth, and would rather be sleeping than confronting another bad day or acknowledging everything that yesterday dragged to light.

"Well good morning to you, too." Sam Winchester's amused voice rings out, and Cas makes a face, disgusted that with a two hour time difference Sam can sound alert, awake, and loud. "At least you answer your phone, which is more than I can say for my pain in the ass brother. I wanted to give you two a few heads up, now that I'm back at the office. We filed the countersuit today, and I went ahead and pressed charges on Dean's behalf against them for assault. . ."

Castiel yawns, rolling onto his back and disappointed to find himself alone in the room, though the white paper on the table assures him it's a temporary situation. Sam seems to be waiting for some sort of response, so Castiel rumbles his understanding wordlessly, and from over 1,500 miles away Sam snorts in amusement at his nonverbal responses. "Fine. I'll let you get back to sleep. Just make sure you and Dean lay low. He'll hate it, and I'm probably just being stupid, but keep him in sight for me today?"

Castiel frowns, squinting at the paper, and manages his first complete thought. "He's out shopping."

Sam's silence is foreboding, and Castiel leverages himself upright on the couch, shifting the phone to his other ear. "Sam?"

"It's probably paranoid, but. . . Cas, anyone can pull arrest records. Anyone. They've got him down as going into Heat any time now, and there's five guys who aren't under arrest yet who'd love to get their hands on him, especially now that we've filed against them. That's not even counting anyone else who might have gotten it. I mean, Alastair knew Dad's address to send the check, and. . ."

Castiel's on his feet already and he doesn't know when he stood, only that he's suddenly wide awake and half way to the front door of his apartment. He knows the nearest grocery store, he walks there all the time rather than wait for the bus. He can make it in fifteen minutes. Less if he runs. "He left his phone here. I'm going to find him."

"Thank you." There's naked relief in Sam's voice. "Call me. I'm sure everything's fine, but call me."

Every unknown car in the parking lot is suspect. Every van along the way feels like it's watching him. Castiel has been a jogger for years, and a pedestrian for longer, and he makes damned good time when he wants to. It's paranoid. It would piss Dean off, to know they were conspiring to babysit him, but Castiel won't feel better until he knows his mate is safe, and all he can imagine is coming across something worse than the parking lot. Every leering idiot they've encountered since they met, every perverted word lobbed at him, every horrible image his mind has concocted to fill in the gaps of Dean's accounts of the assault and of Alistair have consumed his thoughts, filled him with waking nightmares of losing Dean now that he's found him.

He's out of breath by the time he makes it to the grocery store, past the Impala in the nearly empty lot, and then Dean is blinking at him in confusion in the frozen foods aisle, both eyebrows raising sharply. ". . . Cas?"

His shoulders hit the cold-fogged glass hard, Castiel pinning him to the freezer behind him and kissing him in relief at finding him safe, at knowing he's okay, reclaiming him from the phantom assailants in his own mind, and it takes seconds at most before Dean's confusion gives way to something else, fingers releasing the frozen bag of French fries so they fall to the tile, and then he's molded to Castiel, hands knotted in his shirt, a moan swallowed up between them.

The attraction that always seems to simmer in place between them flash-boils as Castiel licks into Dean's mouth, and Dean's fever-hot hands find their way to Cas's back beneath the layers of clothing, rucking up the dress shirt and suit jacket beneath his trench coat and then sliding down the back of his slacks to take his ass in two firm handfuls, wrenching Castiel up against him, their erections hard against each other.

Castiel has just enough presence of mind to pull away at the first wolf-whistle, and finds his mate staring at him with slack lips and wide eyes, flush-cheeked and wanton.

Dean is in Heat.