Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The storm came in like a slow breath turning into a scream.

It spilled from the ridgeline in aching pulses—thunder groaning like some ancient beast in mourning, lightning splitting the sky in jagged veins of fire. The rain didn’t fall so much as beat the ground senseless, soaking the roots of trees and flattening everything in its path. The forest below bent and howled, and Castiel stood in the doorway of his cabin like a man carved out of stone, sleeves soaked, hair sticking to his neck, one shoulder wedged against the frame as if the wind might knock him down too.

He didn’t move.

Not until the scent hit him.

Omega.

Hot and raw and wrong. Twisted with panic and blood and scent suppression patches half-melted by fever. It lanced through him like lightning—not down his spine but straight through his chest. It was the kind of smell that made most Alphas surge forward.

But Castiel’s body locked.

Just like it always did.

That’s what Alpha Instinct Reversal did. It caged you. Wrapped instinct in barbed wire and made it something unusable unless someone else—someone softer—opened the door.

And still—

Still.

Even frozen in place, he felt it. The scream inside his bones. The scream that said: someone needs you.

A thud broke the trance. Just outside. Something heavy.

Then—ragged breathing.

He turned on instinct, even though instinct had betrayed him more times than he could count.

The porch door flung inward with the wind.

And there he was.

The Omega.

Collapsed halfway inside the doorway like the storm had tried to swallow him and failed. His fingers—torn, dirty—scraped against the floorboards like he was still crawling even now. Blood smeared down one arm, soaking into denim. His jacket had been shredded by the forest, by the wind, by something worse. He was narrow-framed, too lean, too pale. And the heat coming off him wasn’t right. It was the kind that burned through the bones first.

Castiel couldn’t move.

His knees locked. His shoulders stiffened.

Every inch of him screamed protect, help, move, and still he stood like a coward, trembling with the weight of his own biology.

The Omega looked up, just barely. Eyes glazed. Lips cracked. His whole body shaking with the effort of simply existing.

“Help,” he rasped.

One word.

Just one.

And something in Cas shattered.

The paralysis broke like glass hit with a hammer, and he was on the floor beside him before the word had fully passed between them.

“May I?” he asked, voice hoarse, heart hammering.

The Omega nodded. Not even a nod, just a twitch of the chin. But it was permission.

And Castiel moved.

He pulled the Omega into his arms gently, one hand cradling his skull, the other already checking for warmth, for pulse, for breath. The scent of blood and heat nearly knocked him over.

“You’re burning up,” Cas whispered, guiding them inside, kicking the door shut with a foot, rain pounding behind them like a war drum. “You’re in heat, but it’s starved. It’s wrong. You’re not supposed to feel this alone.”

The Omega didn’t answer. He sagged against Cas’s chest, shivering, unconscious. Gone.

Cas worked quickly, his mind calculating and soft at once. The couch became a place of triage. He laid the Omega down, whispering each step:

“May I take off your jacket?”

“May I clean the blood?”

“May I lift your shirt?”

Nods—weak, barely-there—guided every move.

He cleaned what wounds he could. Bruises marbled his ribs. Shallow cuts lined his hands. And there, on the inside of his forearm—half-peeled suppression patch, barely clinging to skin.

Cas peeled it off gently, hating the way the Omega flinched even in sleep.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, thumb stroking the curve of his wrist.

The Omega wasn’t breathing right.

Cas felt it. The shallow rise, the too-long pause. He pressed two fingers to the side of his neck.

Weak.

No, no, no.

He tilted the Omega’s head carefully, opened the airway, mouth to mouth.

One breath. Two.

“Stay with me,” Cas murmured, giving compressions, eyes burning. “You asked for help. Don’t take that back.”

And then—

A sputter.

The Omega’s back arched off the couch as he gasped, choked, coughed.

Air rattled in. Not enough.

Cas caught him again, held him up, pressing their foreheads together.

“Breathe with me,” he begged. “Come back. Please.”

The Omega drew another ragged breath, this one deeper.

