6. You Don't Know Fuck about My Family

Chapter Track: Seventeen – Marina  & the Diamonds

You Don’t Know Fuck about My Family

Dean hates planes. He has had few opportunities to travel in them, for which he is grateful, but that doesn’t stop the unbridled loathing and terror from filling him up as they swing around at Denver International Airport. He thought that the long drive from Cas’ house in the Fuck-All Middle of Nowhere to the airport would help him talk sense into himself. Instead, the nerves build on each other like a goddamn runaway game of Tetris, and as Castiel parks his Prius in long term parking and unloads their luggage (“I can get mine,” Dean complains, but Castiel tersely puts him off with, “You are pregnant, and as a doctor I strongly recommend against heavy lifting.”), Dean feels sick.

“You could have told me that you’re afraid of flying,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean must reek of fear – that’s the only reason that would explain why he and Cas are getting sidelong glances as they stand in line to check in their bags.

The United attendant smiles sympathetically when they make it up to the scales and says, “Nervous flyer?”

“He hates it, as I’m certain you can smell,” Castiel says, “We’re going to California for my elder brother’s wedding.” The attendant chuckles, and Dean has to hold back a snarl.

Cas notices, of course, and admonishes, “Dean, be polite,” in a low voice. Dean sulks.

He can’t decide, as they head toward security, whether he hates the prospect of being on a plane more, or how everyone keeps treating him like a delicate flower because he’s a grumpy, fear-stricken omega in the middle of a crowded airport. They don’t make him go under the full body scanner like Cas has to, instead just sweeping a wand over him before he’s allowed to pass through to the terminals.

Having Cas’ scent alongside him throughout the process does a lot to help, and Dean can’t help but feel angry at that. He always hated omegas that couldn’t handle themselves, and now he’s one of them, just about literally barefoot and pregnant, and clinging to Castiel like he might float away if Dean lets go.

But then Cas rubs his back all the way to their seats in the waiting area and brings him a pastry and to-go hot cocoa from one of the many Starbucks that pepper the inside of the airport.

Everything is fine and dandy until their plane pulls into place outside and the passengers from the earlier flight clear out. Dean feels himself pale again and can’t stop bouncing his leg. The pup squirms irritably inside him, like it can tell that its dad is stressed out and is barking back at him chill out, dad. Dean glowers at his stomach and says, “No one asked you.”

“Hmm?” Cas says.

“Talkin’ to the pup.”

“Ah. Pup being flippant?” Castiel asks.

“Already a back-talker and it can’t even friggin’ talk yet,” Dean mutters.

Cas chuckles. Dean continues to sulk. When he catches a bright-eyed beta smiling at them, he sulks even harder. When it’s time to board the plane, he holds onto Cas’ arm again, tense and feeling like he might vomit if anything shakes the wrong way. And they call him crazy for being uncomfortable inside a giant metal tube of death in the sky.

Castiel lets Dean grip his arm and keeps moving a hand over his back in circles. It probably has less to do with Dean and more to do with the fact that Dean’s anxiety is rolling off of him so much that he can almost smell it himself. The other boarders on the plane all stare at them, and it just amplifies everything by like, a thousand. He just wants to be back at Cas’ house wrapped up in a blanket and continuing the pup’s education in good music with the record player in the basement.

But no. Nope, he is on an airplane going to the arranged-marriage-bullshit-wedding of Castiel’s elder brother, because another one of Cas’ elder brothers spilled the beans about where Cas lives and threatened to sic their mother on him. Dean gathers that Castiel’s mother is something of a harridan. He also gathers that his brothers are total douchebags.

No wonder Cas hightailed it out to the middle of the Rockies.

Dean dearly wishes that he could have liquor. Alas, not only is he locked in a flying metal death tube, he is pregnant and locked in a flying metal death tube. That leaves him little to work with except to stick his face against Cas’ arm and scent the shit out of him so he feels a little less like throwing up his intestines.

A perky omega flight attendant gives them the safety instruction spiel, blah blah blah, seatbelts, blah blah blah, oxygen mask.

Oh, shit. The plane starts to roll down the runway.

“You’ll be fine, Dean. Airplanes are statistically far safer than cars,” Castiel says.

Dean balls his hands into fists and says, “Yeah, well, statistically fuck you.”

