Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The office smells like paper and old ink. Outside the window, someone is shouting, but the sound fades behind thick glass.

“We’re so close,” the woman says. Her voice is kind, excited, hopeful. “We just need something concrete.”

The man across from her doesn’t answer. He’s hunched forward, forearms resting on a battered folder that’s been opened and closed a dozen times.

“I’m working on it,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He looks at the worn envelope in his lap, each letter of the address written down carefully. The ink has smudged where his thumb pressed too hard.

“You think you’ll get a response this time?” she asks, not unkindly, though he can hear the pitiful undertone in her voice.

“Maybe.” He doesn’t look up. “But if not... I’m starting to wonder if any of them made it through.”

“We can’t wait much longer,” the woman says, laying a hand on his shoulder. The man sighs. This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. But he can’t give up yet. He has to try, at least one more time.

“I know.”

Chapter Text

The sun’s not even up, and already Dean’s on edge.

The camp hums with pre-dawn activity. Boots hitting the gravel, murmured reports, the strong scent of coffee mingling unpleasantly with that of thirty-something men that haven’t had a proper shower in way too long.

There’s an itch under his skin that hasn’t left for days. A buzz behind his eyes like a radio stuck between stations. Every laugh sounds like a challenge, and every scent cuts too sharp, somehow. He’s not in rut – can’t be, not with the strong suppressors they make everyone take. But something’s off, and the fact that Dean can’t put a finger on what, exactly, is grinding his gears even more.

He adjusts his collar like it’s suddenly too tight, even though the morning air hasn’t heated up yet. His skin feels wrong - damp under the arms, cold on his back.

Maybe he’s just tired. Who is he kidding, of course he is. Can’t remember the last time he wasn’t, if he’s honest.

He didn't sleep much. Again. Dreams kept yanking him halfway awake: flashes of mud, barking orders, shots ringing out. Could’ve been last week’s firefight, or one from years ago. He’s learned not to read too much into the shit his brain throws at him in the dark.

The war’s been dragging on for what feels like forever. Technically, it’s “only” been eight years, but time doesn’t mean much out here, not when every day starts and ends the same. Missions, reports, deaths. Wash, rinse, repeat.

Dean followed his father into service, same way Sam ran in the opposite direction as fast as his long legs would allow him. Dean doesn’t resent him for it, not really. He never wanted to be a hero – that’s not why he’s doing this. He just figured someone had to do it, and he was already built for it. Alpha, sharp shooter, high aggression rating. He ticked every box they wanted. Raised as a soldier through and through, and for some reason, he’s always taken better to dad’s military routines than Sammy.

If Sam could hear him, he’d be adamant that that’s not all he is. That all this “alpha posturing”, as he liked to call it despite being one himself, isn’t all there is to it. That it’s unhealthy, probably.

But Sam can’t hear him, because he hasn’t talked to him in almost a year. Because, last Dean heard, he’s been released from the cell they held him in since he was dumb enough to talk to the wrong person about his opinions about the war, but he doesn’t know what happened to him after. Not like he writes letters, is it?

For a long time, Dean has thought their father was right, about how Sam doesn’t know what he’s talking about. About how what dad was doing, what Dean is now doing, was a good thing. Saving civilians, killing threats. But now?

They lose men every week. Sometimes every day. And for what? An inch of territory they’ll give up next month anyway?

Across the courtyard, someone’s arguing over comms, bringing him out of his dark thoughts. He thinks it’s Brady, judging by the way the annoying voice grates on Dean’s nerves. He only catches the tail end of it, “supply drop’s late again”, and clenches his jaw. Of course it is.

But there’s no way to go but forward. So, he checks in, runs through drills, forces a joke or two with the guys. His boots hit the gravel too loud, his laugh’s a little too sharp, but no one calls him on it. They wouldn’t. Not Dean Winchester, not the good little Alpha soldier. He’s earned too many stripes for anyone to say anything.

By midday, he’s got a headache blooming behind his right eye. He chugs water, closing his eyes as some spills from his lips and runs along the line of his throat, but it doesn’t help. His uniform sticks to his back like it’s trying to fuse with his spine. He pulls it away from his skin and grimaces at the damp fabric. He swears it’s getting hotter every day, though the weather reports haven’t changed.

In the mess tent, the air’s thick with sweat and engine oil and something vaguely edible. Dean gets in line, tray in hand, and grunts a greeting at the cook, some scrawny civvie who’s been filling in since that last convoy went up in flames.

“Spiced meat again?” Dean groans. It’s not really a question.

“Would you rather have unspiced dirt?” the cook says, rolling his eyes. Dean grinds his teeth, nostrils flaring. There’s a miasma of scents in the air, but he can’t get a read on anything specific coming from the cook. Beta, then. Dean smirks, slow and cold, as his eyes harden. What a fool.

“I’d be careful running that mouth of yours,” Dean says, voice low. “Would be a shame if somebody cut your tongue out in your sleep.”

The cook freezes mid-motion. He’s younger than Dean realized - maybe early twenties, at most. Too clean. Too soft. A civvie, not built for fronts like this – not even in the kitchen. His bravado is already gone, replaced by something nervous and shaky behind the eyes.

It’s not an unusual reaction to Dean, though it’s relatively new. For just a second, he feels bad about scaring the shit out of this guy, because he’s probably just as annoyed about being here as Dean pretends not to be, even though he doesn’t have to deal with cleaning blood off his shoes and never even stood face to face with the barrel of a gun.

It passes quickly, though, drowned by the ever-present stench of barely suppressed Alpha aggression from the soldiers around him, and Dean’s smirk widens as he finally smells something on the cook: fear.

“Hey, man, it was j-just a joke,” he says quickly, but Dean’s already stepped forward, tray forgotten in one hand.

“Yeah?” Dean growls. “You got orders to play clown on duty?”

The cook visibly shrinks behind the counter. His hand slips on the ladle, spilling greasy broth onto the metal. Dean watches it trickle toward the edge. For a second, the urge to leap over the table, grab him by the collar, make him understand, it sings under his skin like static.

“Winchester.”

The voice is sharp, clipped. Dean turns to see Lieutenant Masters standing near the entrance, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Is there a problem?”

Dean straightens automatically, years of training kicking in as he defers to his superior. “No, sir.”

“Then grab your food and move along.”

Dean doesn’t look back at the cook as he swipes the tray off the counter and walks to the far end of the tent. He can feel eyes on him, subtle, cautious. Like a caged dog that’s started to growl.

He sits down alone. Shoves a forkful of meat into his mouth and chews like it might keep him from biting something else. Huh. At least the new guy knows to actually use freaking salt in his food. Still, it barely tastes like anything as Dean shovels it down, hyperaware of the set of Master’s grey eyes burning a hole through his back.

After dinner, he steps outside for a smoke. The air’s thick with dust and heat, the sun nothing more than a dull bruise on the horizon. He leans against the edge of the supply tent, closes his eyes for just a second. The nicotine does jack shit for his nerves.

Inside, someone’s laughing too loud. Two tables scrape against each other. Someone shouts. The snap of a tray falling. Dean flinches, then looks around quickly if anyone noticed. There’s no one around. Good. He can’t show any weakness – not ever, as an Alpha, but especially not here. He’s buzzing under his skin again.

He tosses the cigarette, heads for his cot. Strips off his shirt, stares at the tags dangling from his necklace. Even the slight metallic sound of them hitting each other with his movements is making his pulse fasten.

It didn’t used to be like this. Hell, Sammy would throw a fit if he saw how short Dean’s fuse has gotten lately. Probably call it a “trauma response”, or something therapist-y like that.

Dean snorts, shakes his head. Whatever. He can’t afford giving in to his petty problems, not with the way they’ve been losing ground lately. Not when it’s not only his life on the line, but those of his fellow soldiers as well.

Tomorrow’s another recon run: standard sweep through contested zone 3D, which hasn’t been “standard” in months. Half the last squad came back limping, and one of them didn’t come back at all.

He lies down and forces his eyes shut.

Chapter Text

Dean dresses slowly, tugging on his gear like it’s fighting him. His shirt clings to the sweat already beading at the base of his spine. Everything smells too strong: diesel fuel, old canvas, someone’s lingering shampoo from the bunk next door.

There’s a dull throb behind his eyes like he’s already two hours deep into a migraine, and he stumbles toward the mess tent with only one of his eyes fully open, making a beeline for the coffee.

He scoffs at himself as he stands in line. Big, strong Alpha, supposed to defend his country, his men, and can’t even function without a cup of joe.

It burns as he gulps it down, and no matter how much Dean’s trying to convince his brain of at least believing in the placebo effect, it doesn’t help shit.

At the armory, he finds one of the newer soldiers fussing with his rifle strap. Rookie - barely twenty, if that. Probably someone’s nephew who tested high on aggression and got a fast-track deployment. They’ve had more and more of those – it doesn’t exactly speak in their favor that the higher-ups seem to be running out of actual professionally trained soldiers to send to the front.

“Strap’s twisted,” Dean says, not unkindly.

The kid fumbles harder. “I, I got it, sir.”

Without a word, Dean snatches the strap maybe a bit more forcefully than necessary, fixes it in two swift motions, and shoves the rifle back into the kid’s chest. “Don’t die because you were too proud to ask for help.”

The rookie looks like he wants to say something, but Dean’s already moving past him. His hands won’t stop clenching. He chalks it up to caffeine and nerves.

But he can’t care about that, not right now. They’re leaving in ten, and it’s not only his ass on the line if things go sideways.

“Get it together, Winchester,” he growls at himself, tucked away behind his tent, smoking a cigarette that tastes like shit and keeps going out because of the rain they got three days ago.

✪✪✪

Recon team Alpha-2 is six men strong, including Dean. The youngest – Tran - is barely shaving. The oldest is Lafitte, a sniper with zero patience for bullshit and even less scent. Dean likes him, mostly because Lafitte knows when to shut up, and because the fact that he’s risen through the ranks despite being a Beta means he’s actually got talent.

They’re moving through the outer zone on foot, their heavy footsteps and the clinking of their gear the only thing disturbing what would be an eerie silence.

“I still don’t get why we’re sweeping this sector again,” grumbles Walker, falling into step behind Dean. “Didn’t Bravo already hit this last week?”

“Command says we double-check.”

“Because that worked so well last time,” Walker mutters.

“You wanna go argue with Command?” Dean snaps over his shoulder. “Be my guest.”

Walker, blessedly, shuts up. Dean doesn’t understand why everyone here always feels the need to argue. To question orders. He’s learned at five years old that all that accomplishes is a bloody nose and no answers whatsoever.

Lafitte catches Dean’s eye for a moment and gives the smallest shake of his head: cool it. Dean clenches his jaw and looks away, pretends he doesn’t see it even though he knows they both know he did. He’s also aware that Lafitte means well, that it must be bad when even a Beta can pick up his foul mood without the aid of scents betraying his emotions, but it just serves to irritate him further.

The terrain is uneven, rocky, and covered in dust from the last shelling. Everything smells burnt. Dean’s sweating through his gear already. His rifle strap is digging into the muscle of his shoulder, and the weight of it is making his arm ache.

They move in formation, tight and quiet. Or at least, they try. Every time someone shifts their grip or adjusts their vest, it sounds ten times louder than it should. Dean’s ears are ringing, or maybe just over-tuned. He can’t tell anymore.

“Sergeant, you okay?” Tran asks from the rear. His voice is soft, almost unsure. Kid’s probably trying to show initiative.

“Fine,” Dean snaps, too sharp, too fast. How many times has he told them not to ask stupid questions? To only keep focused on the mission?

Tran goes quiet. Dean breathes out slowly through his nose. He’s not mad at the kid, not really. He’s just… God, it’s so freaking hot, with the sun burning down mercilessly, dust sticking to his skin. Sweat beads along his spine, soaking into the back of his shirt. His vest feels like it’s glued to him and there’s a sour taste in his mouth, metallic and strange.

Every scent around him is loud. Dirt, gun oil, old blood baked into the rocks from weeks ago. Someone’s chewing gum and the obnoxious smell of mint sticks to Dean’s nose.

“Hey, Roman,” Walker mutters behind him. Dean doesn’t know if it’s just his heightened awareness picking up words that weren’t meant for him, or if Walker said it loud enough on purpose. “You ever think they send us on these bullshit missions just to keep us from realizing how bad we’re losing?”

Dean stops walking. The whole team stutters to a halt.

He turns around slowly, each muscle tense as if expecting a fight.

“How many times have I told you to shut your fucking trap unless it has to do with the mission?”

Walker stares him straight in the eye, and that goddamn smirk curling his lips tells Dean he meant for every word to be overheard.

“Oh, but it has everything to do with it,” Walker replies, his voice deceptively calm. “Come one, we’ve all lost brothers on useless mission just like this one, and for what? I’m starting to feel like a pig led to slaughter, I’ll tell you that.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. The scent coming off Walker now is sharp, cocky, challenging.

“Maybe we wouldn’t lose as many if people like you just focused on your damn job,” Dean snaps.

“What? We’re all thinking it, right?” He looks around the circle of soldiers, all stopped to watch the commotion. They’re on edge, obviously – they’re in the middle of a mission, and Dean knows he should put a stop to this. Has to, before anyone else starts getting ideas.

At least most of them have the brains to look uncomfortable, though he catches one or two nodding at Walker’s words as if watching a politician spew false promises for his next term, should he be re-elected.

“Someone needed to say it,” Walker continues, drawing Dean’s eyes back to him. “We keep going out on these recon loops, and nothing ever changes. No intel, no supplies, just more guys coming back with less than they left with.”

“It’s not your job to question the mission, soldier,” Dean forces out between grit teeth, putting an authoritative tone in his voice, though he hears himself how wobbly it is with restrained anger that could easily be mistaken for insecurity.

“You’re right,” Walker admits, tilting his head thoughtfully. Dean exhales slowly, trying to get his emotions back under control before he jumps at his throat. “Maybe it’s not the mission. Maybe it’s the leadership.”

Their scents spike: Walker’s is smug and bitter, Dean’s sour with heat and fury. The whole squad can feel it now; it’s in the air, pressing in like a storm about to break.

Dean’s stomach drops.

“You got something to say to me?” he growls, taking a step forward.

Walker lifts his chin slightly, doesn’t back down. “I’m saying maybe you’re not as sharp as you used to be. We all see it. You flinch at the faintest sound, your scent’s all over the place... Maybe you're not cut out to lead anymore.”

Lafitte makes a sound, barely audible, a low exhale, like he’s preparing to intervene. Dean ignores it.

His fists curl. “You got a death wish, Walker?”

“No, and that’s just the thing,” Walker says, calm as ever. “Because I don’t feel like dying under someone who can’t keep it together.”

The rage spikes, clean, hot, nuclear. Dean’s jaw locks. His body is ready to swing. To end this.

Walker sees it. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Sir,” a voice says carefully, breaking through the red-colored fog inside Dean’s mind. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dean sees someone stepping forward, one hand lifted in a half-pacifying gesture. “Maybe we should just-”

Dean whirls on him. His rifle is up in a flash, safety off, finger sliding to the trigger. It’s instinct, but not military grade. It’s something deeper, older, something Dean should be able to keep a lid on.

Tran is standing there, hands going up. His eyes are wide, fingers trembling. “I- I didn’t mean - I wasn’t- ”

“Winchester,” Lafitte barks, sharp and commanding.

Dean doesn’t even hear it. He’s Alpha, and he doesn’t need to defer to a Beta, but even so Dean doesn’t think it would make a difference if the roles were any different. His vision is tunneling, his chest heaving. His hands are shaking so hard the barrel of his gun trembles in the air, pointed straight between Tran’s eyes.

Tran’s scent is pure fear now, sharp and acidic, but not even that pulls Dean back. Instead, it seems to awaken something deep inside him – something dormant, ancient, feral.

“Winchester, stand down!”

Lafitte’s voice cuts through the static just enough for Dean to flinch, finger almost slipping on the trigger, but not enough to lower the weapon. It’s only when Lafitte steps in fast and grabs the rifle, yanking it to the side with a sharp twist, that Dean finally lets go.

He stumbles back like he’s been hit, hands empty, gasping. In front of him, Tran still stands with his hands raised, trembling like a leaf.

Dean stares at him as if seeing him for the first time, suddenly horrified.

Jesus. He’s just a kid.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Lafitte snaps, checking the weapon, then Dean. “He didn’t even do anything.”

Dean can’t speak. He can’t breathe. He feels like he’s going to be sick.

“Roman,” Lafitte says after a moment, eyes never leaving Dean. His voice is low, tight with anger. “You and Walker take over. You finish the sweep.”

Dean opens his mouth. He wants to argue. He still feels strung out, barely tethered, like he might snap again if someone so much as breathes wrong. Like his body’s boiling from the inside and the burn won’t stop.

Then Walker snorts, and Dean doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s wearing a smug smile. “Told you he’s lost it.”

Dean lunges - but Lafitte catches him.

“Enough.”

His grip is iron around Dean’s upper arm, dragging him back with strength that surprises them both. Dean thrashes, clawing at the skin, and he would be embarrassed if he wasn’t feeling so utterly helpless. Hot tears burn at his eyes as he keeps fighting the grip around him, his skin stretched overly tight on his body, his throat raw from the animal sounds that leave it.

He feels like he’s been lit on fire from the inside, so busy trying to make sense of what the hell is going on as it feels like his own body is suddenly fighting against him that the walk back to camp barely registers.

The med tent flaps open with a breath of cooler air, but it doesn’t help. Dean’s skin is still burning. His pulse won’t settle. His mouth tastes like rust and rage. A bowl gets shoved into his hands, and as if on instinct, he empties his stomach into it, retching violently.

Bile burns in his throat, and his vomit stinks up the air, making him dry-heave a few more times before the nasty bowl is taken away again. His head is spinning, there’s a ringing in his ears as if a bomb had just dropped right next to him, and dots swim in and out of his vision.

Someone - probably a nurse - steps forward, clipboard in hand. She wrinkles her nose. God, Dean must absolutely reek. “Sergeant Lafitte, what happened?”

“I don’t – I’m not sure,” Dean hears Lafitte say, though it sounds like he’s far away, or maybe underwater. “One minute he was fine, the next he pulls a gun on one of our own… If I didn’t know Dean as well as I do, I’d say it almost looked like...”

“Alpha instability,” the nurse finishes his sentence for him, tone detached and cold, and silence falls like a theater curtain until a growl fills the air, low and threatening. It takes Lafitte’s grip on his arm tightening to make Dean realize it’s coming from him.

He stares at the nurse as she scribbles something on her clipboard. No scent at all - must be Omega. They’re all wearing high-grade blockers, and no wonder, with all these Alphas around who haven’t been home to their wives in months, years.

Her words loop in his head like a stuck transmission.

Alpha instability.

He’s heard about it, of course. It happens to the cracked-out junkies. The ones who tried to rut through their COs or took suppressants with bootleg boosters until their cycles misfired permanently. It can’t be happening. Not to him.

A few years back, it would have been a death sentence. If they didn’t shoot you on sight, they stuck you in a white room and watched your brain rot behind your eyes.

That’s not him. It can’t be. He’s a sergeant. A sharp-shooter. An Alpha with three commendations. He’s-

“Sergeant Winchester, if you’ll follow me…”

A hand touches his elbow. Dean explodes.

He jerks away with a snarl, swinging his arm out hard enough to knock the nurse back into the instrument cart. The tray crashes to the floor with a clang.

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

Chairs scrape. Boots move. Someone shouts, “We need restraint protocols!”

Dean spins, body tight with rage, ready to take the next person down-

And then:

“Sergeant Winchester.”

Calm. Sharp. Different.

Dean turns. The man standing across the room wears a medic’s uniform, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His scent’s faint, blocked, but the pressure in the air marks him clearly: Alpha.

“You’re not under arrest,” the man says. “You’re being treated.”

Dean scoffs, narrows his eyes. “Who the hell are you?”

“Dr. Castiel Novak.” He steps closer, though Dean notices he makes sure not to get too close. Not to get into reach of Dean’s arms, which is foolish, since he still has – his hand curls around the air on his hip where his rifle is supposed to be.

Has Lafitte taken it off him? Shit, the past half hour is hazy at best. But it doesn’t matter. He can still take the doctor out, weapon or no weapon. His instincts are screaming at him to eliminate the threat.

Another Alpha, trying to – well, Dean doesn’t know what, exactly, he’s trying to do, but it can’t be good. For a second, he wavers. He grew up under the thumb of his Alpha father, who never needed a reason to be angry. And after Sam had presented, he spent most mornings navigating another Alpha’s hormonal outbursts over cereal. It never made him react like this.

But then again, they were family.

“You can walk into the back calmly, or I’ll have you sedated and dragged,” the doctor says, and Dean berates himself for letting his focus waver. He studies the man properly now. The non-threatening stance. The sharp blue eyes, not wide with fear, not narrowed in challenge, just… assessing. Controlled.

It pisses Dean off. His jaw ticks. The growl he lets out is quieter this time, but more deliberate. A warning.

Still, Novak doesn’t blink.

“Five seconds,” the doctor adds, voice even. “Pick one.”

Dean moves. It’s not calculated, just a blur of muscle and instinct, his arm swinging up like he means to shove, punch, hurt.

But Novak’s faster. Not by much. Just enough.

He steps in, sidesteps the bulk of Dean’s weight with infuriating ease, and grabs his arm. He’s strong, but even so, it’s not enough to restrain Dean for longer than a few seconds, but apparently, that’s all it takes.

There’s a sting at Dean’s bicep.

“Goddamn!” he snarls, wrenching back, but it’s already done. The prick of the needle barely registers compared to the wildfire under his skin. Novak exhales. A sigh, not of relief, more like tired routine.

“I did say five seconds.”

Dean stumbles. The floor doesn’t tilt, but it feels like it does. He blinks hard, vision swimming. His mouth opens, but the words don’t come.

“Don’t worry,” Novak says, voice annoyingly calm as Dean’s knees buckle. “We’ll talk when you’re thinking straight.”

The last thing Dean sees is a flash of white light overhead, sterile and cold. Then nothing.

Chapter Text

For the most part, Castiel is content with his work. Although he has imagined his future a bit differently when he was studying to become a doctor – more sterile operation rooms and less scraping together whatever you can find to stop someone bleeding out from a bullet wound, for example – he still thinks he’s better off than most around him.

Castiel has never cared much about any war, past or current, and if his education hadn’t ensured him being spared from being sent to the frontlines, he’d probably taken up his cousin Gabriel’s offer of forging documents and hiding out on a sunny coast in Southern America.

But for all its senselessness, the battlefield has a strange kind of clarity. A defined purpose. People get hurt, and he helps them. Simple.

Despite the harsh reality of what’s going on around him – soldiers staring off into nothingness after a few too many months out in the trenches, boys barely old enough to grow stubble getting torn apart by mines – he feels… useful. He might not be able to save everyone, but without him and his own little army of nurses, far fewer would stand a chance.

He's elbow-deep in a new arrival: a young corporal with a nasty abdominal gash from faulty armor plating. The bleeding’s stopped, but the internal bruising might complicate things. He gives quick, clear instructions to the attending nurse, stripping off his gloves and dropping them in the bin after he’s done all he can for now.

“Patient 13 is starting to wake up,” another nurse informs him.

Castiel wipes his hands on a towel before taking the offered chart. “Vitals?”

“Stable. Sedation’s wearing off faster than expected, though. He’s already shifting.”

Castiel hums under his breath, eyes scanning the file. He doesn’t need to see the name again – he remembers Lafitte dragging him in a couple of hours ago. Dean Winchester. Alpha, combat elite, flagged twice in the past for ‘unsanctioned field behavior,’ but cleared both times with glowing performance reviews and commendations.

“I’ll be right with him. Prep a mild tranquilizer, but leave it out of his sight. I don’t want to use it unless I have to.”

She gives him a tight look, and he sympathizes. Lord knows they get enough cocky soldiers who think they’re actively saving the world with their Alpha posturing out on the field, too stupid to realize they are barely more than chess pieces being moved around in someone else’s game.

Not that Castiel isn’t also just as much another piece on the board as any of them, but at least he’s aware of it, and secure enough in his designation to realize it is simple biology and a bit of luck what you’re born as, not the God-given gift they treat it as.

Winchester is probably much the same, if Lafitte’s accounts of what happened can be believed. Castiel doesn’t know him well, but he has no reason to think they can’t. Pulling a gun on one of your own is a highly punishable offense, and Castiel knows the consequences for Winchester could be dire lest he find a medical explanation for it.

“I’ve got it.” His tone is calm but firm, and while he would never play the Alpha-trumps-Omega card, his status as a doctor alone forbids the nurse from arguing about the matter any more, no matter how badly Castiel can see she wants to.

They can’t afford true privacy, but the cots are separated by heavy curtains woven from scent-dampening fabric meant to keep most pheromones contained and spare the other already-suffering patients additional distress.

Even so, the air around Winchester’s cot is thick and charged, and when Castiel pulls the curtain back to enter and closes it behind him, it feels like he’s standing in the middle of a battlefield.

No matter the undertone, Alpha aggression always reeks, sharp and acrid, like metal left too long in the sun. Castiel doesn’t flinch anymore, doesn’t wrinkle his nose in disgust, but only because long years of practice have taught him control. Still, scents never lie. So he takes a moment, lets himself catalogue the layers clinging to the air. Under the sour, static bite of rage, there’s something else, thicker, heavier. The unmistakable miasma of fear, clinging like sweat to skin.

The patient is awake, if only barely.

He’s flat on his back, strapped at the ankles and wrists, though not aggressively. Just precaution. His head turns sluggishly at the sound of footsteps, but his eyes - though bloodshot - are alert.

Castiel watches the flicker of recognition, confusion, and threat pass through them in rapid succession. No words yet. Just the coiled tension of a man used to violence being the only language that works.

“Sergeant Winchester,” Castiel says, keeping his voice even, unthreatening. “You’re in the medical bay. You’ve been sedated.”

Winchester’s nostrils flare. His fingers twitch against the restraints.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Castiel continues. “I’m the doctor assigned to your case.”

“You got a muzzle to go with all this?” Winchester rasps, voice gravelly. “Or just the chains?”

Castiel doesn’t react. “Only what was necessary to keep you from hurting yourself. Or anyone else.”

Winchester laughs - short, sharp, bitter. “I’m not unstable.”

“You pulled a gun on a teammate.”

“That was-” Winchester cuts himself off, jaw working.

Castiel studies him. “That was what?”

Winchester doesn’t answer. His breathing’s getting heavier, more ragged. His body is tensed like it’s waiting for the next blow, even if it’s not physical. Castiel makes a mental note of it.

“I’m going to run a few scans,” he says, stepping to the side table.

“I’m fine,” Winchester snaps, rattling the chains with the restrained movement of his hands. It visibly annoys him, though Castiel can also tell he’s trying to keep calm. His breaths are too short, his eyes too frantic as they scan around the room, jumping back every second as if he was afraid to leave Castiel out of his sight for even a moment.

He silently commands himself on telling the nurse not to leave the tranquilizers out to see, but he still hopes he won’t have to use them. Though with the way Winchester’s scent is starting to thicken again, hot metal, scorched nerves, something acrid crawling just beneath the surface, it’s a possibility he may need them after all.

“Then the tests will confirm just that, and you’ll be back on duty in no time,” Castiel says, tone deliberately calm, stripped of any authority that might be interpreted as a challenge. He’s careful. Knows that most Alphas don’t take well to being ordered around - especially not ones who’ve served long enough for the habit to calcify into instinct.

For a moment, Winchester just stares at him. Wide-eyed, startled open. There’s something unguarded in the look, something young, even, and for one suspended heartbeat, Castiel almost expects a small, broken Promise? to fall from his lips.

But then the shutters slam back into place. Winchester scoffs, bitter and loud enough for everyone within a ten-mile radius to know exactly how he feels.

“Fine,” he bites out, radiating resentment. Castiel merely nods, already setting the scan in motion.

✪✪✪

Dean doesn’t like the silence. Doesn’t like the way this guy - this doctor - doesn’t flinch when Dean growls, doesn’t even smell nervous.

He doesn’t like the occasional moans of pain of another patient, or the way the heavy curtain is making him feel trapped with nothing but his own stench and the underlying scent of disinfectants.

He doesn’t like being restrained, forced to lay here and keep quiet while his men are risking their lives out there. It’s pissing him off. Which is bad.

Because he’s not supposed to be pissed off. He’s supposed to be fine. Calm. Controlled. The sooner he can convince the doc of this, the sooner he gets to go back. He ignores the tiny voice that sounds a lot like Sam asking why he even wants that.

Sure, he would prefer for this whole stint to blow over. Waits each day for the announcement that it’s done, they’ve won, and everyone can go back to their families, even though it’s less fueled by hope than by habit at this point. But this, what he’s doing right now, this is not a kind of earned reprieve. It’s cowardly and wrong, and the longer Dean’s forced to stay here, the more rumors will spread, and he already has a mess to clean up when he returns.

Because no matter how quick he is with his weapon, if he loses the respect from the other soldiers, he’ll be back to cleaning their guns in no time.

The restraints dig into his skin every time he so much as shifts. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind him they’re there.

Dean grits his teeth, jaw so tight it hurts. Over the scrape of metal instruments, he can hear the doctor, Novak, moving around outside of the curtain, efficient and quiet, like he’s done this a thousand times. He probably has.

Dean hates that it doesn’t seem to bother him. He hates how steady Novak smells. No fear. No challenge. Just sterile confidence, and something underneath that reminds him of the charged air mere minutes before it rains.
He hates that he keeps noticing.

Dean shuts his eyes. Tries to focus on breathing. Four in, four out. He did that once, when the suppressors didn’t kick in fast enough and he had to walk it off in the rain for two hours with Lafitte at his side, pretending nothing was wrong.

This isn’t the same.

He sees Tran’s face. Wide-eyed. Scared. Remembers the sound of the safety clicking off.
Remembers his finger on the trigger. Remembers nothing stopping him until Lafitte grabbed the barrel.

Dean’s stomach flips.

He nearly shot at one of his own. He nearly killed a kid. And now he's strapped to a fucking cot like a feral stray, breathing like a cornered animal, with some doctor adamant at proving there’s something wrong with him.

His fists clench again, uselessly, against the restraints.

“Fuck.”

The machine lets out a soft ping, startling Dean into a growl he quickly swallows back down, flushing. When has he gotten so sensitive? It’s a conscious effort to not let his body tense even further than it already is, but he’s wired so tight it’s a wonder the bed frame hasn’t snapped in two.

Novak steps in once more and walks over to the machine, glancing at the screen. Something in his face changes. Not much. Just a flicker. But Dean’s trained to read flickers. You don’t spend eight years in a war zone without learning how to spot the moment something goes wrong.

“What?” he snaps. “You get whatever answers you needed?”

“Some,” Novak says, tone neutral. Too neutral. “Your olfactory receptors are overstimulated. And your hormone levels are… elevated.”

Dean scoffs. “No shit. I’ve been stuck in the same pit of stinking Alphas for months.”

Novak doesn’t rise to the bait. He just walks over to the tray and scribbles something down. “When was your last rut?”

Dean blinks. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m establishing a baseline,” Novak says, not looking up. “Routine. If your suppressors aren’t… working as intended, you could be experiencing low-grade symptoms without a full hormonal cycle.”

Dean bristles. “You think I went off my meds?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re thinking it.”

This time, Novak does look at him. His eyes are sharp, but unreadable. “Have you?”

“What? No!” The chains rattle when Dean tries to move his hands in explanation, and he works his jaw at the annoying sound. “I don’t think you rank high enough for an interrogation, doctor.”

Novak, again, stays calm, just blinks at him, and Dean’s suddenly hyper-aware of how his every movement, every breath, every reaction is being tracked and analyzed. He forces himself once more to keep his cool, but the more he talks with the doctor, the harder it gets.

His scent is strong, though not overpoweringly so, and it sticks in Dean’s nose, makes him want to sneeze to clear his sinuses of it.

“Thank you for being honest,” Novak says, even though he of course has no way of knowing that Dean was. It makes Dean blink, his anger momentarily forgotten, until he speaks again. “And you’re right, which is why this is a medical intake. So, when was your last rut, Sergeant?”

Dean works his jaw, yanks against the restraints without meaning to. “I don’t know. Months ago.”

“That’s vague.”

“You have to know they give us drugs for that.”

“I also know they usually take you off them at least once a year.” Yeah, he would know, wouldn’t he, also being an Alpha. Too bad that Dean’s job actually serves to make a change out there, and while Novak might like getting his knot wet for a week in a dirty tent with one of his Omega nurses, Dean just can’t turn his back onto the battlefield because of something as stupid as biology.