Then another.

His body sagged, finally, and Cas caught him fully this time. Not as a psychiatrist. Not as an Alpha trying to survive his own damage.

But as something else.

As someone who didn’t want to lose this stranger.

Cas whispered to him, even as he passed out again.

“You’re not alone. Not anymore. I swear it.”

He stayed kneeling beside him until the fire burned down to embers.

Chapter Text

The sky had already gone dark when Dean crossed the tree line, but he didn’t stop to think about it.

He couldn’t.

Every breath felt like it might be his last. Not from the ache in his ribs—though they burned—but from the way fear hollowed out everything inside him. Like the air had to make space for the panic.

The cold was everywhere. His shirt clung to him, soaked through with rain, sweat, tears and blood. His hands shook so badly he couldn’t tell if they were cold or just broken. His arms still carried the raw bite of iron from where Alastair’s cuffs had chafed through skin.

Don’t fall. Just keep going.

He slipped on a patch of wet leaves, slammed down hard on one knee, barely caught himself with a trembling hand.

His teeth rattled as he tried to rise again.

Not far now. You saw a chimney. You saw light. Someone’s there.

The woods around him blurred with motion and shadows. Thunder rolled deep through the mountains behind him. The wind caught in the trees like a scream too big for one throat.

Dean kept moving.

He didn’t remember making the decision to run.

He just knew it was the first time in months—years?—that Alastair had fallen asleep hard enough for Dean to get to the chain’s lock without getting caught.

He’d dislocated his thumb getting out.

There were still scratch marks across his wrists. He could feel blood dripping down his palm. He hadn’t looked. Didn’t need to.

He’d tried the police. Twice.

Didn’t matter.

Alastair always found him first.

John always sent him back.

And so he ran.

Alone. Mated against his will. Rejected in every way that counted.

No one had come.

No one ever would.

The light in the window was a miracle. The flicker behind the curtains—soft, warm, unreal. A cabin. Or a dream.

Dean stumbled toward it, his feet dragging through mud, the rain soaking through to bone. His lips cracked from the cold. His throat had long since gone dry. But the scent in the air—

Alpha.

Close.

He should’ve turned back.

But something in him whispered, If he kills you, at least you won’t be going back.

He reached the porch steps and collapsed.

His shoulder struck wood. His temple followed. Pain flared—distant, almost kind. At least it let him stop running.

His fingers clawed at the floorboards. He tried to pull himself up, but his body wasn’t listening anymore.

The door opened.

Dean didn’t look up at first. Couldn’t.

But he heard someone freeze.

A breath caught.

Silence pressed in like a vice.

Dean forced his head to lift.

A man stood there. Broad, dark-haired. The storm haloed around him.

His eyes were wide.

Alpha.

Dean’s voice was almost gone. He barely got the word out.

“…Help.”

He saw something break in the man’s expression.

A second later, the Alpha was on the ground beside him. And Dean didn’t feel afraid.

Not this time.

“May I?” the man asked, voice barely more than a breath.

Dean nodded. Or maybe twitched. He wasn’t sure.

Then warmth—strong hands gathering him up, arms steady but gentle. The smell of cedar and thunder. Clean clothes. No cruelty. No hunger.

The man carried him inside like he weighed nothing.

Dean tried to hold on. Tried not to pass out.

But the last thing he felt was a thumb brushing over his wrist.

And a voice—

“You’re not supposed to feel this alone.”

Then black.

Then silence.

Chapter Text

Dean passed out in Cas's arms before they even reached the couch.

Not a dramatic collapse. Not a slow drift. Just—gone. Like a candle blown out by a hand too cruel.

Castiel didn’t panic.

He didn’t have the luxury.

He laid the Omega down carefully—so carefully—his hands already moving the way his instincts had always known how. The couch creaked beneath the added weight, but it held. Dean didn’t stir.

“Stay with me,” Cas murmured, and he wasn’t sure if it was a command or a plea.