Castiel looks at him like he’s gone insane, and Dean can’t even find it in him to care as he grips the armrests on either side of him. He just said ‘fuck you’ to an alpha, the alpha he’s supposed to be pretending is his alpha, and he cannot locate a single shit to give.

They take off. Dean goes back to sticking his face against Cas just so he can smell him above the too-clean, recycled air aroma of the plane and the smells of the hundreds of other passengers seated all around them. It’s ridiculous to be this afraid. He’s seen so much more shit than this. But Dean’s dealt with horny, hulking, sweaty alphas all his life, and seldom is he subject to flying death tubes.

He spends the entire flight right up against Cas. He isn’t even embarrassed when Cas orders his complimentary drink for him from the flight attendant, a ginger ale to settle his stomach. When they land, it isn’t a moment too soon.

Now all Dean has to do is survive LAX, late Californian spring, and a wedding uniting two dysfunctional families.

X

Fortunately for all parties involved, Dean and Castiel manage to navigate the airport, collect their luggage, and locate a taxi without incident. Michael and Lilith’s wedding, in lieu of being held on the beach like Dean had assumed a wedding in California would be, is to be held at some fancy-ass joint overlooking the beach instead, a hotel called Malibu Beach Inn.

When they reach the joint Dean can’t help his intake of breath. He lets out a low whistle as the cabby pulls up and parks and says, “Jesus tap dancing Christ. This place is fancy as fuck.”

“Nothing but the best for Michael,” hums Castiel. He and the cabby collectively unload the luggage and Cas pays him with a generous wad of twenties from his wallet, which he replaces in the back pocket of his jeans before they make their way toward the hotel. The lobby confirms Dean’s assessment of “fancy as fuck” – it isn’t large or paved in gold, but the furniture looks like it’s all solid dark wood, and the beachy, sandy tones that it’s decorated it scream luxury and wealthy motherfuckers.

Dean starts to tune Cas out when they step up to the front desk to check into their room. He hopes it’s as nice as this lobby. Because hell yeah, if he has to be in hell for a week, then he’s gonna want to do this shit in style. As Dean sifts through a shelf of pamphlets, he feels Cas’ hand arranging Dean’s hair into a more acceptable position than “holy shit I’m on a flying metal death tube” hair. Then it occurs to him – Castiel is grooming him. He almost turns and snips at him, but realizes promptly that for this week, they’re supposed to be mates. And if they’re mates, then it would be one hundred percent okay for Castiel to groom Dean into oblivion.

He keeps plucking at pamphlets.

“Heh. Cas,” Dean says, and turns to display one of the activity pamphlets between his hands, “‘Discover exhilarating water sports’. Kinky.” He bounces his eyebrows and bites back a smirk.

Castiel gives him a look and says, “Dean, we’re –”

“Cassie!”

Both Castiel and Dean swing around, where on their right side a middle-aged, attractive blond beta dude comes at them with open arms. Instead of hugging Castiel, though, he claps him on his shoulder and then proceeds to wink at Dean.

“Good job, dear. Always knew you were especially virile.”

“Thank you, Balthazar. That’s charming,” Castiel says dryly. He places his palm on the small of Dean’s back and pushes him forward just a little as he introduces, “Balthazar, this is Dean, my mate. Dean, this is my delightful cousin Balthazar.” The way that Castiel says the word ‘delightful’ leads Dean to believe that the man may in fact not be delightful at all.

Still, he shakes Balthazar’s hand and smiles. He decides not to say anything, because Christ knows anything that comes out of Dean’s mouth is going to be exactly the wrong thing for him to say.

“Big for an omega, aren’t you?” Balthazar observes. It takes every ounce of Dean’s personal control not to roll his eyes as the dude keeps going, “But you’re a pretty thing. Funny how Cassie insisted upon being counterculture as a wayward youth and ends up just like the rest of his alpha clan, hm? Big, strong alpha mating and knocking up an omega with pretty eyelashes. So standard of you, Castiel.”

This time Dean does roll his eyes.

“Ooh, and he is a feisty one.”

“I’m tired of people saying that,” mutters Dean.

“I know,” Castiel replies, and threads his fingers through the hairs at the base of Dean’s neck, stroking. He places a chaste kiss on the top of Dean’s head. Dean knows it’s for show, but it still makes him tense. He tries not to show it or let it get to the way that he smells, doesn’t want to already screw up the gag that he and Cas have going. Cas deserves to have Dean do this right.

