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.

39. Rhino Skin

You need rhino skin
If you're gonna pretend
You're not hurt
By this world
If you listen long enough
You can hear my skin grow tough
Love is painful to the touch
Must be made of stronger stuff

- "Rhino Skin," Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

Dean is quiet and withdrawn, and the afternoon wears on as the silence from their contacts in the courthouse becomes more and more oppressive. Every hour that ticks past is another witness on the stand for Crowley, and they can't help imagining people coming forward from five years past to discuss how 'eager' Dean was to take a stranger's knot, establishing his usefulness only as an object for an Alpha's pleasure.

They don't talk about it. They don't talk about anything, and Castiel isn't even certain where to start.

Five o'clock rolls past with a text from Charlie telling them they'll reconvene court again tomorrow, because Crowley still isn't done with his theatrics. An hour of tense silence after that, Castiel begins watching the exit signs, asking Dean to pull over outside of Jefferson City.

Biggersons isn't exactly gourmet cuisine, but with Castiel's depleted resources it's what he can afford. He waits until Dean has a coffee in his hands, until he's slumped into the cracked vinyl seat and is watching the cars in the parking lot, before he finds a way to try and break the tension. "The last time I saw Claire, she was a preschooler. The night after the funeral I stopped by Amelia's to say goodbye, and Claire ran outside to see me . . . She thought I was Jimmy for a moment. I made her cry when I told her that I wasn't her father." Picking at the peeling lamination of the menu in front of him with his thumbnail, Castiel frowns. "She's in middle school, now."

It's a baited hook, and they both know it. He's counting on Dean's curiosity about Castiel's past to draw him in, and trusting that his genuine nervousness will give Dean voice again. Going home may not be his idea, but he'll use it now as he has to, to keep Dean's mind off of the trial going on without them.

"Kids grow up a lot in eight years." Dean settles on, green eyes fixed on Cas instead of the menu he seems to have memorized. "Besides, you kept in touch, right?"

Castiel shrugs slightly, neither agreeing nor disagreeing because Dean knows the truth of that already. His brothers he abandoned, but he's watched Claire grow up in photographs and letters. Once the waitress returns to take their order, Dean takes the burden of carrying the conversation off of him. "The drawings and school pictures. . . You were sending her mom money, weren't you? Up until you lost your job at the hospital."

"Jimmy's trust fund went back to the family after he died, rather than Amelia. Lucifer's doing. And his life insurance policy went into paying his medical bills, and for the funeral." He didn't need the money, not with his Spartan lifestyle, and he wanted to ensure his brother's family was provided for. The majority of his paycheck went to his niece, his sister-in-law, and his father, it transpires. It probably wasn't enough for Amelia to live off of without working, but it was a help.

But that's not what Dean is going for. Dean's trying to sway him, remind him of what's in Illinois waiting for him, if he chooses that life instead of Dean's—Dean's building on the obligation Cas feels to his brother's family, while shouldering the guilt of Castiel losing his job again. "It wasn't the plan, for me to support her forever. I felt it was a better use of my money. I didn't anticipate that I could ever have a family of my own. . ."

As soon as he says the words, he wants them back. Dean frowns into his coffee, shoulders drawing in, and stares at the beverage like it will have answers for him. "You do want to knock me up."

No, right now he wants to undo the last five minutes, and find a lighter conversational track for them to start with. It's been a while since he's struggled this much to orient them in discussion, and he's handling it less gracefully than he'd hoped. They can't talk about their day, or their week, because that's what Castiel wants to get them away from with this, but everything relates back to the trial now and this to the segment of testimony Dean finds most damning about himself.

Resting his head on his hand, Castiel rubs at the ache in his temple and closes his eyes.

"Someday, I hope we can discuss raising a family. But I have no practical experience with children. Which was what I was actually going to attempt to discuss, regarding Claire."

"Sorry, did I veer us off the approved conversational itinerary for frikkin' Biggersons?" Dean's words are thick with sarcasm, prickly and defensive. Being jabbed at by Crowley has him looking for a fight he can win, but he's not the only one who's had his words twisted and weaponized against him, today. Their teenaged waitress clears her throat uncomfortably as she stands beside them, holding their plates, and the twin glares she receives for the interruption has her hands shaking as she serves them, fries spilling onto the table as she flees as soon as their plates touch the table.

It's a jarring indicator of how they're coming across, the tension mounting between them, and Castiel sighs as he chases down fries on the table, neatly stacking them to one side of his plate, not chancing letting himself look up at Dean as he does. "I'm sorry. I didn't. . . This was not how I anticipated our date going."