The scent coming off the Omega was wrong. It was supposed to be warmth, comfort, soft like apples or honey or salt on the breeze. This was burnt edges. Acid and blood and—beneath it all—submission. But not the willing kind.

He crouched beside the couch, knees popping from the strain, his body tight with reverence. He reached for the tattered jacket, his fingers already on the zipper.

Then he remembered.

“May I take this off, sweetheart?” he whispered, knowing Dean was unconscious, but not willing to take anything from him without permission.

Dean twitched.

Not enough to wake. Not enough to stop him.

But Cas took it as a yes.

He slid the jacket down over bruised shoulders. Swore quietly. Beneath it—purpled arms, a split at the elbow, a deep abrasion across the collarbone. Not old wounds. Not healed.

His hands shook.

Who did this to you?

He stripped Dean gently, pausing to whisper every request like a prayer.

“May I clean the cuts?”

“May I lift your shirt?”

“May I check your pulse again?”

The nods never came. But the stillness didn’t fight him either. And that, for now, was enough.

Cas soaked a rag in warm water and cleaned every visible injury with trembling care. Dean’s ribs were visible through the thin stretch of skin across his torso. There was a black bruise under his right arm—sharp like a boot print.

The scent was failing again.

Heat was pouring off him in waves, but it was all wrong. A survival heat. Forced, suppressed too long. No Alpha should’ve been anywhere near him—not like this. Not without gentleness. Not without love.

Cas’s throat closed.

And yet—he was the one here. The one Dean had spoken to.

The one he asked for.

Cas pressed two fingers to Dean’s neck again.

Still weak.

He leaned over, tilted Dean’s head to the side. Checked his airway.

No breath.

“No—no, no, no—”

Cas pinched Dean’s nose gently, sealed their mouths, and gave two full, slow breaths. Dean’s chest rose, but didn’t stay up. His pulse fluttered, then dipped.

Another breath. Another.

And another.

“Come on, wounded bird,” Cas begged. “You asked me for help. Don’t leave me now.”

Dean shuddered. A gasp rattled through his chest.

Then a cough. Wet. Violent.

Cas turned him quickly on his side as he vomited rainwater and bile onto the towels Cas had spread across the floor.

It was a terrible sound. But it was alive.

Cas exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours. He cleaned Dean’s face gently, wiping the mess away, brushing the hair off his brow.

“Good,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good, omega. Stay with me.”

He stroked his hand down Dean’s back, then settled beside the couch, letting his body remain close but not touching. Only when Dean stirred, half-waking with a weak noise in his throat, did Cas lean in and whisper:

“I’ll be right here. I won’t leave you, not even for a second. You’re safe now. I swear it.”

Dean’s fingers twitched—reaching, just barely.

Cas didn’t hesitate.

He offered his hand.

Dean’s curled around his like it had always been meant to.

Chapter Text

When Dean woke, it was to the smell of woodsmoke and warmth.

Not sweat. Not cheap cologne. Not the copper tang of his own blood. But cedar, ash, and something soft. Like flannel in summer. Something that felt like safety.

His body hurt everywhere.

Not the sharp pain of punishment. This was deeper. Bruises blooming under skin. A throb in his ribs that pulsed like a warning. His wrist ached from where the cuff had dug into bone. His throat—

God, his throat.

He swallowed and choked on nothing.

For a second, panic seized him.

Alastair. The chains. The sound of boots on the stairs.

He curled instinctively, already pushing himself toward the nearest wall. He didn’t care where he was—he just needed a corner. Needed to brace himself. Make himself small.

Then he heard it.

A voice.

Low. Careful.

Not barking orders. Not mocking.

Not Alastair.

“Omega, look at me,” the voice said softly. “It's okay. You’re safe.”

Dean froze.

Slowly—shaking—he turned his head. His shoulder screamed, but he forced the movement anyway.

There, across the room, a man was crouched beside the fireplace. An Alpha. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair mussed like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times in one night. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His hands were chapped. And his eyes—

Dean flinched.

The Alpha didn’t move.

Didn’t even blink.