“Your files say your last rut leave was over two years ago,” Novak states when Dean doesn’t say anything.

Who does he even think he is? Naomi, the doctor that was here before Novak, never made such a fuss about any of this. Too bad her car hit a landmine a couple months back, now Dean’s stuck with this stickler for the rules.

“Why are you asking me stuff you already know?”

Novak’s mouth twitches, though Dean can’t tell whether he’s holding back a frown or a smile. “Forgive me, I must have forgotten you soldiers exchanged your manners for guns.”

His face doesn’t change and his voice is as dry and deep as ever, and it’s only that absurdity that startles a snort out of Dean. He rolls his eyes when Novak actually smiles at that, his temper rising again. He’s not here to make small talk, let alone friends, goddamnit.

“So I take it I will find your last dosage adjustment in here as well?”

Dean just nods, watching the doctor from below his lashes as he checks through the file. Secretly, he’s glad he didn’t ask. Because he doesn’t fucking remember. He takes what they give him. He swallows the pills – it’s what he’s always done. He shows up for the med checks when the Captain barks his name. That's it. No questions asked.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Novak mutters, more to himself than Dean. “I’ll need your blood.”

“Get in line,” Dean says flatly.

Again, Novak’s lips twitch, and Dean ignores the way it makes his scent mellow out for a second, if only slightly. He hopes the doctor doesn’t notice, but judging by the way he’s quick to scribble some more onto his file, he’s not optimistic about that.

Dean closes his eyes, lets his head fall back against the thin cot pillow. The room smells like disinfectant and recycled air and something bitter under the surface, his own sweat, maybe. His own failure.

He's not unstable. He’s not. And fine, maybe once this is over he’ll let himself take his rut leave, if that’s all it takes. For now, he lets Novak break his skin with a sharp needle and tries not to let his growing sense of despair show in his scent.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes up to the same sagging canvas above him. Dusty. Pale. A dark spot near the corner shaped vaguely like a skull. It’s become a kind of companion. Something to glare at when the silence stretches too long.

His wrists ache faintly where the restraints rub, though a nurse has slapped a foul-smelling salve onto the raw skin with an apologetic expression this morning before changing his bedpan. But no matter what Dean tries – asking nicely, threatening them, flipping his shit – they won’t take them off. Tell him they’re for his own safety. Yeah, right.

The curtain around his bed rustles, just a breath of movement. Someone walking by. Someone watching.

He exhales, sharp through his nose. Tries to sit up, only to have the monitor by his bed beep in protest. He ignores it. He’s not made for stillness. He was never built to wait, unless there’s a clear goal at the end, something that makes it worthwhile.

Eventually, breakfast arrives. Same as yesterday: nutrient slop in a sealed plastic bowl, lukewarm and tasteless. “Guess even prisoners get the same rations as everyone else,” he mutters, stabbing his spoon into it. The nurse doesn’t laugh. She never does. He eats anyway.

Minutes blend into hours, and each one only serves to remind Dean he doesn’t belong here. He should be out there, fighting alongside his men, leading, helping. Not lying here like a liability. Not being babysat by machines and medics while someone else does his damn job.

The cries of the wounded bleed through the curtains around him, their unease thick in the air. It clings to his skin, stokes the coil of frustration already knotting in his gut.

After a while, there’s footsteps coming closer, along with the faint scent of threatening rain. He knows who it is before the curtain even moves.

Novak steps in with a clipboard like he was born holding it. His shirt is crisp, tucked just so, not a speck of dust on it. No bruises, no cuts, not even a hair out of place. His face is steady, calm in a way that gives away nothing. His blue eyes are sharp, his mouth set in a line that could read as patient or judgmental. Dean already wants to snarl at him, if only to see whether that mask would crack, whether those steady hands would flinch, but manages not to.

“You’re awake,” Novak says. Observational, not surprised. “Good morning.”

“Gold star for the doc,” Dean replies, shoving the empty food bowl toward the edge of the tray. “What’s the test today? You gonna pull a gun on me and wait whether I flip my shit or not?”

Novak doesn’t respond. He checks the vitals on the monitor instead. Dean watches his hands. They’re steady, just like they always are.

“Have you talked to the Captain?” Dean asks, trying to shift his hands so he’s sitting on them in order for Novak not to see that they’re shaking faintly. Novak raises an eyebrow at his movements. Damnit.

“Yes,” Novak responds, calm as always. “He says they’ve got it all under control and that you’re to remain here until your condition improves.”

“My condition’s just fine,” Dean scoffs, glaring at the doctor.

He just hums while he changes the IV drip Dean’s had jammed in since yesterday.

Novak finishes with the IV and scribbles something onto his clipboard. Dean hates that damn clipboard. Hates that Novak never tells him what he’s writing down. Hates the quiet confidence in every damn movement, like he already knows the end of a story Dean hasn’t even started reading.

“You planning on keeping me tied to this cot until the end of the war?” Dean asks, tone biting as Novak applies a BP cuff.

“If that’s how long it takes,” Novak replies evenly, not rising to the bait. Dean tenses at the grip of the cuff, his jaw ticking, and he only relaxes when Novak takes it off again, a frown on his face. “Your blood pressure is elevated again.”

Dean scoffs. “You ever think maybe that’s because you’re keeping me here against my will?”

“Or maybe it’s the result of a dysregulated autonomic response,” Novak mutters, almost to himself, jotting another note. Dean growls, low in his throat, a real snarl this time. And for one terrifying second, he sees Novak’s hand pause, just briefly, but not in fear. In calculation.

Dean’s stomach twists. It doesn’t matter that he’s a sergeant – he knows, of course, that no matter how standoffish he may act, Novak is doing a good thing here, too. Maybe more important than he and his men, because without the doctors, this war would have been lost long ago.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and the snarl dies in his throat.

Novak looks at him again, but there’s no judgment in his face. No gloating. Just curiosity. Professional detachment, with maybe the faintest echo of something gentler beneath it.

Dean lets his head fall back against the pillow. “Didn’t mean that,” he says, truthfully. His voice sounds rough even to his own ears. “I didn’t mean to-”

“I know,” Novak says simply. He doesn’t comment further. Doesn’t press. Just tugs the stethoscope from around his neck and listens to Dean’s heartbeat in silence. The metal is cold against Dean’s still overheated skin, and he welcomes the brief contact.

The silence stretches, and Dean lets it, because he has no clue what to say anyways. Eventually, Novak steps back. “Anything unusual?” he asks. “Headaches. Nausea. Unstable scent regulation?”

“You mean besides feeling like I’m crawling out of my skin most of the time?” Dean mutters. “Nah. Peachy.”

Another note. Another quiet hum. Dean glances at him, sharp. “You always this chatty, or do you just save the good conversation for your favorite patients?”

“I save it for the ones who aren’t secretly plotting how to take me out,” Novak replies, dry as bone.

Dean snorts, startled. “So you do have a sense of humor under all that medical-grade starch.”

Novak says nothing, but something in the corner of his mouth twitches. Dean catches himself watching it. He looks away.

Novak replaces the chart at the foot of the cot but doesn’t move to leave. He just stands there a moment, thoughtful. On the other side of the curtain, a soldier complains loudly about the food.

Dean shifts on the cot, uncomfortable in his own skin. His shirt sticks to his back with sweat, even though the tent’s not that warm. There's a pulse beating just behind his eyes, slow and heavy, and his skin itches in a way that feels too deep to scratch.

He grimaces and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s used to pain. Used to pushing through it. But this - whatever this is - feels different. Like his own body’s turning against him.

Novak must notice something, because his brow furrows. “Headache?”

Dean doesn’t answer right away. Just shifts again, muscles twitching. “Nothing worth whining about.”

Novak doesn’t buy it. “How long?”

Dean glares at him, then away. “Started a couple hours ago. It’s fine.” Novak rolls his eyes. Yeah, Dean can’t really stand the word anymore either.

“You’re flushed,” Novak says, more to himself than to Dean. He steps toward the side table. “I’ll get something to help with the fever. And the headache.”

“I said it’s fine,” Dean snaps, harsher than intended. The pain’s making him edgy, his scent turning sharp again. Like scorched wire. Something burnt and bitter.

Novak doesn’t react to the tone. He takes out a bottle of pills from a cupboard behind him. “If you can’t focus past it, it’s not fine. This will help. Open up.”

Dean scowls, jaw tight. He glares at the hands hovering in front of his face, equipped with two small, red pills and a water bottle.

“I can take them myself, thanks.”

Novak just raises an eyebrow and looks at Dean’s still bound hands. Dean’s scowl deepens. After a few seconds of staring, Dean realizes that he can’t win this one. The pressure in his head keeps rising with each beating of his heart, and if he doesn’t comply soon, he wouldn’t put it past Novak to just let him suffer the consequences of his own stubbornness.

With a deep sigh, Dean opens his mouth, still glaring at the doctor as he deposits the pills on his tongue and helps him drink from the bottle. Dean closes his eyes as he leans back, waiting for the effect to take hold.

He hears Novak putter about the ‘room’ some more, though he doesn’t know whether he actually has something to do or just wants to wait until the drugs have kicked in. He’s too tired to open his eyes and check.

After a few minutes, finally, the pressure in Dean’s skull starts to recede, slowly, like someone letting air out of a balloon. His shoulders slump. The tension seeps out of his fingers, one by one.

“…thanks,” he mutters, voice almost inaudible.

Dean squints an eye open when Novak steps closer again and places the back of his hand on Dean’s forehead. It’s blissfully cool and Dean fights the urge to close his eyes again.

“I’ll check back on you in an hour,” Novak says, then turns to leave. He’s already gripping the curtain to pull it back when Dean’s voice stops him.

“Am I – Am I really sick, doc?”

The words hang in the air between them, raw and reluctant. He didn’t meant to say them. Hasn’t even let himself think it, not seriously, not until now, when everything feels like it’s peeling at the edges.

Dean can lie to everyone around him as much as he wants, but he can’t lie to himself. And if he’s honest, he hasn’t been feeling like himself for a while now. Weeks, if not longer.

Novak turns back around and meets his gaze, steady, and Dean is helpless to do anything but stare back.

“We’re still running tests,” he says carefully. “There are anomalies in your blood work. And your scent regulation is… inconsistent.”

Dean huffs a bitter laugh. “So you don’t know what the fuck is actually wrong with me, got it.”

Novak watches him for another long moment, then adds, “Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out.”

With that, he leaves, the curtain falling shut behind him, and Dean’s left with the lingering scent of rain and antiseptic, the only thought running through his head that the doctor better be right.

✪✪✪

The screaming starts before they even unzip the tent.

It’s ragged and low at first, then turns into a full-throated howl, inhuman in its pitch. Castiel is already moving, gloves tugged on with sharp, practiced efficiency by the time two medics rush in, half-carrying, half-dragging a thrashing Alpha between them.

Blood stains one sleeve. One of the medics limps.

“Sedation didn’t take,” one pants. “He tore through two cots already-”

“Strap him,” Castiel orders. “Now.”

They wrestle the Alpha down. He’s young, early twenties maybe, with short-cropped hair and veins standing out across his neck like cords. His green eyes are wild, unfocused. Teeth bared. He lunges at the nearest body, and it takes all three of them to pin him down long enough for Castiel to get the needle in.

Even that doesn’t stop him completely. Only slows him, makes the struggling more sluggish, the shouts quieter.

Still, when the Alpha finally goes limp beneath them, Castiel feels no relief. Just dread.

He doesn’t think he has seen him around before, but then again, they don’t really cross paths that much with the other soldiers. It’s protocol, and it’s good the way it is – even with the scent blockers, Castiel knows the nurses, most of them Omegas, breathe easier when there’s distance between them and the Alpha units.

“What happened?” Castiel wants to know when things start to calm. The stench of the Alpha lingers in the room, rotten and foul, sticking to his nostrils. It’s a taunt, a challenge. Another Alpha might have risen to it.

But Castiel has always had excellent control over his baser instincts. He has never felt the need to solve problems with his fists or drooled after an Omega, never had the urge to challenge his Alpha brothers over his stand in the family. Even when he’s in rut he manages to keep a clear head. His mother called him strange, his father would have been disappointed, probably, had he been around to witness it.

Castiel feels no shame for who he is. It helps him excel at his job, aids him in saving people. And if it also means he doesn’t quite fit into the world the way other Alphas do, well, he doesn’t know if that’s a bad thing, necessarily.

“What happened?” Castiel repeats, low and steady.

One of the medics straightens, face pale beneath a sheen of sweat. “He went quiet during training. Then just… snapped. Started attacking everyone near him. No warning.”

“No history of aggression?”

“Nothing on file. Squad leader said he was quiet. Kept to himself.”

Castiel frowns, already reaching for the man’s chart. He tries not to think of how similar the situation feels. “Vitals?”

“Spiked across the board. Temp was at 104 when we got him in. Breath sounds wet. Pupils-”

“I see it.” Castiel’s voice tightens as he skims the preliminary logs. Elevated cortisol, erratic heart rhythm, creatinine levels off the chart. A few numbers don’t even make sense unless the machines were malfunctioning.

But he knows they weren’t. The Alpha groans on the cot, low and strained. One leg twitches.

Castiel’s already at his side, stethoscope pressed to a rapidly weakening chest. The heartbeat is fast but irregular, like a bird flinging itself against a wall in search of an exit.

He’s covered in sweat, his skin stretched taught. The color is off, too, almost ash-grey, and his fingers are puffed. His blood runs cold when he checks the catheter the nurse attached, and his fears come true. No output.

“Give me the crash kit,” he says, calm but urgent. “His kidneys are shutting down.”

There’s a scramble behind him, but Castiel is already moving. He opens the man’s airway. Checks for obstructions. Starts the first dose of stabilizer, even though it’s probably already too late.

“Come on,” he mutters, pressing hard over the Alpha’s sternum. “You’re too young to die like this.”

Somehow, someone managed to attach the heart monitor, but it doesn’t look good. The high-pitched alarm begins to wail, and there’s a flurry of hands and shouted commands, but Castiel stays focused on his task, doing everything in his power to save the man’s life.

In the end, it’s simply not enough.

The commotion around him slowly comes to a stop, and it takes a nurse quietly turning the alarm off and dropping the room in sudden silence for Castiel to remember how to breathe.

It takes him a full ten seconds before he stands. Another ten to peel the gloves from his fingers, slow and methodical, and toss them into the waste bin.

His jaw is tight. He’s seen death before, and too much of it. But this wasn’t a gunshot. Wasn’t a slow bleed. It happened all at once, in a way that left no room for intervention, no time for answers.

Castiel barks orders at the nurses, his voice clipped. “Run a panel for potassium, urea levels, another for creatinine… Check for hemolysis, any sign of acute toxicity.” Even if it’s too late for this soldier, he needs the data. Needs to know what killed him.

The stench lingers in the air, sharp and acrid, a sour note like scorched metal and spoiled food. It makes his pulse spike, not from instinct, but recognition. He’s smelled it before.

He smells it again, if a bit more muted, as he steps past the final curtain.

It’s fainter here. Not identical. But underneath the antiseptic tang of the med tent, beneath the heavy insulation of pheromone-dampening cloth, that same burnt-metal edge curls into his nose. A warning.

Castiel pauses in front of Winchester’s cot. There’s a low wailing behind it, primarily unnoticed due to the chaos in the room, but it tugs at something inside of Cas. It might already be too late for the other Alpha. But God help him if he can’t save this one.

Chapter Text

Dean was asleep when they brought him in. He’s actually been sleeping better than he has in months, even though the persistent headache keeps haunting his every waking moment, no matter how many pills the good doctor makes him swallow.

Novak’s worried, Dean can tell – it’s in the furrow between his brows when he checks the monitors, the subtle downturn of his mouth when he thinks Dean isn’t looking.

And okay, not that Dean would admit it out loud, but he still feels like crap. But somehow, getting a few hours of shut-eye comes easier to him. He doesn’t know whether that’s a good sign or a very bad one.

Sleep is the furthest thing from his mind right now, though. The air smells wrong, and Dean’s spent what feels like hours tugging at the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, ignoring the burn and sting of raw skin. He needs to move. Needs to get out.

The pressure in his head’s building again, his skin too tight, the buzz under his bones threatening to explode outward. Something animal claws at the edges of his mind, restless, angry, too big to fit inside his skull.

He’s no stranger to aggressive Alphas, but compared to this, a couple of drunk guys looking for trouble in a bar or a dude who thinks Dean was trying to get into his girlfriend’s pants (he probably was, but that’s beside the point) look like child’s play.

The stench in the air is driving him mad: feral Alpha, blood, pheromones clashing like acid and smoke, and it feels like it’s sinking into his lungs, his skin, like it’ll stain him forever if he doesn’t do something, anything.

He doesn’t even realize he’s shaking until the cot creaks. Doesn’t realize he’s whining, a thin sound scraping out of his throat, until the ringing in his ears quiets just enough to hear it.

His thoughts spiral.
Claw him down, tear him apart, kill it before it gets to me. Smash the walls. Tear it all down. Just make it stop make it stop make it STOP-

“Time of death: 1.24 am,” he hears, and Dean knows this isn’t good – no matter how many years he spends doing this, losing a fellow soldier never gets easier. But it doesn’t matter to him, not right now, because the sour stench of blood and rage is still there.

The curtain tears open with a sharp metallic shhhk, and Dean flinches, a growl bubbling up instinctively, but then the scent hits him. For a few blessed seconds, it feels like standing in a field on a summer night, getting hit by fresh, clean rain.

Dean whines again, higher now, panicked and raw as he tries to hold onto the scent, but the other Alpha’s is too strong, drowning it out after only a few moments. He tries to shrink away, but the cuffs catch and jerk him in place.

“Dean,” the doctor says, his hands raised like he’s approaching a wild animal, and Dean’s too far out of his mind to even acknowledge the use of his first name. “Dean, it’s alright. Everything’s going to be fine.”

It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t.

He gasps for breath like he’s drowning, shaking all over. His chest rises too fast. His vision pulses at the edges. He’s going to lose it, he’s going to snap. He’s going to hurt someone. He’s going to hurt Novak.

“Make it stop,” Dean rasps. It’s barely a whisper, strangled and broken. “Please, doc, Cast-” He chokes on the name, then says it again, softer this time. “Cas. Make it stop. I... I can’t-”

He doesn’t know why it slips out like that. Feels too personal, too familiar, but it’s already out, and Novak doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t correct him, either.

“I know.” Novak steps closer. “You’re alright. I’m right here.”

Dean jerks his arms again. “You don’t get it - I’m gonna - fuck, I want to. I can feel it in my teeth, in my goddamn spine, it’s in my head-!”

Novak’s hand brushes his shoulder. It’s nothing. Barely a touch. But Dean sobs. Just one broken, shame-choked sound.

“Help me,” he pleads. “Please. I don’t… Don’t wanna hurt anyone.”

“You won’t,” Novak says, and it doesn’t sound like a guess. Doesn’t even sound like hope. It sounds like fact.

Dean wants to believe him. Wants to believe something. He slumps forward, breath hitching in shallow gasps, and doesn’t fight it when Novak presses a cool cloth to his neck, when he murmurs something too quiet to catch.

The scent lingers, rain, steel, and safety.

“I’m going to give you something to help you calm down, okay?” he hears Novak say, his voice quiet, gentle. It makes Dean’s temper rise again even though he doesn’t even want it to, and he’s at a total loss for what’s going on. He’s never felt like this, never lost control of himself, not even during the height of his rut.

He opens his mouth, tries to form words but can’t, not with the way he’s clenching his jaw, and all he manages is another whine. Novak shushes him, and when Dean feels the prick of the needle, he closes his eyes, praying for sleep to take him fast.

✪✪✪

His name was Samandriel Shepherd. He was only nineteen years old. Now he’s dead, and even though Castiel has been going through his medical files three times now, he can’t figure out why.

Elevated aggression. Scent dysregulation. Mood instability. Paranoia. It echoes too closely. He flips back to Winchester’s chart. His numbers aren’t identical, but the patterns are unnerving.

Spikes in cortisol. Overactive scent glands. Bloodwork that’s starting to look more and more like the other Alpha’s did, right before he seized and crashed.

And then there’s the outburst earlier. Dean – Winchester, Castiel has to remind himself - had looked at him like he was a threat and a lifeline all at once. It was the cloying scent of fear, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, that made Castiel use the patient’s first name in an effort to get through to him.

And it worked, but he’d do well to not make it into a habit. No matter how, sometimes, when it seems he can overpower whatever disease he has, De- Winchester shows that he’s not just a mindless soldier, but funny, thoughtful, even.

Castiel has heard of him, before all of this. Honestly, it was kind of hard not to. How he followed into his father’s footsteps, how quickly he rose through the ranks. How he was a good leader, a great one, even – he’s asked around, and nobody had anything bad to say about him, not even Tran, the soldier he pulled his gun on. What could set him off the rails like that?

Castiel pinches the bridge of his nose and moves to the terminal. He reruns Winchester’s latest panel. Something flickers across the screen that makes him pause. It’s a flagged anomaly, but only just.

A receptor imbalance that shouldn’t exist in a healthy Alpha. Under usual circumstances, Castiel wouldn’t think twice about it. But nothing about this whole situation seems usual any longer.

He scrolls through Winchester’s intake logs. Routine supplements. IV fluids. Then he pauses.

Meal ration: +12% standard volume.

Castiel blinks. It’s familiar. He checks Samandriel’s records again. Same adjustment. +12%.

Could be that they asked for it. With Samandriel, especially, it makes sense – the man was scrawny at best, and could certainly have done with a bit more meat on his bones. But it doesn’t fit with Winchester.

It’s probably a shot in the dark, but Castiel has noticed both of their sodium levels were a bit high, and if he’s being honest, he’s at a loss for any other leads that might help clear up this mystery before –

An image sears itself behind his eyelids. Winchester, fully feral, his skin a sickly grey, begging him to help him as his heart gives out, the monitor flatlining.

No, Castiel won’t let it come to that. He can’t. Taking a deep breath, he adds a note to the file: "Discontinue external ration intake. Prepare meals internally from med bay stocks. Individual handling only."

✪✪✪

The next morning, Castiel struggles to go through his routine tasks – talk about any occurrences during the night with the nurses on duty, check his protocols for today, give word to the Captain about anything noteworthy.

The whole night, he’s been tossing and turning, unable to really fall asleep, and it shows in the disheveled state of his hair and the dark circles under his eyes. Even though he’s always been adamant about treating all his patients equally and according to the severity of their case, the minutes ticking by until he can check up on Dean (he’s given up trying to call him anything else, at least in the privacy of his own head) feel endless.

They’d moved him late last night, after the sedative kicked in; a smaller auxiliary tent, partitioned off from the main ward, quieter, better ventilated. A space scrubbed clean of the lingering pheromones still saturating the other Alpha’s cot. Castiel had insisted on it, citing medical necessity. No one had argued.

When he finally excuses himself and peels back the entrance flap, Castiel’s stomach drops the moment he smells it. Not at the scent itself, but the familiarity of it.

Dean looks at him warily, fork raised halfway to his mouth. The first issue here is that his restraints have been loosened in order to make him reach, which is problematic in and of itself, given Dean’s history of aggressive outbursts (Castiel isn’t foolish enough to think there’s not much harm he can do with plastic cutlery).

But it’s the food itself that is raising Castiel’s alarms. Without saying anything, he retraces his steps and goes for the first nurse in vicinity, Nurse Milton. It’s only when she winces that Castiel realizes he’s holding tightly onto her arm, and he apologizes, coloring uncomfortably.

His staff knows him, trusts he’s not just another Alpha knot-head, and he has never before shown any sign of distress or supposed superiority toward his Omega nurses. What has gotten into him?

“My apologies,” he mumbles a bit sheepishly, and the nurse gives him a stink-eye, about to turn back to her task. “Who brough D- Patient 13 breakfast this morning?”

With a badly suppressed sigh, she turns back around, making a point of letting him see the list attached to her clipboards full of things to do. He sympathizes, but there’s a nagging thought in the back of his mind that simply won’t go away, so he stands his ground. “Who was it, Milton?”

“I did. Why? I made sure he doesn’t have access to real knives, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I- Yes, thank you, but I was actually wondering where, exactly, the food came from?”

She raises an eyebrow, and her next words are spoken slowly, as though talking to someone hard of hearing (or maybe not quite sound of mind). “The… food tent?”

Castiel exhales through his nose, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. It’s just a bit of heightened sodium, and maybe the nurses haven’t had time to check his updates yet?

“I left explicit instructions yesterday. The patient is to be served only food prepared on-site.”

For the first time since they started speaking, the nurse loosens her hostile stance. Her eyes flit from Castiel to the curtain Dean’s hidden behind and back, and she almost looks… guilty?

“I know, Dr. Novak, but-“ she starts, then looks around some more before leaning in, as though her words aren’t meant for everyone to hear. “I know that, but when I went to get the others’ breakfast, they asked me about it.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. Who asked her, the cook? Why would he care about Castiel’s instructions?

“And?” he asks, trying to keep the annoyance out his voice when she doesn’t continue, and probably missing by a mile.

Milton shrugs as though it isn’t really important, and it isn’t, not really, Castiel knows that, but the whole thing still doesn’t sit quite right with him. “They said I shouldn’t have to do all that extra work, and that the food will help him go back to his prior health quickly. I… I think it’s bad, out there. They need every man they can get, they said.”

Even with her scent suppressors, Castiel can detect the stink of fear. Once again, he tries to look at the whole situation through the nurse’s eyes. He knows his staff is as overworked as he is, if not more, and had he been in her situation, he probably wouldn’t have argued with someone offering an easy out.

“Who said that?” is all Castiel asks, his voice sharper than he means it to be.

“Corporal Adler, I think. At least that’s what the cook said. I was just told to pick up the tray.” She won’t meet his eyes.

Castiel exhales through his nose, long and slow. “Leave it. I’ll take care of it.”

The nurse hesitates. “Sir, I really don’t want to be-”

“You won’t. I’ll file the report myself.”

She nods and vanishes.

Castiel circles back to Dean’s tent a few minutes later with a tray in hand - not much, just a plain oat porridge with a little honey, whatever he could find that hadn’t been salted to within an inch of its life. He lifts the curtain slowly. Dean’s already most of the way through his original tray, shoulders hunched, the bowl cradled protectively in one hand. He doesn’t look up.

“Good morning,” Castiel says, a tad awkwardly.

Dean finally glances at him, then at the new tray, brows furrowing. “I already ate,” he explains unnecessarily, adapting the same tone the nurse had used on Castiel before, waving his hand around his tray.

“I-“ Cas starts, then stops. Even having only woken up, there are tendrils of fear in Dean’s scent, and Castiel doesn’t want to aggravate him more by talking about his – what? Baseless suspicions? Hopeless paranoia?

Dean eyes the tray in Castiel’s hands again. “What’s that supposed to be then? Bribery?” he mutters, dragging his fork through the last of his food like it personally offended him. “You trying to sweet-talk me with gruel?”

Castiel quirks an eyebrow, silently thankful for the out Dean has given him unknowingly. “Technically, it’s porridge.”

He holds his breath for a moment, gauging Dean’s reaction. He should know better than to talk like that – in his state, Dean could easily read it as a taunt, especially coming from another Alpha. His scent spikes momentarily, but then Dean swallows.

The muscles in his neck jump, and Castiel can tell how much it takes for Dean to calm himself down. It only strengthens his belief that Dean isn’t like this, not usually, and the urge to figure out what is wrong with the soldier becomes even stronger.

Dean scoffs and leans back slightly, eyeing the tent around them like he’s only just now taking it in. “This isn’t where I was yesterday.”

Castiel makes a mental note of him jumping from topic to topic. It could mean nothing, but Castiel has started to give up hope of that being true.

“Yes, there…” he starts, then stops, trying to find a way to put it without the possibility of Dean taking it as him thinking he’s weak, or vulnerable, even though at least the latter is especially true right now.

He steps closer, eyes on the plastic fork still clutched in Dean’s hand. He makes a show of being uncaring as he clears Dean’s tray off the bed, and the seconds tick by slowly like molasses as he raises an eyebrow at Dean, indicating the cutlery with a subtle nod.

Dean rolls his eyes, but he does give up his weapon – because they both know he was thinking about it, and Castiel breathes a small sigh of relief.

“There was residual scent from the other Alpha. Still is, actually, in the main tent.” Castiel pauses, keeps his tone steady. “I thought it might be… easier for you, here.”

Dean’s gaze flicks away, jaw tightening. “So you think I can’t handle a little stink?”

“I think you’ve handled more than most.” The words come out without calculation. Honest, maybe even too much. Castiel watches him for a beat longer, then sets the fresh tray down within reach. “If you get hungry later.”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t shove it off the cot either. That, Castiel decides, is enough for now.

Chapter Text

There’s pressure on his hips, steadying him, guiding him, and it feels heavenly. He presses into it blindly, dumb and greedy, chasing the friction, the heat, deeper, faster, almost there.

His mouth is wet, parted, panting against the crook of a neck that smells like rain and salt and home.

His hands slip against skin, or maybe fabric, something warm and alive and holding him. He rocks into it, needy, his cock aching as pleasure coils tighter and tighter, his knot a heavy weight at the end, and he’s close now, so close, yes, yes, just a little bit more-

As he pants and rocks and snarls, breathes against the flutter of a heartbeat, the scent changes, like a storm rolling in, but instead of the suspected downpour, it turns metallic. Wrong. It curdles in his lungs, and when he blinks confused eyes open, torn between continuing to chase his pleasure and the dooming sense of wrongness, everything around him is washed in red.

His hands are wet, dripping, and he stares at them, blinking slowly. The heat is still there, still burning in his gut, but his palms are slick with blood. It runs down his wrists. Pools between his fingers.

He’s straddling a body. It takes him a moment to realize it’s not moving, even though he is, pushes in and out, again and again. His eyes fall to the marks on the neck, across the shoulder blades, the vast expanse of skin colored in yellow and blue and red, so much red. He brings a shaking hand up to the gashes, places his mouth softly over one of the bites. They’re an exact match.

He tries to scream, but all that comes out is a dry, feral sound. With a start, he realizes he’s still moving, still thrusting, giving in to the urge to claim, to finish what he started, and when he tries to reel back, he wails with the painful pressure around his knot.

His breathing turns frantic, because this can’t be happening, this isn’t him, but he’s helpless to do anything but rock slowly, plunge deeply, and there are tears streaming down his face because he can’t stop, please, somebody make it stop.

Suddenly, the body beneath him twitches, turns its head around, and blue lips form a syllable, silent at first, but then he hears it, a familiar voice uttering his name. Dean. Dean!

“Dean!”

The word shatters something.

He jerks back like he’s been burned, limbs thrashing, breath ripping out of him in jagged, panicked gulps. The cot groans beneath his weight, and a sharp pain lances through his gut as his body clenches, aching, confused. His vision swims.

There’s a hand on him. Steady. Gentle.

“Dean, it’s alright. You’re safe.”

Dean blinks, his mind catching up in pieces. The scent around him isn’t blood. Isn’t death. It’s something else. Clean and quiet and present. Not demanding. Not trying to take.

Cas.

Dean rolls to his side, curling in on himself. His boxers are damp and sticking to him. He’s still hard, still shaking. His heart won’t slow down. His mouth tastes like iron.

He tries to say something, but it’s just a croak, so he buries his face in the crook of his arm instead. His breath hitches. His shoulders quake. He’s not sure if he’s going to throw up, or scream, or – and he hates to think it, feels only guilt and disgust - come.

The images from the dream still cling to him like oil, the blood, the scent, the helpless drive in his own hips. He can still feel it, phantom-deep in his muscles.

“I’m going to take your blood pressure,” Cas says gently, crouching beside the cot now. “Just breathe. You’re safe.”

Dean doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t pull away when Cas rolls his sleeve up. The cuff is snug. The world narrows to the sound of his pulse in his ears, the soft hiss of the pump, the coolness of Cas’ fingers on his forearm.

“What’s happening,” he rasps, even though he knows. It’s in the nagging thought in the back of his mind, the urge to claim, to hunt, to take. It’s in his scent as well, cloying and overpowering, and how can Castiel even stand to be in the same room as him, let alone touch him, gentle and kind?

Cas doesn’t answer right away. The silence stretches long enough for Dean to hear his own heartbeat in his throat.

“This isn’t,” he starts, stops. Slowly, carefully, he lifts his head to blink at the doctor. His hands curl into fists, the chains painful where he chafed his wrists with his thrashing. By some kind fate, looking at the other Alpha doesn’t make Dean want to jump at his throat, and Dean focuses on those blue, blue eyes as he tries to order his errant thoughts.