There are times Castiel swears he can feel Dean's emotions shifting; it's not necessarily his scent, or an expression, it's like a change in the air around him. There's uncertainty, now—Cas has no idea what direction their conversation is going to take, but he knows something he said just threw Dean for a loop, and the confusion is evident in his tone. "This is supposed to be a date?" A note of incredulity creeps into his words. "At Biggersons."

Raising his head, Castiel shifts self-consciously, and the first thing he can think to say sounds so pathetic that he grimaces through explaining his choice. ". . . Their sign said that they have pie."

Expressions war with each other before Dean chuffs quietly, wry amusement winning out. Cas is awkward and floundering, and effectively broke or not he's trying to do something for Dean, remembering from their first time together how much he enjoyed pie, all while working without any 'practical experience' in dating, either.

Cas is surprised when Dean tugs him across the table by his bedraggled courtroom tie, meeting him half-way in a kiss, and then he's just grateful for it. Grateful for Dean tabling the discussion of children for later, and for him taking over fixing this between them before their day can get any worse. For Dean temporarily conquering his ghosts and insecurities and genuine terror of being used, while giving Castiel permission to touch him again. He doesn't realize how far he's risen off of his seat to surge into the kiss until someone wolf whistles on the other side of the diner at their display, and his tie is released suddenly.

He falls back into his seat on the bench a little breathlessly, and Dean's obviously smug at completely gaining the upper hand with him as he squirts ketchup onto his plate for his fries, otherwise acting entirely unaffected. If this is going to be their first planned 'date,' Dean's going to take the wheel on this. He needs the control that gives him, right about now, even if he's not sure what his 'plan' is; whether he wants this between them to fall apart now, when he can control the fallout and before Cas is in too deep to make a real choice, if he wants to strip away any illusions he has about what Cas really wants from him, or if he wants Cas to choose him. No matter how tonight shakes out, though, he's going to be the one calling the shots on it. It's a date? Fine. Then it'll be a Winchester date.

"Eat your sandwich, Cas."

They'll get back on the road tomorrow.

xXx

For the first time in years, Dean makes the conscious decision not to splash himself in aftershave and scrub his skin raw before stepping into a bar. Even having changed into layers of flannel and unseasonable leather and denim he feels exposed for it, but defiant in a way he never has been. Something about taking a stand to defend himself against sexist assholes has him ready to fight, too. The itch under his skin that says he's being leered at by the drunks at this Missouri bar isn't making him ashamed of what he is, for once, it's just feeding his anger at what they think that means about him, about all Omegas.

Castiel follows at his heels, the reappearance of Jimmy's trench coat over his rumpled courtroom suit saying more about his own current state of mind than he probably realizes. This isn't Cas's idea of a date, but Dean isn't going to go watch some chick flick, or let the guy spend money he doesn't have out of some misplaced romantic tendencies. They'll do this Dean's way.

But the fact that their pie is waiting for them in the mini refrigerator in the motel room he got them across the street is a promise of sorts whether Cas realizes that or not.

Castiel still puts back whisky like it's water when it's placed in front of him, and hell if Dean doesn't admire that about the former priest even more in the context of a bar than he did when Cas was drinking it alone in a church. He needs them both to loosen up a little, but he's not here for them to try and drink each other under the table. Smirking, he drops his one of his own last few crumpled bills onto the bar and grabs them both a beer, before winding his way through tables towards the back corner, Castiel following him like a shadow, silent and watchful.

"You ever play pool, Cas?" Dean knows the answer, but it doesn't stop him from looking back for confirmation in Castiel's solemn head shake. As Dean prowls towards the rack on the wall, looking over pool cues, he knows he has Cas's attention as he explains picking a stick, being wary of bar provided equipment and checking to make sure they're not warped or too worn to be any use. He weighs one in his hands, sliding his cupped hand along it to make sure it's straight and that the wrap isn't piss-poor or too short for them to a good grip, and Castiel ends up taking a heavy gulp of his beer and staring before Dean settles on a cue for each of them, hand sliding along the smooth wood as Cas accepts his.

Yeah, teaching someone how to play pool is the oldest trick in the book for Dean's idea of a 'date,' but the fact that he's doing this with an Alpha instead of some Beta chick he's picked up at the bar requires very little adaptation, and Cas is a pretty easy mark. Dean already knows he's into him. Of course, he also knows that Cas isn't the only one watching him right now, and it's an effort to make himself relax anyway.

