14. My Future Could See

Chapter Track: Sky Fits Heaven – Madonna

My Future Could See

When Castiel’s rut tides over, he and Dean shower together to scrub off the remnants of the scents of fucking, worshipping each other’s bodies with aroma-neutral soap and Cas’ expensive shampoo. They still get a little handsy under the pressure of warm water on their backs, Dean kissing over the mating bite on Cas’ neck. And goddamn, it's another time that Dean can’t really believe that this is for real, that Cas is his mate and wants to be his mate, that it isn’t some brain malfunction or fucked up trick or hallucination. He's here, with Cas' bite on his neck and his bite on Cas' neck.

It's something that Dean came to accept that he would never have, but here it is, and it's real.

Cas does so much strange crap that Dean can’t help but love – he rubs Dean’s shoulders and the places on Dean’s back that hurt because of the pup weight, scents Dean’s neck while they’re knotted together like he might forget that smell in a moment, nuzzles along Dean’s skin with his scratchy jaw and soft lips.

And he says that he loves the pup.

Dean worries that morning, as he worries whenever he has space to think, that Cas is just saying that to appease Dean, and that when the pup is born that Dean’ll be expected to give it up so Cas can breed him up with pups that are his own. He feels ill when he thinks that he might have to leave here, but he would if he had to. If Dean had to choose between his pup and Cas, he’d choose the pup. His whole life has been choosing one crappy choice or another, and it wouldn't surprise him if he had to start making that choice for two.

“What’s on your mind?” asks Castiel, as they scrub down the kitchen together, having called Sam on his cellphone and, bad reception aside, informed him that the coast was clear and he could come back to Cas’ place.

Dean glances up from the spray bottle of green cleaner in his grip and to Cas, on whose face is written a fondness that Dean didn’t ever think he’d see aimed at him. He feels kind of sloshy inside at the sight, half-smiles at the counter under his hand, and shakes his head.

“Not important,” Dean says.

Cas seems annoyed with the answer, but if he is, he doesn’t voice that annoyance aloud.

Truth is, Dean is scared fucking shitless. But how the hell are you supposed to tell your alpha that sure, yeah, he makes you feel good and safe and all that shit rom-com alphas are supposed to make you feel, but he also kind of sets you on edge. Well, maybe not Cas in particular, but the idea that this - the great sex and nuzzling and scenting and home - can’t last forever.

Because when does anything good last for Dean? The longest lasting experiences of his life have all been terrible. After mom kicked the bucket, dad moved them around a lot and never liked to settle. Dean didn’t make friends. After he presented as omega, it got worse. People in the towns they moved to liked the idea of him as some knot-swelling new guy, reeking of sweet omega and slick ass.

The longest place that Dean ever lived was Alastair’s brothel. Seven whole years of shame and heat and pain so great that he doubts he’ll ever forget: that's the longest period of his life. In a fucked up kind of way, the brothel became his home. By the end, right before the pup, even when he’d accepted that dying didn’t sound so bad, the place had its moments. Downstairs where the omegas got kept was a shithole, sure. If you were lucky, though, you’d get a client that wanted to pretend to be your mate, wanted you upstairs in the nice rooms reserved for Alastair’s wealthiest clientele. Yeah, you had to have strange arms around you and a nose breathing in your scent all night, but you’d get to sleep in a real bed and sometimes eat real food.

And here, with Cas – Dean hasn’t even been here for three months.

Within those three months, Cas has challenged everything that Dean has come to know about normalcy, about omegas and alphas and how they treat one another and everything in between. There’s no consistency. Sometimes it’s awesome. Sometimes Dean likes learning something new about his mate every day. Other times it’s terrifying.

Because at least Alastair was constant, was unchanging. He wanted Dean to put out and do well. If Dean failed to meet those requirements, he was disappointed. If Dean did what needed to be done, Alastair was proud.

And damn does it make him feel dirty to think it, but in a life where you got nothing, nada, zip to look forward to, Dean fucking enjoyed making Alastair proud.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Castiel asks.

Then there’s that thing.

The questions.

Cas always asks him if he likes things, if he wants this, prefers that, is okay with this other thing.

It’s weird, but fuck, it’s the nicest thing anyone has ever bothered to do for him in his entire life. His whole existence is plagued by people thinking they know what Dean wants, forcing open his legs and telling him he likes it even when he wants it desperately to stop. You got politicians on the TV saying that young omegas shouldn’t have the right to heat suppressants over the counter, ‘cause that encourages them to have sex.

Never-fucking-mind that alphas prowl the streets thinking a nice smell and a sweet ass means an omega needs their knot, and they take that without bothering to fucking question it. Doesn't matter how young they are. If an omega's dressed the wrong way, smells a certain way, walks home alone or drinks too much, it's their damn fault what happens to 'em.