“This isn’t rut. I mean, it feels like it but I don’t – I’ve never-“

He probably isn’t making much sense right now. It’s not like Cas knows what he was dreaming about, thank God. But maybe it’s time to admit that he isn’t okay – that he hasn’t been for a while now, and if all talking about it does is keep Dean’s mind from straying down the dark path it had been on while he was unconscious, that has to be enough.

“Your vitals suggest you're in a pre-rut state. Elevated temperature. Pupil dilation. Your scent…” He trails off, and for a moment Dean swears he sees hesitation. “It’s… potent. Chaotic. But not in the usual pattern. It’s like your body’s trying to begin something it can’t finish.”

Dean swallows. It should calm him that there’s a medical explanation for what he’s feeling, but he has the suspicion that if Cas knew what to do about it, he would say so, or have done it already.

“Yeah it’s… Usually,” he starts, feels how hot his cheeks are getting at the thought of talking to another Alpha about this, doctor or not. He clears his throat, tries again. “Usually, I just get, you know - hard, yeah, but it’s not like… this. I don’t lose control. I don’t get violent. I’m still me.”

Cas doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t look away. Just nods once, encouraging.

Dean shifts restlessly. “I don’t even need, you know. Someone else there, not necessarily. But now all I can think about is… is taking someone and, and… hurting them.”

It hurts to speak the words into existence, as if he could ignore it as long as he locks them behind his lips. But Cas doesn’t look at him with disgust or fear, though he’s also lost his look of medical profession sometime during their conversation.

“And your last rut was normal?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, like I said… it’s been a while, but I haven’t… It wasn’t like this. Just a couple of days, locked myself up, rode it out.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “No blood. No hallucinations. No dreams where I’m-” He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

Cas doesn’t push, but the space between them stretches taut.

“And now?” he asks quietly.

Dean’s throat works. “Now I feel like a bomb. Like I’ll go off if I don’t-if I do-” He breaks off again, curls in on himself slightly. “I think… I think I haven’t been okay. Not for a while.”

Shame courses through him, but at least it drowns out the ever-humming anger, if only momentarily.

“For how long?” Cas asks, and Dean wants to make a snide remark, tell him he doesn’t know, or that it doesn’t matter. But there’s a burning intensity in his eyes, and Dean knows that his answer is crucial, even though he doesn’t understand why.

He tries to think, to remember, but he can feel his heartrate picking up again. There’s a faint tremor in his legs, now, and it’s so hot in this godforsaken tent, when has it gotten so hot?

“Dean,” Cas’ voice brings him back, and Dean tries, okay, he tries. It was after the mission in Stull, he thinks. He remembers drinking with Lafitte, complaining about the lousy food, so it must have been before the new cook came in. He remembers being cold, something that seems wishful thinking now, with the constant fever he’s running, so…

“Five- Five months, I think. Maybe five and a half.”

Cas is quiet for a beat. “That helps. I’ll… I’ll look into it.”

Dean doesn’t know what that means, exactly, but the words still settle in his chest like a promise. Like he’s not entirely alone with whatever’s tearing him apart from the inside out.

Silence stretches between them, thick but not hostile. It’s late - or early, depending how you count. The camp is quiet beyond the tent walls. No shouting. No shelling. Just crickets. Night sounds. Dean closes his eyes, tries to hold on to the rare peace of that.

But his body doesn’t let him. Heat simmers beneath his skin. His thighs twitch. There’s a tremble in his gut, a pull that feels wrong in all the right ways. He shifts on the cot, grits his teeth, fighting the rising tension, the clawing need to move, to take, to bite.

He’s not fully hard anymore, but he’s still tenting his sheets slightly, and he colors at the realization. Cas checks the IV once more and when he straightens, Dean is suddenly gripped by an intense fear of him leaving.

He doesn’t know if he’s scared of himself for what he might do if Cas turns his back – he may not be an Omega, but the instinct to chase probably doesn’t care much about that – or if he just doesn’t want to be alone.

He should probably let the doctor sleep – the bags beneath his eyes have only gotten bigger each time he’s seen him, but Dean is selfish and, okay yes, scared.

“I-” He swallows hard. “Do you need anything else from me, doc?”

Cas looks at him, and for a second, Dean almost thinks he doesn’t want to leave, either, but he knows that’s just wishful thinking. He shakes his head. “Do you want me to go?”

No! Dean wants to shout, but he tries to hold himself together. “Can you just… stay here and talk?”

Castiel turns slightly, surprised, but he doesn’t question it.

“About what?”

“Anything.” Dean’s voice is hoarse. “Your voice… helps.”

That makes Cas pause. “Alright,” he says after a moment, gentle.

There’s a quiet moment as Dean breathes through another wave of heat crawling up his spine, sweat clinging to his back.

“Why did you become a soldier?” Cas asks softly, taking a seat on the lone chair next to Dean’s cot.

Dean blinks at him, a bit stupidly.

“You’ve been serving long enough that you signed up before the war started,” Cas explains. “You don’t have to tell me, but I’m curious.”

Dean lets out a breathy chuckle, but there’s no real humor in it. “My dad called it the family business,” he mutters, the words thick on his tongue. “He was military, like his dad before him. Said there’s no better way to become a man. Said real Alphas protect, serve, fight for what matters.”

The words taste bitter, and it shows in his scent as well, he knows. He wonders when he stopped believing them. Wonders if he ever truly did in the first place.

“I signed up as soon as I could. Thought it’d make him real proud. Thought it’d make me feel… something. Solid. Like I was worth a damn.”

Cas doesn’t interrupt. Just watches him quietly, hands clasped.

“But nothing I did was ever good enough,” Dean says. His voice cracks, just a hair. “I was the best shooter in my unit, beat records left and right. But I was still too slow. Still too cocky. Still too loud.”

He shifts restlessly on the cot, heat pressing in from all sides. “All it got me was not being able to sleep at night and my-my brother wanting nothing to do with me.”

Cas’ brow furrows slightly. „Tell me about him,” he prompts, obviously noticing that Dean’s becoming more restless, more agitated.

Dean takes the offered lifeline gratefully, because no matter how much distance there may be between them, talking about his brother will never not make him feel proud. “His name’s Sam. He’s real smart, you know? Always had more brains than me, more guts too, in a - in a way. He didn’t buy into Dad’s crap. When rumors started about the possibility of a war, he was out of there.”

His voice turns quieter. “He used to write, at first. Told me he was about to be a lawyer, how he wanted to help people. I sent letters too, when I could. But… it’s been years now. I don’t even – shit - know where he is.”

He closes his eyes against the prickling sensation, his head swimming, cheeks flushed.

“I’m sorry,” Cas says, and it should be meaningless, but there’s something in his expression, something soft, kind, and Dean’s throat aches.

“I had an older brother,” Cas speaks again, shifting closer. Dean almost reaches for him, wants to press Cas’ hand to his forehead again, see if it’s still as cool and steady as before. He doesn’t, but the ache to do so lingers.

“Michael,” Cas continues quietly. “He started serving long before the war began. Whenever he was home, he’d tell me these grand stories. About how he took out two people with a single bullet, how they made him squad leader before anyone else his age.”

Dean huffs, barely audible.

“I never liked hearing about it,” Cas admits, voice softer now, brow furrowed. “Even when I was a gangly teenager desperate for his approval… I didn’t understand. Why would you hurt people just because someone says so?”

There’s a long breath, as if the words cost him something to say.

“Officially, it was a terrorist attack that killed him. Personally, I think his own cockiness is at least partially to blame.”

Dean looks at him, blinking slowly.

“I’d already thought about working in the medical field,” Cas continues. “But after he died… After I thought about all the deaths he was responsible for, justified or not, I felt like… I had to balance the scales. Make up for it somehow.”

He glances at Dean, then away again.

“You probably think I’m stupid.”

Dean shifts under the blanket, pressing his arm to his temple. His skin feels too hot, stretched tight over bone and frustration.

“I used to believe in it,” Dean says, voice low. “All of it. Orders, duty, protecting people. Thought it mattered. That I was making a real change, that I was helping people. So no, I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Cas is watching him again, quiet and steady.

“Now, though… I don’t know what we’re doing anymore,” Dean admits with a humorless laugh. “I see the guys we’ve lost. Some are barely old enough to drive, and I’m not just talking about on our side.”

“When it started, I felt like we were doing a good thing. They had no right to bomb those border towns, to push into territory that wasn’t theirs. Felt righteous, you know? Like we were protecting something that mattered.”

He shifts, eyes on the tent wall. “But the longer it went on… the lines got blurry. Half the time I couldn’t tell you what we were even fighting for anymore. The people-“

He breaks off when a tremor wracks his body, a soft whine leaving his lips, but he keeps his eyes on Cas, holding on to the conversation they’re having, anything to distract him from the way his body is trembling. “The people I train my gun on? They’ve got just as much say in this war as you and I do. Which is none.”

Cas doesn’t answer right away. Just nods once, slow and grave, like he understands. And maybe he does. Maybe that’s what makes Dean’s chest ache the most.

A silence falls between them, not awkward, but thick. Heavy with too many words unspoken.

Dean swallows. His throat is dry, tongue thick in his mouth. His skin itches. His blood feels… wrong. Too fast, too hot. Still, he clings to the calm of this moment, to Cas’ presence like it’s the only steady thing in a world gone sideways.

He lets his gaze drift over the other man. Cas sits so still, back straight, hands folded in his lap. The soft light of the field lamps hung around the tent throws soft shadows on his face, catching the edges of stubble along his jaw. He smells like rain and clean air and something Dean can’t name, something just on the edge of smoke.

Dean licks his lips. “You got someone waitin’ for you back home?”

Cas turns to look at him, eyebrows lifted slightly in question.

Dean shrugs, trying to sound casual. “Just making conversation.”

Cas shakes his head once. “No.”

And that - God. That shouldn’t do anything to him, but it does. The answer echoes through Dean’s skull like a dropped pin in a silent room.

No.

No, there’s no one.

Something coils low in Dean’s gut, deep and slow and hot. He shifts under the blanket again, breath catching as the movement brushes against his once more stiffening cock. The friction sends a pulse through him, sudden and unwelcome. His whole body is starting to feel like a live wire. Sensitive. Raw. Like even the air hurts.

Cas is still looking at him, unaware of the heat crawling beneath Dean’s skin. Or maybe not unaware.

Dean turns his face away, breath shallow. “It’s… getting worse,” he mutters, and hates the way his voice breaks.

Cas doesn’t move. Just watches him carefully. “What do you need?”

Dean wants to answer. Wants to say “leave” and “stay” all at once. He wants to rip the chains from his wrists and tear something apart, or maybe curl into the scent of someone safe and let it anchor him.

But all he gets out, frustrated, is, “I don’t know.”

Cas nods, once, slowly. He doesn’t ask again. Doesn’t move toward him. Just… stays.

It helps. A little. The silence, the stillness, the steady thrum of someone there. Not prying, not running. Just there.

Dean closes his eyes, squeezes them shut. His breathing’s gone shallow again, every inhale dragging over frayed nerve endings. It’s not like a rut, not really. A rut has rhythm. This is chaos. A glitch in the system, all heat and urgency without purpose, without instinct pointing him toward something safe, something mutual.

All he has is this… need. Raw. Mindless. Hungry.

And the worst part? Cas is an Alpha, and though he may not act like it, he’s a powerful one. Dean should feel threatened by his presence, should want to fight, to be repelled by his scent.

But instead, Dean wants to bury himself in his neck, breathe it in directly from the source, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Dean lets out a sound, low, frustrated, almost wounded, and buries his face in the crook of his elbow. “Fuck,” he breathes. “I can’t- I can’t get my head clear.”

Cas’ voice is soft. “You’re not in control.”

It’s not an accusation. Just a fact.

Dean nods into his arm, shame flooding him. His cock throbs against the thin fabric of his pants beneath the blankets, so obvious it’s humiliating, and Cas just sits there, calm, composed, like this isn’t disgusting.

Like he’s not disgusting.

“I should’ve been out in the field,” Dean mutters. “Would’ve made more sense. I’d be dead already. Would’ve saved everyone a whole lot of trouble.”

Cas’ tone sharpens, just slightly. “Don’t say that.”

Dean’s jaw clenches.

“I mean it,” Cas adds, quieter now. “You’re not beyond help. Not broken. Not a threat.”

“You don’t know that,” Dean snaps, and his voice cracks down the middle. “You didn’t see me- I could’ve-” He stops himself, biting down on the image. On Tran, wide-eyed in the face of his gun. On the dream. On blood and hands and helpless, brutal movement.

Cas shifts, and Dean flinches at the sound, but it’s only the rustle of a blanket. Only a hand, slow and steady, resting on the cot beside him.

“Tell me if I do something you don’t want,” Cas says. Slowly, telegraphing every movement, he lifts his hand and brings it towards Dean’s forehead until it meets the overheated skin.

It’s blissfully cool and Dean closes his eyes, unable to hold back the soft moan that leaves his mouth at the contact. When Cas hums, low and soft, and starts threading his fingers through Dean’s matted hair, he wants to sob. Or scream. Or grind himself against the edge of the mattress until something breaks, inside or out.

Instead, he whispers, “Don’t go.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it,” Dean says, desperate now. “Even if I- even if it gets worse.”

It’s too much to ask, he knows it. And judging by the slight faltering in Cas’ movements, he knows it as well. But all he says is “okay,” and that damn thread of understanding in his voice almost undoes him.

Dean turns onto his side, curls in tighter, breath heaving.

He tries. He really tries.

But his hips betray him first, slow, subtle movements against the blanket, a shallow rhythm born of desperation more than desire. His hand hovers near his stomach, clenched, shaking. He should stop.

He doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, with an embarrassed whimper, he reaches lower, but his hand is stopped by the rattling of the chain. He whines, but Cas is there, one hand still in his hair, the other working on the restraint with steady fingers until finally, Dean is free.

Though Cas must have thought about the possibility, there’s not a single thought in Dean’s head about attacking, about escape. All he wants, all he’s even able to do is drag his palm lower, under the edge of the blanket. Not beneath his shorts, not yet, just cupping himself through the thin cotton, grinding gently against his own pressure.

It’s good, but only for a few seconds.

The ache is deeper now. Under his skin, in his bones, in his fucking soul. Like something has nested there, not instinct, not heat, but wrongness. Like he’s been rewired to want something brutal. Like his body doesn’t know how to ask for touch anymore without imagining it drenched in blood.

He sucks in a breath, shudders.

He stays over the waistband, presses the heel of his palm into the throbbing shape of himself. One stroke, through the fabric. Then another. His breath catches.

He closes his eyes, and a face appears. Wide eyes. Mouth open. Dean’s own finger on the trigger, again and again, until the sound is just silence. Until the hole in Tran’s forehead is too dark to look at.

Dean chokes on a sob and tries to stop. Tries to yank his hand back, but he can’t. He trashes and whines, but then there’s a thumb, stroking behind his ear. Fingers curling in his hair, bringing him back to what’s now, what’s real.

Dean whimpers and slides his hand past the waistband, feeling like a man possessed. Wraps around himself with shaking fingers. He’s already leaking, his knot swollen, already pulsing with the need to finish, to come, to end something.

Another flash-

He’s rutting into a cooling body, hips moving on instinct, blood beneath his knees. His mouth opens on a scream that won’t come, the taste of copper thick on his tongue.

He moans, then smothers it into his shoulder. Shame bubbles in his throat, but Cas is there, he can hear his heartbeat, feels the gentle inhales and exhales, his scent saturating the air around them. He’s alive, warm, breathing. Dean didn’t kill him – he wouldn’t.

Dean clenches his teeth. Stroking faster now. His skin is slick with sweat. He can barely breathe through the heat and guilt and need, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own body.

Another flash, nonsensical, something that hasn’t happened, that Dean hasn’t even thought about. He sees Nurse Milton, her red hair curling around her face, a friendly smile on her lips. When she comes closer, Dean clenches his fist around the plastic fork until he buries it in the side of her neck.

 “No,” he whispers. “No no no-”

“Dean,” Cas murmurs. Just that. Just his name. But it cuts through everything.

The smell of fear fades, drowned out by Cas, smelling like rain and something clean, something grounded. Dean sucks in a breath, nose full of it. The images start to dissolve at the edges. His hand tightens.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, hips jerking forward into his fist. “Fuck, I’m so-”

“You’re okay,” Cas says, and the words feel real. More real than anything Dean’s felt in days.

He bites his lip, strokes harder. Focuses on the hand in his hair. The warmth next to him. The fact that he’s not alone. His knot is pulsing and he squeezes his fist tighter, and though he’s breaking at least half a dozen protocols, military, medical and just plain human decency alike, his eyes find Cas’ as his thrusts become more frantic.

With his eyes locked onto blue, the violent images vanish. Suddenly, all he wants is to lay Cas down gently, to kiss him senseless, make him feel warm, and safe, and cherished while he makes slow, tender love to him.

He comes with a broken gasp that sounds suspiciously close to a name, knotting his fist, shaking apart, burying his face in his arm like he can disappear. Shame burns through him like wildfire.

But Cas just keeps stroking his hair, slow and steady, and when Dean’s breathing finally starts to even out, when the shaking gives way to exhaustion, Cas says, “Sleep. I’ve got you.”

Dean doesn’t answer. Just lets himself be held steady in the dark.

And finally, sleep comes.

Chapter Text

The med tent is silent except for the occasional creak of canvas in the wind. A low-hanging lantern swings slightly above the desk, casting soft, amber light across the cluttered surface. Shadows stretch and crawl over the walls, rising and falling as if breathing.

Castiel sits alone, hunched forward, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands smudged faintly with ink. Around him, medical files sprawl in a loose, uneven arc, some open, others stacked, still more discarded in a disordered pile at his feet. The air is stale with the scent of old antiseptic and paper.

He rubs at his eyes as he flips a page, forcing himself to focus. He can’t remember the last time he truly slept, but he can’t even think of laying down to rest. There’s a current running through him, pushing him to keep going, a sense of growing urgency he can’t shake.

It’s another report, about another Alpha.

--Unstable behavior--Onset aggression--Involuntary rut symptoms--Transferred for further evaluation--

There’s no follow-up.

Castiel exhales through his nose, steadying his hand before flipping the page.

But his focus drifts. Unbidden, his mind goes back to the night before. To Dean, flushed and trembling, jaw tight with restraint. The way he’d bitten down on a cry. The way his body had betrayed him, chasing relief even as he tried to resist it.

The scent of him still lingers in Castiel’s memory, distorted by illness and rage, yes, but beneath it, something warm. Raw. Alluring. Something that caught him off guard.

He should’ve looked away. Should’ve said something. Should’ve left.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t even, maybe.

He stayed. Watched. Breathed through his mouth to steady himself, but it didn’t help. His own skin had prickled with heat, breath growing shallow. Thankfully Dean, lost in shame and need, hadn’t noticed. Didn’t see how Castiel’s hands had curled into fists, how his pupils had dilated, how he’d barely kept from getting even closer.

Castiel shuts his eyes briefly, lets the guilt wash over him. He had never before acted and reacted so unprofessionally. Dean was his charge, his patient, for God’s sake. It wasn’t right. Dean had been suffering, unraveling in front of him - and some part of him had responded to that vulnerability in a way that disgusts him now.

He hadn’t touched him. But the thought had been there, fast and visceral, curling low in his spine before he could even shut it down. Not a fantasy, not a plan, just an undeniable pull. Base and undeserved.

If the circumstances had been different… Castiel doesn’t have the most extensive history when it comes to relationships, but he’s never had hangups about Alpha-on-Alpha dynamics, not the way some do. It’s never seemed unnatural to him, and he actually suspects it’s beneficial to balancing out some of the more… aggressive tendencies most Alphas seemed to have.

Still, that wasn’t what last night had been. It could never be that. Castiel presses a hand to his face, fingertips cool against the heat of his skin. The guilt is sour on his tongue.

He opens the next file with a little more force than necessary.

This one is thinner - no attachments, no treatment history. Just a basic intake sheet and a discharge summary.
--Deceased during combat-- Signs of self-harm and reported aggressive behavior beforehand--
No timestamps. No physician’s signature.

Castiel frowns, fingers hovering over the corner of the paper like it might vanish if he touches it wrong.

He pulls the next folder toward him. It’s heavier. More complete. It lists three separate outbursts over a two-week span. The notes are careful, clinical. But something about them feels wrong – sterile in a way real suffering never is. The vitals listed during the second incident don’t match the sedative doses supposedly administered afterward. The discharge paperwork is signed off by a name Castiel hasn’t heard in months.

Dr. Naomi

He freezes. He was called to this unit after Naomi died last May. A transport accident on the eastern front, they told him. The name shouldn’t be here - shouldn’t be on a document dated three weeks ago.

His jaw tightens. He pulls out another file. Then another.

Redacted. Redacted. A case marked as “transferred,” with no record of destination. A report closed with nothing but a single line: Disposition complete, do not reassign.

He sets the folders down, his usually so steady hands trembling faintly. In the corner, a small table holds a kettle gone cold and a mug of untouched tea. Castiel reaches for it without thinking, lifts it to his lips, then sets it down again. His stomach turns.

It’s not just Dean.

That’s the thought he’s been circling, refusing to let land. But now it does, all at once.

It’s not just Dean.

He looks at the files again. Dozens of them. Not cases - they were never treated, never stabilized. Just listed, observed, then… removed.

This is not about the war – at least not the one the soldiers are out there fighting in every day. There’s something else going on, something darker, and Castiel is so close to figuring it out, he can practically taste it.

He closes the nearest folder with more force than necessary. The lantern rattles.

Outside, boots crunch softly on gravel, distant and passing. He listens until the sound fades. Then he pulls one more folder into the circle of light.

A name he recognizes. A soldier from Dean’s unit. Young. Quiet. Dead three weeks after reassignment.

There’s no autopsy. Just a single note in unfamiliar handwriting: Increased dosage ineffective--Recommend discontinuation of trial batch 19.

Castiel stares at the page, barely breathing. The more he discovers, the more questions he has. It’s about time he tries to get some answers.

✪✪✪

The sky is just starting to pale at the edges when Castiel steps out into the cold. The air is sharp with the scent of wet metal and distant oil fires. The camp is barely awake, no shouting, no drills yet, just the clatter of supply crates and the low hum of a generator somewhere behind the tents.

He keeps his head down as he walks, coat buttoned to the throat, folders tucked beneath his arm. He shouldn’t be out here, not without clearance. But he needs to find someone. Someone who might still care whether Dean Winchester lives or dies.

Dean’s unit returned in the night. Quietly, no formal debrief. Just a line in the deployment log and a few muddy boot prints by the mess tent.

He finds Lafitte outside the tent, smoking with his back against a pole, boots unlaced and eyes hard from lack of sleep. He notices Castiel immediately, and doesn’t look pleased.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” Lafitte says.

Castiel stops a few paces away. “I need to talk to you.”

Lafitte scoffs, flicks ash to the ground. “Yeah? Where were you when I needed to talk to you?”

Castiel frowns. “What do you mean?”

The Beta rolls his eyes and, after a final drag, lets his cigarette fall to the floor where he stomps it out. He takes a threatening step towards Castiel, and he’s keenly aware that the soldier is still in his full gear, including his weapon.

“I asked to see Dean,” Lafitte bites. “Twice. They said he was under observation. I told them I wanted to speak with you, and they said you’d ordered them to tell me to fuck off.”

Castiel’s jaw tightens. “I didn’t know about that.”

“Yeah, sure,” Lafitte scoffs. He stares him down for a long beat. The early light catches on the edge of his rifle. Castiel doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t move either.

Finally, Lafitte looks away. “How is he?” he mutters, quieter now. Castiel heart warms at the thought that Dean seems to have at least one other person on his side, even though he still reminds himself to tread carefully.

“Not good,” he replies honestly, and Lafitte curses in what sounds like French.

“Corporal,” Castiel starts, but Lafitte waves him off. He squints at him as if trying to measure him up, and whatever he sees, he must deem it enough.

“I don’t want to play no games, doc. It’s Benny.”

Castiel musters up a small smile. “Very well. Castiel-“ he hesitates for a beat. Remembers green eyes and a soft smile. “Cas is fine.”

This first step taken, Castiel decides to take another leap of faith. His fingers tighten slightly around the folders in his arms. “I’ve been reviewing Alpha medical files. Cases like Dean’s. There are… more than I thought.”

Benny looks up sharply.

“They’re not isolated incidents,” Castiel goes on, worrying at his bottom lip. “Most of the reports are altered or redacted. Some of the physicians listed have been dead for months. Others were signed off by people I know were never actually at those locations. And too many of them end the same way: ‘expired from complications,’ or ‘transferred’ with no forwarding data. Someone is erasing them. Quietly.”

He hesitates, then takes a step forward and holds out one of the folders. Benny eyes it like it might explode, but after a long moment, he takes it. Flips it open.

A few seconds pass before he speaks. “Putain,” he mutters, barely audible.

Castiel watches him. “This isn’t a disease, or a coincidence. It’s done on purpose, whatever it is. And I think Dean’s in terrible danger.”

There’s another long pause. Then:

“He told me something once. Said I’d better keep it to myself or he’d deck me.”

Castiel waits, thankful that Benny, being a Beta, doesn’t pick up on the nervous sweat prickling under his collar. He’s acutely aware of the noises of the camp slowly waking up around them, and the urgency from before slams back into him full force.

Benny finally meets his eyes. “I wouldn’t tell you this if I didn’t think there’s the slightest chance it could help Dean.”

Castiel nods eagerly, praying Benny will realize how serious he is. He’s risking everything just telling him about what he found, and if Benny is willing to pay him the same respect back, Castiel feels carefully hopeful that he’s put his trust in the right person, for once.

“His dad started giving him enhancers when he was thirteen. Said it was to ‘keep him from going soft.’ Then later, to ‘keep him on top of his game’ during off-season.” His jaw clenches. “Said it was for his own good. To ‘make a man out of him.’”

Castiel’s breath catches, just faintly.

“I knew his dad, before he died – he was a real piece of work, that one. Dean doesn’t talk about it, but he’s been through more than most men I’ve served with,” Benny adds. “And he still showed up, still pulled more than his weight.” He looks down at the file again. “Whatever’s happening here… it’s not his fault. It’s not his failing.”

“I know,” Castiel says quietly.

Benny closes the file, hands it back, a determined expression on his face. “Then do something.”

✪✪✪

The lights are dim. Not dark, but deliberately low. Clinical, quiet. The kind of room where nothing is ever written down. Where decisions are made, not discussed.

There’s a long table. Three chairs. Only two are occupied.

One of them, a man in a grey uniform with no insignia, lifts a hand and flicks ash from a cigar into a glass tray. His fingers are steady. His voice, when he speaks, is smoother than it should be.

“How’s the Alpha?”

The woman across from him doesn’t look up from the file in front of her. “Stable,” she replies.

“That wasn’t the question.”

She taps the file closed. “We’re dealing with it. If he doesn’t improve within the next forty-eight hours, we’ll be prepared.”

The man hums, taking another puff of his cigar.

“Captain…“ she ventures, cautious.

The annoyance in his scent is immediate, metallic on her tongue as she breathes through her mouth to escape it.

“What?” he bites.

“The doctor… He may become a problem.”

Guilt makes her stomach turn, but she focuses on keeping her scent neutral, steady. Loyalty won’t let her get back to her family, once this is all over.

There’s a pause. Not silence, exactly – there’s still the faint buzz of fluorescent lights overhead, the distant hum of a ventilation system - but stillness. Intentional.

“Is that so?”

She swallows. The man grinds out the cigarette in the tray.

“Keep him close. We may still need him.”

She nods once. “And if he gets too far?”

A beat. Then: “Then you deal with him too.”

The woman folds her hands neatly. Latex still clings to her skin, the ghost of gloves long since discarded. “Understood.”

Chapter Text

Castiel moves through the captain’s tent like a shadow. Silent, deliberate. The canvas walls ripple slightly with the breeze outside, but inside, it’s eerily quiet.

No one saw him come in. At least, he hopes not.

The air smells faintly of tobacco, engine grease, and something else, something metallic and wrong, like old blood scrubbed in a haste. He pushes the thought aside.

There are papers on the desk. Schedules, rations, troop movement logs. All official. All meaningless.

He doesn’t waste time on them.

His heart is pounding, and he fights the urge to look behind him every few seconds. It was Benny’s idea to send him here, and though Castiel would have liked to take him up on the offer to come with, he knows it’s better off this way.

Benny is a soldier - he’s expected to be exactly where Command left him. And if Castiel gets caught… it’s better to still have an ally on the outside. Someone who can look after Dean, should Castiel no longer be able to.

A sudden memory surfaces, unexpected and vivid. A quiet summer evening at his aunt Amara’s house.

He hasn’t thought about it in years, but now it returns in sharp detail: the ocean breeze drifting in through half-open windows, the sound of gulls far off along the coast, the golden light of the sun melting into the horizon. He remembers the creak of old floorboards beneath his feet. The sticky warmth of lemonade on his palms.

He spent most summers there as a boy. Too young for him and his brother Gabriel to be left alone, Michael stationed somewhere far away, while his mother worked two jobs just to keep them fed. Aunt Amara never wanted children. She didn’t hide it well. She much preferred sitting on the deck with her gaudy drinks and a pair of sunglasses, pretending not to hear the chaos inside.

There was only one rule: Don’t go into the study upstairs. Ever.

Castiel never questioned it, heedful by nature as he was, and maybe even a little frightened of whatever secrets might lie behind the frosted glass door. Too much for a child to understand.

But one night, Gabriel got bored. And when Gabriel got bored, bad ideas were never far behind.

He dared Castiel to sneak into the study while their aunt was in the shower. Said if he didn’t, he’d tell that kid from the beach - the one Castiel could barely speak around - that he had a crush on them.

Gabriel could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. Castiel had lasted maybe two minutes before he caved.

He crept upstairs, his pulse hammering in his ears. Every shadow seemed darker than the last. He remembers the feel of the cool brass doorknob in his shaking hand, the creak as he pushed the door open inch by inch, terrified of what might be waiting for him inside.

He hadn't made it more than two steps into the room before Aunt Amara caught him. Her voice had been quiet - not angry, just disappointed. That was worse.

Even now, decades later, standing in a tent in the middle of a warzone, that same tight, cold feeling coils in his chest.

He still feels like that boy, now. Sneaking where he shouldn’t, almost waiting to be caught. Knowing the punishment might not be a scolding this time - but something much worse.

Castiel exhales, quiet and controlled. He blinks once, then lets the memory slide back into the recesses of his mind where it belongs. This isn’t his aunt’s house, and there’s no Gabriel here to dare him into foolishness. He’s here because he needs to be.

He moves to the cot and kneels. The lockbox underneath is where Benny said it would be, tucked just far enough back to avoid notice. There’s no padlock or digital entry securing it. Just arrogance, and the belief no one would ever get this close.

He pulls it free. He doesn’t know what he should expect, but Benny seemed pretty sure there was something inside worth the risk - something bad enough Corporal Adler apparently threatened to shoot anyone who touched it.

Castiel gulps at the warning that was relayed to him. He pauses once more to listen for footsteps, and when all is quiet, he opens the box. There’s a clutter of belongings: med forms, a bottle of unmarked pills, and loads and loads of envelopes, varying from blinding white to faded yellow.

Every item is stamped CONFISCATED in bright red. A flicker of hope sparks low in Castiel’s chest, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

He quickly flies over the medical forms and, finding nothing of import, moves on to the pill bottles which don’t tell him much either. With a growing sense of dread, he carefully slides the letters out from the rubber band holding them together and rifles through the addresses.

It becomes immediately clear to him that most of them are letters from the outside being sent – and, apparently, never delivered – to the soldiers. He recognizes a few names, Benny’s among them, and makes a mental note to tell him about it, not daring to remove the letters from the pile.

He continues rifling through them until a name in neat handwriting catches his eyes.

Sgt. Dean Winchester
3rd Company, 2nd Infantry Battalion
Field Post Station 17-C

Some of them are unopened. Some opened and re-sealed. Others are torn at the edges, the paper frayed and crumpled like they were handled too many times by someone who didn’t care.

Most of them bear a return name Castiel instantly recognizes. His fingers are shaking so badly he fears everyone in a ten-mile radius might hear the way the papers tremble in his hands.

He pulls out the first letter, the script sharp and practiced. It’s dated seven months ago.

Dean,

Are you still mad I left? I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t want it to go down like that.

You don’t have to write back. I just need to know you’re alive.

You don’t owe me anything. But if you're reading this, can you at least send one line back? Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off.