“I won’t come closer unless you ask,” he said gently. “Not unless you tell me I can.”

Dean stared. It didn’t compute. No Alpha ever asked.

“I’m Castiel,” the man said. “You came here last night. You were bleeding. You knocked. You said… ‘help.’ That’s all I know.”

Dean swallowed.

He looked down at his hands—bandaged. Clean. The bruises on his arms had been tended to. The cuts on his wrists were covered with gauze.

He wasn’t chained.

The floor beneath him was warm. A blanket tucked around his legs.

His scent—

Dean inhaled.

Alastair was gone.

His own scent was still a mess. Sour with fear, heavy with confusion, but not masked with suppressant anymore. And it was still his. Not tampered with. Not… not marked.

He lifted his gaze again.

The Alpha—Castiel—was still across the room. Kneeling now. Palms flat on the floor.

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” Cas said softly. “I just wanted you to wake up to quiet.”

Dean stared at him for a long time. Then—

“You didn’t mark me?” His voice was barely a rasp.

Cas shook his head slowly. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Dean’s throat worked.

“No Alpha’s ever…” He couldn’t finish. His voice broke. “They never wait.”

Castiel's jaw clenched. “They should’ve.”

Dean looked down again.

His hands were trembling.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

Castiel didn’t respond.

“I ran. He’ll find me. Dad—he—he always sends me back.”

Dean’s shoulders started to shake.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I tried to go to the police. I tried—I tried—”

He couldn’t finish. The tears came too fast.

He pressed his forehead to his knees and shook silently, trying not to breathe too loudly, too messily. Like maybe if he could just keep it quiet enough, this would pass. Maybe Castiel would let him stay just one more day.

Then—

“I’m going to ask something,” Castiel said quietly. “And you can say no.”

Dean couldn’t speak. He barely nodded.

“May I come closer?”

Dean’s breath hitched.

He hesitated.

Then—finally—he nodded.

Castiel crossed the room slowly, staying low, his hands out like he didn’t want to startle a wounded animal. Maybe he didn’t. Dean felt like a wounded animal. Like something broken in the underbrush.

When Castiel reached him, he didn’t touch. He just sat beside him. Close, but not touching.

Dean couldn’t help it.

He turned and leaned into him.

And Castiel caught him like he’d been waiting forever.

He wrapped his arms around Dean’s shoulders, careful of every bandage. He tucked Dean against his chest and pressed his scent—cool and grounding—into the air around them.

Dean clung to him.

And for the first time in a long, long time, he wasn’t afraid of the arms holding him.

“May I scent you?” Castiel asked, his voice shaking.

Dean nodded into his shirt.

Castiel leaned in and pressed his nose gently to the side of Dean’s neck. His lips brushed skin—not biting, not claiming. Just breathing him in.

“I won’t let him take you,” he whispered. “You asked for help. I won’t fail you.”

Dean closed his eyes.

He didn’t believe in rescue. Not really.

But for the first time, something in him whispered:

Maybe. Maybe this time, I don’t have to go back.

Then—soft, so soft—it came out of him like a secret:

“Dean. My name’s Dean.”

Castiel’s breath hitched.

He pulled him closer, holding him like a prayer.

“No one will hurt you when I’m here, Dean,” he whispered.

Chapter Text

Cas didn’t move, even after Dean gave permission.

Not for a few seconds. Not until he could trust his hands not to shake, not to press too hard, not to wrap around this trembling Omega like he belonged to him already.

Because Dean didn’t.

And Cas had no right to wish otherwise.

Still—Dean had nodded. Had looked at him, breathing like it hurt, eyes blown wide with fear, and nodded.

-May I come closer?

-Yes.

Cas had crossed the room slowly, keeping his body low, his palms open to the air like he was approaching something sacred. Not a patient. Not a project. A boy. A soul. Someone who hadn’t been looked at gently in a very, very long time.

When he got close enough to feel the warmth bleeding from Dean’s skin, he sat beside him and didn’t touch. Not until Dean folded like a wounded bird and tipped forward—into him.