Fortunately, the desk attendant clears his throat and hands Castiel their room keys. Apparently their room is on the highest level, the third. Balthazar bids them goodbye and says something about getting himself a massage, and they head toward the elevator.

The room is friggin’ sweet. And also a friggin’ suite. Dean chuckles to himself at that as they roll their belongings in. The setup has a couch and a coffee table, and a flat screen TV, mounted above a fucking fireplace. He can’t help the whistle of appreciation that comes out of his mouth at the sight.

Behind him, Castiel preens a little.

“I thought we could nap before the evening’s festivities,” Cas says.

Dean groans, “Festivities?”

“I know, I know,” Castiel says, “We’re having some sort of dinner downstairs. I think it’s a welcome of some kind. Either that, or they’re fattening us up to eat us.”

Dean thinks the second option may be more likely, and the prospect scares him.

“Don’t worry,” Castiel says, and starts to rub his back again, “Now let’s get some rest.”

X

When Dean wakes up, the sun already has started to set, and yellow-orange light bathes their suite in a soft glow. Cas isn’t in bed but instead beside it, topless, with a nice button-up slung over the ironing board in front of him. His brow knits in concentration as he presses the fabric. For a while, Dean just watches him focus on his clothing. Cas never does anything halfway, not even ironing his shirt for “festivities” that neither of them are particularly inclined to attend.

Castiel doesn’t notice that Dean is awake until he shifts under the covers. He hums, “Good, you’re up. We’re heading downstairs in about an hour.”

Dean groans.

Before they left Colorado, they dropped back by that overpriced maternity boutique in town to purchase Dean dress clothes. He hates his fucking omega-mommy bullshit button-downs, hates the way that they look on him, hates that his belly pulls at the buttons. He wishes he could just wear jeans and a t-shirt, but knows that would be embarrassing to Castiel.

He’s not going to embarrass Cas, no matter how many dress shirts he has to put up with.

Forty-five minutes later, Dean is dressed impeccably in a pregnant omega fit suit, charcoal gray with all the trimmings. He even has fancy, shiny shoes for his swollen preggo feet, which is impressive, considering how damn big his feet are in the first place.

And Castiel looks so good that Dean could just eat him up. Nothing says fine-ass alpha like a man in a suit. Like Dean’s, Castiel’s suit is a shade of gray, though his silk tie is royal blue and makes his eyes look ten times more striking than they already were.

“You look wonderful, Dean,” Castiel tells him.

Dean gnaws on his lip and lowers his eyes to the floor at that. He has started to look better since Cas found him, and even though his face and limbs are still too skinny, he’s put on a lot of much-needed weight. He looks fuller, though he might also look like he’s experimenting with some fad diet. Among Cas’ relatives, he’s not sure that that would be weird, even for a pregnant dude.

Dean coughs out, “Thanks. You too.”

On the elevator down to the main floor of the hotel, they’re joined by another one of Castiel’s brothers, one that makes Cas draw up and bristle like an animal on the defense.

“Who’s this, Castiel?” he draws out, looking entirely too pleased with himself. His eyes flick down to Dean’s belly and then back up to his face. He licks his lips. Dean tries not to snap at the guy to stop leering at him like he’s the dessert course, because he’s trying really, really hard not to humiliate either himself or Castiel.

Cas doesn’t answer right away, so Dean takes charge. He thrusts his hand out and says, “Dean Winchester.”

“Really?” this brother raises his eyebrows, “Winchester. That figures.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, and glances back at Cas.

“He’s referring to the fact that a well-known omega rights advocate and lawyer shares your surname,” Castiel says, “And neglected to tell you that he is named Lucifer.”

Lucifer is an alpha, all alpha. He smells like the kind of alpha that Dean is used to, not at all like Cas, who’s strong and gentle and comforting. Lucifer reeks of testosterone and barely-contained lust, a heavily-perfumed, unexploded bomb. He also seems just as frustrated as they both are to be corralled into this marital nightmare.

The elevator dings when it settles down on the lowest level. Lucifer gives them a grin that makes Dean shift uncomfortably and says, “Pleasure, boys,” before stepping away from them in quick, clicking paces.

“What did he mean?” Dean asks, “When he said that it figured that I was named Winchester.”

Cas shuffles and grabs at the back of his neck, frowning. He explains, “Well, as I said, there’s a well-known Winchester associated with omega rights. But my brother was referring to my own involvement in the omega rights movement. It’s part of why my family dislikes me so greatly, that I have regard for people that they consider lower than they believe I stand, traditionally speaking.”