Please.
Sam

His chest aches at the thought of Dean never seeing this, of Sam’s words crumpled here instead of reaching their mark. The letters have been stolen. Hoarded. Why?

He doesn’t let himself spiral yet. He opens another. The paper is older, the handwriting smoother still.

Dean,

My studies are going well. I feel dumb telling you this, but I met a girl. Eileen. You’d like her.

Actually, you’d try and convince her she’s way out of my league, and you’d be right.

Other than that, things are quiet here. I’m trying to keep my head down, but truth is I worry about you. Everyone keeps asking me how you’re holding up, and it’s been a while since your last letter.

Let me know if you need anything - extra rations, clothes, anything.

Take care,
Sam

The date is too smudged to decipher, but it has to be from the time when Dean and Sam were still exchanging letters regularly. Castiel’s heart aches as he realizes Dean has been going on for so long thinking Sam doesn’t want to be in contact anymore, when nothing could be further from the truth.

He reaches for the next one. This one is heavier, crumpled like Sam has thought about tossing it before changing his mind again.

Dean,

I tried writing to Benny but he’s not answering me either. What the hell is going on out there?

I need to talk to you. Urgently. I don’t care what happened between us, I don’t care if you’re still pissed. This is bigger than either of us.

Please, if there’s any way you can call, or send a courier, or hell, even a damn smoke signal…

I’m not just reaching out because of you anymore. Something’s wrong.

You know I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.

Sam

This time, Castiel doesn’t move for a long moment. The words something’s wrong echo in his mind like a ripple. It was written four months ago, which would be about the time Dean first started feeling off.

There are only a few letters left. He flips through them, the contents ranging from quick check-ups about Sam’s life to the pleas for an answer the more time passes, tone growing in urgency. The page inside the last letter he has to open has been folded and refolded until the paper's nearly split.

He opens it.

Hey,

It’s been a while since we had real food around here. Still surviving on that canned stuff Dad liked. You remember how it made your stomach feel?

There was a break-in at our place, but thankfully, nothing got stolen. Can’t be too careful these days, right?

Weather’s been unpredictable. Storms blowing in from the west. Heard of some fallen trees blocking the roads. Might mess with mail for a while.

When you come back, we really need to take that trip to Poughkeepsie.

Don’t wait too long to reply

Sam

Castiel reads the three-week-old letter twice. Then a third time.

He smooths it flat on the desk, eyes scanning the lines like they might shift under his gaze. It's carefully written, neatly signed. Nothing alarming at first glance, just a brother writing to another. But that’s exactly what bothers him.

It doesn’t match Sam’s prior correspondence at all. His eyes catch on the second line again.

Still surviving on that canned stuff Dad liked. You remember how it made your stomach feel?

Castiel swallows. It fits what Benny said. About the enhancers. About thirteen-year-old Dean being fed things that twisted his biology long before his body was ready.

This isn’t a comment about nostalgia. It’s a warning. His gaze moves further down.

There was a break-in… nothing got stolen.

That line feels too specific to be meaningless. If Sam’s letters were being intercepted, if something had gotten back to him - this might be his way of saying so. That someone had come close. That someone had looked. It also goes with the warning about being careful.

He presses a hand over the page. Fingers trembling.

Storms… trees blocking the roads… Might mess with mail for a while.

That seals it.

Castiel’s gut twists as the implications settle. Sam knew. Or suspected. Not just that something was wrong with Dean, but that his attempts to reach him were being deliberately obstructed.

How long had he been trying? How many of these letters had been intercepted? Had the others ever made it through at all?

Castiel glances toward the pile again, toward the neat red-stamped labels. CONFISCATED. Some unopened, some opened and re-sealed with care.

When you come back, we really need to take that trip to Poughkeepsie.

That line throws him.

He frowns. It’s the only sentence that feels… strange. Out of place. Nothing in the letter leads up to it. It doesn’t match the tone. He racks his brain, trying to remember if Dean had ever mentioned that town before: a place, a mission, a memory.

Nothing.

He scribbles the name down on the margin of a spare page, underlines it, then rips it out. He’ll ask Dean when he gets the chance.

He folds the letter with precise hands, sliding it back into its envelope. It had reached him late - too late, maybe - but Sam had tried. Had trusted Dean to understand the message. Trusted him enough to risk everything to send it.

And Castiel is sure his closing line wasn’t just a phrase. It’s exactly what Castiel has been feeling the whole day: They’re running out of time.

Chapter Text

The hum of the equipment is the only sound in the room.

Castiel leans against the counter, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his sleeve. The lights overhead buzz faintly, flickering once before settling into a dim, sterile glow. Everything smells faintly of iodine and metal.

Two small plastic trays sit in the testing unit. One is marked Ration Sample — Mess Tent. The other, Control Sample — Med Bay. He watches the slow crawl of data across the monitor, each result slot filling in one line at a time.

He could hit himself for his slow uptake. He suspected the food a while ago, didn’t he? Thought it weird that Dean and the dead Alpha were given higher ratios, blamed it on the sodium levels. But now, with what Benny and Sam’s letters said, he wishes he’d have tested it earlier.

Especially since he found out the nurses still haven’t heeded his notes and served Dean dinner from the mess hall again.

He glances back at the sample tray from the mess tent. The processed ration inside looks no different than usual, but when it was centrifuged earlier, he remembers the way the suspension split. A thin, translucent layer bled red at the top, just for a second, before settling again. Not enough to notice if you were eating it. But under lab conditions unmistakable.

A soft chime breaks the silence. The screen refreshes slowly, line by line. Castiel stares at it, breath caught in his chest.

Compound Detected: 3-MC17

The compound is present only in the soldiers’ rations, not the control sample. And it’s not incidental. It’s not a contaminant. And it certainly can’t be an accident. He’s heard of 3-MC17 before - in theory. In controlled case studies. In lecture halls filled with horror stories and warnings about misuse.

But he never thought he’d see it in practice.

It was banned over fifty years ago. Classed as a chemical weapon. The order wasn’t just to stop using it - it was to erase it completely. To destroy all remaining stores and purge the method of synthesis from every military archive that held it.

And yet here it is. Sitting in the food they apparently serve to the soldiers in this camp. The food they served Dean.

He ejects the storage chip from the console and slips it into the inner pocket of his coat. The test trays follow, sealed and marked, tucked carefully beside the drive. He doesn’t know who he’ll show them to yet. But someone will need to see this. Someone who can help stop it.

Then he’s moving.

The flap of the lab tent shuts behind him with a soft sound. Outside, the night air bites at his skin, cold and dry, the scent of dust and fuel lingering in the stillness. The camp is quieter than usual, there’s fewer lights on. No drills, no shouted orders. Just the faint buzz of the perimeter lights and the occasional creak of canvas shifting in the wind.

He passes two soldiers near the central tents. One of them nods; the other barely looks up. No one stops him.

Dean’s tent is on the far end of the row, a little more isolated. He starts to wonder whether moving him there has been the right decision after all, especially with how quickly the higher-ups have agreed to it, he remembers now.

Something’s wrong. There’s a guard now. One of Adler’s, judging by the patch on his arm. Standing directly in front of Dean’s tent flap, still, tense, like he expects trouble.

Castiel slows and approaches with measured steps, keeping his posture relaxed but authoritative. The man looks up as he nears.

“I need to check on the patient,” Castiel says. “Let me through.”

The guard doesn’t move.

“Orders are to restrict access. Only senior command or personnel with direct clearance.”

Castiel’s jaw tightens.

“Castiel Novak. I am his doctor.”

A pause. The man doesn’t challenge the claim, but his stance remains unmoved. He’s heavily armed, and beneath the mingling scents of the camp, Castiel manages to make him out as another Alpha.

“You’re not cleared for visitation. Orders are orders.”

Castiel opens his mouth again, but hesitates – what if this solider has been drugged as well? If so, even Castiel continuing to fight for his right to see Dean might get them both in danger.

His heart pounds in his chest. He exhales slowly through his nose. Keeps his shoulders relaxed.

“Can I speak to the attending nurse, then?” he tries again, lower. “Or get a look at his medical chart?”

The guard tilts his head slightly. Then, after a beat:

“He’s stable. But unresponsive.”

Castiel blinks. “Unresponsive how?”

A voice answers from behind him. Calm. Measured.

“We had to put him in a coma.”

Castiel turns sharply. A woman in scrubs stands a few paces away, arms crossed, notepad in hand. Nurse Milton. She doesn’t look startled or rushed. Just tired. Or pretending to be?

“What?” Castiel’s voice comes out harsher than he means. “When? Why?”

“Earlier today,” she says, not flinching. “He became unresponsive after breakfast. Elevated cortisol, spike in aggression markers. It was the safest option.”

“The safest-” Castiel cuts himself off, takes a breath. “That wasn’t your call to make.”

Milton tilts her head, expression still unreadable. “You’ve been reassigned from his case, Doctor. You should’ve received the memo.”

“I didn’t.” His jaw tightens. “I never signed off on sedation. I left explicit instructions-”

“And they were followed. For a while,” she interrupts him. “But then the subject’s condition worsened, and we did what we had to.”

He doesn’t miss her use of the word subject instead of patient, but doesn’t call her out on it. He’s always enjoyed working with Nurse Milton, and would have never expected her to be in on this whole conspiracy that is starting to unravel around him. Who can he even trust anymore?

“Dr. Novak,” she says, voice dipped in something, maybe pity, maybe something colder. “With all due respect, you look exhausted. You haven’t slept, your scent’s shot, and frankly… you’re not helping anyone like this.”

Castiel says nothing. His throat is tight.

“We have everything under control,” she continues. “Why don’t you get some rest?”

I’m sure you think you do, Castiel thinks. But he knows better now. This is a wall. They’re shutting him out. Still, he needs a plan. He needs time. If he fights now, they’ll shut him down completely. Maybe worse.

He softens his posture. Forces a thin smile.

“You’re right,” he says. “Still… if anything changes, you’ll let me know?”

“Of course,” she replies, much more cheerfully now. “Goodnight, Doctor.”

She turns to head inside. Castiel lingers just long enough to catch a glimpse past the flap.

Dean lies motionless on the cot. His face is turned toward the entrance, slick with sweat. Brow furrowed; jaw clenched. His expression is twisted into something caught halfway between agony and sleep.

Castiel feels it like a blow to the chest.

✪✪✪

Castiel doesn’t go back to his tent.

He walks for a while instead, past the edge of the med compound, past the logistics trailers and the half-collapsed storage depot, until he finds a stretch of empty ground between two forgotten mess tents. A place just far enough off-grid that no one will ask questions.

The air is cold. The moon is barely a sliver. His boots crunch over grit and dust as he paces the narrow corridor of silence. Something creaks in the distance - a chain left swinging, maybe. A loose tarp. He can’t bring himself to care.

His body is exhausted, but his mind won’t still. His hands won’t stop shaking.

He presses his back to the canvas wall, slides down slowly until he’s crouched, knees drawn up, coat tugged tighter around his ribs like armor. He tries to breathe.

Dean’s face won’t leave his mind. That twisted expression in sleep. That fever-slicked brow. That quiet agony carved into his features, even unconscious.

And now he’s cut off.

Castiel was supposed to protect him.

Not in the formal sense - he wasn’t his handler, or his commander, or anything with rank that mattered. He wasn’t his Alpha. Just his doctor. Just someone meant to keep him breathing. But it feels deeper than that now, and Castiel doesn’t know when it changed.

Maybe it was the first time Dean, defying all logic of the drug as he now knows, spoke softly to him. Or the glimpses he got into his life, the expectations of his father and the warmth apparent in his brother’s letters. Maybe it was the moment he whispered don’t go, with his eyes fever-glazed but trusting, trembling and undone.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s already in too deep.

He leans his head back against the tent pole and closes his eyes. Somewhere out there, in a locked-down medical tent, Dean Winchester is slowly dying - or being killed.

That last thought guts him. If he can’t stop this, what will be left of Dean? His dog tags, delivered to his brother who will never know what really happened? Worse, who will probably blame himself for not fighting harder to reach Dean?

And how many more soldiers, Alphas, humans will be dealt with the same way, all in the name of what? Winning a war Castiel has never seen sense in to begin with?

He rubs his face, then frowns at his hands. They’re shaking, his palms dry and rough with remnants of ink and dust. When was the last time he slept? He can’t remember, and the temptation to close his eyes, just for a second, only for a moment, is almost too strong to resist.

But he can’t permit himself to give into the whispers of sleep, not yet, not now. His family would tell him this is reckless. That it’s not his job to fix what the military breaks. That he was lucky to have gotten into medical school at all, and luckier still to end up here instead of another blood-soaked front. They would tell him to keep his head down. Don’t make noise. Don’t make waves. Don’t throw yourself into the fire just because you think you smell smoke.

His sister Hannah would tell him not to give it all up for one human. She would always complain to their brother Ishim about his weakness, how he was always happy to bleed for others. And Michael – God, if he could see Castiel now, he’d probably put a bullet to his head himself for his perceived stupidity.

But Castiel isn’t a hammer – he has questions, doubts. He has never seen sense in the war, and if it’s the very thing that kills him trying to do something right, he’ll accept his fate.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t understand this newfound recklessness himself. Maybe all those years of trying to please everyone around him before himself are simply starting to catch up to him. But deep down, he knows it’s not true. Supposes that if it were anyone else, he’d be too afraid, too trained to not ask questions, to act.

But something about Dean seems to have broken through all his walls. Why Dean? he wonders.

Why has one Alpha - one emotionally constipated, self-destructive, headstrong soldier - become the axis around which everything in Castiel’s mind now turns?

Maybe it’s because Dean saw him. Not as his job or designation, not as a clinical observer. But as someone. Someone worth asking about. Someone worth trusting, even when Dean himself had nothing left to give.

Maybe, part of it also stems from his brother’s love, so obvious in each carefully written line. Even through the mess of red stamps and tampered envelopes, the care is unmistakable. It clings to every curve of Sam’s handwriting. Every too-formal sentence softened by worry.

Maybe he’s too tired to have seen it earlier. Maybe part of him hadn’t wanted to see it.

But now, it falls like scales from his eyes.

Of course.

He exhales, sharp and quiet. The air shifts in his lungs.

With a sudden burst of movement, he starts rifling through his coat, then through the side pouch he always carries, fingers clumsy with urgency. He finds a folded scrap of paper near the bottom, crumpled but blank. A pen that barely works.

He smooths the page across his thigh and begins to write in the half-light, using the pale yellow of a distant camp lamp and the last thread of hope he’s willing to risk.

Chapter Text

Benny Lafitte is a man of a few simple rules.

Don’t start a fight you aren’t ready to finish.
Don’t get your paws on someone else’s girl.
And don’t go and bleed for something you aren’t prepared to die for.

He ignores the slight tremor in his hands like he always does as he fumbles for his pack of cigarettes. Andrea would have his head for picking up the bad habit again, but he hasn’t seen his wife in months, and he’s not stupid enough to mention his vice in the rare letters he gets to send her.

It’s early enough for him to start the day mainly undisturbed. Despite his Beta designation, without their Sergeant around, he’s gotten asked more and more questions, especially by the Rookies. At first, he tried to tell them to go to the Roman, who filled in Dean’s position during his absence, but it took one look at the Alpha for their knees to start wobbling, and Benny can’t even blame them.

The quiet he’s carved out for himself at the edge of the motor pool with only a half-dead floodlight and the warm cherry of his cigarette for company is disturbed by hurried footsteps. He smells the doc before he steps into the still glowing halo of the lone streetlight, even with a Beta’s nose.

Stress and exhaustion, sweat and something sharp with adrenaline. His eyes are rimmed red, hair more out of place than usual. Shoulders drawn tight, posture all wrong for a man of his status, for an Alpha.

Benny takes a long drag, raises an eyebrow.

He still hasn’t made up his mind about the doc. Not about what he said last time, and sure as hell not about what he means to do next.

Castiel stops a few paces away. Doesn’t waste time.

“I need you to get something out of the camp,” he says, voice low, urgent. “No channels. No official drop. Just… quietly.”

There’s something in his hand. A small envelope, folded shut but unsealed. Benny flicks ash off to the side. Doesn’t reach for it yet.

“You planning to tell me what it is?” he asks, tone neutral.

“No.” Benny’s face hardens.

“But it matters.”

Benny lets the silence stretch between them. The wind lifts a corner of the tarp above, lets it fall. Somewhere behind the mess tent, a distant generator clicks back to life.

Finally, he reaches out. Takes the envelope. Slides it into his jacket without looking. No nod. No promises. He can’t, not after last night… Not with Adler’s words still ringing in his ears, the kind that weren’t meant to be forgotten

Castiel studies his face. Whatever he’s looking for, Benny doesn’t offer it.

“I don’t know if I’ll be around to explain,” the doctor adds.

Benny’s cigarette is almost burned to the filter. He drops it, grinds it out beneath his boot.

“I’m starting to get that,” he mutters.

Then he turns and walks off into the dark. The envelope shifts with his steps. He doesn’t touch it again.

✪✪✪

A lamp hums overhead, casting a dull yellow cone over a desk strewn with deployment records, ration manifests, and shredded envelope fragments. A corkboard nearby is littered with pins and thread: supply lines, troop routes, postal codes.

The man at the desk hasn’t slept. Not really. Not in days.

He taps a pencil against the table. Once. Twice. Then stabs it into the paper hard enough to break the lead.

He scrolls through a courier manifest, lips pressed into a line. Another dead end - the mail routed through Station 17-C two weeks ago is marked “Reviewed. Cleared. Forwarded.”

Bullshit.

A chair creaks behind him. A second voice, tired, soft, speaks from the doorway. Her scent calms him, if only a little, if only for a while.

“We need to make our move.”

The man doesn’t answer right away. He stares at the folder in front of him. At the smudged address on the top line. At the black box stamped across it: UNDELIVERABLE.

His voice is quiet when it comes, shaky. He knows she’s right, even if he doesn’t want to believe it. She places a warm hand on his shoulder, the contact grounding.

“I know. Shit!”

“I’m sorry,” she says, rubbing soothing circles into his neck. “But if we don’t act now, it won’t just be him.”

The man stays quiet.

✪✪✪

Castiel does something he has never done before in all his twenty odd years of being a doctor. He skips work. By the time he stumbles back toward the med compound, the sun has fully risen, spilling light over rows of canvas and concrete. The camp is already in motion, boots on gravel, shouted orders, the low roar of engines warming up. The sudden flurry of life feels almost surreal.

He doesn’t bother checking in on Dean, no matter how badly he wants to, because the guard makes a show out of fixing the strap of his weapon around his shoulder when he sees him in the distance, and he mustn’t draw any more attention to himself in any case.

Though he feels a pang of guilt when he tells Nurse Milton he’s not feeling well (which isn’t even a complete lie), he knows he can’t go on like this for much longer. He needs some rest, and all he can do now is hope and wait, as depressing as that sounds.

His cot has never felt as welcoming as it does when he finally reaches it, and he’s fast asleep even before his head hits the pillow.

He dreams, but nothing sticks. Shapes, maybe. Hands. A voice. Green. His name - or someone’s. It slips through him like smoke.

When he blinks awake, he thinks it’s from nothing in particular. It takes him a few seconds to reorient himself. The light outside has shifted and there’s the usual buzz of activity outside his tent.

Then he hears a sound just outside his tent, and realizes with a start it must be what’s woken him. He swings his legs off the cot just as the flap opens.

Corporal Adler ducks inside, flanked by two armed soldiers in full tactical gear. Castiel’s stomach sinks as he recognizes Benny in one of them.

He hasn’t had much to do with the Corporal before, unless it was fielding his questions about when a soldier currently held in the med tent would return to duty, but those few interactions were enough for Castiel to make him dislike the man.

There has always been something calculating in those beady eyes, and his scent’s seemed… off. It’s stinking up his tent now as well, Alpha through and through, though there’s an underlying metallic note Castiel has never quite been able to place.  

Adler’s expression is calm, unreadable. “Doctor Novak,” he says, like it’s a formality. “I’m afraid you need to come with us.”

Adler gives a practiced smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “No cause for alarm. We just have a few questions. Standard protocol.”

Castiel wonders why Adler bothers with lying if he doesn’t even care enough to match his scent.

Castiel’s eyes flick back to Benny. He searches for a twitch, a blink, anything to suggest this isn’t what it looks like, that Benny’s silence is strategic, not complicit. But there’s nothing. Just that locked jaw and blank face.

“Am I under arrest?” he asks, finally.

“You’ll be debriefed shortly,” Adler replies. “Please come quietly.”

That tells him everything he needs to know.

He stands slowly, keeping his movements careful, unthreatening. He’s unarmed. Exhausted. Still not entirely awake. But he’s not about to give them an excuse to use force, or to claim he resisted.

He spares one last glance at Benny. Muted blue eyes. No sign of recognition. The feeling of betrayal makes bile rise in his throat, but he forces himself not to show it. If Benny ratted him out, Castiel hopes he’s at least had a good reason for it, and he’s not petty enough to bring him down with him.

The soldiers step in, flanking him. One grips his elbow too tight, having him stifle a hiss.

“I’m not resisting,” he mutters.

Adler nods once, then gestures for them to move.

The camp seems louder outside. The midday heat clings to his skin, sweat already forming beneath his collar. People glance up as they pass, then look away just as fast. No one stops them. No one asks.

They pass Dean’s tent.

Castiel’s throat tightens. He doesn’t look. He can’t. Not with the weight of Benny’s silence pressing against his back, and Adler’s scent clogging the air, and a million things unsaid wedged behind his teeth.

He walks.

Because there’s nothing else he can do.

Chapter Text

When Dean was younger, he used to wake up in the backseat of his dad’s car at least as often as in a cinderblock-walled base quarter bed. Heat-stuck vinyl clinging to his cheek, the hum of tires on asphalt filling his ears. He’d crack open one gummy eye and stare at the sunburnt horizon through the window, disoriented, not sure if they were driving towards a new assignment or away from the last one. Maybe it was the same anyway.

He can almost be fooled that that’s what it is, but something’s off. The familiar scents of his dad and brother are missing, for one, and when he blinks his heavy eyelids open, he realizes it’s not him that’s moving, but everything around him.

The air is too still. There’s no rumble beneath him, no sway of the road. Just the faint hiss of air outside and the slow drip of something beside his head.

His mouth is dry. His tongue, thick. His skin feels too tight, like he’s been wrapped in plastic and left in the sun.

He turns his head, which immediately turns his stomach. An IV bag sways slightly above him, its tubing snaking down into his arm. The liquid inside gleams a shade too bright, red like candy glass, wrong in a way he can't name.

He stares at it for a second, trying to think. Where is he? How did he get here? Why does he have the feeling something’s missing – or is it someone? The harder he tries to remember, the more his head pounds.

Nausea hits him with full force, then, sudden and violent. He barely manages to twist sideways before retching off the edge of the cot, his stomach convulsing even though there’s nothing in it. Bile burns at the back of his throat. The world swims.

By the time it settles, he’s shaking. His vision blurs at the edges, and for a moment all he can do is breathe, in through his mouth, out through clenched teeth, sweat dripping from his hairline down his nose.

His own scent stings his nostrils, something metallic and off about it.

He blinks, forces himself upright with a trembling arm, and squints toward the tent flap. There are shadows moving outside. Two voices, low, urgent, not meant to carry.

“…Novak’s been taken. They moved him this morning.”

“What? Why? How are we supposed to operate without a doctor?”

“No idea. I just heard the Corporal signed off on it personally.” The speaker hesitates as if wondering whether to say whatever they’re thinking, but ultimately seems to decide in favor of it. “Some say they took him out past checkpoint Delta.”

Dean hears the other person gasp before they move past the tent and out of earshot.

The words barely register, but one does.

Dean’s heart stutters. That buzzing under his skin sharpens to something jagged. Like a switch has been flipped, his brain floods with heat and light and sound.

A kaleidoscope of memories crashes into him all at once.

Hands, steady and cool on his head. A voice, low and careful. The gentle press of fingers against his wrist, checking his pulse. A quiet, “You’re safe,” spoken like a promise.
That strange little smile when Dean had tried to crack a joke.

Cas.

The name slams through him like a second heartbeat, jarring and visceral. The buzzing in his veins sharpens into something wild, something urgent. And with it, the words he’s overheard finally register.

His head is swimming, his skin too tight, but through the haze of his illness, he knows this is no coincidence. That his doctor – the only one who seemed to care about his well-being, the only person who might have a clue about what’s going on with him – is being taken after Dean has… what?

He remembers not feeling well and, blushing furiously, all the stuff that happened in this cot when his body had taken over and erased any rational thought, but he can’t recall anything past that. He brings a shaking hand up and brushes it across his cheek.

He frowns as he feels stubble. How long has he been asleep?

He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s starting to pick up a few pieces. Whatever is wrong with him, he needs Cas to figure it out. Cas, with that furrowed brow and those too-quiet silences. Cas, who’d stayed late, who’d checked him over like he meant it, not like he was just checking a box.

Cas, who saw past the rage and the noise and the Alpha classification stamped onto Dean’s chart in bold black ink.

With a sinking suspicion, he rips out the IV line. The motion sends a bolt of pain through his arm, sharp and immediate, followed by a slow, warm trickle of blood. The tubing flails for a second before falling limp, red fluid still dripping from the severed end.

He staggers as he tries to stand. His knees buckle beneath him almost immediately, sending him crashing sideways into the nightstand. His shoulder slams against it hard enough to knock everything off: a metal tray clatters to the floor, scattering gauze, empty syringes, and a cracked thermometer.

Dean sucks in a breath through gritted teeth, clutching the edge of the overturned stand to stay upright.

He feels sick. Nauseous. Bone-deep exhausted, like he’s run a marathon in his sleep. Sweat beads on his upper lip. His vision pulses.

But he needs to keep moving.

He barely makes it three steps out of the tent before someone shouts, “Hey!” and grabs his arm.

Bleary-eyed, Dean blinks at the two faces of Gadreel, a cadet in his squad. Wait, two faces? He squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again until the two images merge into one.

Gadreel’s mouth is set into a grim line, but his grip isn’t as strong as Dean knows it to be. After all, it was Dean that taught him how to move like he meant it, that showed him the ropes when he was sent to the front lines, his finger shaking on the trigger and his eyes wide and scared.

He doesn’t think. Heat explodes behind Dean’s eyes as he slams his forehead into Gadreel’s nose. There’s a crunch, a sharp yelp. The soldier stumbles back, clutching his face, and Dean stumbles forward, dizzy, off-balance, running on legs that don’t want to work. It’s not clean. It’s not skilled. It’s just raw panic, all instinct, teeth bared in a snarl that feels too close to something animal.

He doesn’t know how he makes it to the parked vehicles without getting noticed, without falling face-first into the dirt. He’s just glad he did, because he neither has the strength to fight off anyone else nor to get back up once he’s down, he knows.

He finds the nearest jeep on autopilot. His hands shake as he pries open the panel, wires sparking under his fingers. His breath comes in short gasps, sweat stinging his eyes. No matter how complicated of a man he might have been, Dean still sends a silent prayer to his old man for showing him this neat little trick.

Finally, the engine coughs once, twice, then roars to life.

It’s too loud. Everything is too loud.

Tires kick up gravel as he jerks the vehicle into motion. The world tilts sideways. Trees blur past, and he grips the wheel so tight his knuckles go white.

He doesn’t have a plan. Just one name, echoing like a drumbeat in his skull.

Cas. Cas. Cas.

If his head wasn’t pounding so much, he’d probably stop and ask himself why. Why the hell is he doing this?

After all, he and the doc barely know each other – that’s the honest truth of it. They shared, what, a handful of conversations? A few too-long glances, at least on Dean’s part? But when Dean’s body betrayed him in that cot, Cas didn’t flinch away. No one else had ever-

Before he can finish that thought, his stomach turns. Cursing, he manages to veer off the road just in time to throw the door open and vomit into the dirt. It’s bile and bitterness and it takes more force than it should to pull himself back into the car he’s half hanging out from, still buckled.

He peels out again, heart racing, vision swimming. Heading toward the checkpoint. He hasn’t been there, but he’s heard the rumors. Everyone has.

The road he’s on only leads to one thing. A deserted place that doesn’t show up on any map, where they supposedly take war prisoners that are more hustle than they’re worth, or soldiers that won’t do what they’re told.

He shouldn’t know where to go, but he does. His body does. Like something magnetic is tugging him toward it, toward him. There’s no logic to it. No strategy.

Just need.

Dean wipes a shaking hand across his face. His skin is burning, his pupils blown. The buzzing is back, just beneath the surface, like bees crawling under his skin. Rage licks up his spine, hungry and wild, but then vanishes just as fast, like a faulty circuit trying to spark.

He gasps for breath. The jeep jerks to the side, and he barely manages to keep it on the road.

A flash of blue. He blinks.

Cas. A hole in his head. Hands stretched out as though reaching for him. His eyes locked on Dean.

“Wait,” Dean chokes. “No-”

He blinks again. Nothing but the road, lined by lone trees, their shadows stretching too long. Dean presses the gas harder.

The jeep skids to a halt behind the husk of a collapsed watchtower, tires chewing gravel and dust into the air. Dean’s hands won’t let go of the wheel. His breath is ragged, too shallow. The engine ticks and crackles behind him, still humming even after he kills the ignition.

He can’t move.

His heart’s pounding so hard it rattles his ribs, and everything in him is screaming to stay hidden. He’s not even sure how he made it here - blind instinct, fever, that strange magnetic pull like a wire hooked through his chest, dragging him forward. Toward Cas.

Dean swallows against the acid in his throat and drags himself upright in the seat. He leans forward, one trembling hand braced on the cracked dash, and squints through the windshield.

There- movement.

Beyond the outpost wall, in the clearing.

Cas is on his knees.

It takes Dean a full three seconds to comprehend it. Not bound. Not fighting. Just kneeling. His head bowed, hair sticking to his temple with sweat or blood or both. A line of soldiers stand behind him like a wall, and there, off to the side, stands Corporal Adler.

Dean blinks hard. For a moment, the shape of Adler wavers, until it’s not Adler at all anymore. Instead, he sees another face, grim and familiar.

“Dad?”

John Winchester is holding a rifle with practiced hands, its barrel aimed straight at Cas’ head. Dean’s hands go numb.

He’s ten years old, watching from the edge of the woods as blood sprays from the Alpha’s body kneeling before his father. The bitter sting of gun oil sticks in his nose, and he knows his own fear is obvious in his scent by the way dad frowns when he turns back toward him.

John had called it a mercy, what he did to the Alpha. Said they’d have done worse to him, had they found out about him ‘getting cozy with one of his kind’. Dean doesn’t understand what dad means, doesn’t know who ‘they’ are, but he’s too scared to ask.

He blinks again, and John’s face vanishes, morphing back into Adler’s, though the pitiless expression stays the same.

Dean stares at Cas, still unmoving. His chest rises and falls. He’s breathing. Alive. For now.

Dean’s skin itches. The world is too loud and too far away all at once. Sound warps in his ears like it’s underwater. His pulse is a drumbeat in his head.

He has to move. He has to do something. If he just gets close enough-

He fumbles for the door.

His shoulder slams into it, the handle slick under his palm. It gives way with a groan, and suddenly his boots are hitting the dirt, staggering, uneven, and the heat outside swallows him whole. It punches through his fever-drenched skin, searing his lungs as he gasps and stumbles.

He steps forward just as Cas turns his head toward him. Adler’s gun gleams in the light, still trained at Cas’ head. But when Dean locks eyes with Cas, everything around them disappears.

The wind dies. The trees vanish. The soldiers dissolve into shadow. Dean forgets how to breathe, because all at once, it’s only them, him and Cas, tethered across a stretch of dust and dread and whatever the hell this place has become.

“Cas,” Dean breathes, the name catching in his throat.

There’s a tremble at the edge of his lips; half a smile, half a sob. He’s here. He made it. He found Cas. And despite the fever singing in his veins and the sting in his eyes, Dean swears he can smell rain.

Fresh. Clean. Like petrichor in spring. Somehow – somehow - they’re going to make it. They have to.

Cas opens his mouth. His gaze softens.

And then the shot rings out.

Chapter Text

TRANSCRIPT – UNIFIED BROADCAST NETWORK
EVENING REPORT – SEGMENT 2
[BEGIN RECORDING]

ANCHOR (FEMALE):
Good evening. You’re watching UBN. I’m Charlie Bradbury. Tonight’s headlines:

Unified Command confirms another successful operation along the western perimeter. Military sources report continued advancement into contested zones, with enemy resistance described as, quote, “minimal and disorganized.” Victory metrics remain on target for the second quarter. Strategic initiatives are proceeding as planned.