But Cas doesn't think any of that. 

Cas always asks. He doesn't take without getting Dean's go on something, and doesn't think that Dean must want something just because Dean's an omega and Castiel is an alpha.

Dean gives his alpha a goofy, lopsided grin, and leans over to brush his lips against Cas’ stubble. He says, “I’m all good, little alpha. ‘Preciate it, though.”

Castiel smiles back, and loops Dean in for a side hug. This is how Sam finds them when he comes clunking through the front door. They turn around at the sound and see him with a gentle smile on his face and a few cloth bags in his hands. Sam scents the air and says, “Nice cleanup job.”

“We try,” Dean replies, as Sam kicks off his shoes and sets the bags down on the kitchen table. He says, “What’s in there?”

“Well,” Sam says, and unloads a few things, “I know I missed the puppy shower and all, but I figured I should get you some stuff anyway. Here.” He hands Dean a box, which Dean turns over in his hands for a few measly seconds before Cas pulls it from his grip.

“This is wonderful,” Cas says. He scrutinizes something on the label, reading features of whatever the crap it is. The name Magic Bullet sounds like some kind of sex toy, though.

“What…is it?” asks Dean. He glances between Cas and Sammy and can’t help but feel like he’s missing something.

“A food processor,” Castiel says.

“You know, so you guys could make your own food for the pup and stuff, none of that crap with preservatives,” Sam says, “And this too.”

Sam passes the second gift to Dean. At least he knows what this one is. It’s a little fruity, but hey, Sam can’t help it. He’s always kind of been that way. Dean loops the plaid-patterned sling over his head and says, “Hey, that’s awesome, Sammy. Thanks.”

Sam brightens, “You think so?”

“Yeah, dude,” Dean answers. He gives Sam a playful sock in the shoulder, coughs, and rubs the back of his neck before he says, “This way me n’ pup can rock out and not worry about my arms getting tired. It’s cool.”

Sam seems pleased, and that makes Dean feel good, too. He always did like putting a smile on Sammy’s face. Sometimes, even when he knew that Sam would be disappointed in him for where he’d gotten himself, Dean liked to think of Sam when he was stuck at Alastair’s. He always thought of Sam in the quiet moments, times when he was supposed to be asleep on his slick-stained mattress. He wondered where Sam went, and if he’d done well for himself. He hoped that Sammy found someplace nice to settle down away from their dad and did everything that he always talked about wanting to do.

And now Sam’s here, and he’s done all kinds of amazing crap. He’s made something of himself, changed the world, become a household name – and he’s only twenty four. He’s done all the things that Dean knew he could.

If it weren’t for the occasional whiff of sadness leaking off of Sam’s skin, Dean would think that he had it all.

X

“So what’d you get up to in town?” asks Dean, and lifts his glass of OJ to his mouth for a long drink.

Sam, meanwhile, takes pull off of his beer and rolls the bottle between his hands before he answers, “I, um. I met somebody.”

“What?” Dean says, and sits up straighter on the wicker porch furniture. He leans forward and grins, “Sammy, you dog. S’it another alpha? Got a name?”

Sam rubs the back of his neck. He looks like a nervous teenager, all riled up over their first scent of somebody compatible. At least they’re not in the house – upon going outside, Dean realizes how strongly everything smells of mates and sex, and realizes with a little guilt that he and Cas, in their own, frenzied way, were marking out their territories like teenage kids.

“She’s a beta,” Sam finally says, “Her name, um. Her name is Amelia.”

“Yeah?” Dean says, and smiles, “Go on, dude. Spill the beans. I wanna know.”

Sam leans forward and musses his long hair with his fingers. He says, “I mean, it’s kinda complicated. She’s a librarian.”

“Hot.”

“Dean.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“She lost her mate too,” Sam says. He gives Dean a look from the corner of his eye and then tips back what remains in his beer bottle.

“Well, crap. That is complicated,” Dean murmurs. Folks that lose their mates tend to never mate again – most times these folks throw themselves into their work, like Sam, or take up a political cause, also like Sam. Other times they adopt parentless pups and raise them up. Almost never do they find another mate. And shit, finding another mate who’s lost her own mate? Sounds dangerous.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “We’re gonna get ice cream later this week. But, you know. We’re taking it slow. All things considered.”

Telling Sam that this is a bad idea is on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but something in his brother’s expression makes him swallow the sentence down. Sam’s twenty four. He’s not a kid anymore. He helps people. He’s lost a mate and a pup. He’s seen some shit, and the least Dean can do for him is to trust him on that experience and let it be.

So Dean nods, finishes off his orange juice, and says, “Good for you, man. Hope it works out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yup.”