His hands are deft, trained, as he racks and arranges the balls on the table, and bows to slide them into place, flipping the triangle rack in his hands and then waving Cas to his side. "Alright. C'mere. I'm gonna break." Dean glances over his shoulder, and smirks slowly at Cas's rapt stare. "I'd tell you to watch, but you're kinda ahead of me there."

Cas shuffles a step closer, stopping with the base of his stick resting on his shoe and his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. They've been shacked up since the day they met, as Crowley liked to remind everyone, but Cas can still blush like he's been caught out doing something wrong for really liking what he's seeing. "You are very . . . confident, in the context of this game. I'm not used to this." Cas admits, and he licks his lips and stares as Dean bends over the felt, lining up the break.

"Well, you saw how Jo plays. She learned that from me." Dean rolls his eyes when Cas's head jerks, surprised by the break because he was busy watching Dean handle the stick instead of the game itself. "I'm stripes. You're solids. Only hit the white ball, but don't let it go into a pocket. Knock all yours in. The eight ball, that's the black one, that's last. First person to get the eight ball in after clearing theirs off the table wins."

Castiel frowns faintly at the table, taking in the layout of the game, and he nods his understanding. Now that Dean's talking instead of moving and bending, Cas is thinking with his head instead of his libido, as if he has to study this game like he would a patient. It's the same look he gets when he's squaring off against a cookbook—stubborn, determined, and . . . like with all his efforts at cooking. . . pretty much doomed to lose this battle too. Dean grins despite himself, shaking his head and getting the measure of Cas.

Cas stands like he's waiting for the cue ball to attack him so he can stab it, like he's going to smite the damn thing. Honestly, the man was practically tailor-made to be the ideal for this ploy. Setting his stick and his beer down, Dean prowls closer and stops Cas before he can make his first shot. Cas stills instantly when Dean lays a hand on his hip and steps up behind him, and it's headier than he thought it would be to take the lead. For a moment, he's forgotten about the rest of the bar, and the court case, and their crappy lives, and kids, Crowley or Alastair, and focuses on how Cas responds to being tugged back flush against Dean to take him the right distance from the table, and how pliable he is when Dean wedges a foot between his shoes to kick his feet farther apart and widen his stance.

This has always been a coping technique of his, and it still works after all these years.

"You're looming, and you're too tight."

Dean knows exactly what he's doing when he slides a hand up the smooth fabric of the trench coat to the back of Cas's neck, the other pressed low against Cas's stomach, and folds him over the table. Cas is an Alpha, and he's letting himself be manhandled by an Omega, regardless of his instincts. He can feel Cas tense beneath him, and Dean would bet money he doesn't have that Cas is imagining turning the tables on this position right here. He's pretty sure if this wasn't a public space, he'd probably be pinned over this table the second Cas got the chance, after this teasing.

"Please tell me you didn't teach Jo this way." Castiel's voice is low and sardonic, but Dean can hear the telling rasp of his voice, and he rests his chin on Cas's shoulder for a moment as he laughs.

"Jealous, Cas?" Castiel turns his head slightly, nearly cheek to cheek with Dean, and raises an eyebrow as if it's a completely ridiculous question. "Different technique, same principles though. Just keep your mind on the game."

Of course, he has no intention of letting Cas do that. Their height difference is perfect for this, for him to cradle his boyfriend back up against him as he angles him, breathing against the shell of his ear as he brings his hands in and instructs Cas on how to hold the stick properly, how to let it glide in one hand but grip it firmly at the base with the other, and the air temperature rises again, hot and humid like the shower where Dean first demonstrated a similar technique in a much more intimate manner.

Whatever else is strained between them right now, this seems to be working just fine once Dean stops overthinking it. Maybe if they could turn their issues off they can just enjoy this for tonight, the easy way they come together physically.

A bray of laughter drifts too close; drunk and abrasive, breaking the spell of the moment.

"You wanna play pool, you should do it with someone who knows how to handle his stick." Dean jolts as a drunk smacks a hand against his ass, squeezing to cop a feel, and Cas fouls what would have been a perfect shot as he clamps down on the stick in his hands like his first instinct is to club the guy in the face with it.

Dean grips Castiel's shoulder in warning, using their proximity to keep him from doing something stupid, and murmurs "Trust me" in his ear before straightening and stepping away, a tight smile on his face and a sarcastic quip on his lips. "I bet you get lots of practice 'handling your stick' on your own."