And Cas caught him.

Carefully. Fully. Arms wrapped around him like a cradle. One palm steady against his spine, the other gently bracing the back of Dean’s neck. He felt everything at once. Bruises. Thinness. Shivering. Panic still clinging to his skin like scent. The weight of survival so dense that it curled inside his own chest, too.

Dean smelled like withered orchids and rusted iron. Blood and fear and something underneath it all so soft that it made Cas ache. The kind of scent no one had ever protected. A scent that had always been punished just for existing.

Cas held him tighter.

Not possessive—not yet.

Just… anchoring.

Just enough to say, I’ve got you, if you want to be got.

Dean trembled in his arms for a long time before Cas said anything. Even now, he asked first.

“May I scent you?”

There was no flinch. Just a small nod. The slightest lean.

Cas exhaled, careful not to breathe too deep—like if he took in too much at once, he’d drown.

He leaned in and pressed his face to the side of Dean’s neck, breathing him in softly. No mark. No pressure. Just his lips against skin, reverent, gentle.

Dean let him.

His whole body slumped, and Cas felt the weight of it. Not a burden. A choice. Dean was letting him.

“I won’t let him take you,” Cas whispered. “You asked for help. I won’t fail you.”

Dean didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to.

Cas felt the words anyway—in the way Dean's fists curled weakly into his shirt, in the way his forehead tucked beneath Cas’s chin like it had always belonged there.

He held him for a long time. Long enough for the storm outside to soften. Long enough for the hearth to crackle low with woods. Long enough for the ache in his arms to fade into something else—something quiet. Something like peace.

Then Dean spoke.

Quiet. So quiet Cas almost thought he imagined it.

“Dean. My name’s Dean.”

His heart cracked wide open.

Dean.

Cas closed his eyes.

It was the first real thing this Omega had given him. A name. A self. A choice.

And it meant everything.

He tightened his arms just slightly—so Dean would know he was listening, would always listen—and pressed a kiss to the side of his head.

“No one will hurt you when I’m here, Dean,” he whispered.

He didn’t say if you let me. He didn’t say unless you send me away.

But the truth was there.

He couldn’t move unless Dean said so.

He couldn’t protect him unless Dean let him.

The condition had rules. It punished instinct. Made his body betray his own heart.

And if someone came—if Alastair found him—Cas would be frozen in place unless Dean gave the word.

He would watch unless Dean said yes.

The thought made him sick.

He didn’t know how to ask. Not yet. Not while Dean was still shaking in his arms, still bleeding from whatever horrors had dragged him here.

So for now—Cas just rocked him. Slowly. Carefully. His arms a circle, his scent a net.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” he whispered. “You’re safe. You’re safe.”

And Dean did.

Slow. Uneven. But he did.

He stayed pressed close, warm and real and alive. His fingers still clung to Cas’s sleeve like he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

And Cas let him.

For as long as Dean needed.

Forever, if he’d let him.

Chapter Text

The fire in the hearth burned low, filling the cabin with a golden glow that softened every edge. Outside, the rain was finally thinning to a mist, the storm’s rage giving way to a fragile calm. Inside, Cas moved with the same fragile care, as if one wrong sound would shatter Dean’s thin thread of safety.

He knelt in front of the couch where Dean sat, bundled in a blanket but still shaking faintly.

“Dean,” Cas said softly, voice as steady as he could make it, “May I wash you? I need to make sure your wounds stay clean. No germs. No infection.”

Dean’s eyes, still glassy with exhaustion, met his. For a moment Cas feared he’d refuse. But then, with a tiny nod, Dean whispered, “Okay.”

The bathroom was warm from the steam Cas had prepared. Dean perched on the counter, shoulders hunched, clutching the towel Cas had wrapped around him. The omega looked like a shadow of himself—too pale, too thin, and still trembling from the remnants of panic.

Cas kept his hands slow, his voice gentler than the water he poured.
“May I lift your sleeve?”
“Yes.”
“May I clean this cut?”
“…yes.”