[Cut to b-roll: soldiers saluting, a flag waving in the wind.]

Today marks the 3,043rd day of the campaign to restore order and secure territorial sovereignty. Officials remind citizens that their sacrifices are not in vain. Civilian morale remains high, and distribution chains are fully operational. Ration surplus has been reported in several sectors.

[Noticeable hesitation.]

ANCHOR (VOICE LOWER):

Surplus. Right.

[A beat. She blinks, then continues, strained.]

A reminder for all Alpha-class personnel currently in recovery: submit your updated fitness logs to the Medical Oversight Committee before 1800 hours. Psychological irregularities should be reported through the proper channels. No one will be penalized for-
[Another pause. She glances off-camera.]

No one will be penalized for showing symptoms. That’s what it says on the screen in front of me.

[Audio distortion – slight static.]

ANCHOR (STEADY): 

But is that true? We are told the war is progressing. That everything is under control. That we’re so close to winning - any day now, really, we swear. 

But I’ve seen things they don’t air. 

[Soft background voice: “Charlie, wrap it.”] 

[Camera tightens slightly. Her voice drops.] 

They don’t want you to know how they’re playing with people’s lives far away from the battlefield. How they’re taking out their own men when they’re no longer useful. 

[Urgent shuffling noises off-camera. Someone is speaking rapidly, muffled.] 

ANCHOR (RUSHED): 

They’ll cut this feed soon. I don’t care. You deserve the truth. 

Casualty numbers are higher than reported. Entire squads have gone missing. We’re losing-

[Shouted command from behind the camera, louder-“Kill the feed!”]

- no longer normal soldiers. Not since what they call ‘The Alpha Protocol’. You deserve to know what’s being done to-

[CUT TO STATIC]

Chapter Text

The drive couldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. It certainly gave Castiel the chance to think about his life, about the actions he did and didn’t take to end up exactly at this point in time.

He’s not stupid. He can tell by Adler’s self-serving smirk, by his arrogant scent that reeks with wrongness, even by the blank expression on Benny’s face that he’s not being taken to some holding cell to await the military court’s verdict. Castiel knows a dead man’s escort when he sees it.

This isn’t a transfer. There won’t be a tribunal. They're going to kill him.

The realization doesn’t startle him. It sinks in quietly, like nightfall. Castiel closes his eyes and lets his head tip against the cold wall of the vehicle.

He doesn’t want to die. Not because of fear – though he grew up religious, he abandoned faith long ago, but not peace. If there’s an afterlife, so be it. If there isn’t, at least there will be stillness.

No, he doesn’t want to die because it isn’t time.

He trained to heal. Spent a decade buried in textbooks and hospitals, determined to make things better in a world that only seemed to fracture more by the day. He didn’t choose this war, but he let himself be pulled into it - one request, one transfer, one favor at a time - until he was ankle-deep in blood and too stubborn to look away.

He tried to help. But he should’ve done more. He should’ve realized sooner that something unkosher was going on. That this was systemic. Maybe then, he could’ve saved more people. Maybe, with just a little bit more time, he could’ve saved Dean.

Dean, with his fire and fury worn like armor. Dean, who distrusted Castiel from day one but still let himself be vulnerable in the quiet hours. Who made him question things he thought were set in stone.

Now, Dean is sedated and poisoned somewhere with nobody to look out for him, nobody to help him. Nobody to stop this. And Castiel will be executed, out there somewhere on a lonely field, and all that will remain of the two of them are thoughts they were too afraid to share and half-formed ideas they couldn’t finish.

Castiel’s hands curl into fists in his lap. They haven’t restrained him - yet. But that doesn’t mean he’s free.

He doesn’t want to die. But if he does, he hopes, somehow, that Dean lives.

It’s with that thought - his final, silent prayer that Dean will make it out alive - that Castiel steps out of the vehicle.

The air hits him like a wall, thick with dust and the faint tang of metal. His boots crunch against gravel as Adler circles behind him. Castiel doesn't need to look to know the barrel of a rifle is now trained squarely between his shoulder blades.

“On your knees,” Adler says, too calm.

The command stings more than the steel ever could. An Alpha ordering another to kneel - it’s a power move, one not even thinly veiled, and Adler savors it. Castiel hears it in the smile behind his words, it comes through in his scent. There’s nothing military about this anymore. This is theatre. This is execution.

He kneels.

The dirt digs into his knees. His palms press against his thighs. He keeps his chin high for as long as he dares before bowing his head, sweat dripping from his brow into the dust.

There are so many things he would have liked to do one last time.

He would have liked to go back to the lake he and his siblings would go to to feed the ducks, all dressed in their Sunday best, Castiel clutching his mother’s skirt like a lifeline. Just once more he would have liked to wake up to birdsong instead of gunfire, or fall asleep in front of a warm stove reading his favorite books instead of tossing and turning on a cot that hurt his back.

There are things, feelings he wants to experience – maybe for the first time.

He never kissed Dean.

He never even let himself think about it, but now, with only his thoughts and the click of a safety filling the silence, he doesn’t see why he should hold back any longer. He should have done it when it still could’ve changed something. When Dean’s hands had trembled in his, when they shared breath and long, aching silences in the dark.

Castiel takes a deep breath.

It doesn’t matter anymore. It can’t.

He lifts his eyes to the stars, or where they should be, just barely visible behind the haze, but stops halfway when he finds green instead. Green, rimmed in red and shining with fury.

Dean.

He’s coming toward him, staggering, stumbling, and Castiel wants to jump up and meet him halfway. Wants to hold him, to shake him, to ask “what the hell are you doing here, you idiot?” with a shaky voice and tears in his eyes.

For one perfect, impossible moment, he thinks he must have already died. Because Dean is here. And nothing else in the world could make less sense.

The wind carries a single word toward him, the nickname Dean gave him, spoken in a rough, broken voice that’s like music to his ears.

It’s okay, Castiel wants to say. It’s alright. I didn’t make it, but you still can. Turn around and run, as fast and as far as you can, and let me go.

He opens his mouth as a shot rings out.

✪✪✪

[Transcript partially reconstructed from fragmented surveillance]

WOMAN 1:
Do you think it was enough? I feel like I should have done more.

WOMAN 2:
You risked everything out there. We knew they’d cut the newsfeed, but it surely rattled something. The comms haven’t been that busy in weeks.

MAN:
Any sign from the inside?

WOMAN 2:
No new updates. But something’s shifting. The reports are all mismatched - one day he’s in holding, next day he’s “unavailable for comment.” They’re burying him.

WOMAN 1:
He’s not the only one. We’ve got three Alpha names scrubbed from the roster in under forty-eight hours. One of them flagged a redline marker before they vanished. Biohazard code.

MAN:
Jesus.

WOMAN 2 (quietly):
I think they’re testing […]. Whatever it is.

MAN:
My brother’s unit hasn’t checked in since last week. […] would’ve said something. If he could.

WOMAN 1:
We need to think about the possibility that-

MAN:
No! No. I don’t believe that until they personally bring me his tags.

[Silence. The faint hum of electronics. Someone exhales shakily.]

WOMAN 1:
Alright. But I need more […]. I need names, doses, timestamps. We get that, we blow this whole damn thing open.

WOMAN 2:
Then we make sure someone answers for it.

MAN:
There’s one medic still unaccounted for. Not just unresponsive - erased. They deleted his transfer orders before they even hit the logs. […] never seen […].

WOMAN 1:
Could be he’s dead. Or he got out. Or someone helped him disappear.

WOMAN 2:
There was movement near Delta. Unsanctioned. Unexplained. That’s not nothing.

MAN:
I just… I can’t give up yet. If there’s a chance he made it out, even half-feral and bleeding and pissed off-
[pause]
I need to believe he did.

[Silence again. A hand against wood, soft.]

WOMAN 1:
Alright. Back to the list. Anyone with access to medical supply chains, flagged requisitions, anyone who […]  and didn’t know what it was. If we move fast, we still have a window before they realize we’re not bluffing.

WOMAN 2:
We’ll see this through. We have […] could. We’ll get him back, Sam.

Chapter Text

Nothing hurts.
That’s the first thing he registers.

No burning, no shattering of bone or sinew. No dirt in his mouth, no darkness swallowing him whole. A scream cuts through the haze, and it takes a second to register it’s not his own. He blinks, just once, and the green is still there, closer now.

Dean.

The world explodes into motion.

Someone shouts “Get him!” behind Castiel - gunfire erupts to his left, and he flinches instinctively, his body slow to catch up to the fact that he’s still alive. Dean’s charging, not stopping, not hesitating, even as a soldier lunges at him from the flank. He barrels through like a wrecking ball, wild-eyed, blood on his temple, half-mad with desperation.

A second shot rings out.

Castiel drops flat to the ground on instinct. He hears a grunt, a body hitting gravel. More screaming. The scent of iron is heavy in the air - Alpha blood. Dean’s?

No - no, please no-

But then Dean’s there. Hands on him. Grabbing his arms and dragging him back toward cover, what little there is: a concrete barrier, a broken-down transport, the carcass of war littered around them like discarded promises.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, voice hoarse, shaking. “Jesus, Cas, come on, move!”

Castiel stumbles, half-pulled and half-running. His knees are scraped raw, dirt clinging to his clothes, but his legs respond. The adrenaline is deafening.

Behind them, chaos unfolds. More yelling. Another gunshot. Someone screams “Stand down!” but no one listens.

Dean kicks open the side of the vehicle he must’ve stolen, practically throwing Castiel inside. Then he’s climbing in after him, slamming the door shut, his chest heaving, scent acrid with panic.

Castiel’s hands are shaking. “Dean – how?”

“Later,” Dean pants, already in the driver’s seat, coaxing two stripped cables together until the engine stutters, then roars to life beneath them.

Click.

Castiel turns, just in time to see the barrel of a gun slide through the shattered driver’s side window, steady and deliberate, aimed squarely at Dean’s head.

Dean freezes. His hands come up slowly, fingers trembling.

Adler stands on the other side, eyes flat, mouth twisted into something that only technically qualifies as a smile. His scent rolls off him in waves, acrid with fury and something darker, something rotten.

“You fucking freak,” he snarls.

Castiel doesn’t breathe.

This is it.

They tried. God, they tried, but it wasn’t enough. Adler will pull the trigger. He’s going to kill Dean, and then he’s going to kill Castiel, one shot after another until silence falls. And it will all have meant nothing.

Bang!

The sound tears through him, sharp as lightning. He braces for pain—for Dean’s blood, Dean’s body falling against him. But nothing. No spray, no impact. Just the lingering echo of the shot, ringing louder than before.

Adler stares at him, startled, then his face slackens. For a heartbeat Castiel sees the bullet’s path like an afterimage: Adler’s chest caving in, the sudden, violent bloom of red across his uniform. His scent, acrid and overwhelming, ruptures and fades all at once.

He collapses out of sight.

And where Adler stood a moment ago, now there’s… Benny?

His gun is raised, smoke curling from the barrel. He lowers it slowly, gaze unreadable, scent all over the place. Dean and Castiel can only stare at him, stunned.

“What the hell are you waitin’ for?” Benny growls. “Get the fuck out of here, connards!”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. The vehicle lurches forward with a growl, tires skidding on gravel, smoke trailing behind them like a funeral procession.

Castiel doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

He watches the curve of Dean’s shoulders in the driver’s seat, the way his hands cling to the wheel like it’s the only solid thing left in the world. There’s blood drying on his temple, more on his knuckles. His breathing is erratic - not just from exertion, but something deeper. Raspier. Wet. Feverish.

It’s in his scent as well, always that sickly, metallic undertone, and no matter how much Cas has come to like what must be his natural scent, buried beneath it, it almost makes him gag in the tight space of the jeep. It reminds him of Adler.

Castiel doesn’t know where they’re going, if Dean has a plan, and he should probably ask. Should offer to take over, especially when Dean almost steers off the road more than once, his blinks slow, his hands trembling.

But it’s like he’s seeing all of this from somewhere else, like he’s not even inside his body. Shock, he thinks, recognizing the signs, though he’s always been the one to diagnose it in others. It really is something else when you’re the one going through it.

Time pulls strange, elastic shapes around him. The road blurs, warps. At one point, Dean grinds to a halt, curses softly, and climbs out without a word. Castiel hears him throw up behind the vehicle. When he returns, he doesn’t explain. Just hits the gas again, jaw clenched, eyes glassy.

They make it farther than Castiel expected.

Eventually, the terrain changes, the mud giving way to gravel, then concrete. Dean slows down as if by instinct, squinting ahead. The remains of some old bunker or depot loom just off the road, swallowed by overgrowth and the kind of silence that says no one’s been here in years.

Castiel barely remembers getting out of the jeep. One minute there’s movement, the grind of metal, the thud of a door being shoved open with a shoulder; the next, he’s inside, standing in the shadow of an old corridor, watching dust stir in the slanted sunlight.

The air is cooler in here. Damp. It smells like rust and the muddled scents of those that had been here long before them, too weak now to distinguish from each other.

Dean stumbles two steps past him and drops to his knees.

“Dean.” Castiel’s throat feels raw, and he vaguely wonders how long it’s been since he’s last spoken.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but it’s not convincing. “Jus’, need a second.”

He braces both hands on the floor, breathing like he just ran a marathon with a bullet in his side. His shirt is soaked through. He doesn’t lift his head. His scent rolls off him in heavy waves, burnt and bitter, tangled through with the metallic tang of fever and chemicals. The clean note Castiel has come to know, could sometimes smell when he thought he was getting better, sharp and grounding, is buried deep under it all, hard to find.

Instinctively, Castiel crosses the space and sinks down beside him. He presses the back of his hand to Dean’s neck, his cheek. It’s like touching a furnace.

“You’re running a fever,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. His hands are still trembling, but they grow steadier the longer he breathes Dean in, chasing that hidden thread of his true scent until it anchors him.

In the face of Dean’s ever-worsening state, his medical training seems to be kicking in, and Castiel blinks a few times until the weird haze lifts a bit form his vision. It helps clear his head, and he wants to slap himself for how he’s acted in the car.

He’s the doctor, he’s the one that should be helping those around them – that should be helping Dean – not the other way round.

Dean gives a half-nod, already folding forward, but Castiel has been expecting it and catches him easily.

He lowers Dean gently onto a patch of cracked tile. Pulls off his jacket, then Dean’s, trying to cool his body down. He finds an old storage unit in the corner, rummages through it until he manages to locate a canteen half-full of stale but drinkable water, a shredded blanket, and an ancient med kit with half its contents spoiled and moldy. It will have to do.

Dean mumbles something incoherent as Castiel presses a damp cloth to his forehead,  his legs twitching like he’s still running.

“You came for me,” Castiel says quietly, barely louder than a breath. He’s not sure if he meant to speak it aloud, not sure if Dean is even in any state to take in his words. His skin is clammy and pale, though there’s a red flush on his cheeks from the fever, and his hair is matted to his head.

Dean’s eyes crack open, bloodshot and unfocused. But his lips twitch upward.

“Course I did, dumbass.”

Then he slumps completely. Castiel checks his pulse with shaking fingers. Still there. Fast. Slippery under his skin.

He exhales - more a shudder than a breath - and eases Dean down the rest of the way. Uses the ruined blanket to prop his head up, then sits beside him, knees drawn to his chest, one hand still resting lightly over Dean’s sternum.

For a long time, he stays like that.

There are questions he should be asking. Assessments to make. He should be going through Dean’s symptoms one by one, cataloging them, preparing for what’s coming.

But he can’t think.

Can’t move.

His ears are ringing with the echo of gunfire.

Adler’s eyes.

Dean’s blood.

And Benny.

Benny, who - God. Who shot a man in cold blood - for them? Was it on purpose, or did he have his own personal vendetta against the Corporal? But then why would he let them go?

Castiel can feel a migraine coming on, and he presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, trying to push it all away. The image of Dean’s hands on him, dragging him out of the dust. The way Dean didn’t hesitate.

He swallows down the lump in his throat.

He looks down at Dean’s face, flushed and damp, jaw slack in sleep or something close to it.

Later, he tells himself.

You can break down later.

Right now, you keep him alive.

Chapter Text

The box says premium, but the cheese still clumps like hell in the milk. Dean stirs anyway, wrist lazy, watching it bubble at the edges like it might boil over. The stove clicks with each flick of the dial.

Sam’s sitting behind him at the table, feet swinging, humming some dumb cartoon theme under his breath. The sky outside is promising rain.

Something's wrong. He can feel it, an itch beneath the skin, a tension between the seconds, but he doesn’t turn around.

“You okay, Dean?” Sam asks.

Dean swallows. His mouth tastes like copper and cotton. “Yeah,” he says, but the word comes out thick. Wrong. “Just tired.” Can’t worry Sammy.

“You look sick.” When Dean glances over his shoulder, Sam looks different than he did just moments before. Older.

His hair is almost too long, shoulders all sharp angles, cheeks not as soft as they were before. He blinks, and Sam’s a kid again, holding a crayon and drawing something Dean can’t quite see. There’s a juice box on the table, and a glass filled to the brim with artificially dyed red liquid. The straw in it is bent funny. Dean frowns.

“Didn’t you used to hate this kind?”

“I changed my mind,” Sam says, smiling too wide. His front teeth are missing, but the voice that follows is deeper.

“You always think you know what I want.”

Dean’s hand slips. The spoon clatters against the stove. He turns fully this time, and Sam’s even bigger. Teenager, maybe early twenties. Arms crossed, glare sharp and wounded.

The pot starts to hiss behind him. Dean looks down. The cheese is gone. What’s left is a sludgy red mess, bubbling like oil. Something black bobs up to the surface, burned and warped.

Outside the window, a siren wails. Dean flinches, but Sam doesn’t. He’s back at the table, drawing, the pen almost too big for his delicate hands. Dean swallows hard. His mouth tastes like metal and smoke.

“You okay, Dee?” Sam asks again, his voice high and carefree. Dean doesn’t think he’s heard the nickname in years. He wants to look away, but his feet won’t move. His hand’s still on the burner dial. It keeps clicking under his palm like it’s stuck.

“I think I forgot something,” Dean murmurs. Sam doesn’t answer.

The floor under Dean’s feet is wet. He glances down and sees the dark shape spreading from the stove, thick, slick, seeping outward like oil. No, like blood. It soaks into his socks. It smells like iron and burnt sugar. The walls groan. The air gets heavier.

Everything tilts, just slightly. Sam lifts his head again. His eyes are too old for his face now.

“I’m sorry for leaving,” he says.

Dean flinches. Hearing the words stings, but why? Sammy’s right here. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just better off without you.” He’s back to drawing, now on a used napkin, his hands calloused and huge. The glass of red juice is knocked over, the liquid dripping down the sides of the table and seeping into Sam’s napkin, but he doesn’t seem to care.

Dean risks a glance at the drawing, and his breathing picks up as what he thought were nonsencial lines and circles form into something familiar, something that itches in the back of his mind. He’s seen it before. On a car? Yes, on trucks, several of them. On something long and metallic, too, right? Was it on his clothes?

Dean looks down at himself, at the gear he wasn’t wearing moments ago. He shakes his head, backs away, but the kitchen’s too small, the doorway’s too far.

The burner hisses louder. The dial won’t turn. His fingers won’t let go. From outside, boots crunch closer. The sound is so familiar it makes Dean ache. Soldiers. Guns. The scent of dirt and diesel. And something wrong.

“Don’t open the door,” Sam says, but he’s not Sam anymore. His voice splits, warps. It’s deeper. Blue eyes cut through the dark. Intent. Wide open. Dean’s heart hammers in his chest, but somehow, through the fear, through the rising smoke, he smiles. The door slams open. Blinding light. A scream that might be his own.

He wakes choking. The air is too thick. Hot. It burns going in, and something inside him. His lungs? His throat? His everything rebels against it. He hacks and wheezes, rolls to the side just in time to vomit bile onto concrete, dry and acidic.

Everything’s wrong. His skin is soaked. His pulse pounds in his ears. The muscles in his legs twitch uncontrollably, and his hands shake so hard he can’t get them under himself. Every breath is a fight. Every second hurts. Dean claws at his chest, at his collar.

He tries to sit up. Tries to remember where he is, what happened, who, but the memory slips between his fingers like fog. Something primal surges inside him, raw, deep, feral. His knot is swollen. Heavy.

The need to rut explodes across his senses without shape or target, just a desperate, pulsing command to move, to fuck, to burn it all out. A scent cuts through it, familiar, grounding, wrong in all the right ways.

“Don’t-” he rasps, voice cracked, throat raw. “Get away from me-”

There’s a figure nearby. Kneeling. Calm. Dean’s vision tunnels. He tries to crawl backward, limbs jerking like a short-circuited machine. His back hits the wall. His claws-for-hands scrape at the floor. The figure doesn’t move.

Then: “Dean.” Just his name. Soft. Measured. Known.

Dean blinks hard, pupils blown wide. Everything’s swimming, shadows and noise, heat and confusion, but that voice cuts through it. Like cold water. The figure speaks again.

“It’s… It’s me. Cas.”

Dean freezes. Memories rush in like a punch to the gut: the truck, the gun, Adler, Benny. The engine roaring to life. The way Cas stumbled beside him, stunned but still breathing. Still alive.

He doesn’t remember how they got here. But he knows - he knows that voice. Dean slumps forward with a gasping sob, too weak to hold himself up.

“I don’t- I didn’t mean-” He doesn’t even know what he’s saying. His body’s still on fire. He wants to climb out of his own skin. Cas moves now. Slowly. Just enough to sit closer. He doesn’t reach out. Doesn’t touch.

“You’re safe,” he says. “You’re not back there.”

Dean’s throat convulses. “I can’t- I don’t know what’s happening. Cas, I,”

He lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

The side of his vision is turning black, and he tries hard to blink through the spots appearing in it, to get Cas’ face to focus.

“I’m going to explain everything to you, I promise,” Cas says, and there’s a cool hand on his forehead, on the back of his neck, brushing back strands of hair. It’s familiar and comforting, and Dean suddenly feels very, very tired.

“But first, we need to get you better, okay?” Cas asked him a question – he thinks? He should answer. If only he could remember what they were talking about. “Yeah. Yeah, ‘course. ‘m jus’…. Jus’ gonna sleep for a while, yeah?”

Something more is being said, he knows, though he can’t tell if it’s him speaking or the other person – Alpha? – in the room with him. He thinks he should know who it is, feels like his name has just been on the tip of his tongue, but if it ever was, it’s already gone again.

 Gently, the world turns horizontal – not like he’s falling, almost like he’s being laid down.

But who could be doing that? He’s all alone. No matter how hard he tries, in the end, everybody leaves him.

“I’m not,” a voice says, “I’m not going to leave you.” Dean doesn’t know who’s speaking, doesn’t know how they knew what he was thinking – or was he saying that out loud? All he knows is he doesn’t believe them – he can’t. But oh, how badly he wants to.

✪✪✪

Dean looks younger in his sleep.

Occasionally, his brow would furrow, little whimpers escaping his half-open mouth, either due to what his body is going through or whatever he’s seeing behind his closed lids, Cas doesn’t know.

Cas kneels beside him, legs numb beneath him, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead with trembling hands. It dries too fast. The fever's not breaking.

He mutters something, unintelligible, a slur of consonants and heat. His arm twitches. Then again.

Cas leans in without thinking. His own breath catches. The scent hits him like a wave.

It’s Dean’s, yes. Beneath the fever and the sour rot of what he’s now starting to realize must be the compound, it’s still Dean. Rich and sharp and Alpha.

But there’s something new laced in now. Something deep and magnetic. It curls around Cas’ spine. Claws at the back of his throat.

His fingers tighten on the rag without meaning to.

Cas has always thought of himself as having a particularly good hold on his control. But something about this man is slowly breaking through each and every single one of his walls, his reserves, and Cas doesn’t know how to react to that.

For now, all he can do is ensure Dean is at least not getting worse with what minimal medical equipment and his years of experience he has.

But they’re in a damp and probably moldy bunker, and Cas is not naïve enough to believe nobody has noticed their disappearance.

If Dean’s fever doesn’t break soon…

He forces himself to pull back. Stands too fast, dizzy.  Dean is still breathing, uneven but steady, and for now, that has to be enough.

Cas drags a hand over his face and turns away from the heat radiating off Dean’s body. He needs to focus. To do something. If he just sits here and waits, they’re as good as dead already.

The bunker is small. A single room, half-collapsed on one side, concrete warped and split from what looks like old shell impact. A storage unit once, maybe, or a field depot. Whatever it was, it’s been abandoned long enough for dust to settle thick on every surface. At least the two cots are still standing – Cas doesn’t think he could let Dean sleep on the cold concrete floor with good conscience.

Cas moves methodically, opening containers, peeling back rusted lids. Most of it is useless: shredded tarps, tangled cords, half-melted comm gear. But near the back wall, tucked beneath a long-discarded canvas sack, he finds a small field crate that still bears a faded supply stamp.

Inside: three sealed food rations, dense and protein-heavy, still intact. A few bottles of water, cloudy but capped, and two packs of purification tablets. A second crate yields a plastic-wrapped blanket, already spotted with mildew, but salvageable.

He exhales. Not relief, exactly. But enough, at least for now.

Then, under a pile of dislodged thermal foil and wiring, he sees it.

A radio.

It’s small, boxy. Standard issue for short-range field comms. He lifts it carefully, checks the external casing. There’s a crack across the side. The antenna looks intact, the battery compartment sealed.

Hope flares in his chest for the first time in hours. Even if he doesn’t know who he’d contact – he’s still uncertain about which side Benny’s on, and even if he trusted the Beta, contacting him would be far too risky – it would at least help them being able to listen in on what the military is planning. He sets it down on a cleared crate and presses the power switch.

Nothing.

He tries again. Checks the dials. The charge ports. Nothing. He fiddles with the antenna, reseats the battery. Still dead.

His jaw tightens. Of course. Too much moisture, too much time. Castiel stares at the lifeless unit for a few seconds longer, then sets it aside.

Water. Rations. Shelter. That will have to do.

He returns to Dean.

The fever hasn’t broken. If anything, his skin feels hotter. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, and his lips are starting to crack from dehydration. Cas opens one of the rations and forces a few drops of water past his lips with a soaked corner of cloth. Dean stirs, but doesn’t wake.

The sun sets without him noticing, deep in the bowels of the windowless bunker. He lights a lantern he found, its warm light highlighting the sharp edges and soft curves of Dean’s face. He settles onto the cot beside him, back pressed to the cool wall, the damp blanket folded beneath him. His body aches. His eyelids sting. But he doesn’t sleep.

The first few hours pass in fragments.

He watches the rise and fall of Dean’s chest, counts each breath like it might stop if he looks away. Occasionally, Dean murmurs - nothing coherent, just syllables and scraps of sound - and Cas finds himself leaning in, listening like he could decipher meaning in the heat-haze babble.

When Dean’s body starts to tremble, Cas wraps the mildewed blanket around his legs and presses another cloth to his forehead. His pulse flutters too fast. His scent, twisted and sour, fills the room no matter where Cas sits – not that he feels like he could leave his side for more than a few moments to grab something even if he wanted to.

Cas closes his eyes, just for a second.

When he opens them again, it’s darker. The cold has seeped through his clothes, but apart from that, not much has changed. Dean is still out.

Cas shifts, his spine aching. He rubs at the back of his neck and realizes his hands are shaking.

He thinks.

About the last few days. The last few weeks.

The flare of aggression in Dean’s unit. The reports from other camps. The scent of the bodies. The way Dean looked at him before he broke, eyes wide, lips drawn back, caught between fight and something else.

It wasn’t rut. Not really. Not the way it should have been. The scent wasn’t right.

Not just Dean’s - any of them.

And Adler - Adler had always smelled off. Like burned ozone and something chemical. Cas had assumed it was trauma. A memory etched too deep. But no Alpha should smell like that.

Unless - unless it wasn’t real.

Unless it was enhanced, somehow. He looks at Dean again. The flush in his cheeks. The slow drip of sweat tracing down his neck. The twitch of his fingers against the floor.

He doesn’t say it aloud. Doesn’t want to believe it yet. But the symptoms align too neatly.

The compound wasn’t just a suppressant. It wasn’t even a stimulant. It was something else. Something designed to alter, to force biology into submission. To strip instinct down to its rawest threads and twist it.

And Dean had borne the brunt of it He was never unstable. He was poisoned. Castiel presses both hands to his face, scrubs them down hard, like that could wipe the truth away.

He doesn’t know how long he sits like that.

Eventually, Dean shifts again. Mumbles something too soft to catch. His scent spikes, hot and acrid, but there’s a shift in it now. Less rot. More… normal. Still sick, but underneath it - familiar.

The fever’s breaking. Cas crawls over and rests a hand lightly against Dean’s throat. Still racing, but no longer galloping. His skin is clammy now instead of burning. His breathing, steadier.

Cas lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

He curls back down beside him, body trembling, eyes aching from the strain of staying open. He doesn’t know if it’s dawn or midday or something in between when Dean finally stirs, his eyelids fluttering.

“Cas?” he rasps, voice like gravel.

Cas jerks upright. “You’re awake.”

Dean doesn’t respond at first. Just blinks slowly, his lips parted. Then he nods, a tiny motion, and tries to sit up.

“Don’t,” Cas says quickly, catching his shoulder. “Take it slow.”

Dean huffs something like a laugh, then winces. “Feel like shit.”

“I’m not surprised.”

They sit in silence for a few seconds. Cas helps him drink, careful, slow. Dean downs it like he hasn’t tasted water in days, but Cas scolds him gently, helps him pace it so he won’t get sick.

Eventually, Dean’s gaze drifts across the room. His eyes move slowly, taking in the walls, the crates, the scattered remains of whatever this place used to be.

Finally, they land on Cas again.

“We made it here?” he croaks.

He sounds relieved, and Cas hopes that’s a good sign. That they can stay here at least until he’s a bit better. Cas shifts slightly, careful not to jostle the blanket he’s half-draped over Dean’s legs. Dean must only remember some of what happened.

“You drove us here. I was going to ask you how you knew of this place.”

Dean frowns, squinting at the concrete ceiling like it might jog something loose.

“There was an, um,” he starts, coughs, eyes looking anywhere but at Cas.

Cas raises a brow. Dean sighs. “A while back, maybe two years ago now, back when we were still optimistic about, you know, winning this thing, being able to go home soon…”

He stops, a faraway look in his eyes. Cas gently puts a hand on his shoulder, bringing him back to the here and now, and Dean’s subsequent soft smile shouldn’t make Cas’ chest ache as much as it does.

“Anyway, there was this Omega. He was, um, you know, not a soldier, of course but he was helping out the cook, that kind of stuff. Well, we got talking and, you know, sometimes we needed a place to… get away.”

In Cas’ professional opinion, the flush of Dean’s face no longer has anything to do with the effects of the compound, but he decides not to mention it.

Dean seems weirdly shy about his adventures, but who is Cas to blame him? War gets ugly and lonely real fast.

“I don’t,” Dean speaks up again, rubbing his hands together, “I don’t really remember… everything that happened yesterday…”

“I’d be surprised if you did, with that fever you were running,” Cas states truthfully.

Dean hums low in his throat, not quite agreement, not quite dismissal. He scrubs a hand over his face, the motion slow, like his limbs are still trying to remember how to be limbs. “You said I drove?”

“You did. Not well.” Cas allows a faint smile. “But I doubt I could have gotten us out of there without wrapping us around the first tree.”

That earns a weak chuckle. Dean leans his head back against the worn through mattress and closes his eyes. For a moment, Cas lets him rest.

Then-

“That was all real, right?” Dean asks, voice quieter now. “The escape. Adler. You…”

His eyes blink open, meet Cas’. “You’re really here?”

“I am.” Dean studies him for a second too long. His gaze flicks to Cas’ shoulder, the dirt on his collar, the dark circles under his eyes.

“You look like hell.”

Cas huffs. “So do you.”

“Fair.” Dean’s voice drops a little. “But I don’t… I don’t get it. When I woke up, I heard them talking about taking you out to… Delta.”

His voice wavers slightly as he says the name. “But why? You were – I mean, you are,” he’s quick to correct, the flush renewed on his face which makes Cas’ heart ache in the most beautiful and painful way, “You’re my doctor, aren’t you supposed to help me?”

Cas sighs. Seems like it’s time to come clean. “I fear they were afraid I’d gotten to close to the Alphas in my charge. You.”

Dean’s brows draw together, a slow furrow. “Too close, huh.”

He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, but the words sit heavy in the air between them. Not accusatory. Just quiet.

Cas braces himself for a question he might not know how to answer.

But Dean surprises him.

“This isn’t a normal illness, is it?”