The asshole's brow creases as he tries to figure out if he just got insulted, and Dean dimples, playing up how amused he is at his own joke. Because he knows he can take this guy. And he knows how this is going to go.

"Either quit with footsie and play the goddamn game, or ditch the clothes and make this interesting for all of us, sweetheart."

If Dean didn't have Sam in his life for a sense of scale, this guy would seem pretty big. As it stands, he wasn't raised to be intimidated by size, which helps because it always seems like it's the biggest jackass in the room who feels like they most need to prove their Alpha status. By contrast, Castiel is probably five inches shorter and forty pounds lighter, but Dean would still bet on him in a fight.

Just like he'd bet on himself in pool.

It's been a long time since he's done this particular shtick, the Omega insulting an Alpha's hyper-masculinity to get him betting, and even when he was younger and he and Sam needed the money a hell of a lot more, this wasn't his favorite con to get it. His Omega status was always too raw a topic, back then, and there was an edge of fear beneath his bravado. He's done being afraid. It takes a few pointed glares at Castiel to keep him from giving them away by pointing out that Dean doesn't really have the cash to be betting, and a hand on his shoulder physically pushing him down into a seat to keep him from bristling every time the jackass calls Dean 'sweetheart' or steps too close to him when circling the table, claiming the first move.

He could probably fund an extended road trip this way if he played it up a bit-drag it out, make this best out of three and get the guy really throwing money at him-but this is Cas's 'date,' and Dean's just proving a point now. And if that point involves completely trashing this guy's ability to play pool by clearing the table, well, it's not Dean's fault the guy thought he was just exaggerating his knowledge of pool to cozy up to Cas. Cas is getting a hell of a lesson watching him, that's for sure, and Dean's attuned enough to Castiel's moods and expressions to know that as prickly as he is about the guy being near Dean, he's enjoying the show as his mate knocks him down a few pegs.

Sinking the eight ball after bogarting the table is satisfying, but not as satisfying as what comes next when the guy makes the mistake of grabbing Dean's wrist when he goes to collect the money, squeezing hard enough that Dean thinks he can feel the bones grate together. "Uppity bitch. You need a real Alpha to put you in your place. . ."

Dean steps into the threat, lowering his voice to a rumble and narrowing his eyes. "You wanna say that again. . . ?"

Breath that stinks of halitosis and cheap beer washes over Dean's face as the Alpha sneers, fisting his other hand in Dean's shirt and hauling him in. "I said any Alpha who lets an Omega get away with riding their ass, and mouthing off when he should show some respect, doesn't know how to keep his bitch in line. . ."

Dean grins, green eyes dangerous as he nods. "That's what I thought you said. I just wanted your attention on me for a second." Dean nods slightly to direct the Alpha's attention behind him. "Because he has something to say about that."

Belying Dean's words, Castiel sticks with the classics and silently sucker punches the guy as Dean twists out of his grip as if they choreographed the move.

It's a fitting sort of symmetry, Dean thinks, that they're back to this again. If Cas had just stood up at the Roadhouse, instead of maneuvering Jo into running interference, this is probably a lot like how they would have met. Maybe that's why he set this all up, why he brought them here and played into this. It's a dumb idea, and Sam would probably have a thing or two to say about it given they just got out of a trial for assault, but Dean's keyed up and feeling like something was stolen from him by that courtroom; the sense of control and clean cause-and-effect he has in every dive bar he's ever been to.

That doesn't mean he intends to let this become a fight. He's reckless, but he's not stupid.

Pool stick tangling between the guy's ankles as he's rearing to take a swing at Castiel, Dean upends him neatly onto the floor of the bar, and rests the butt of the stick against the hollow of his throat lightly, a boot grinding down against his chest to keep him pinned, voice too cheerful. "Trust me, you want to stay down. And give the man my money."

Thankfully for everyone the guy stays put as Cas leans in and snatches the money Dean won from his hand, though Cas would probably prefer to throw a couple more punches-he's as wound up as Dean is, he just plays it off better. Cas lets himself be hauled out of the bar, Dean dropping one of the bills from his winnings onto the bar in front of the completely disinterested bartender. He knew he picked the right kind of joint.

He's on Cas before they're completely in their motel room, slamming the Alpha up against the cheap hollow door with a thunk and kissing him like it's a battle for dominance, a challenge Castiel answers by giving as good as he gets, fisting his hands in Dean's shirt and using the grip to keep him close while dragging him into the room. The mirror mounted to the dresser rocks as Cas crashes into the drawers, but he's too tangled up in the sleeves of his shirt and blazer and trenchcoat to really care, as Dean tries to rid him of all three layers at once, and as soon as he gets his hands free he has them on Dean.