He washed away every trace of dirt and blood, careful not to hurt him. Every flinch made Cas pause, his thumb stroking soothing circles against uninjured skin.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I’ll be so careful with you.”

Dean stayed in his underwear, and Cas never looked anywhere he shouldn’t. He only worked with reverence, drying each patch of skin and wrapping the towel back around him as if Dean might break in his hands.

When he was done, Cas crouched to meet Dean’s eyes.
“May I help you to the guest room?”

Dean’s voice was barely audible. “…please.”

The guest room smelled faintly of orange blossom. Cas guided Dean to sit on the bed and handed him the folded clothes waiting there.
“They’re mine,” Cas said softly, offering the oversized sweatshirt and loose sweatpants. “They’ll keep you warm… and they’ll let me check your bandages easily if I need to.”

Cas straightened the blanket on the bed without thinking. For a second, he almost stayed—but instead he left briefly to make food.

Dean’s fingers brushed the fabric like it was something precious. He said nothing, only nodded and dressed, moving slow.

He returned with a simple plate: a tuna sandwich and a glass of juice.
“You need protein and vitamins,” he said, setting it down gently.

Dean gave him the smallest smile, a crack in his guarded expression. “Thank you.”

They ate together in silence. No words, just the quiet sounds of chewing, the clink of glass, the hum of firelight. Their eyes met sometimes—Dean’s uncertain but grateful, Cas’s steady and soft. Neither wanted to break the peace.

When they finished, Cas lingered near the doorway.
“You can sleep here, Dean,” he said quietly. “Or…” his voice lowered, “…you can sleep in my room. I’ll stay awake and keep watch. You won’t be alone either way.”

Dean’s hands tightened in the blanket. His voice was nearly a whisper. “I… I don’t want to be alone.”

Cas’s chest ached. He nodded. “Then stay with me.”

The couch was warm from the fire when they settled there. Dean sat beside him first, but within minutes, the omega’s head tipped to Cas’s shoulder, his breathing slow and uneven.

Cas wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. Even asleep, Dean nuzzled into Cas’s throat, his scent trembling with comfort and the faintest threads of trust.

Cas shifted carefully, letting Dean lie against his chest, head over his heartbeat. His hand rested protectively on Dean’s shoulder, the other smoothing through his hair.

Dean murmured in his sleep, nose brushing against Cas’s neck. Cas bent down, pressing the softest kiss to his hair.

“You’re safe, sweetheart,” he whispered.

But as the fire burned lower, Cas’s gaze drifted to the darkened windows. The storm might have passed, but the world outside was still dangerous. Whoever had hurt Dean could still come. Cas’s own body—his instincts—still carried the cruel lock of his condition.

He would protect Dean with everything he had.
If only Dean would let him.

Holding the small, trembling omega against his chest, Cas closed his eyes, letting himself rest for just a moment.
Dean’s trust was fragile. His safety was temporary.

And something in Cas whispered: This peace won’t last forever.

Dean’s nose pressed closer to his throat even in sleep, seeking the scent that promised safety.
Cas tightened his arms.
“I’ll keep you safe,” he breathed into the night.
“No matter what’s coming.”

Chapter Text

Dean fell asleep in Cas’s arms the way fragile glass finally gives—slow, trembling, and yet trusting. Every little sigh against Cas’s collarbone felt like a confession: I’m letting you hold me because I believe you won’t hurt me.

Cas didn’t move.
Not when his back ached from the couch. Not when the fire died to a faint glow. Not even when his own exhaustion burned behind his eyes.

He stayed.

Dean’s breath hitched sometimes, like nightmares tried to drag him back. Each time, Cas whispered against his hair, “I’m here, sweetheart. Just me. You’re safe.” And Dean would relax, his fingers clutching Cas’s shirt as if clinging to the promise in those words.

Only when dawn softened the edges of the room did Cas’s eyes finally close.

Sleep betrayed him.