Cas exhales slowly. “No. It’s not.”

Dean doesn’t push. He just waits, watching Cas with those tired, clear eyes.

So Cas begins.

“I didn’t understand it at first,” he says. “I thought maybe it was an irregular rut cycle. A hormonal spike. Or stress – there’s precedent for that in Alphas under pressure. But then the symptoms kept getting worse.”

Dean doesn’t move, but Cas sees his jaw tighten.

“The aggression, the territorial spikes, the scent distortions, none of it followed known patterns. When they brought in that other ‘rogue’ Alpha, I started going through medical records in secret, which led me to finding out you were both giving different food rations.”

Dean’s eyebrows lift slightly. “Sorry, what?”

Cas sighs. “I tested the food from the main tent. I had to run the analysis three times before I believed it.”

He swallows. “There was a synthetic compound in the protein base. A neurochemical agent, subtle, but targeted. Designed to affect hormonal regulation. To increase dominance drive, lower inhibition.”

Dean stares at him, breathing shallow. “They were drugging us.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

Cas shakes his head. “I don’t know. But it’s not new. Some of the records I found went back months. Maybe longer.”

Dean closes his eyes, leans his head back against the wall. “Jesus.”

“I think that’s why you got so sick after we left,” Cas continues, quieter now. “Because you stopped taking it.”

Dean’s breathing is uneven now. He doesn’t interrupt.

“You went into withdrawal,” Cas says gently. “Your body was compensating for an artificial stimulant it never asked for. That’s why it felt like rut, but didn’t act like it. That’s why your scent didn’t stabilize. Why your fever wouldn’t break.”

Dean runs a hand over his mouth. “When I woke up… there was an IV with some red stuff in it.”

Cas’ stomach sinks. “I’m not surprised they continued their supposed ‘treatment’ when I was out of the picture, but it disgusts me. The only thing I don’t quite understand is why. Why would they drug their soldiers? And why did it affect you and that other Alpha so much, but not everyone else?”

Cas deliberately doesn’t mention what Benny told him. It’s less out of respect for the Beta, who Cas is still on the fence about which side he’s on, and more as to not embarrass Dean further.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Dean says, his voice cold and disgusted. “We’re losing the war, everyone knows it. You said the drug heightens dominance, aggression, all that stuff… They want to make mindless weapons out of us.”

Cas doesn’t miss that Dean still didn’t offer a possible explanation for why he was so affected by the drug, and he doesn’t push. Hearing Dean put reason to what seems so senseless, it does add up. And Dean would know how those in charge of the war would think, at least partly, having been a soldier for so long.

Dean’s fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket.

“You shouldn’t have had to risk your life for me,” he says, brow furrowed, staring at the ground ahead of him.

There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, and Cas worries how much this conversation is taking out of him but, selfishly, he doesn’t want to stop talking to Dean yet.

Cas watches him carefully. “I could say the same to you.”

Dean flushes again and Cas’ heart beats faster.

“I just–” he starts, then sighs. “I didn’t think. I saw what they were doing, and I couldn’t just sit there. You were the only one who gave a shit. So, you're saying we're both a couple of dumb asses?”

Cas can’t hold back his snort of amused surprise.

Boldly, he places a hand on Dean’s knee, rubbing gently. “I prefer the word trusting. Less dumb, less ass.”

Dean laughs, then, and it’s the most beautiful sound Cas has ever heard, before it turns into a strained cough.

It dies off slowly, and Dean rests his head back again, breathing a little harder now, his body clearly flagging. But there’s something easier in his posture. Less guarded.

Cas should tell him to rest. Should let him drift. But there’s one thing they still need to talk about.

“Dean,” he says, voice low.

Dean’s eyes flicker open, hazy but alert.

“What do you know about Poughkeepsie?”

Chapter Text

The road is little more than broken asphalt and dust, hemmed in by half-dead trees and the husks of cars that hadn’t made it out. The truck rattles like it’s held together with prayer and duct tape, and every mile puts them deeper into territory that stopped being safe a long time ago.

Eileen rides shotgun, her hand resting near her thigh where her knife is strapped. She’s watching the treeline like it might come alive. Sam’s in the back seat with the map, not looking at it. He doesn’t need to - he’s memorized the route four times over.

In the front, Bobby grunts, shifts gears. “You sure about this?”

Sam nods without lifting his gaze. “We can’t wait anymore.”

No one argues. Not now.

Behind them, Charlie’s hunched over a repurposed comms tablet, the screen flickering in the light. She’s muttering something about signal bounce and blind spots, rerouting their trail like she’s done this a hundred times before.

Sam hasn’t said much since yesterday. Just woke up, pulled on his boots, and told them it was time. Whatever they’d been planning - weeks of prep, gathering data, falsifying papers, hiding their trail - it all shifted when Sam said go.

Charlie’s voice breaks the silence. “If we stay under range of the ridge repeaters, we’ve got about six hours before command realizes this truck hasn’t reported in.”

Sam’s jaw tightens. “We won’t need six.”

Ahead, the sky is mudded, heavy clouds hanging in the distance, as if trying to warn them about the different kind of storm they’re heading into.

They stop just long enough to refuel from a stash Bobby buried weeks ago, the forest quiet around them except for wind and the faint metallic screech of the tank lid.

Charlie’s crouched beside the truck, tablet balanced on her knee, fingers flying.

“I tapped into an old officer’s login,” she says, not looking up. “He’s dead. Took two weeks for them to flag his clearance. Military efficiency, am I right?”

She scrolls, jaw tight. “There’s a looped report playing over Central’s channel. No real orders. Just noise. Like they’re trying to act normal while everything’s on fire.”

Sam leans over her shoulder. Half the messages are redacted. Some are just gone.

“You said you found something,” he says.

Charlie nods. “Troop movements that don’t make sense. Supply lines cut without explanation. Recruits reassigned and never logged again. There’s chatter about command pulling files. About scent disturbances spreading. About failed Alpha trials.”

“Failed,” Sam echoes, low.

She finally looks at him. “They’re scared, Sam. Top brass is scrambling to keep the lid on a pot that’s already boiling over. But this thing’s cracking wide open whether they like it or not.”

Sam exhales slowly, a weight pressing deeper into his spine. “Then we’re out of time.”

Charlie just nods. From the front seat, Bobby’s voice cuts in. “We’ll hit the outer perimeter by dusk.”

Sam nods once, then glances at Eileen. She’s watching him.

She signs, You think he’s still alive?

He hesitates, if only for a second. Then, with steady hangs, he signs back, He has to be.

✪✪✪

The camp smells like fear.

Not fresh-sweat panic, not the sharp burn of adrenaline during a firefight, but old fear, curdled, left to rot.

Sam breathes through his mouth as he slips past the checkpoint, uniform just clean enough to pass a glance. The ID badge clipped to his jacket says Private Styne. He didn’t ask Charlie where she got it from. He doesn’t think he wants to know.

If anyone thinks he seems out of place, they make no move to talk to him, or even acknowledge his presence otherwise. The soldiers are too busy yelling at each other, or chain-smoking by the gates, or muttering into earpieces with static bleeding through.

Sam passes three half-finished barricades, a mess tent that looks like it’s been looted from the inside, and a water tank marked contaminated.

There’s an undercurrent of unease all throughout the camp, like hearing thunder in the distance and knowing a storm’s coming. Most soldiers are still dutifully on their posts, but their posture isn’t as stiff as Sam knows is expected of them, their hands not quite as steady as they salute as he walks past.

It’s ironic, in a way, being here after all. After he’s gotten out of the ‘family business’, as John Winchester liked to call it, at the first opportunity that presented itself.

Dean would probably laugh at him. Sam shoves the thought aside before it can root. Thinking about his brother is too painful.

It doesn’t take long before Sam starts noticing the cracks in the structure.

It reminds him of his own youth – a brother that dutifully followed each order their father could think of, without even understanding why, and getting yelled at when he dared to raise a question. It’s the same in this camp, he realizes: A lieutenant barks orders across the yard, but no one really moves until he’s out of sight. A younger soldier slinks out from behind a ration crate, eyes sunken, knuckles raw.

In a corner of the mess tent, Charlie’s makeshift comms relay is working overtime, re-routing signals through what’s left of their tapped satellite link.

She’s not with him – Sam insisted it was safer he go alone – but her notes are burned into his mind.

The network’s fractured. Half the top brass are radio silent. Others have started contradicting each other in official logs. Troop formations changing with no warning. Supply chains cutting off entire sectors. They’re unraveling.

Someone nearby mutters, “Adler’s dead, I swear it. They’re just not telling us yet.”

Sam doesn’t linger. He makes a slow sweep near the medical tent, pretending to look for someone. A few steps away, two soldiers are smoking behind a pallet of grain sacks, speaking too loudly for the space they’re in.

“Whole wing got cleared out last night,” one says. “Not even the scent neutralizers could cover it. Something was wrong with them.”

Sam files it away. He’s almost to the storage annex when a voice cuts through the din behind him.

“Hey.”

Sam stiffens. The word isn’t loud, but it cuts sharp, direct. He keeps walking, hoping the speaker’s talking to someone else.

“Hey! Stop right there.”

A firm hand closes around his elbow, and Sam instinctively jerks away, but not fast enough – he’s not really a trained soldier after all. He’s already being hauled behind the nearest tent, into the shadowed gap between canvas and stacked crates.

The man’s grip is strong, his stance sure. Not a rookie. Not a recruit. Sam twists around, heart hammering.

The guy’s not wearing a uniform, just worn cargo pants, a black thermal shirt rolled at the sleeves, a makeshift armband tucked away in his pocket. He smells like sweat, smoke, but steady. Beta.

“What’s going on? What’s happening?” Charlie demands to know, her voice hopefully quiet enough in the earpiece she made him wear for the soldier not to notice.

“Who are you?” the soldier says, stepping closer in a threatening manner.

He jabs a finger at the badge on Sam’s uniform and it takes everything in him not to flinch away from the touch.

“And don’t go lying to me now. I saw Styne drop dead two days ago.”

Shit. Sam’s mind races. For one stupid second, he considers bluffing. Claims of a paperwork error, a mix-up in the roster, anything. But the look in the man’s eyes tells him it won’t work.

This guy isn’t bluffing. He’s not guessing. He knows.

“I’m not Styne,” Sam says finally, quiet but steady. “But I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“That right?” The man narrows his eyes. “So what are you doing wearing his name?”

In his ear, Charlie hisses, “Sam, don’t say anything yet. I’m working on a diversion. Just stall him.”

Logically, chances of her being wrong are abysmally small. But something about the soldier…

Sam can’t put a finger on it, but he wants to trust his gut on this. They need allies on the inside anyway, and unlike the soldiers he’s seen so far, this guy neither reeks of raging pheromones nor looks like he’s suffering shellshock.

But is a gut feeling worth risking everything? Their whole plan, months of preparation?

Is it worth risking Dean?

“It’s not like he needed it anymore,” he says, faux casual, holding his breath.

The man’s expression doesn’t change. He crosses his arms, voice flat. “Try again.”

Sam takes a breath. “My name’s Sam.“

The man keeps eyeing him skeptically, taking him in from head to toe, but he must see something because suddenly he looks at Sam with something like… recognition?

“Well, I’ll be damned. You really are tall.”

Sam’s heart starts beating faster. Could this really be-

“Is this him? Sam, talk to me!”

He winces at Charlie’s excited, high-pitched voice.

“I’m Benny. Benny Laffite.”

Sam’s breath catches. He nearly fumbles the earpiece yanking it out, because he doesn’t want to miss a second of what Benny is saying.

“Benny,” he echoes, barely able to keep the relief out of his voice. “You’re- God, I was hoping to find you.”

“The doc mentioned me in the damn letter, didn’t he?” Benny growls, though he doesn’t look all that annoyed.

Sam nods. “Yeah. He told me you’d help?”

God, if this Dr. Novak was wrong – if it was all a trap…

But no, it can’t be. It simply can’t.

Benny lets out a low whistle and scrubs a hand down his face. “Damn. I wasn’t even sure it’d reach you. Weren’t sure it was even safe to try. Everything’s gone to hell around here. Real quiet-like at first, then all at once. Since Adler-”

He shakes his head. “Let’s just say no one knows who’s in charge anymore, and the ones who pretend to be sure are the most dangerous of the lot.”

Sam shifts, adrenaline rising again.

“Dean. Is he still… Where is he?”

Benny eyes him, something sympathetic in his grey eyes.

“I wish I had better news.”

Sam’s heart stops beating, he’s sure of it. He hears Charlie’s gasp somewhere near his collarbone. No. No no no.

“Woah, woah, easy there, brother!”

There’s a strong arm on his bicep and Benny’s face comes back into focus.

“Shit, I didn’t mean he’s- he and the doc had to get outta here. They knew too much. I’m not gonna lie to you, he was pretty sick last I saw him… But if anyone can help him, it’s Novak.”

Sam stutters a shaky breath, nodding once, twice.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Do you know where they are?”

Benny lifts his hand in a see-saw motion.

“Got a guess. There’s a few places he used to go, now and then. Slipped off alone, didn’t tell nobody but me. The closest is some old half-buried bunker out past the dry ridge. Least I’d go there, if I was him.”

“Why haven’t you gone and checked on him?”

Sam’s voice is louder than probably smart, and he surprises all of them by his outburst, but seriously? This guy knows where his supposed friends are hiding out, alone and sick and hunted, and he doesn’t go and look for them?

“And what would that accomplish? That’d only mean one more set of traces to track, and one more mouth to feed. Here, I can at least keep my eyes and ears peeled for any danger that might come their way. I got a family too, ya know. I’m doing all I can.”

Sam deflates, his anger evaporating as quickly as it came.

He rubs his tired eyes, swallowing. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

He means it, too.

“Damn Alphas,” Benny mutters, but there’s no heat behind his words.

Sam’s already half turning when Benny holds out a hand to stop him.

“Listen. You need to move fast. Word’s out. They’re calling them deserters now. Got patrols sweeping sectors, and guess where they’re headed.”

“Shit.”

Sam closes his eyes, fighting the rush of panic.

“I can buy you a little time,” Benny adds. “I’ll stay here. Keep ears open. Link up with whoever’s feeding you intel, the works.”

Sam pops his earpiece back in and waits for Charlie’s affirmation, then nods.

“Good. You’ll need someone clearing the path behind you.” Benny claps him on the shoulder. “Now go find your brother.”

Sam grips his arm once in silent thanks, then disappears into the shadows.

There’s more than one bunker matching Benny’s description, according to what Charlie was able to research in such a short amount of time, but Sam can’t waste any time second guessing himself.

He’ll check the one past the dry ridge the Beta mentioned first, and if Dean isn’t there…

Well, he’ll have to cross that bridge when it comes to it.

And he really, really hopes it won’t.

Chapter Text

Dean wakes to quiet.

Not silence - there’s always some background noise, even out here. The occasional creak of the bunker walls settling, the dry whisper of wind outside, the distant tap of water from somewhere deep in the pipes. But it’s quiet in a way that feels… peaceful. Real.

His mouth is dry. His limbs ache like he’s been asleep for a week, and maybe he has. But the fever’s gone. He knows it instinctively, the way a hunter knows when he’s being watched. The fire in his bones has dulled to a slow simmer, and his mind - his mind is clearer than it’s been in weeks.

For the first time in he doesn’t even know how long, he doesn’t feel like he’s clawing his way back to himself. The cot creaks as he shifts. A shape stirs beside him.

Cas.

He’s on his cot, leaning against the wall, mouth slack with sleep, stubble catching the low light like soot. His arms are folded tight against his chest, and his head’s tipped forward, like he only meant to rest for a moment and forgot to stop. His rain scent curls around Dean like a protective barrier.

Dean swallows hard. Not from thirst. From memory.

Poughkeepsie. The letters.

It comes back like a blow to the chest - Cas’ quiet voice, asking if the word meant anything. Then the rest: Sam had written. Dozens of times. And Dean never got a single one.

Not because Sam gave up on him.

Because the system he bled for made damn sure he wouldn’t.

His fingers curl in the scratchy blanket. Something bitter swells in his throat. He breathes in Cas’ scent instead, lets it cut through the ache. Lets it hold him.

“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, voice raspy. “All this time…”

Cas jerks awake with a sharp inhale. His eyes go wide the second they land on Dean, and relief hits the air like a spark on dry brush. His scent shifts, instant and powerful. Relieved, warm, frayed at the edges.

“Dean,” he says, like a prayer.

Dean gives him a wobbly half-smile. “Hey, sunshine. You look like crap.”

Cas lets out a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “How are you feeling?”

Dean pushes himself up on one elbow, grimacing. “Well, I don’t feel like I’m gonna go up into flames any second, so it’s a start, I guess.”

He glances at the bottle of water near the cot, reaches for it. Cas is already there, steady hands helping guide it to his mouth. The water is lukewarm and flat, but it tastes like heaven.

Their eyes meet. There’s so much in Cas’ expression that Dean can’t name - relief, exhaustion, that strange steady loyalty that makes something in Dean’s chest ache.

“You smell better,” Cas says after a moment, voice low.

Dean lifts an eyebrow. “You flirtin’ with me, Doc?”

Cas tilts his head. “Just making an observation.”

Dean chuckles. “Well. Thanks. Feels like my brain’s finally stopped trying to boil itself.”

He swings his legs over the side of the cot, slow but steady. “I should get up. You look like you’ve been pulling twenty-four-hour watch.”

“Eleven,” Cas says, unbothered.

Dean squints at him. “Seriously?”

“I find it hard to sleep when you do.” Cas doesn’t meet his eyes. “What if something happened?”

Dean’s throat tightens. Cas adds, quieter still, “I like watching over you.”

Dean looks away before he can do something stupid like kiss Cas stupid. “Creepy,” he says, trying for a grin. “But kinda sweet. Tell you what. We’re starting a new system. Sleep shifts. I’ll take first.”

“Dean-”

“No arguments.” He squeezes Cas’ arm. “You saved my ass. Now go crash before I drag you there myself.”

Cas hesitates. Then, slowly, he nods. He lays down without another word. Dean watches him until his scent levels out. Until his shoulders loosen and his lips part in sleep.

And then he keeps watching.

Cas’ face in sleep is softer than Dean’s ever seen it - lines smoothed out, jaw slack, hair a mess. His lashes cast long shadows, and his hands are curled near his chest like he’s bracing for something even now. He looks younger. Or maybe just more human. Like all the weight he carries - the worry, the decisions, the blame - sinks into the floor when he sleeps and leaves him bare.

Dean watches him and feels something shift in his chest, quiet and painful.

This man has risked everything for him. Lied, run, fought. Held him when Dean couldn’t stand, when he didn’t know his own name. When he wanted to tear the skin off his bones just to feel real again.

Dean remembers flashes. Cas’ hands on his shoulders, holding him down through the fever. His voice, steady even when Dean was out of his mind. The scent of him, anchoring. Never leaving.

Cas had told him the truth. About the compound. About the suppression, the way they’d been poisoning Alphas like Dean slowly, quietly, systemically. The military - his military - had made him sick. Had taken his instincts and twisted them into something unrecognizable. Had tried to take him out when he got too close to the truth.

Dean should be furious. And he is. Somewhere under the exhaustion, under the hollow that used to be his loyalty, there’s a rage simmering. But right now, all he feels is grief.

Because he gave them everything.

And they buried him.

And Cas… Cas is the one who dug him out.

Dean scrubs a hand down his face, jaw tight.

He’s not good at this. Never has been. He knows how to say “thanks” with actions, not words. He knows how to fix things, build things, fight things. But this - this soft, unwavering care Cas keeps giving him like Dean earned it? He doesn’t know what to do with it.

He doesn’t deserve it.

Not when he’s failed so many people. Not when he let himself believe Sam had abandoned him. Not when he turned himself inside out trying to be the perfect soldier, only to become someone he didn’t recognize.

But then Cas shifts a little in sleep and exhales, and Dean catches a new note in his scent, something safe, warm, like earth after rain, and the ache in Dean’s chest deepens.

Because he wants to deserve it.

He wants to believe that maybe, after everything, he’s still worth being saved. That someone like Cas could look at him, really look at him, and see something worth staying for.

And the worst part?

Dean’s starting to feel the same way.

He wants to protect Cas. Keep him safe. See him smile for real. He wants to wake up to that scent every morning and hear that gravel-soft voice calling his name without fear in it.

He doesn’t know what that means yet. Doesn’t know what they are, or what they could be. But as Cas breathes, steady and calm, Dean watches him like he’s memorizing the moment.

Because for the first time in a long time, he’s not thinking about what he’s running from.

He’s thinking about what he wants to run toward.

✪✪✪

Cas wakes to the sound of Dean cursing under his breath, and it takes a fearful second to realize it’s not from pain – he just sounds annoyed. It’s so excitingly normal that it makes him smile before he’s even fully awake.

It takes Cas a moment to orient himself. His back aches from the worn mattress, but the stiffness is almost pleasant, the kind of ache that means he actually slept. Really slept, for the first time in what must be days but feels like much longer.

Dean is hunched beside the busted comms unit, sleeves shoved up, fingers buried in tangled wires and scorched plastic.

"Come on, you piece of shit," Dean mutters, brow furrowed, tongue poking the corner of his mouth in concentration.

Dean's scent is different now. It’s still Alpha, still strong, but steadier. Settled. Like smoke after a storm. Like pine warmed by sun. It doesn't make Cas brace anymore. It makes him breathe easier.

He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Sorry,” Dean says without looking over, voice low but warm. “Didn’t mean to wake you. Thought I’d tinker a bit.”

“You’re feeling better,” Cas observes.

Dean shrugs, but there’s no denying it. His color is back, the glassiness gone from his eyes. Even his movements have purpose again. A few days ago, he couldn’t string a sentence together. Now he’s rebuilding military tech with what looks like a kitchen knife.

“I feel like myself,” Dean says finally, glancing over. “First time in a long time.”

Cas lets himself smile.

He watches in silence for a few moments as Dean works on the radio, determined and careful. His fingers are surprisingly gentle with the delicate wires, jaw tight with focus, like if he coaxes it just right, it might give him the world.

And then-

A crackle.

Both of them freeze.

The speakers spit static for a moment - then there’s voices, garbled but unmistakable.

“-repeat, recon unit seven is en route-”

“Command says sweep the ridge-”

“Target: Alpha subject 118-B and defector Novak. High-priority.”

A pause. Then, cold and clinical:

“Do not engage if seen. Shoot.”

The breath leaves Cas’ lungs. Dean leans back slowly, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes locked on the unit like it just spit poison. The voice fades again into static.

“Guess that answers that,” he says.

There’s no fear in his voice. Just certainty.

Cas, though, feels something twist inside his gut. They’d hoped for time. Maybe even the sliver of a future. But the military’s found their trail.

✪✪✪

The rest of the day passes in tense silence. Neither of them mentions the broadcast, but it hums under the surface of every glance, every step.

Dean moves slower than usual, not from fever now but from thought. Cas keeps glancing toward the entryway of the bunker like the door might burst open any second.

They don’t say it aloud, but it’s clear: time’s up.

Cas had to persuade Dean to at least wait till the next morning – he’d only agreed when Cas had argued that night travel would mean lights, noise, and altogether visibility they can’t afford.

If Cas also wanted to get Dean a few more hours of rest before they would be on the run once again, he was wise enough not to tell the other Alpha.

Because if there’s one thing he’s learned about Dean so far, it’s that he will never endanger someone else if it’s only himself that benefits from it.

So when they stumble across the rusted skeleton of a rainwater cistern, Cas doesn’t say no when Dean tests the tap and hears the sluggish groan of something still inside.

He doesn’t argue when Dean, smiling faintly, calls it a miracle. Doesn’t stop him when he pulls off his shirt and starts hauling buckets to rig a makeshift shower against the bunker wall.

“You first,” Dean says, already lining up canisters to catch spillover.

Cas hesitates. “I don’t-”

Dean makes a face, and Cas, cheeks growing hot, has to agree with his silent assessment, even if Dean’s too polite to say it. They’ve been holed up here for days, adrenaline and fear clinging to their skin, and Cas is aware he must reek.

“Go. You’ve earned it.”

The water’s cold. He bites down a shiver and scrubs anyway, eyes fluttering shut as the dirt, sweat, and fear slide off his skin and onto the concrete. Despite that, it feels like the best shower of his life.

When he returns, hair wet and sticking to his forehead, Dean doesn’t say anything, just passes him a threadbare towel he must have found somewhere and a rare, genuine smile before he takes his turn.

Cas means to give him space.

He settles on his cot, turns his face toward the lantern light, tries not to listen to the rush of water or the quiet sighs. But his gaze wanders when Dean reappears, shirtless, towel slung around his hips, droplets clinging to the curve of his collarbone, his scent clean and warm again.

The change is subtle but staggering. Less haze, more clarity. Less fire, more gravity.

Cas looks away quickly, cheeks flushing hot in the dim light. He doesn’t know if Dean noticed. He hopes not.

“Not bad, huh?” Dean says, dropping onto the blanket and tugging his undershirt over his head, which is specked with dirt and has the stale scent of sweat clinging to it, but it’s not like they brought a spare change of clothing with them.

Despite the rather chilly temperatures in the bunker, Dean hasn’t made a move to put the rest of his uniform back on, which Cas can easily understand.

He's always been wary of the military and all this war stands for, but for Dean, who has given everything to serve the cause, the disillusionment must hit even harder.

Cas makes a vague sound of agreement. His mouth is too dry to form words.

They don’t talk much after that.

The air stretches long and quiet, the soft hiss of the lantern the only real sound.

Every so often, Cas glances sideways, and each time, Dean is already looking at him.

Eventually, Cas shifts under the thin blanket, feeling a twinge of guilt that they’re not already on the move.

But Dean's breaths are slow. His shoulders relaxed. For the first time since this all began, Cas thinks he looks at peace. They should sleep – Cas knows they should.

But he feels alive with electricity – maybe it’s the knowledge that they’re being hunted, that each second, someone could step through that door and put a bullet through their head.

Maybe it’s the waiting for tomorrow that’s making him antsy.

But if Cas is being honest with himself, it may just be Dean, warm and freshly showered only a few feet away from him, his sweet scent suturing the air between them and each smile that’s directed Cas’ way making something in his chest ache.

He doesn’t want to go to sleep just yet, but he also doesn’t know what to say. Just as he’s about to open his mouth, Dean’s voice, soft and low, cuts through the silence.

“If this is it… I mean, if we don’t make it east or we get caught before we do…”

Cas turns toward him, takes in his face bathed in the warm glow of the lantern. Dean’s eyes are trained on the flickering flame, his brows furrowed slightly, but with a deep sigh, he turns to Cas.

The moment their eyes meet, Cas knows that whatever Dean is about to say next, it has the possibility of changing everything.

“If this is our last night on earth I just… I just want you to know I’m glad to spend it with you.”

Cas swallows hard. He wasn’t prepared for that. Not from Dean. Not in that voice – unguarded, like a hand held out in the dark.

“I’m glad too,” he says, quietly. “More than you know.”

Dean watches him. Really watches him, like he’s trying to memorize the moment. Maybe he is.

The silence stretches again, but it’s different now. Warmer. Taut. Waiting.

Then Dean shifts, just slightly, and Cas can feel it, something tipping in the air, something pulling between them.

“I’ve been thinking,” Dean says, still soft, “about how much you’ve done for me. What you’ve risked. What you’re still risking.”

He huffs a breath, shakes his head like he’s trying to laugh, but nothing about it is funny.

“I don’t know why. Why you give a damn. Why you stuck your neck out. I sure as hell haven’t earned it.”

“That’s not true,” Cas says, without having to think about it.

Dean blinks. And for once, he doesn’t argue. He just breathes in, deep and a bit shaky. Cas rises, sits on the edge of his cot. It’s quiet for a long moment.

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Dean’s voice sounds younger than ever, hope clear in each syllable, even though years of bad experiences and earned skepticism try to veil it.

Cas doesn’t hesitate before nodding, sharp and convinced. Dean holds his eyes for a second, two. Then he moves. Slowly, like he’s afraid of startling a dream. He swings his legs off the cot and crosses the narrow space between them, until he’s standing in front of Cas. Not looming. Not pressing. Just… there.

Cas tilts his head up to look at him, breath catching as Dean lifts a hand, hesitates, then rests it against his cheek. His palm is rough. Warm. Reverent.

“This okay?” Dean murmurs.

Cas nods before the question finishes leaving his mouth.

And then Dean kisses him.

It’s soft, at first. Hesitant. Like a question. Cas answers it by leaning in, lifting his hand to Dean’s shoulder, holding him there. Dean’s breath hitches.

The second kiss is deeper. Hungrier. Still careful, but threaded with something warmer now - relief, maybe. Or longing. Or the fragile belief that there might still be something beautiful to be had in this world.

Cas opens for him with a low sound in his throat, and Dean groans, like he’s finally found something he’s been reaching for in the dark. They shift together, mouths moving slow and sure, and when Cas’ hands slip beneath Dean’s shirt, Dean doesn’t flinch or pull away - he exhales, like permission.

Their scents bloom between them: Cas’ calm and rainy warmth, Dean’s steadier now, no longer clouded by fever or pain or the drugs. Just Dean. Sharp and clean and real.

When Cas draws back just enough to meet his eyes, Dean whispers, “Stay.” Like he’s afraid the word might disappear between them. Like Cas could slip through his fingers.

Cas answers by reaching for him.

Dean lets him pull off his shirt, and then his hands are on Cas too, steady, warm, anchoring. Not like a man taking what he wants. Like someone trying to offer something. Share it. Maybe for the first time.

Their mouths meet again, deeper this time, and Cas breathes him in. They fall together, slow and certain. The cot creaks beneath them, barely wide enough for two, but they make it work. Make space for each other in the quiet. Cas mouths at Dean’s jaw, his throat, the place just below his ear where his scent, now finally clean, pulses strong, and Dean arches into it with a choked sound.

“Fuck,” Dean breathes. “You smell so good. You always do. But now-”

“I know,” Cas says, and kisses the words out of his mouth. “I know.”

Hands map skin like it’s sacred, because it is. This is not a claiming, not a rut, not a power play. It’s raw, careful, a little desperate. But chosen.

Dean’s fingers tremble as he fumbles with Cas’ shirt, and when it falls away, he just… stares. Not hungry. Not greedy. Like he can’t believe this is real.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he says, voice low and reverent.

Cas doesn’t know what to do with that, so he kisses him again, soft, sweet, and shaking a little as he presses their bodies closer. Their cocks slide together through their pants, already hard. Dean groans, hips jerking, and Cas swallows it like he’s starving for it.

The heat builds slow, thick with scent. Cas' musk is stronger now, darker at the edges, but still warm, grounded. Dean's is sharper, crisp like a new wind, no longer tainted by chemicals or pain. They breathe each other in like it might keep them alive.

Clothes peel away in clumsy handfuls. Skin on skin, finally. They grind together, cocks slick where they meet, precome smearing between their bellies. Every touch is a confirmation, a prayer, a promise.

Cas mouths down Dean’s chest, slow and deliberate, and Dean gasps when their knots brush. His whole body shudders.

“Cas,” Dean whispers, his back arching, hands holding onto Cas’ biceps for dear life, “I want-please.”

Cas nods. He wants too. Wants so badly it hurts. But he can’t afford to mess this up. To hurt Dean because he lets himself be guided by his own desires, to ruin this thing growing between them before it ever even had a change of becoming something real.

“What do you need?” he asks, nipping at Dean’s jaw, his free hand brushing softly across Dean’s face, tracing the slope of his nose, his cheek, while the other forms a tunnel for them to fuck into.

They’re kissing like they’ve been starving for it, mouths hot and open, hands everywhere, the scent of arousal thick between them. Cas pulls back just enough to murmur against Dean’s mouth, “Tell me what you want.”

Dean goes still for a breath. His eyes flicker open, pupils blown wide, a flush high on his cheeks. “I don’t…” His throat works as he swallows. “I’ve never…” He trails off, looking away, jaw tense.

Cas’ fingers skim gently over Dean’s ribs, grounding him. “It’s okay.” His voice is soft, steady. “We don’t have to.”

Dean huffs out a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “That’s the thing. I want to. I just…” He shifts restlessly. “I wouldn’t even know how to ask.”

Cas leans in again, lets his lips brush the edge of Dean’s jaw, his voice low. “You don’t have to know the words. Just show me.”

Dean stills. Then, slowly, deliberately, he rolls onto his back, thighs falling apart, the move full of tension but no fear. His heart is hammering beneath Cas’ palm.

“I want you,” he says finally. “I trust you.”