It's fast and rough, and neither of them is really certain who's 'winning' by the time Dean is hoisted onto the edge of the dresser with his legs wound around Cas's waist and a fist tangled in his hair. Cas winces at the heel driven into his back as Dean directs him, and muffles himself by biting at Dean's freckled shoulder as Dean scores his blunt nails down Cas's back when he hits just the right angle.

He likes that. They both do.

Somebody in the next room pounds on the wall irately, a muffled voice yelling for them to shut the hell up, and Dean answers by planting a hand against the mirror for leverage, palming Cas's ass to haul him in hard, and making more noise-palm dragging down the glass making it squeak, and the frame thumping against the wall.

"Dean..." Cas sounds pained, and embarrassed, and turned-on all at once and Dean is about to snicker when he finds himself no longer balanced by anything, Cas's arms like a vice around his waist. He's free-falling onto the bed before he really gets the chance to process the change of scenery, thumping into the sagging mattress. The fact that Cas, for all he looks like he's been swallowed by suits and trenchcoats and diminished by them, is all lean muscle and can fight and fuck and even manhandle Dean from time to time, is hot as hell. Cas is on him again quickly, using crawling up Dean's body as an opportunity to awkwardly kick off the slacks he's left bunched around his ankles in answer to Dean's haste.

Cas looks like he wants to talk, or to kiss Dean, or otherwise gentle what they've been doing into something less like a quick fuck and more like 'making love,' and that's not what Dean wants right now, so he doesn't let it happen. He's still riding the high of a confrontation, still on the edge of fight-or-fuck, and he Cas needs to get a clue and stick with the program. So he flips them; grappling Cas down onto the bed in a move more suited to a bar fight than a bedroom, knees pinning Cas's wrists to the bed. He wants a fight, but some part of him thrills at how Cas goes still beneath him instead, blue eyes wide and fixed on Dean like he's something dangerous and beautiful, something to be revered and maybe a little wary around. That's what he wanted-what he brought Cas into that bar for in the first place, though he didn't know it at the time. Then, he thought it was about sharking at pool, about being in his element. Some asshole making a crack about Dean's alpha needing to handle him, teach him some 'respect,' needled him in just the wrong way when respect is something no one ever affords him for what he can do once they know he's been bested before.

Cas, even Sam, they forgot. He saw them there in the courtroom, picturing him small and battered and broken, bleeding out and shattered, or captive and abused, and when they looked at him like that he could feel it tearing at him. Here and now, Cas knows that when Dean doesn't want to be touched he damn well won't be able to touch him. When he releases Cas's wrists only to take them and position Cas's hands on his hips, it's not permission: it's an order he damn well better follow. Cas steadies him as he repositions himself, high astride Cas's hips as he cants himself back and bears down. He's tightening himself up as best be can; he wants to feel every inch as he slides down onto Cas again, down to the widening base of his cock where Dean can feel his knot forming, a stretch and burn and sense of fullness and closeness that Cas has taught him to crave.

Dean needs this. Not just the orgasm they work together now to reach, or the power of being the one in command. He needs Cas-the way he looks at him, the way he lets Dean set his boundaries but not his defenses, the way he genuinely cares. He trusts Dean, and loves him. Cas would probably follow him anywhere.

It's going to kill Dean to lose this, no matter what Cas says about how he'll be the one dealing with most of the fallout of an abandoned mating. But he can't keep asking Cas to give up everything for him. And he can't keep expecting that respect when he doesn't deserve it.

He's gone numb, the thought like poison creeping through his mind. He can fight the law because the law screws with every Omega in the US, he can fight the assholes of the world because they're assholes and should be fought, but he can't fight the truth. The truth is he wouldn't have to fight to keep Cas-all he'd have to do is ask the guy to stay, and Cas would because he loves Dean. And that's the one thing Dean can't do, because he loves Cas.

The fight's gone out of him. He lets himself be tugged into Cas's arms as Castiel rocks into him, stroking Dean's skin like he's petting him, knot catching and grinding his prostate, flooding him with warmth that doesn't quite manage to chase away the ice in his veins. In a little while once they're untied he'll get their slices of pie from the fridge and pretend this is all fine, pretend he didn't leave his tattered self-respect back in that courtroom, pretend he isn't ready to tear them apart to save Cas's. He'll put on a liar's grin and tease Cas a little for this evening, linger in bed with Cas until checkout, and hate himself for it.