In his dream, morning light spilled into the kitchen. Dean’s soft humming floated through the air as he padded barefoot across the floor, swallowed in Cas’s sweater. Cas smiled faintly, watching from the doorway. Then—

Dean slipped.
The sound of his head hitting the counter cracked through the air like lightning. Blood splattered bright against tile. Dean crumpled.

Cas lunged—except he didn’t move. The syndrome shackled his limbs, locked his body while his instincts howled in agony.

“Dean!” His voice shredded his throat.

Dean’s green eyes blinked weakly, lips forming a broken help.
Cas screamed, helpless, as the light faded from the omega he loved.

“DEAN!”

Cas woke with a violent jolt, heart slamming against his ribs. Sweat beaded at his temples. The couch was empty.

“No…” The word scraped from his chest. He shot upright, breath sharp, searching the room with wild eyes. The blanket Dean had slept under lay crumpled and cold.

“Dean?” His voice cracked and wavered, panic clawing through him. For a terrifying moment, he couldn’t move—fear rooting him to the spot.

Then—
Soft footsteps.
A low hum. Metallica, almost tuneless, drifting from the kitchen.

Relief flooded him so fast it left him weak. He pushed through the fear, stumbling toward the sound.

Dean was at the counter, humming softly as he spread butter on toast. The sleeves of Cas’s sweater swallowed his hands; his hair was messy, his cheeks still pale but warmer than last night.

For a moment, Cas just stood there, chest heaving, drinking in the sight of him alive and safe. Then he moved without thinking, crossing the room in two strides.

He wrapped his arms around Dean from behind, caging him gently but firmly against his chest. His body trembled as he buried his face in the curve of Dean’s neck, inhaling deeply. His scent flooded with panic and relief—sharp cedar wrapped in desperation.

Dean startled, a small gasp leaving his lips. But the moment he caught the frantic thrum in Cas’s chest and the storm of emotions pouring through the alpha’s scent, his body softened. Instinctively, he leaned back into the embrace.

Cas’s breath shuddered against his skin. His voice was rough and low, words spilling against Dean’s ear.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, almost broken. “Thank God you’re here. Thank God…”

Dean melted completely, letting Cas’s arms hold him tight, letting himself be wrapped in that trembling strength. Inside, his omega instincts recognized the alpha’s fear, the raw need to protect. And they answered without hesitation—you can hold me as close as you need to.

He turned slowly in Cas’s arms, his hands resting on the alpha’s chest.
“I’m here, Cas,” he soothed softly. “I just wanted to make breakfast for us.”

Cas cupped Dean’s jaw with one hand, thumb brushing his cheekbone like something precious. His other arm banded around Dean’s waist, pulling him close enough that their foreheads almost touched. He dipped his head and breathed in deeply at the crook of Dean’s neck, letting his lips graze skin—soft, reverent.

Dean’s hands slid to Cas’s shoulders, holding back tightly. His voice was gentle, steady:
“I’m okay. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, alpha. You have me. I’m here with you.”

Cas exhaled slowly, the tension in his muscles easing as those words settled inside him. He pressed a lingering kiss to the side of Dean’s neck, not claiming, just grateful.

The kitchen stayed quiet as they moved together, finishing breakfast side by side. Cas stayed close, brushing against Dean in small, grounding touches—a hand at his lower back when he passed, fingers steadying his wrist when he reached for a plate. Dean let him, instinctively leaning into every point of contact.

They didn’t need many words. Every look, every small movement said enough.

And as they finally sat down to eat, Cas glanced at Dean—soft and real and alive beside him—and thought, you’re mine to protect, sweetheart. Always.

Dean met his gaze, a faint, shy smile tugging at his lips, as if he’d heard the thought.

Cas reached across the table, brushed his knuckles over Dean’s hand, and whispered—just for him—
“You know I’ll never let anything take you from me, right?”

Dean’s fingers curled around his, quiet and sure.
“I know,” he said. “Because I won’t let go either.”

And for the first time since the storm, the cabin felt like home.