Dean makes a face, “You’re into omega rights?”

Cas nods.

“Huh.”

He doesn’t know why that surprises him. He knows that there are plenty of alphas that worked hard decades ago to help get omegas the vote, knows that some alphas even work and volunteer with rape crisis centers and march in walks. That Castiel may be one of these alphas is strange news, even though Castiel has done nothing but treat Dean with respect since he picked him up off the side of the road.

Christ. Dean can’t help but feel like one lucky son of a bitch knowing that out of all the people that could have picked him up, all the places he could have ended up in, that it turned out to be with a former-doctor alpha involved in omega rights. That is the luckiest goddamn shit he has ever heard.

Cas leads them into a wide, spacious dining room. The tables are covered in white cloths and expensive-looking plate settings, cutlery shining in the intentionally dim lights. They give their names to some dude in a snazzy waiter kind of getup and he escorts them past clumps of people and to the long table at the head of the room.

Oh, jeez.

Dean prays he doesn’t screw this up.

Castiel keeps his hand at the small of Dean’s back until they take their seats, and then drapes his arm around the back of the chair. No more than two seconds after they arrive, a middle-aged woman in pantsuit approaches them, crystal glass of chardonnay clutched in one manicured hand.

“Castiel,” she greets, and then actually freaking air kisses Cas’ cheeks.

“Mother,” Castiel says stiffly.

Oh shit.

Her attention shifts to Dean. From what he’s heard of this woman, he should probably be pants-shittingly scared right now. Instead, he keeps his chin up and levels his eyes at her. He can smell Castiel’s concern.

“So, you must be my son’s mystery mate,” she drawls.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Hmm, so polite,” she says, voice cloying and sickly sweet, “What is his name, Castiel?”

“Dean Winchester,” Dean says.

She lifts a well-plucked brow at him and says, “I don’t believe that I asked you. I asked my son.”

“Do not start, mother,” Castiel says, voice verging on a growl.

She brandishes her glass of wine at him and chides, “Don’t you growl at me. I am your mother. I deserve respect.”

“You will be treated with the same respect with which you treat Dean,” Castiel tells her, “and allow me to tell you that you’re already on thin ice.”

She sighs and takes a sip from her glass. With a disappointed shake of her head, she says, “I can see that you won’t be behaving this evening. All I ask is that you see that your omega does behave. You may be able to get away with your impertinence, Castiel, but I won’t tolerate being back-talked by your unfortunate-looking omega whore. Enjoy the evening, will you?” With that, she wanders to the other end of the table and takes a seat like she didn’t say a word out of line.

“I am so sorry,” Castiel says, “My mother. Naomi. She doesn’t look kindly on omegas. It’s embarrassing.”

Dean keeps his mouth shut. If he doesn’t, he’s going to break Cas’ mom’s rule about omegas behaving.

The dinner begins a handful of minutes later, when a dark-haired, suave alpha leads a blond waif of an omega into the dining room. Castiel explains that the alpha is his eldest brother, Michael, which means that the omega hanging off of his arm must be his intended – Lilith. Both of them eye Dean when they’re introduced by Castiel. He doesn’t talk, because he’s picked up now on the fact that he isn’t expected to. He’s landed in some archaic, traditionalist hellhole. God help him.

Dean couldn't feel less like he belongs when Michael says a few words of thanks about his and Lilith's families gathering together, and asks them all to bow their heads in prayer. He shoots a panicked glance at Castiel, and Cas slips a hand into Dean's. He murmurs, "Just play along," and so Dean closes his eyes obediently as Michael rattles off standard stuff about thanking God for their food and delving into gratitude for Christ. It's all standard junk that he's heard before, until Michael also starts praying about showing "lost omegas" the way back to the light, to their duties they were born into as Eve was an omega and sinned for all of them. It sets his teeth on edge to hear it, the same crap he's heard all his life from politicians attempting to restrict omega rights and delegate decision-making to alphas. 

Seldom has he felt such relief like the relief he feels when Michael says, "In your name we pray, amen," and the chorus of amen from the rest of the dining room. When he opens his eyes, Castiel shoots him an apologetic look.