Even though they’ve both finished their drinks, they stay out on the porch for a while. It’s a goddamn gorgeous day, the kind of day that makes Dean truly appreciate the locale of Cas’ place. Their place. The temperature sits somewhere around the mid-eighties, hot, but not overbearing. It’s sunny, only wisps of clouds skating across the wide expanse of blue sky. And out here, it’s quiet. Dean loves quiet in a way that he never used to.

Before Alastair, Dean loved the city. Loved how many people surrounded him, the stink and silent synchronization. Small towns made him leery, made him feel like he was being watched. Now, he feels safe in the quiet, among the same few people.

Yeah, it’s nice here.

With a stretch, Dean stands. Sam follows him into the house, where he dips into the garage to throw his beer bottle into Cas’ recycling bin while Dean rinses his OJ glass under the kitchen tap and places it in the dishwasher. Cas is behind him on the couch, intensely focused on his hat-knitting project. Dean tries to sneak up from behind and peer over Cas’ shoulder, but before he can see what the fucker’s got in his hands, Cas stashes the knitting under his t-shirt.

“I appreciate your enthusiasm,” Castiel says. He turns to squint at Dean as he goes on, “but it’s supposed to be a surprise.”

“But I wanna see it.”

“And you will,” Cas reasons, “When it’s done.”

Dean groans but turns around and accepts his fate. Cas wants the hat that he’s knitting to be a surprise, and so that’s just how it’s going to be: a surprise. The alpha wins this round.

X

“Am I gonna have to go to a hospital?” Dean asks in bed one evening. They fucked only a half hour earlier, slow and thorough and face to face, and the whole bed smells like them. Dean would love to live in that scent. It makes him feel better when he’s worried about crap.

Like going to the hospital. He’s always hated hospitals, but now it makes him think of when omegas got too injured or sick to work for Alastair, how they strapped them down on gurneys and stuck needles in their arms, fed them drugs and waited for them to heal enough to be fucked again. It makes him tense and shaky thinking about it, being locked up in that big, dark room side by side with other sick omegas, being unable to move and so far gone from the cycle of whatever drugs they fed to him that he couldn’t even string together two thoughts. He could only fall into fitful, short bouts of sleep, and watch other omegas come and go.

Cas senses his distress and pulls Dean closer, nosing into his hair and rubbing his back.

“As long as I have the equipment here to help you birth the pup safely, then we can do a home birth,” Castiel says.

“No hospitals?” Dean says.

“No hospitals,” Castiel promises, and leans forward to brush his lips over the center of Dean’s forehead.

Shit, this is nice. He probably doesn’t deserve it, but it’s really nice. Nice to have somebody that likes being wrapped up in you and around you, likes the smell of you and likes talking to you, and just plain likes you. He shifts closer into Cas, burying his face against his chest.

Dean starts to shake, though, with the weight of the memories. Cas kisses his head and strokes his hair, hushing him and humming. His rough voice is music to Dean’s ears when he says, “You can tell me. I will listen.”

So Dean does tell him, in broken, shaky sentences, about the medical torture and the horror of getting sick. He talks about pretending not to be sick even when he felt his weakest, passing out from dehydration with some alpha still knotted inside him, waking up strapped down and afraid.

Sometimes Dean can hear the rumble of growl beginning in Cas’ throat, but he always shoves the noise down, kissing him and soothing him with soft sounds and touches, little gestures to chase away the roughest, hardest pieces of Dean's life. With Cas, the lade of Alastair and the things that Dean has done doesn't feel as heavy anymore, like his alpha is sharing the hurt. Cas will never go through what Dean did, will never have to remember the things that Dean remembers, but the softness he affords Dean when everyone else has been nothing but stone-hard to him makes the biggest, stupidest difference. He wonders if he should feel dumb about it all, but just nestles in as close as he can to his alpha and listens to the thump-thump-thump of his heart underneath the cotton of his B-52's t-shirt.

He feels raw when Cas finally leans over to turn out the light, raw and used. But Dean does have Cas to lean into, and his pup in his belly, and both those knowledges settle his feathers and make him feel as though his life does not have to be a nightmare anymore. He has a family, and a home. And maybe, just maybe, he will get out of all of this okay.

X

Two days after Dean spills his guts about being sick at Alstair's to Cas, Dean stands in the kitchen and pours himself a bowl of Frosted Flakes while cartoons play on the television. Sam is out, having driven down to Buena Vista to meet up with Amelia for their ice cream date. Dean wished him luck before he went and hoped the damn date went well, because crap, Sam deserves to be happy too. He feels kind of shitty having Sammy watch all his domestic bliss with Cas, knowing that he lost that same bliss with the late Jessica.

Just as Dean sets the milk down on the counter, two strong, tanned arms come around his middle from behind, and Castiel presses damp kisses all along the back of his neck.