Cas freezes for a second, overcome by the weight of it. Trust, from someone like Dean, like this, naked and open and his. He breathes out, pressing a kiss just beneath Dean’s ear.

“I’ll take care of you.”

Cas kisses him again, softer now, slower, like he’s trying to anchor them both to this moment. Then he draws back just enough to murmur, “I’ll be right back.”

Dean watches him go, breath shallow, pupils still blown wide. Cas moves quickly, scanning their limited supplies. Cas opens the emergency kit he’d found upon arriving with trembling fingers, searching until he finds a small vial of petroleum jelly. Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.

He returns to Dean with the carefulness of someone approaching something sacred. Dean’s still lying back, propped on his elbows now, watching Cas with a mixture of nerves and want so raw it nearly undoes him.

Cas kneels between his thighs, hands settling gently on his hips.

“We can stop anytime,” he says again, quietly. He means it. Dean just nods, voice rough. “I know. I don’t want to.”

Cas slicks his fingers, working slowly, carefully. He kisses along Dean’s thighs, his belly, each breath a whisper of warmth. The first press of a finger makes Dean flinch, not from fear, as his scent tells Cas, but probably unfamiliarity.

“Easy,” Cas soothes, voice barely more than a breath. “We’ll take it slow.”

Dean grits his teeth, fingers fisting in the edge of the blanket. “I’m good. Just – fuck - keep going.”

But when Cas adds a second finger, Dean’s hips twitch, a wince flashing across his face before he can hide it.

Cas stills immediately. “Dean-”

“I’m fine,” Dean pants, but Cas is already leaning up, brushing sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His lips follow, pressing soft kisses across Dean’s temple, down his jaw, over his throat. “It’s okay. Just breathe. We don’t have to rush.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut. “I want this. I just, shit, it’s a lot.”

“I know,” Cas murmurs, stroking a hand down his flank, letting the sensation settle him. “You’re doing so well.”

He kisses his way back down, waits for Dean to nod again, then resumes his careful work, gentle, steady, patient. He lets Dean’s scent guide him as much as his sounds, slowing when it spikes and his breathing becomes chopped, waiting for both to mellow out before he continues, all the while whispering assurances.

When Dean finally starts to open for him, to rock back against his hand instead of away, Cas feels something bloom in his chest that’s terrifying in its intensity. He slicks himself quickly, carefully, biting down a groan at the sensation.

Dean lifts his head, and Cas can’t quite stifle his curse at the sight of him. His lips are raw and red, his cheeks flushed beautifully, his pupils blown. He stares at Cas’ dick, which jumps in his hand.

“Have you changed your mind?” Cas asks, breath catching as he waits for the answer. He’d accept it – of course he would – but he really, really hopes it’s a no.

Dean drags his eyes up to meet Cas’ and shakes his head, small, shaky, but sure. His voice comes out low and wrecked. “No. I just… I didn’t think you’d be that big.”

Cas freezes for a second. Then, unexpectedly, he huffs a quiet, helpless laugh, tension breaking just enough to soften everything between them. He ducks his head, brushing their foreheads together.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs, barely more than a breath. “I promise.”

Dean nods again, more confident this time. “Yeah. I know. Just… fuck me already, Cas.”

Something deep and primal shudders through Cas at the words, but he reins it in. He keeps one hand steady on Dean’s hip, the other guiding himself as he lines up.

He pushes in with aching care.

Dean’s breath stutters, his whole body going taut, muscles flexing under Cas’ hands, but he doesn’t pull away. His thighs tremble, and his nails dig into Cas’ shoulders.

“Almost there,” Cas whispers, his voice cracking as he sinks in inch by inch. “You’re doing so well. I’ve got you.”

Dean exhales a long, shaky breath. “Jesus,” he pants. “You're really, fuck - in there.”

Cas stills fully once he’s buried to the hilt. He’s breathing hard, forehead pressed to Dean’s, every nerve in his body lit up like a live wire. Dean’s heat is unreal. His scent is wrapped around them now, no longer sour or muddled but rich and unmistakably Dean, sharp spice and warm pine and something clean underneath, like rain finally breaking after a long drought. Cas feels it hit his system like a drug, grounding and dizzying all at once.

Dean shifts under him, experimentally rolling his hips, and Cas lets out a ragged sound that’s half groan, half plea.

“You okay?” he asks.

Dean looks up at him through heavy lashes. “Better than okay. Move, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t need to be told twice.

He starts slow, careful, hips rocking in a rhythm that lets Dean adjust, until Dean’s nails are dragging down his back, encouraging, grounding. Cas picks up the pace. Every thrust draws a noise from Dean’s throat, messy and bitten off, and soon Cas is panting too, the sound of skin on skin echoing softly through the bunker.

When Dean’s legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in deeper, something shifts. The ache of it becomes something more. Need sharpens, intensifies.

Dean’s own knot is thick and swollen where it presses up against Cas’ belly, throbbing with every grind of their hips. Cas can smell how close he is, feels it in the way Dean tenses, then trembles, then gasps his name like it means something sacred.

“You feel so good,” Cas grunts, words clipped as he presses wet kisses along Dean’s jaw.

“Alpha,” Dean groans, making Cas’ breath hitch and his hips thrust sharper, urgent, pounding into Dean.

And then, all at once, Dean’s breath hitches, his whole body arches, and he comes between them with a sound that’s nothing short of wrecked.

Cas nearly folds over him, overcome, but manages to sneak a hand between them, massaging Dean’s pulsing knot, drawing groans and more come out of him, painting his chest.

Dean doesn’t let him go. Still panting, eyes wet and pupils blown wide, Dean cups Cas’ face in both hands.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers. “Please. Wanna do this. Wanna feel you.”

Cas is gone. With a shuddering groan, he buries himself deep, knot catching as he thrusts one last time, and then he’s coming, spilling into Dean in sharp, stuttering waves, his body shaking with the force of it.

They collapse together, breathless, bound.

Time doesn’t pass normally for a while.

Eventually, Cas shifts just enough to press kisses along Dean’s shoulder, his throat, his jaw.

Dean hums, barely conscious. “That was…”

Cas can only hum an affirmative, too sated and pleased and happy to form words. He knows reality will come crashing down on them sooner rather than later, but for now, he wants them to enjoy these few seconds of bliss, of closeness, of the invisible bond between them deepening as if it was always meant to do just that.

Dean’s eyes flutter, his voice hoarse. “Don’t make me lose you. Not when I’ve just found you.”

Cas holds him tighter, his knot keeping them joined, keeping them still.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. And he hopes to God it’s a promise he can keep.

Chapter Text

Sam, for once in his life, finally moves with the stealth his father always tried to install in him but that would never quite take. The trees close in, dark trunks and pale lichen, the wind dragging a chill through the leaves. He keeps his weight on the edges of his boots so the duff only rustles, a quiet hiss instead of a crunch. Bobby lopes a few paces behind, broad shape slipping between trunks without complaint. It is better this way, Sam tells himself. Quieter. Faster. Fewer people to make a mistake.

The forest smells like wet earth and old smoke. He keeps searching for a different note under that, sharp and familiar, something like leather warmed by sun and the metallic thread of gun oil. He has followed it for years. He has followed it his whole life. Please, Dean, he thinks, the words steadying the speed of his breath. Please, just this once, let me not do the right thing.

A half-collapsed ridge rises ahead, concrete peeled back like a torn lid. The bunker waits where the rock breaks, a mouth gone crooked with time. Sam lifts a hand without looking back and Bobby stops. They listen. Wind in grass. A branch clacking. Farther off, the brief, distant cough of an engine that dies again. Nothing else.

✪✪✪

Dean wakes to warmth and the weight of another body tucked along his side. For a moment there is only that. Cas’ scent is all around him, deep and smoky with a bright thread that reminds him of rain on hot stone. He noses into the curve of Cas’ throat without thinking and the answer comes, slow and unguarded, a soft pull of breath that pours over his skin. Cas’ heartbeat is a steady thrum against his chest. It makes something low in Dean go loose.

If he could stay here, just like this, suspended in a moment in time, he would. Shut out the world, the war, everything, and just live and breathe each other. But Dean knows that’s not how it works, so with a deep sigh, he pulls back, and the air chills in the space it leaves between them.

Their scents do not disappear, but they thin, and the bunker returns to being a room with walls that days ago offered security but now seem stifling. He sits up with a quiet grimace, shoulders rolling like he is fitting back into a frame that never quite sits right. Cas watches him through lashes still heavy with sleep. There is a softness in his eyes that makes Dean want to tell him to stop looking at him like that and never stop at the same time.

They do not talk about last night – Dean wouldn’t know where to start, and they both know they don’t have time for it, anyways. But it doesn’t matter. What transpired between them – what changed, inevitably – is obvious in the way they move, and not just because Dean limps from time to time.

They move around each other as they pack without the need for words, knowing when to hand something over, deciding with looks alone what to take with them and what to leave. It’s in the small touches – a gentle brush of hands in passing, a chin resting on a shoulder for just a moment, the gesture offering them both strength.

Dean watches as Cas folds a shirt with unnecessary care, knuckles pale. The room smells like them, like heat fading on skin and the clean bite of fear that builds when you make yourself get ready to run.

“We can’t stay here,” Dean says. His voice is rasped, not from sleep. The metallic edge in his scent sharpens. He doesn’t know why he says it – Cas knows.

Cas nods. He tucks the shirt away and zips the pack. He does not tell Dean to rest another hour, though Dean can tell by the crease in his brow when he checks out the bags under Dean’s eyes that he wants to. He does not say he is afraid, though it’s clear in his scent. Dean can’t blame him – he feels it, too, and he should be more used to combat by now than Cas, who’s probably never held a gun.

“Are you ready?” Cas asks, voice gentle but strong. His hand brushes along Dean’s arm and he can’t help but lean into it. God, how he wishes they had more time.

“Almost,” Dean says, stepping closer. His fingers find Cas’ cheek, stroking along his cheekbone, down the slope of his nose, his jaw. When he leans in, Cas meets him halfway. The kiss is simple, both keenly aware they don’t have time for anything more, but it’s no less meaningful for it.

Dean pulls back after a few seconds, Cas’ taste still clinging to his lips, and despite everything starting to crumble around them, he smiles.

“Now I am.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but his scent is pleased, so Dean doesn’t feel too stupid about it. Just as they’re about to get a move on, they suddenly hear it: Boots on gravel.

“What-“ Cas starts to say, but Dean shushes him, every muscle in his body tense, ready for whatever – or who – is on the other side of that door. The change in Dean is not loud. It is precise. His shoulders set. The line of his mouth flattens. Scent spikes, hotter and sharper, like a wire pulled taut. He steps in front of Cas without ceremony and spreads his stance to cover the narrow run of the corridor.

Cas’ hand lifts before he can decide what it is doing. He lays his palm between Dean’s shoulder blades, steady pressure. Dean does not lean into it, does not turn, but Cas feels the minute acknowledgment ripple through the muscles under his hand.

✪✪✪

Sam halts at the mouth of the bunker, boots skidding slightly on the loose gravel of the slope. The opening yawns crooked in the ridge, concrete torn back like a wound. Cold air breathes out from the dark inside, and with it…

There it is. Not memory, not imagination. Scent. Dean, sharp and unmistakable, cut through with dust and rust and damp. It slams into Sam’s chest so hard he has to brace himself against the splintered edge of the concrete. His lungs expand too quickly, greedy for more, dizzy with it. Salt, leather, something faintly bitter. For one dizzying heartbeat he can see it in his mind’s eye: Dean, leaning against the wall just inside, arms crossed, mouth tilting into that stubborn grin.

His mouth opens, ready to shout out for his brother, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.

✪✪✪

The boots outside are clearer now. More than one pair. Voices, low and clipped, carried just enough by the stone walls to make out the intent if not the words.

Dean stiffens in front of Cas, shoulders set like a wall, stance wide and ready. His scent spikes again, sharp and metallic, Alpha, yes, but clearheaded and precise. It’s so strong Cas can almost taste it, like biting down on iron.

Cas keeps his palm between Dean’s shoulders, grounding him with steady pressure. The muscle beneath his hand is coiled tight, trembling with restraint. He knows Dean is seconds away from lunging forward - it’s in the hitch of his breath, the way his weight shifts subtly onto the balls of his feet.

The voices outside grow louder. The crunch of gravel becomes the heavy thud of boots on stone. A shadow flickers under the crack of the door.

Cas’ throat is dry when he leans forward, his lips close to Dean’s ear. “Dean,” he whispers, just enough breath to carry. Not to stop him, not to command, just to remind him he isn’t alone.

Dean’s chin ticks once toward the back of the bunker. In unspoken agreement, they start moving backward, rounding the corner just in time for the bunker door to fly open and slam against the wall with a loud, grating bang!

✪✪✪

Sam turns back to Bobby, confusion and hurt on his face, but the older man only shakes his head once, eyes hard, and it’s enough to make Sam bite the questions down and focus.

He swallows and inhales again, desperate. Dean’s scent is here, it’s real, threading the air like a lifeline. It’s sharp and familiar, and for one dizzying moment he lets himself believe Dean’s just around the corner, that if he moves fast enough he’ll catch him sitting at a table cleaning his gun, grinning with that stubborn tilt of his mouth.

But the longer he breathes, the more it unravels. The sharpness thins, turns hollow. What’s left is stale, faint, as though it’s been filtered through dust a dozen times. Old. Dean has been here, but it’s been a while ago. Weeks, probably.

The truth lands like a punch to the sternum. Bobby doesn’t sugarcoat it.

“I’m sorry, boy,” he says, low and flat. “This trail’s cold.”

Sam wants to shout that Bobby’s wrong, that Dean’s here, alive, close enough to reach. He wants to tear the place apart with his bare hands until Dean comes stumbling out of the shadows. But all he can do is stand in the hollow space where hope should be, his chest hollowing with it.

He closes his eyes for a second, breath scraping in his throat. Where are you?

✪✪✪

The corridor swells with noise. Boots hammer the floor, voices bark orders, flashlights sweep across the walls. Shadows stretch long and jagged over the concrete, chasing Dean and Cas deeper inside.

Dean keeps Cas behind him, body angled broad, a barrier that moves step for step with him. Cas’ palm stays at his back, the grounding touch no longer a choice but a necessity. He feels Dean tremble under his hand, not from weakness, but the electric tension of holding back.

They move backward through the bunker until Cas’ back hits a wall. Dean bumps into him, the full weight of him pressing Cas back for a second before he turns around with a curse, checking out the room they ended up in. The only way out is the corridor they just moved through.

Dean stops short, breath flaring. His shoulders square wider, as if he could fight the entire army bare-handed if it came to it. Cas presses up beside him, the air between them taut as wire. The shouts grow closer. Footsteps pound. They have seconds.

Dean turns to him then, eyes sharp, green burning in the half-light. His scent is harsh with adrenaline, but beneath it, something softer unfurls - resignation, sorrow, and something deeper, softer, that Cas doesn’t dare to name. Cas feels it hit like a knife to the chest.

“Cas,” Dean rasps, voice raw. “If they break through, you run. Do you hear me? No matter what happens. You run.”

Cas shakes his head instantly.

Dean’s mouth twists. His hand comes up, fingers curling around Cas’ arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. “Don’t be stupid. I can save you a few seconds. If you stay, we’re both dead.”

“I am not leaving you,” Cas says, steady as stone. His scent is stubborn, unyielding. He means it, too. No matter what this all started out as – a patient to care for, a mystery to solve, it has since turned into something more, so much more.

Even if Cas manages to escape, where would he go? He’d be a fugitive in a warzone, with no formal military training, nothing more than a rabbit during a hunt. And Cas knows, even if they’re not mated, not fully bonded, that losing Dean would break him, would render him blind with pain, and he has spent his whole life searching for something to fulfil him, something that’s worth living for, and he knows now that he’s found it, it would be a useless endeavor to try and move on without it. Without him.

✪✪✪

Sam jerks at the crackle in his earpiece. Charlie’s voice comes through, thinner than usual, careful in a way that makes his stomach clench.

“I picked up something on the comms,” she says. “They’ve found a live site. Entering now.”

Sam’s heart stutters. His fist clenches so tight around the radio that plastic creaks. “Where?”

“Not yours,” Charlie says, a beat too slow. Then, softer: “Sam… they’re saying… They’re saying they’ve got their trace.”

For a moment, Sam can’t breathe. The stale scent of his brother still lingers in this bunker, mocking him, a ghost of what he wants to find. His jaw locks hard enough to hurt.

✪✪✪

Dean swears under his breath, low and ragged. For a beat, they only stare at each other, pressed against the wall. It feels like goodbye. Cas’ throat works as though he might say the words neither of them have time for.

Dean slams his palm against the wall in frustration - and feels it give. Not much. Just enough. A line, a seam, hidden beneath layers of dust and paint. His eyes fly wide, snapping to Cas.

Cas doesn’t waste a second. He turns around, fumbling in the near dark, fingers finding the ridge. Together they haul. The wall groans in protest, metal grinding against stone, dust sifting down in a cloud. Then it yields, swinging open to reveal a narrow passage yawning black.

“Go,” Dean growls, shoving Cas toward it.

“Not without you,” Cas fires back, gripping his wrist.

Boots strike closer, a voice shouts - “Back here!”

Dean curses again, then ducks into the dark, dragging Cas with him. The space is narrow, cold air rushing over them as they stumble inside. Behind them, a flashlight beam sweeps the wall, catching the dust still falling.

Dean slams the latch closed. The seam disappears into shadow just as a soldier rounds the corner, rifle raised.

The door seals with a dull, final thud.

Darkness swallows them whole.

✪✪✪

Bobby murmurs something behind him, but Sam doesn’t hear it. He’s already moving for the door.

“Where are they?” he growls into the mic.

Charlie exhales static. Keys clatter. “A few miles from your location. Sam, I’m… There’s no way you’d get there in time. You’d just be walking right into their arms.”

“I don’t care!” Sam growls, the guilt of snapping at Charlie numbed by the despair rushing through him. “Tell me where!”

There’s silence on the other line for a few seconds, then Sam hears Eileen’s voice, too quiet to make out the words. His heart aches. She gave up everything for this mission, for Sam to save his brother, to put an end to this madness. Only to see him fail.

“Eileen’s found something,” Charlie cuts through his thoughts, voice revived with a new breath of… hope? Sam doesn’t dare think it. “An old blueprint. There’s an underground system of tunnels. Maybe, if they found it in time…”

It’s a shot in the dark, nothing more. But it’s the only one they’ve got. Sam launches himself into the trees, branches clawing at his arms, lungs burning with every gasp, Bobby, cursing, only a few paces behind him. Charlie’s voice feeds him directions, but all he hears is his heartbeat pounding: faster, faster, faster.

Chapter Text

Eileen brings the van to a stop, glancing into the rearview to check on Charlie. They’ve all been running low on sleep, but she’s starting to fear the warning she’s heard during her childhood might come true after all and Charlie’s eyes will turn into the same rectangles as the screens she’s staring at 24/7.

“I’m okay,” Charlie says, signing along clumsily for Eileen, who smiles at the effort. In another world – one without war and doomed rescue missions – she thinks they could have become the type of friends who paint each other’s toenails while gossiping about boyfriends (Eileen) or hot girls they went on dates with (Charlie).

Instead, all they seem to talk about is hacked servers and strategy plans. Still, Eileen doesn’t regret any of it. When she met Sam, she was intrigued by him right away, but after secret conversations in quiet corners and realizing they share much of the same values, she knew they belonged together.

What started out as helping him reunite with his brother has since turned into so much more, and though she doesn’t like that they all risk their lives, day after day in a seemingly chanceless fight, she’s still glad to be a part of it all. They’re smart, and strong, and, most of all, resilient, and if one day she can tell her children what she and their father have done, that will be enough.

For now, she slinks back through the van, avoiding the nest of cables running from the floor to a jury-rigged radio on an ammo crate. Charlie’s Omega scent is almost synonymous with the tech surrounding her, and though it’s spiked with the constant underlying thrum of anxiety, its familiarity calms Eileen.

She glances at the leftmost screen, where a military feed loops a clipped segment of Charlie’s broadcast. A chyron crawls under it in hard white type: DISINFORMATION CAMPAIGN - UNVERIFIED CLAIMS - FOREIGN PROVOCATION. On the rightmost, an underground forum scrolls too fast to read.

Charlie pinches the bridge of her nose until stars prick behind her eyes. She takes her hand away and sees she has left a little shine on her skin from caffeine and sweat. She swallows half-flat soda from a can and immediately regrets it.

Finally, she looks over at Eileen. “You should sleep,” she says, while badly suppressing a yawn herself. Eileen smiles apologetically. “We all should.”

Charlie shrugs, already half-turned to her screens again. Due to the angle, Eileen can’t quite read her lips, but she thinks she says something along the lines of ‘just need to do…’ something, and she’s honestly too tired to argue with her.

When Sam comes back… If he comes back alone… He’s going to need all of Eileen’s strength, she knows. With that sour thought, she crawls further back until she falls head-first onto the lump of blankets and pillows, and it takes only seconds for her to fall asleep.

Charlie scrolls through the few social networks still active, not really knowing why she does it. Maybe because, despite the thousands of people calling her a fraud, or crazy, or demanding her death, she could find a few that are in support of her case. Something to know they’re not alone in this.

hero, someone posts, handle redacted by the forum itself. pls dont stop fighting

Another: your docs are fake fuking woke ass bitch

A third: she’s not real. composite face. psyop

Charlie keeps scrolling even though she knows better. It’s like picking at a scab. Half the voices call her savior, half call her traitor, and neither changes the fact that she’s sitting in the back of a van in the middle of nowhere with nothing but cables to prove she’s alive.

Her thumb hesitates over one post:

bet ur just some alpha’s side bitch. show us proof. real proof.

She exhales hard through her nose. “Proof,” she mutters, half to herself, half to the static-filled van. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Documents don’t cut it. Not anymore. She has entire drives full of falsified reports, requisitions that don’t match, casualty numbers that collapse under the weight of their own math. And still, the military only has to wave a hand and call it “foreign interference” for half the world to shrug. What she needs is something irrefutable, a smoking gun she can put in everyone’s face until even the densest troll has to choke on it.

And she doesn’t have it.

A burst of static jolts her headphones. She flips to the intercept channel and winces at the voices that come through, all teeth polished down to clipped commands.

“Containment grid expanded, Sector Bravo.”
“Rogue units to be terminated upon contact.”

Terminate. Never kill. Never murder. They sterilize even their words.

Charlie rubs her temple, forcing herself not to think of Sam’s brother trapped underground somewhere, or Sam crashing through forest underbrush trying to catch up. If she thinks too long, the walls of the van feel too close.

The center screen pings. A fresh feed scrolls past with the military seal stamped crisp in the corner. Adler’s name stands out in hard black type.

COMMANDER ADLER — EXEMPLARY MORALE METRICS — MODEL ALPHA DISCIPLINE.

Charlie stares at the words until they blur. Adler’s name has shown up more and more over the past few weeks, and there’s always something off about it – it’s too neat, too clean. A spotless record in a war where nothing is spotless.

“What are you hiding?” she whispers.

The van jolts over a rut, but she barely feels it. She starts cross-referencing - requisition logs, shipment manifests, anything with Adler’s name attached. It’s like chasing a shadow through fog, but the shadow keeps showing up where it shouldn’t.

Her stomach twists as she finds his birth certificates – two of them. They match – time and location of birth, parents, even the weight and height are exactly the same. Everything except for-

The van suddenly fills with a shrill tone. Her skin prickles. She knows that sound.

“Shit.” Her hands fly over the keyboard, killing one connection, then another. She almost lands head-first on Eileen in her haste to wake her up, the other Omega immediately alert as she shakes her shoulder.

Charlie’s hands tremble as her fingers form the sign she hoped she’d never have to use. Eileen’s eyes widen, snapping to the windshield.

“How close?” Eileen signs, apparently forgetting to speak along with it, but Charlie expected the question.

“Close,” she says, yanking a cable until the right-hand screen goes black. “Too close.”

She leaves the last screen running long enough to watch the tracer sniff for her like a bloodhound, then slaps that cable out too while Eileen clambers back into the driver’s seat, the motor spluttering alive as she turns the key. Darkness folds around them.

Charlie presses her palm flat to the dead radio, as if it’s a living thing she can soothe. “We just need time,” she murmurs. “Just a little more time.”

Chapter Text

For a moment Dean can’t hear anything but the blood in his ears and the ragged drag of his own breath.

Cas’ scent is the only anchor, the familiar traces of rain, pressed tight against him in the narrow space. Dean realizes he’s leaning into him, their shoulders flush, and he doesn’t shift away.

Behind the door, muffled voices shout. Boots pound. He knows it will only be a matter of time until they discover the tunnel as well.

Dean presses his hand against the wall, rough concrete biting his palm. “We need to move,” he growls, voice low. “Now.”

A hand finds his in the dark, and Dean squeezes tightly. Dean straightens, rolling his shoulders. His body still feels heavier than it should, but he forces the tension out of his jaw.

He blindly rummages through one of the bags they’ve prepared and pulls out the flashlight they found in the bunker. Its beam is weak, but it’s better than nothing. He glances at Cas, his blue eyes shining brightly in the small source of light, and waits for his nod.

Dean turns the beam down the passage. The tunnel runs narrow, carved stone sweating with damp. Water glints in the thin light, a shallow trickle cutting across the floor. Every step echoes too loudly, bouncing back at them in distorted ghosts.

They move. Dean leads, flashlight steady in one hand, the other skimming the rough wall. Cas follows close enough that Dean can feel the brush of his breath at his nape, the quiet heat of his body in the chill air. Their scents are the only living thing down here, Dean’s sharp with focus, Cas’ steadier, but both tinged with the metallic edge of urgency.

The tunnel bends. The flashlight beam wavers over rusted piping, old stenciled numbers faded to nothing. Ahead, the path forks, one way collapsed in on itself, jagged stone and twisted rebar choking the passage. The other, open but narrow, air faintly moving through it.

Dean angles the beam into the blockage, dust motes rising in the light. “No way through there.”

Cas steps forward, testing the other path with careful eyes. “Let’s hope this one leads us somewhere safe.”

Dean nods. He adjusts the pack on his shoulder and moves into the passage. It squeezes tighter, walls closing until they can only go single file.

Behind them, a low thud reverberates through the stone. The soldiers must have found the latch and are now trying to pry it open. Cursing, Dean quickens his pace. His boots splash through the shallow water, every sound too sharp. “They’ll break through sooner or later.”

“Let’s hope later,” Cas mutters, forcing himself not to glance behind him every step. The tunnel narrows again, forcing Dean sideways, shoulder scraping stone. The flashlight beam bounces ahead, catching the suggestion of a thicker support beam sunk into the wall, half-rotted but still braced across a seam in the ceiling.

Dean stops, tilting the light back at it. His jaw works. “We could bring this down.”

Cas frowns. He steps closer, examining the struts and fractured ceiling. Dust shifts with every small vibration. “If we collapse it, the soldiers can’t follow.”

“Exactly.” Dean’s voice is low, sharp. “Buys us time. Maybe enough to make it out.”

Cas doesn’t answer right away. His scent turns sharper, edged with calculation. Finally he shakes his head. “We could bring this whole thing down around us. And even if it works, we don’t know what’s ahead. If we walk into another blockage…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Dean hears it anyways. If the path isn’t clear, they’ll just build their own grave. The silence between them stretches, broken only by the faint echo of something repeatedly smashing into the wall. Brittle rains down on them, dusting their hair and shoulders.

“If they break through that wall, it doesn’t matter how fast we run. They only need one clear shot each.”

Cas’ jaw tightens, eyes flicking between Dean and the struts above them. Dust drifts like ash with every strike from behind, and the tunnel seems to hold its breath.

Dean shifts the flashlight forward again, and then he feels it. Subtle, but there: a faint stirring of air against his face, cooler than the damp stone around them. He stills, leaning into it, then sweeps the beam across the narrow passage ahead.

“There,” he says, sharp, certain. “You feel that?”

Cas steps up beside him, closing his eyes, nostrils flaring. The current brushes faintly against his skin. He frowns. “It’s air, yes. But it could be nothing more than a crack. A hole too small for us to crawl through.”

Dean shakes his head. His pulse hammers faster now, not just with urgency but with stubborn, clawing hope. “It’s not nothing. That’s an exit. Has to be.”

“Has to be?” Cas’ voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it. “Dean, if we collapse the passage here and that draft leads nowhere, we’ll be entombed. Not that I want to die, but I’d rather take a bullet than slowly suffocate to death.”

The pounding behind them grows sharper, a new sound grating through the muffled shouts, metal on stone, the soldiers working tools into the latch.

Dean angles the flashlight back toward the support beam. His jaw works, frustration bleeding into every line of him. “If we leave it open, they’ll be right on us. And if we run into another dead end-” He cuts himself off, teeth grinding. “Either way we’re screwed.”

Cas steps closer, steady, his scent threaded through with caution but layered with something softer too, something grounding. “You’re a good soldier, Dean. You know how they think, where they aim, what to say to stall them. I trust you. More than I trust this tunnel, okay? Let’s take one risk at a time.”

Dean exhales hard, the sound scraping his throat. He wants to fight it, to force control where there is none. But Cas is looking at him like the stone ceiling isn’t the only thing holding weight above their heads, like the choice itself matters as much as the outcome.

Finally, Dean jerks his chin forward. “Alright. Stay close to me.”

Cas nods once, firm. Together they move, pressing deeper into the tunnel, the weak beam of light leading them forward while the sound of pursuit grows sharper behind.

The air grows colder, the walls sweating more heavily, water trickling down in uneven lines. Every step splashes shallow, echoing back at them like other footsteps chasing from ahead.

Dean keeps the flashlight angled down the passage. The beam wavers, catching old pipes that disappear into the stone, rust flaking like scabs. He feels the draft again, faint but steady, pulling at the damp air. It’s not much, but it keeps him moving.

Cas stays close, hand brushing Dean’s arm now and again to steady him when the ground pitches uneven. Their scents are tight and focused, Dean’s sharp with stubborn determination, Cas’ edged with wary calculation.

Behind them, a muffled shriek of tearing metal makes them both freeze. The latch has given way. Voices echo faintly down the tunnel, distorted, for now.

Dean curses under his breath and quickens his stride. The passage bends hard left - and forks again.

He swings the beam.

The left branch yawns wider, smooth, easier to walk. But the air is flat, heavy, stale. The right narrows, jagged with broken stone, ceiling bowed low. The draft runs that way, faint but unmistakable.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. “This way.” He angles the light right, already shifting his pack to squeeze through.

Cas frowns, stepping to his side. “Dean. Look at it. If that passage closes further, we’ll be stuck.”

“That one’s dead,” Dean agues, pointing the beam at the broader tunnel. “No air, no way out.”

They stand in silence for a few beats, and Dean knows they’re losing precious seconds. The soldiers’ echoes are closer now, distorted but chasing.

Dean’s jaw tightens. He has faith in his choice, but what if he’s wrong? “Maybe… One of us might make it if we-”

Cas doesn’t let him finish his sentence. “No.” The word cracks sharp, his hand snapping around Dean’s arm. His scent spikes, stubborn, unyielding. “Don’t even think about it.”

Dean understands Cas, he really does. But from a logical point of view, splitting up doubles their chances of survival. If they get stuck, if they run into a dead end because they chose the wrong path… because Dean chose the wrong path…

“I trust you,” Cas says, voice softer now, and Dean’s heart skips a beat at the conviction in it. “We’ll go that way.”

Dean swallows hard, the fight bleeding out of him in a low exhale. He can’t hold Cas’ gaze for long, not with that kind of certainty staring back at him.

Behind them, boots strike louder, closer. Metal clatters against stone. Cas nods toward the jagged slit, calm even as urgency tightens the air. “Together.”

✪✪✪

Branches whip at Sam’s arms as he forces his way through the underbrush, boots sinking into damp earth. Every breath scrapes his lungs raw, but he doesn’t slow. He can’t. Not when the ghost of Dean’s scent still clings to him, stubborn and thin, like smoke that refuses to fade.

Bobby lumbers close behind, heavier steps but steady, his breathing rougher now. Sam doesn’t look back. He can’t afford to. If he sees Bobby falter, if he thinks too long, he’ll hesitate, and if there’s one thing John Winchester was right about, it’s that hesitation could mean death.

The comm crackles faintly in his ear. Charlie’s voice, blurred with static: “Sam-still got you-sending…” The signal stutters. For a heartbeat it’s only static, then her voice cuts back in, sharp with urgency. “I’ve not heard anything concrete yet – no arrests, no shootings, either, but they’ve got our trace, now.”