But hey, if there's anyone that should be able to understand what it's like to want to have nothing to do with your roots, it's Dean. So he squeezes Cas' hand before he breaks their fingers apart, and hopes that suffices as a show of support.

The food proves to be the best part of the entire fiasco. Dean orders the filet mignon and a metric fuckton of potatoes to go with it. Both he and the pup are dying by the time their plate is set steaming before them, and he digs in with abandon.

Castiel’s uncle-slash-stepdad (apparently the man swooped in after Cas’ biological dad kicked it) Zachariah eyes Dean from his place several seats down the table. Dean pretends not to hear him say, “Good gracious, what kind of omega did Castiel get pregnant?” and keeps eating, a little messier, because now he’s intent upon being a shit.

Castiel’s on his third glass of wine. Dean doesn’t notice until Cas sways in his seat and exhales just enough breath for Dean to smell the sour tang on his tongue. Glancing to check if anybody’s looking at them, he subtly props Cas up with his palm. He murmurs, “You’re kind of a lightweight, ain’t you?”

“Kind of,” Castiel says. He still orders another glass of wine to polish off the main course, and a fifth when they’re served dessert. Apparently, Dean is supposed to deny himself the luxury of dessert out of some weird-ass need to play along with omega diet theater. He refuses, and doesn’t give even half a shit when everyone stares at him cutting into his slice of fancy pie.

Besides, he needs to keep up his strength for the round of escorting-drunk-alpha that he’s going to be doing as soon as this crap is done with.

There’s mingling to be done after they finish eating, but only a few minutes into conversation with one of Lilith’s relatives – some kid named Del with thick glasses – the pup settles right into Dean’s bladder and he finds himself sprinting across the banquet hall to escape to the little omegas' room.

“Couldn’t cut dad a break for a night, could you?” mutters Dean, and fumbles with the fly of his dress slacks. He lets out a long sigh of relief when at last he empties the contents of his bladder into one of the pristine urinals in the omega restroom. It’s a pretty upscale deal in here. There’s even some bespectacled dude with a basket of intricately folded hand towels who’s trying not to look Dean in the eye as he relieves himself.

The soap doesn’t come in plastic dispensers, but in some kind of seashell-encrusted ceramic pumps beside each sink. It’s strong stuff, lemony-sage junk that Dean’s hands will probably smell like for a week. He accepts a towel from the dude in the corner and dries his fingers.

Wait. You’re supposed to tip these guys, aren’t you? Shoot, he doesn’t have any money.

“I don’t have any cash on me,” Dean says stupidly, when he hands back the dirty towel, “Let me run out and grab some from my alpha.”

“Sure, kid,” the guy gruffly says.

But whatever. Dean’s not a liar, even if he’s lots of other shitty things. He finds Cas laughing into some kind of cocktail with his smarmy brother Gabriel. He coughs and tugs at the hem of Cas’ suit jacket.

“Yes, Dean?”

“There’s some towel dude in the bathroom,” Dean says, “I think you’re supposed to tip them but I don’t have anything.”

Cas hands off his cocktail to Gabriel, who takes a discreet sip off of the top while Castiel drunkenly fumbles with his pockets and pulls out his leather wallet. He scratches his head and says, “Here,” and hands a hundred bill to Dean.

“Um. This is a hundred,” Dean says lamely.

“Yes it is,” agrees Castiel, “Go…do the thing.”

“All right. If you’re sure,” Dean hesitates and looks to Gabriel, “You saw him just throw a hundred at me, right? You’ll back me up if he forgets about doing this, right?”

“Sure thing, Dean-o,” Gabe agrees. He winks and takes another sip from Cas’ drink.

The bathroom-towel-guy looks surprised to see Dean again, and even more shocked to see such a big bill passed to him.

“This is a lot, kid,” he says.

Dean shrugs, “That’s what I said to him.”

He eyes Dean and guesses, “Mated into money, hm?”

“Not on purpose,” Dean says. And fine, he can be insulted. But he doesn’t like it when people insult Cas, because Cas is good. Cas doesn’t deserve the shit that his relatives and random-ass towel guys in fancy hotel bathrooms give him. He can’t say he loves Cas, because he hardly even knows him. But certainly he at least gives a shit about him, and giving a shit about somebody is the first step toward caring about them.

He can’t decide if caring about Castiel is a can of worms that he’s willing to open.

When Dean walks out of the bathroom, he smacks into somebody – Lucifer.

“Um. Hi,” he says.