“Well hello to you too,” Dean chuckles. Cas places a hand over his pregnant belly and ghosts his lips over the bite on Dean’s neck. It makes him shiver, and then laugh. He nudges Cas away with his elbow and says, “All right, all right, I’m tryin’ to eat here. You can have a little something-something after I’m done.”

“I actually brought you something,” Cas says. He pushes back the bowl of dry cereal with one hand, and with the other, places a tiny knitted hat onto the countertop.

A tiny, knitted, Yoda hat, that is.

Dean makes a grab for it and holds it up. The thing has Yoda ears, and the yarn is all soft and it's so neatly made that it looks like Cas bought the thing, for Christ’s sake. He turns around in the box of Cas’ arms and kisses him hard on the mouth. When he pulls back, he grins, “Dude, that is so friggin’ awesome. I can’t believe you made that!”

“Yes. Well. I am glad that you like it,” Castiel says. Color rises high on his cheeks, and Dean realizes – Cas is actually nervous about all this. His big, growly, know-it-all alpha is worried that Dean won’t like the hat that he knitted for the pup.

The opportunity to tease him is just too good to pass up.

“You’re blushing, little alpha,” Dean says. He feels a smirk on his face and tries to push it away, but can’t.

“I am not,” Castiel says, but turns redder.

Dean lets out a full-bellied laugh and wraps his arms around Castiel’s neck to bring him in for a long, satisfying kiss. Cas hoists him up and sets Dean on the counter. With a soft growl and a murmur of the word mine, Cas slides his tongue into Dean’s mouth and languishes attention on him in thorough, happy licks.

And when Cas ushers them back to the bedroom, they kiss more, bodies tangled together as gradually they lose clothing to floor. Dean teases Castiel and Cas teases back, and by the time that Cas finally leverages himself up over Dean and sinks inside him, they’re both laughing and smiling.

It’s weird, just making jokes and ragging on each other and laughing in between moans and soft grunts of pleasure, as they move their bodies together. Dean never knew that sex could be like this, just full of goofing off and long, wet kisses. They mess around and play for a long time, until finally each of them comes within minutes of one another, and Dean and Cas collapse, tied together and smiling at one another.

X

The house makes a transformation over the course of the next few weeks. Sam is sunny-faced and optimistic over this Amelia chick and doesn’t seem to mind when the house reeks of Cas and Dean anymore, but more than that, it’s how everything has changed and made way for the pup.

Dean is fucking huge, for one. He’s the size of a boat and it should maybe bother him, except instead it just makes him more excited for the arrival of his pup. He can still do most shit, except not really bending over so much – but his belly does make a nice shelf for folding clothes, and so he switches from dish duty to laundry duty as the weeks left in his pregnancy dwindle down to nil.

The nursery is fully complete, stocked with everything a dude could need for his little pup. They’ve got blankets and board books and diapers and all the stuff that'll make life for his pup comfy and sweet, just like Dean wants. And Sam and Cas bring new crap home all the time, even things they won’t need just yet. There are pacifiers tucked into the storage space underneath the changing table, and there are brand new bottles and a pump stashed in one of the kitchen cabinets, all cleared out of Cas’ junk and replaced with plastic dishware and tiny spoons and a stack of little bibs.

“We’ve got everything for you,” Dean says in the nursery one afternoon, while the sun filters through the window and makes everything warm, “Sweet digs and all this cool shit. So don’t keep dad waiting, all right?”

Dean passes the time with TV shows and afternoons out on the hammock with a book in his hands, since Cas insists on him resting up as much as he can, being so close to the approximation of his due date. Cas has a pretty decent scifi collection in his library, and now Dean is reading some yellow-paged pulp novel from the seventies. From the blurb on the back of the novel it seemed like it could be kind of sketchy as far as the depiction of omegas goes (One of those “planet full of omegas in charge and alphas living under their rule,” blah, blah, blah), but Dean figured if Cas had it on his bookshelf, then it’s safe.

And he likes it. It’s all a metaphor for omega rights, which is cool. Weird how crap like this gets written all the way back in the nineteen seventies and you’ve still got the same goddamn problems going on in the world forty years later.

Dean falls asleep with the book open on his chest by accident and drifts back into a dreamless sleep. It’s nice, actually. One of those half-sleeps – he’s still in a trance and dead to the world, but at the edges of his awareness he feels the rope of the hammock stretched beneath him, the sweat trickling between his shoulder blades from the late summer heat, and the shift of his clothing when the breeze kicks up.

Then he feels something weird, almost like a pop, and damp trickling out between his legs.

Dean’s eyes snap open and bolts up to his feet, pulp novel forgotten on the hammock. Between his legs, damp stains his jeans. It’s kind of a gross feeling, and he knows exactly what it is. He’s been reading about this shit on the internet and in the baby books for months now.

Aw, shit.

His water just broke.