And then he'll let Cas go.

xXx

Dean's growing depression is pervasive and heartbreaking. No matter how hard Dean works to make sure Cas can't see it, he can still feel it. He can't touch it, though, even when he's touching Dean. It doesn't stop him from trying, holding his lover tighter, soothingly rubbing his back as they're knotted together, offering him pie like a tribute after.

Through the end of their dinner, and teaching Cas how to play pool, Dean had seemed like himself-a little brittle, but enjoying himself even if he wasn't wholly in the moment. Now the mood has crashed, though Dean smiles brighter and laughs louder.

Cas can't stop himself from 'clinging' once they're going to sleep, arm tucked over Dean and his head pillowed on Dean's chest, listening to his heartbeat, a leg thrown over his shins to keep him. Dean doesn't push him away, running a hand through his hair again and again until Cas is sure it's an even more hopeless mess than usual, but even so Dean's a million miles away, slowly drifting off.

"I love you." Cas finds himself saying into the silence, hoping it helps, hoping it hooks Dean back. But as Dean ruffles his hair one last time and presses a kiss to the top of his head, Cas knows that isn't enough, and there's something sad and tired about Dean's response.

"I know."

When morning dawns, Sam calls to ask Dean something for the day's trial continuation. Dean throws on some clothes and steps out of the room to take the call, and Cas finds himself listening for the rumble of the Impala starting without him. He's far more afraid of losing Dean than any of the possessions in the car. He dresses quickly, tossing their things into the overnight bag carelessly, and bolts out the door as soon as he gets his shoes on.

Unnoticed, Cas watches Dean finish the conversation with Sam, paying more attention to his motions, his posture and his tone than his words. Dean finishes the conversation with a quip that sounds relaxed enough, but he is braced with his back against his car, shoulders slooped, chin down and eyes closed.

Something-Cas's footstep on the gravel lot, the strange sense for each other they seem to have developed, or Dean's protective instinct-alerts Dean that Castiel is nearing, and by the time he's crossed the sidewalk Dean is smiling at him again, hands tucked in his pockets, by all appearances fine and ready for their trip.

It's astounding how talented he is at hiding his own pain. And people think to call Castiel stoic.

"So, where to first?"

xXx

Emmanuel and Daphne Allen have clearly done right by themselves, and cruising the Impala to a stop by the curb of their meticulously maintained lawn, Dean can't help but feel he stands out as much in this clean cut suburban neighborhood as his Impala does next to driveways each with a Prius or Camry. It's a soccer mom kind of neighborhood, a made-for-TV-movie suburbia, and Daphne plays right into that.

Daphne falters when she notices Dean behind Cas as they walk up the drive, and then her eyes widen in surprise as she really takes a look at Cas, noting all the tell-tales that this isn't her husband home from his morning lecture at the university a little early after all. She looks like she's seen a ghost, and given she'd just joined the family when Cas was deployed, given she only really knew Jimmy and not Cas, maybe she is. She blinks twice before greeting him.

"Castiel...?"

Castiel's sister-in-law is sweet enough-she fusses over Cas, hanging up his coat and Dean's jacket, and she ushers them towards the chairs in a neat little sitting room that looks like it was special ordered from Better Homes and Gardens. But it's unsettling in ways Dean never expected, and worse when moments later the door opens again and admits Emmanuel.

It's as if someone took Castiel and Dean, and neatly edited out their imperfections. Gone is Cas's messy hair, replaced with a neat part and a smooth shave to Cas's perpetual stubble. Cas can make a dry cleaned suit look rumpled, but Emmanuel looks like he irons his slacks and starches his socks, to go with his Mister Rogers cardigan. Or maybe Daphne does that for him. Daphne, who is pretty and slim with huge green eyes and soft brown curls, and the portrait of what Dean figures the world thinks he should have been: the good-girl Omega mate, genuinely happy to see her husband home, kissing him on the cheek as she leads him into the living room by the hand to greet his long lost brother.

It's like they've fallen into Bizarro world, and its unsettling Dean who was already pretty damned unsettled. He doesn't even get a thrill out of the hug Emmanuel pulls a quiet, awkward Castiel into; he knows his libido should be spinning some fantasies out of this, but he just... Can't.

This is what they're supposed to be. And he's already itching to get away from it.