“Hey there, Dean,” Lucifer smiles, “You know, you look awfully familiar. I think we may have a mutual acquaintance.”

“Probably not,” Dean hedges, “I don’t have a lot of friends.” Or any at all, except for Castiel.

“Oh, I think we do,” Lucifer says, “Do you know a man by the name of Alastair?”

The blood drains from Dean’s face. All at once he sees cold, hard eyes and feels knot after knot inside him. He feels leather splitting the skin of his back and thighs, the weight of manacles around his wrists, the heat of shame through every inch of his body when he remembers everything he did, how many alphas he presented to…the person he let Alastair turn him into.

A smile stretches Lucifer’s mouth. He cocks his head and remarks, “Ah. That’s what I thought.”

Dean shoves past him and walks briskly back into the dining room, humiliation filling his face. His whole body feels heavy.

“Cas,” he says when he steps back up beside him, “Can we please go?” He feels himself slip back into submission, asking to go back to the room instead of telling Cas that that’s what they’re doing.

Even totally plastered, Cas must gather that something’s wrong, because he sways a little on his feet and says, “Dean, are you all right?”

Dean shakes his head.

Castiel stumbles and announces to Gabriel with a tip of his empty cocktail glass, “Dean,” – he belches – “Dean and I are going upstairs. Tell mother that the pup is bothering Dean, will you? We’re indisposed.”

“Got your back, little brother,” Gabriel says, and claps Castiel’s shoulders.

Getting to the room is a process. Anxiety tingles from the tips of his fingers to the corners of his mind and Castiel can’t walk straight. He babbles on all the way to the elevator and keeps asking if Dean is okay, asks what happened, asks if there’s anything that he can do. Dean hushes him and shoulders Cas’ weight the entire distance to the suite. He takes the key card and slides it in.

The suite is a welcome sight to Dean after the night's events, though above this he'd prefer being back miles inside of the Rockies in Castiel's house, tucked up underneath the covers in Cas' bed, where it smells like them and he can garner comfort beyond hotel bleach, air fresheners, and the salt-scent of the air that comes through the windows. He closes the suite's door behind them awkwardly, trying to keep Castiel up on his feet and navigate around his his portruding belly getting in the way of everything.

When Castiel breaks from Dean's grip, he promptly trips his way to the bathroom, hangs his head over the toilet bowl, and vomits.

“Much better,” he says to the watery mess, “Dean, what happened?”

“It’s nothing,” Dean mutters, “You can’t hold your liquor, can you, alpha?”

“I dislike my family,” Castiel moans, cheek pressed against the toilet bowl.

“Yeah, me too,” Dean mutters, “Maybe we should start a club.”

Cas looks up at him, and a dose of guilt fills Dean immediately. He shouldn’t keep the truth, his truth, from Cas. Not all of it, at least. He should tell him about where he came from, where he’s been. He exhales and lowers his body onto the bathroom tile beside Castiel, sitting with his legs criss-crossed. He loosens his tie and casts it onto the bathroom counter before he dares to speak.

“S’okay,” Dean says, “I come from a shitty family too. My brother wasn’t so bad, but…he was an alpha like the rest of you guys. Omega gets hurt, they must’ve done something to deserve it. I did something stupid years back, landed me with a pimp and a damn hormone chip in my leg. Figure my family would say that’s my fault.”

“It’s not,” Castiel says, eyes glassy with drink, but still serious.

“It is, though,” Dean says.

Castiel shakes his head, “No. No, don’t think that, Dean.”

“Cas.”

“Whoever hurt you – I will kill them,” Castiel says. He bares his teeth and says into the toilet bowl, “Kill ‘em. You are good. Righteous. Anyone that hurt you…I can’t understand them.”

Dean lifts his brows, and after a beat, he rests his hand on Castiel’s back. The pungent smell of vomit still fills the bathroom and Castiel’s breaths echo, labored and frustrated as he hugs the toilet. He runs his palm over Cas’ spine. He hasn’t tried to comfort anyone in a long time. He used to try, back at Alastair’s, used to try and soothe the newer omegas trapped there. After a while, he gave up, except maybe if you count Kevin. But Dean doesn't know if Kevin's even still alive.

Now, here he is, rubbing the back of an inebriated alpha in a hotel bathroom.

“You’re really something,” Dean says.

He exhales, and after a second, he lets his head drop to Cas’ shoulder.