Sam’s heart stops for a beat. Losing Eileen… It hurts too much to even think about, a dark, black void opening in his chest. No, they have to make it. Eileen, Charlie, Bobby… and Dean, as well. They just have to.

“I’m moving,” Sam grits out, too harsh. He shoves a branch out of his way and pushes harder. His chest aches. Every step feels like he’s tearing something open inside, but he welcomes it. Pain means being alive. Pain means there’s still a chance.

“I need to cut communication,” Charlie says, voice apologetic. In the background, Sam hears the harsh whistle of breaks. “I’m sorry.”

“We’ll be fine,” he pants, finally giving in to the urge and glancing back at Bobby to see how he’s holding up. His expression is grim, sweat beading on his forehead, the gun holstered to his thigh glinting in the light filtering through the trees. He nods, yelling at him to keep moving, so Sam does.

His mind keeps looping back to the half-collapsed bunker. That first stab of hope when Dean’s scent hit him, sharp and familiar, and then the hollow drop when it thinned, stale, weeks old. His fists clench even as he runs, nails digging crescents into his palms. He can’t let that be the last trace.

Bobby’s low whistle cuts through his haze. Sam skids to a halt, chest heaving, and ducks instinctively. Through the trees ahead, shadows move - soldier patrols sweeping in slow arcs. Voices carry, muffled but too close.

Sam drops low, motioning Bobby down beside him. They crouch in the brush, the forest alive with small noises that feel deafening against the silence of soldiers nearby.

A shaft of sunlight spears through the canopy, catching on dust motes and Bobby’s damp gray hair where he crouches. The light should feel safe, but out here it only makes them more visible.

Sam presses lower into the brush, mud seeping cold through his jeans. Each second he can’t keep moving forward feels like agony. He can hear the soldiers talking, clipped words, too low to make out, but the tone is all military efficiency.

Sweat stings his eyes. He clamps a hand over his mouth, forcing his breath quieter. Midday heat presses down through the leaves, baking the damp earth until every inhale tastes of moss and rot. He hopes their blockers hold up long enough for the soldiers to pass them by.

The soldiers pass close enough that Sam sees the shape of their rifles, the glint of metal under straps. One slows, scanning the undergrowth. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the bracken just in front of Sam’s face, and his chest seizes. For a sick second he thinks it’s over.

Then the soldier mutters something, turns, and the steps fade out. The patrol drifts deeper into the trees until only the crunch of leaves marks their retreat.

Sam exhales, ragged. His lungs feel too big in his chest. Bobby glances at him, steady even with his lined face gleaming sweat. He taps Sam’s shoulder once, silent: move.

Sam nods. They slip out of the brush, crouched low, sun flashing hard through gaps in the canopy as they push west. His thighs burn, his chest aches, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t let himself think about why they’re searching the forest – what it could mean. He can’t. Not yet.

✪✪✪

The draft pulls faintly against Dean’s face as he ducks into the jagged slit of tunnel, flashlight beam shaking with each splash of his boots in shallow water. The stone presses close on either side, cold and damp, scraping his shoulders when the ceiling bows low.

Cas follows right on him, so close Dean can feel his breath at the back of his neck, hot in the chill air. The weight of his presence steadies him more than the wall under his hand.

Behind them, echoes multiply - boots slamming into stone, voices bouncing distorted down the passage. The sound makes the hairs rise on Dean’s arms.

He pushes harder, beam swinging wild across rusted pipes and graffiti marks faded to nothing. His chest aches with the pace, but he doesn’t slow.

Cas’ hand brushes his arm as the tunnel squeezes tighter, grounding him, scent threading sharp with focus. “We’re still ahead,” Cas murmurs.

Dean doesn’t answer. He keeps moving, chasing the draft like it’s the only lifeline left. In a way, it is. It’s hard to tell time away from daylight with your death on your heels, but they must move forward for at least another ten minutes before there’s another bend ahead.

The tunnel opens into a round clearing, and for a second, Dean thinks this is it. Another dead end, their final resting place where all they can do is wait for the military to finish the job.

But then he smells it: fresh, clean air, and as he shuts off the rapidly weaking flashlight, they’re standing in a circle of light shining down on them from above.

“Dean,” Cas gasps, smile audible in his voice and scent, rushing forward to the rough stone ladder. “We did it!”

Dean wants to shout, to jump, to grab Cas and kiss him senseless, but he knows he can’t, not yet. They’re still not safe, but their deaths are less certain than they seemed a minute ago.

He nods at Cas, who starts up the ladder. Cas climbs first, movements sure despite the damp rungs, then leans down to grip Dean’s arm when his boots slip. For a second, Dean thinks he’ll fall back, but Cas’ hold is unshakable. He hauls him up the last few rungs until Dean’s boots catch again.

They burst into daylight, sharp, too bright after the dark. Dean squints hard, chest heaving, lungs clawing for open air. The structure around them is half-ruined - stone walls buckled inward, roof beams broken and leaning like snapped ribs. It smells of damp wood, moss, and stale air. Right now, to Dean, it smells like heaven.

The soldiers’ boots still echo in the stone below, shouts ricocheting up the shaft. They don’t have long. Dean knows it. He knows they should already be running, finding cover, planning their next move.

But the sunlight on Cas’ face, the way his chest heaves, the way his scent rolls rich and triumphant in the open air - it breaks something in him. Before he can think better of it, Dean fists a hand in the back of Cas’ shirt, drags him close, and crushes their mouths together.

Cas’ surprised gasp is swallowed in the kiss, his hands catching Dean’s arms like he isn’t sure if he’s steadying Dean or himself. The taste of damp stone and sweat mixes with something brighter, the electric relief of being alive. It lasts only a heartbeat, maybe two, but it’s everything.

Dean pulls back, breath ragged, eyes fierce. “We’re not done,” he growls.

✪✪✪

Sam crashes through a wall of ferns, boots sinking deep in loam. The midday sun presses through the canopy in broken shafts, glinting off his sweat-slick hair, hot on the back of his neck.

Bobby grunts behind him, breath harsh but steady. “Slow down, boy.”

“Can’t,” Sam snaps, though his chest feels like it’s tearing in half. Every step hurts, but stopping would be worse.

Something changes in the air, faint, almost buried under moss and gun oil, but sharp enough to spear through Sam’s chest. His breath stutters. He knows that scent.

Sam’s lungs are on fire, legs pumping, but he doesn’t feel any of it. All he knows is the scent dragging him forward, sharp and familiar and so impossibly alive that his chest aches with it.

The ruined stone structure breaks through the trees ahead, roof sagging, walls split. Sunlight burns against its edges, and for a heartbeat Sam thinks he’s hallucinating.

Two figures scramble out into the clearing.

Sam stumbles, heart slamming. One is tall and dark-haired, shoulders hunched, but it’s the other person - broader, holding himself up with military confidence engrained over years and decades – that captures Sam’s attention. Even after years apart, it’s unmistakable.

Sam skids to a halt, chest heaving, vision blurring.

It’s him. It’s really him. Before he can move closer, something happens. Sam’s eyebrows jump to his hairline as he watches his brother haul in the other man and kiss him senseless.

Sam’s lungs seize. For a second he forgets how to breathe. His whole world has been searching for his brother, praying, bargaining, bleeding for him, and now Dean’s alive, right there in the sun.

Relief slams into him so hard it almost knocks him flat, tangled up with disbelief, with questions he doesn’t have words for.

All he can manage is a hoarse shout, raw and breaking: “Dean!”

Chapter Text

“Report,” the Director says. Her voice is calm, too calm. “So? Have they been dealt with?”

The silence that follows is heavy. Papers shuffle, a throat clears.

“Well?”

“Director…” one of them starts, faltering.

Her eyes narrow. “What?”

“There’s… been a problem.”

The words hang, pathetic in the sterile room.

Her chair scrapes as she rises, slow and deliberate. “A problem.” She tastes the word like venom. “You had one job. One simple task, and you’ve failed it again.”

No one dares breathe.

“They were supposed to be contained,” she continues, voice sharpening. “Do you understand what is at stake here? Do you have the faintest idea of the risk you’re running with this incompetence? If they remain at large, everything we’ve built is jeopardized. All of it. Do you want to be responsible for losing this war?”

She snaps the file shut, the sound like a gunshot. “I want them dealt with. Once and for all. The Alpha, the doctor, and that bitch on the news, too. I don’t care what it costs, in resources, in personnel, in blood. Get it done.”

Someone dares a protest. “But… Corporal Adler said-”

Her head turns, slow, precise. A thin smile cuts across her face, humorless. “Corporal Adler is dead. And he was never in charge. I was. I am. Don’t forget it again.”

Silence answers her.

She straightens the file in her hands, voice dropping back into that terrifying calm. “Now go. Bring me results, or don’t bother coming back.”

Chapter Text

The echo of the kiss still burns on his mouth when a shout rips through the clearing.

“Dean!”

Dean’s head jerks up. A figure bursts out of the tree line - tall, broad, uniform cutting sharp lines through the midday sun. Rifle strapped, chest heaving.

For half a second Dean’s gut drops at the sight of the soldier. Cas stiffens beside him instantly, shoulders squaring, stance protective. His scent spikes sharp, defensive.

Dean blinks, breath caught in his chest. The sunlight cuts across the man’s face, taking in the sweat, dirt, the too long hair and wide eyes that seem awfully familiar. He breathes in deeply, catching the scent of the Alpha – marshmallow and licorice. It smells like…

“A candy store,” Dean repeats, shit-eating grin on his face as he ruffles through ten-year-old Sammy’s hair, which earns him an indignant huff.

“Stop saying that. Daaaad!”

“What,” John snaps, not taking his eyes off the road.

“Ever since I presented, Dean says I smell like a candy store,” he whines, tears in his eyes. John tells them both to keep quiet and stop fighting, but then Sammy starts crying of course, so he stops at the next exit and gives Dean a cuff over the head and a few dollars to buy him chocolate.

The memory hits him like a fist to the gut.

“Sammy?” he croaks, voice breaking.

Dean barely has time to brace before his little brother slams into him full force, arms wrapping so tight around his shoulders it almost knocks the wind out of him.

The scent crashes into him properly this time. Not just the candy-store sweetness, but layered now with sweat, gunpowder, fear, relief so sharp it makes Dean’s knees buckle.

Dean clutches back just as hard, burying his face against Sam’s shoulder like if he lets go for even a second, Sam will vanish again. His hands fist in the rough fabric of the uniform, the same uniform that made him hesitate, but it doesn’t matter anymore. All he feels is Sam. Alive.

“God, Sammy,” Dean rasps, voice breaking wide open. “I thought I’d never - What the hell are you even doing here?”

Sam shakes his head against him, breath shuddering. He pulls back, tears swimming in his eyes, and steps back slightly, eyes locked on Cas. He’s obviously been watching the exchange carefully, adrenaline no doubt still rushing through his veins making him careful, but there’s a soft, warm smile on his face.

“You must be Dr. Novak,” Sam says, stretching out his hand. Cas surprises all of them by wrapping his arms around Sam’s huge frame. He pulls back quickly, a soft flush on his face that makes him look adorable, in Dean’s totally unbiased opinion.

“I can’t believe you got my letter,” he says, and Dean raises his eyebrows. Looks like they have some catching up to do. Dean, however, doesn’t get a chance to ask, because the ground behind them shudders with a new echo.

Cas’ head snaps toward the ruined structure, every line of him tense again. His scent shifts sharp, edged with warning.

“Shit,” Dean mutters, already pulling Sam closer by the sleeve. “They’re right behind us.”

Another figure crashes into the clearing then, gun drawn, chest heaving. Dean’s eyes widen when he sees Bobby, but there’s no time for relief. He jerks his chin toward the structure. “We’ve got seconds. Maybe less.”

Dean’s instincts scream to take Sam’s rifle, to empty a clip the second the first helmet appears in that hole, but his brother holds it out of the way.

“They’re patrolling the woods. If we shoot now, they’ll know where we are.”

Shit.

A new crash sounds below, louder, closer. Dust belches up from the stairwell in the ruined floor.

Dean looks up, scanning the collapsed beams, the cracked stone. “We bring it down,” he says, jaw tight. “The whole thing.”

Cas’ gaze flicks to the ceiling, then back to him. He nods once. No hesitation.

Bobby growls, already moving toward a leaning timber. “Let’s make it quick.”

The shouts from below rise, boots hammering closer. Dean throws one last look at Sam, then throws his shoulder into the nearest beam. The ruined beams groan under Dean’s weight, dust shaking loose in thin streams. His muscles scream, already raw from the run and the climb, but he digs in harder, shoulder burning.

“Sam, help me with this one!” he barks.

Sam doesn’t argue, just throws his bulk against the splintered timber. Even with all the years they’ve been apart, the last with no contact at all, they jump right back where they left off, working together seamlessly. The beam shifts, grinding against the stone with a sound that rattles Dean’s teeth.

Below them, the soldiers are close enough now that Dean can make out clipped words between the echoes. Orders. Boots pounding up the ladder.

“Faster!” Bobby snarls, shoving his whole frame into another support. The roof above them shudders, more dust raining down.

Cas plants himself beside Dean, both hands braced on the beam, face set with quiet determination. His scent of rain, smoke, and sharp resolve cuts through the dust, grounding Dean even as panic claws at the back of his throat.

The timber lurches. Something cracks deep in the structure, a long, splintering sound like bone giving way.

Dean’s pulse spikes. “Again! Push!”

All four of them heave together, straining until the air leaves their lungs in ragged bursts.

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then the ceiling gives.

The world roars as stone and timber come down, the stairwell swallowed in a collapse that sends dust and shards of light ripping through the clearing. The soldiers’ shouts vanish in an instant under the thunder of falling debris.

Dean staggers back, coughing, eyes stinging, ears ringing. Sunlight spears through new cracks in the ruined roof, cutting through the haze like knives.

The echo of boots is gone. Only heavy, fragile silence remains.

Dean bends over, hands braced on his knees, lungs dragging in air that tastes like dust and freedom. He risks a look at Sam, wide-eyed, streaked with dirt, then at Cas, who meets his gaze with the same steady calm as always.

Dean lets out a harsh laugh, part relief, part disbelief. “Well,” he rasps, voice torn raw, “looks like I finally got to collapse something after all.”

✪✪✪

The van rattles like it’s about to shake itself apart, every bump in the back road a reminder of how close they’re running this thing to the edge.

Charlie hunches over her screens, wires tangled around her like ivy. Every system she dares keep online hisses with static. The trace is still there, circling closer every time she risks a ping. She kills one connection, reroutes another, but it’s like trying to outmaneuver a hound that already has your scent.

“Anything?” Eileen says out loud, hands gripping the wheel tightly.

Charlie waits for her to glance over, then shakes her head, lips pressing thin. She’d sent the last set of coordinates to Sam more than half an hour ago, but she doesn’t dare speak over comms – not with the military crawling all over the bands.

Her hands tighten around the edge of the console. She tells herself it’ll be fine. It’ll all work out, right? It has to. But her stomach twists anyway.

The van jolts around a corner, tires spitting gravel. Eileen’s scent is taut with focus, sharp and clean, but Charlie can feel the edge of fear under it too. They both know they’re driving blind.

Charlie wipes sweat off her forehead with the back of her hand. “Just… hang on, Sam,” she mutters under her breath. “Please.”

On the screen, another red line spikes - the trace. They’re closing in.

Charlie curses under her breath and kills another line, watching the map fracture. She doesn’t have many routes left. Every cut narrows her world.

The leftmost monitor flickers and suddenly fills with a military feed she hasn’t asked for - a forced push. Crisp uniforms at a podium, the seal spinning in the corner.

The man’s voice is clean and confident, trained to sound like comfort. “There is no instability within the Alpha corps,” he says. “Reports of chemical interference are unfounded. Do not be misled by hostile propaganda.”

A chyron scrolls across the bottom: ISOLATED INCIDENTS — FOREIGN INTERFERENCE SUSPECTED.

Charlie’s jaw tightens. She doesn’t dare cut the feed too fast - that would only draw attention. So she lets it play while her fingers work elsewhere, pulling logs, cutting false paths, anything to keep them one step ahead.

Eileen glances at the screen, then back at the road. She signs one-handed, sharp and quick: Lies.

Charlie snorts, a bitter sound. “Yeah. They’re practically choking on them.”

But underneath her words, her stomach twists again. Because without proof, all she has are documents and intercepted orders. Words. And words can always be painted as lies.

She risks a glance at the trace again. Her throat feels tight. She wants to open comms, to check if Sam made it. To hear his voice, to hear that Dean’s with him. But the risk is too high. One wrong frequency, one open channel, and it would all be over.

Her hand curls into a fist on the console. Whoever is on her tail knows what they’re doing, and they’re close. Too close.

It’s risky going towards where Sam and Bobby – and possibly Dean – should be, but if they leave them stranded in the middle of the woods, they might as well hand them over to the authorities themselves, handcuffed and with a bow on top.

Eileen drums her fingers once on the wheel “Problem?”

Charlie opens her mouth to answer, but then the whole line wavers. The red spike shudders, splits, and for a heartbeat her screen is nothing but static.

Her breath catches. “What the hell…”

She doesn’t waste the second. If the signal’s already shaky, she can kill it. She reroutes hard, dumping corrupted packets into the trace, forcing it to chase a dozen phantom echoes in every direction but theirs.

On her screen, the red spike flickers, lurches, then flatlines.

Gone.

Charlie leans back hard, sweat breaking cold along her temples. Her pulse still races, waiting for the line to return, but the monitor stays empty.

“Look,” Eileen says suddenly, voice tight, hand darting from the wheel to point ahead.

Charlie jerks her head up.

In the distance, through the breaks in the trees, a column rises into the air. At first it looks like smoke, but the way it spreads is too pale, too heavy.

“Dust,” Eileen mutters, answering Charlie’s silent question.

They look at each other briefly before Eileen has to turn her eyes back on the road. Charlie gulps. Whatever just happened, it’s right at the location she sent Sam to, and it seems to be responsible for her getting rid of the trace.

She can only hope there’s more good news to come.

✪✪✪

The scrape of boots against rubble comes first, then the flare of scent Dean doesn’t recognize. His whole body goes taut, hand instinctively going for the knife at his waistband. Cas is at his side instantly, scent sharp and grounding, one hand brushing his arm like an anchor.

Instinctively, even with all the time apart, Dean’s head snaps towards Sam. Though where he expected his brother to be rigid with attention, instead he sees the slope of his shoulders relax, and his scent blooms something sweet and mellow.

A van skids to a halt in front of them and two figures stumble out; a redhead with wild eyes and a laptop bag strapped crosswise over her chest, as well as a dark-haired woman, hands lifted in a sharp sign Sam answers instantly, relief bursting off him in waves.

Cas, who doesn’t yet know how to read Sam as easily as Dean can, steps forward, but Dean catches his wrist, nodding toward the brunette, who is running up to Sam only to be engulfed in a dwarfing hug.

The redhead looks around curiously, and when Sam finally pulls his nose out of the crook of the brunette’s neck, he at least has the decency to look a bit sheepish.

“This, uhm, this is Eileen,” he nods at the woman still halfway in his arms, and for the first time, Dean gets a sniff of Omega, something pleasant with a curious spicy undertone. “And Charlie. They helped me find you – actually, they helped with a hell of a lot more.”

When Dean’s eyes snap back to Charlie, she’s staring at him as if seeing a ghost before she takes off all of a sudden, startling both Dean and Cas, and before he knows what happened, Dean has his arms full of her.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” she mumbles, releasing the surprisingly strong grip on his neck, “I’m just – I can’t believe Sam did it. I can’t believe he found you.”

Dean blinks at her, still holding her shoulders awkwardly, trying to reconcile the strength in her grip with the crack in her voice. She smells bright and sparking, but threaded through with the unmistakable undertone of Omega.

“Uh,” he manages. His ears are burning.

Charlie steps back quickly, rubbing at her face. “Sorry. Boundaries. I know. It’s just-” she glances at Sam, then back at Dean, eyes shining. “We’ve been chasing ghosts for months. And one point I almost thought-” she waves a hand at him, breathless. “Well, it doesn’t matter now.”

Dean clears his throat, shifting his weight. He doesn’t know what to do with that, not really, so he just smiles a little awkwardly.

They set up camp deeper in the forest, beneath a canopy so dense barely any light filters through. Charlie’s assured them about fifteen times that the military called off their troops combing through the forests for now, due to an emergency at the frontlines – she won’t admit having anything to do with it, but after a few hours spent with her, Dean thinks he can read the answer just fine in the badly suppressed smirk on her face.

After catching up, they decided to wait out the night and come up with a plan for their next steps before moving forward. Dean can’t say he likes it, but from what Sam told him, their little group has been doing this for months, and it only takes a glance at the deep, dark circles beneath everyone’s eyes to convince Dean to follow their lead.

The fire is a low, cautious glow, not enough to draw attention, but enough to keep the chill off. Charlie’s already in her element, wires snaking out of her bag, one hand steadying a battered tablet balanced on her knees.

Cas sits across from her, shoulders sloped in a way Dean has never seen before, his brow furrowed with something that looks dangerously close to excitement. They’re both bent over some samples Cas had apparently carried all this way, voices low and sharp as they volley theories back and forth, scribbling notes Dean can’t begin to parse.

Dean finds himself staring. Cas’ expression, sharp, alive, almost smug when Charlie catches up to one of his points, does something to him. He catches himself smiling, soft and unguarded.

“So,” Sam says casually, settling down next to Dean and leaning back on his hands, watching Dean with too much interest. “You and him, huh?”

Dean jerks his head around so fast it nearly gives him whiplash. “Huh?”

Sam just lifts an eyebrow, chin tilting toward Cas, who is currently gesturing with the end of a stick like a professor lecturing a particularly eager student. “Hey, it’s okay, you know I’d never judge you or anything. I’m just… well, a bit surprised, I guess.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “What, you thought I’d stay alone forever?”

Sam at least has the decency to blush, running a hand through his hair (that’s way too long, by the way – the only reason Dean has managed to keep his mouth shut about it so far is because he fears he’ll sound too much like Dad when he complains about it). “I meant because he’s, you know. An Alpha.”

Oh. Heat floods Dean’s face instantly. He rubs at the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but Sam’s. He clears his throat. “Yeah. So he is.”

“That’s great,” Sam says, a tad awkwardly but sincere, and Dean can’t help but smile at his brother’s fumbling attempts. “Really great.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, half-humoring him, but his eyes have already sought out Cas again, and he can’t help his smile when Cas looks up, his own eyes crinkling at the corners and a soft smile of his own on his face. “He really is.”

Sam follows his gaze, and Dean doesn’t miss the way his brother’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to grin. Though, Dean doesn’t think Sam has much of a leg to stand on – don’t think he hasn’t noticed Sam sending much of those same glances Eileen’s way.

The fire pops, casting a brief halo of light over Cas where he sits with Charlie, his hair catching gold at the edges, eyes intent but gentle when they flick back to Dean again.

Dean exhales slowly, his smile softening into something he doesn’t bother to hide.

“I’m sorry I never tried writing to you. Chances are they wouldn’t have sent anything your way anyways, but still.”

“You thought I’d stopped writing,” Sam says, face turning thoughtful.

“But you haven’t,” Dean argues, shaking his head slightly. “And even if you had – I shouldn’t have given up on you like that.”

“Dean,” Sam says in a tone of voice Dean hasn’t heard since he was a moody teenager and held a lecture about not needing a curfew, “you were actively fighting in a war, and suffering from whatever they pumped you full of. I’d never hold that against you.”

Dean doesn’t respond, but allows himself a small smile, a weight he hadn’t even known was there lifting from his shoulders.

“You know, Dad was right about one thing, though,” Dean muses, his formerly soft smile slowly turning into a mischievous grin.

“And what was that?”

Dean turns toward Sam, who rolls his eyes at the expression on his face. “You really aren’t made to wear a uniform.”

Sam shoves him playfully while Dean cackles, but there’s a matching grin on his face, and just like that, Dean knows they’ll be okay. No matter what happened in the past, and no matter what awaits them tomorrow.

✪✪✪

It takes a while before the fire dies down and the buzz of voices thins out. Charlie’s still hunched over her tablet, Eileen curled up beside her, Sam hovering close but finally yawning like he hasn’t in years. One by one, they peel off into whatever counts as rest these days, until their improvised camp is quiet.

Dean lingers. He’s not tired, not really. His body still runs hot, keyed up, but the edge is gone. What’s left feels… different. Warmer. Softer.

Cas settles beside him without a word, close enough their shoulders brush. His scent is steady, grounding, threaded with something Dean’s finally starting to recognize as the closest thing to home he’s had in years, if not ever.

“You’re smiling,” Cas says after a while, voice pitched low, like it’s just for him.

Dean huffs, only now aware of the fact, trying to regain control over his facial features. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

Cas tilts his head, studying him. “It suits you.”

Dean shifts, uncomfortable in that way where it’s not really discomfort at all. “Yeah, well. Don’t go telling people. Gotta keep up my image.”

“Of what?”

Dean smirks. “Half-crazed sergeant with daddy issues and problems with anger management?”

Cas’ face turns serious in spite of Dean’s attempt at a joke. “That’s not who you are. You are not what they tried to make you into, Dean.”

Dean looks down, rubbing at his neck, but his hand stills when Cas’ fingers brush against his own, light, but sure. Dean doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets out a breath and leans the barest bit into Cas’ side.

For a long stretch, they just sit like that, listening to the crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of each other’s breaths, scents curling together until Dean can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

He wishes that now that they’re together – Dean reunited with his brother, the weight of a rifle fading away into memory until it’s nothing more than phantom pain, with him and Cas just on the cusp of something good, something new, something real – this could be it.

But the war’s still raging on around them, and no matter their intentions, they’re fugitives. The enemy, for more than one side.

Though Charlie seems optimistic about her findings, combined with Cas’ research, Dean’s not foolish enough to think this is over. Tomorrow, they’ll move. They’ll fight. They’ll bleed for whatever comes next. But tonight, with Cas’ warmth at his side and their scents twined so tight he can’t imagine ever pulling apart, Dean thinks maybe they’ve already won the only thing that matters.

Chapter Text

The tea is perfect.

Dr. Naomi takes her time with it, porcelain cup balanced in one steady hand, steam curling up in delicate spirals. Outside, the compound trembles with the low thunder of boots and shouted orders, but in her office, there is only silence. She’s always preferred it this way; to stand apart from the mess she orchestrates.

She sets the cup down, her reflection fractured in the surface of the liquid. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun, not a single strand out of place.

The screen on her desk flickers. For a heartbeat, static eats the edges of the room. Then a voice, sharp and too alive, cuts through.

“This is Charlie Bradbury. If you’re seeing this, then it means the firewall’s down and you need to know the truth.”

Dr. Naomi exhales slowly, leaning back in her chair as the feed stabilizes. A young woman’s face appears, red hair reflecting the glare of fluorescent light. She recognizes her instantly from the news broadcast a few days ago. Her face hardens – she knew she’d become even more of an issue.

Irritation rises inside Dr. Naomi. She gave clear orders – eliminate her, everyone she is working with, and everybody else that could pose as a threat to the operation. But with the war going on for as long as it is, the soldiers have started to crack.

Gone are the mindless troops that blindly follow orders. Dr. Naomi takes another sip of her tea, completely composed but for the slight tremble in her hands from her suppressed rage.

“Here are the facts,” Bradbury says, voice steady. “Here’s the truth they buried under lies and bodies.”

The screen fractures into documents. Dr. Naomi doesn’t need to look closely; she knows every line. Formulas, dosage sheets, shipment logs. The compound. Added to rations, week after week, for months, now. Designed to sharpen aggression. Designed to strip reason. Soldiers turned into weapons, no matter the cost.

Dr. Naomi tips her head, acknowledging the thoroughness. Yes. Necessary sacrifices. Collateral. Progress demands it.

Bradbury’s voice sharpens. “Thousands are dead. Not from enemy fire, but from what they call ‘The Alpha Protocol’. Soldiers whose systems couldn’t tolerate the drug. Soldiers – our fathers, brothers, sons, or friends - whose Alpha instincts were broken until they were nothing but husks, puppet on strings to serve some supposed ‘greater purpose’.”

The screen shifts. A birth certificate now, grainy but legible. Adler’s name, stamped beside a single, damning designation: Beta.

Dr. Naomi rolls her eyes. He was always more trouble than he was worth, greedy for power and acknowledgement, and even now in death he manages to be a thorn in her side.

“Corporal Adler is only one of many. He wore the mask of an Alpha, reshaped by the compound, propped up as proof of its success. He was their golden boy, and he was a lie.”

Dr. Naomi allows herself the faintest smile. Adler had played his role well enough. His blood is on his own hands, not hers.

“And behind it all,” Charlie continues, “Is the Director - a woman called Dr. Naomi.”

Her own face fills the screen. It’s an old photograph, but clear. A title blares across it in block letters: War Criminal.

“She designed the Protocol. She ordered the dosages. She decided whose lives were worth less than her experiments. She is the reason this war continues, the reason you were told obedience was survival. It was never survival. It was control.”

For the first time in years, Dr. Naomi’s tea has gone cold. She sets the cup aside.

The broadcast rolls on – more illegally obtained documents, test results, intercepted internal communication. Dr. Naomi folds her hands together on the desk. The tide is turning. She can feel it in the walls, in the cracks running through the silence she’s built for herself.

The doors down the hall slam open. Boots pound closer.

She smooths her skirt, stands, and straightens her cuffs. The screen still flickers with Bradbury’s voice, spilling her sins across every device that will receive them.

As the doors down the hallway burst open, she catches her reflection once more. Composed. Immaculate. Untouchable, even now.

With once again calm fingers, she removes the key worn on a chain around her neck and unlocks the topmost drawer of her desk. The metal gleams in the sterile office light, and she spends a fleeting second to mourn the tea she never got to finish.

As the voices outside become louder, closer, she closes her eyes against the cool metal on her temple. When the first soldier bursts through the door, she pulls the trigger, a cold smile on her face.

Chapter Text

It took weeks for the noise to fade.

Not that of the wind through the trees or the creek half a mile from the porch, not the stove ticking as it cooled, but the other kind of noise - the constant high whine inside Dean’s skull that used to spike with every order, every smell of gun oil, every radio crackle.

After Charlie risked her life in that broadcast, whole units laid down rifles, officers were dragged out by the same men they’d called theirs, and everywhere you went, all that was talked about was the Alpha Protocol – and its subsequent downfall.

After Naomi took herself out of the equation – which Dean will never stop feeling angry about, because he would have loved to see her actually be brought to justice - Command squabbled, then sputtered out.

The ceasefire came as unexpectedly as it was predictable, and all in all, Dean, Cas and the others only had to hide out inside the woods for the better part of three days before their faces were printed on newspapers across the nation and even further and they were celebrated like heroes once they returned.

Now, it’s quiet. The air smells of pine and woodsmoke instead of cordite. When Dean stepped outside in the morning, it was cool enough to sting his lungs, and there was no one yelling his name unless it was Sam telling him to get his ass in for coffee.

Sam has taken the truck into town this afternoon - barter for nails and a bag of coffee that didn’t taste like burnt mud. Left behind were quiet things. A sink full of clean dishes drying on a towel. A kettle rattling once as it settled. Cas at the little table by the window with sleeves rolled to his forearms, head bent over a short stack of papers Charlie couriered out here two days ago. He’s annotating something, brows drawn, mouth soft. The light makes a thin halo of his hair, his scent threads the room - rain after heat, a low hum that has by now worked its way into the woodgrain, into Dean’s shirts, into him.

It’s strange, this little life they’ve started to cave out for themselves. At first, Dean thought he just straight up forgot how to function if he was not on duty in an active war zone. He still wakes almost every night to the imagined sound of gunfire, pulse roaring and fingers itching for his gun, unable to calm down for long minutes spent with Cas talking calmly to him and holding him close while avoiding his fists flying blindly.

But, day after day, it gets better. Dean leans against the doorframe and takes the luxury to just watch for a few moments. Nowhere to be since it was Sunday and their new day jobs were on hold for today. Tomorrow, he’ll be beneath the hood of a car again, and Cas will examine new and old patients in his office, but for today, it’s just them.

Cas doesn’t look up at first, but Dean can tell he knows he’s being watched by the way his shoulders ease, the fraction he turns, the softest of undertones in his scent. When he does lift his head, the crease between his brows smoothes.

“Kitchen shelf is holding,” Dean says. “Guess I can put carpenter on my CV as well.”

Cas’ mouth tilts. “Let’s wait a few more days in case it does fall down after all.”

Dean wants to be offended but, in all honesty, can’t. He might be skilled in a lot of things, but apparently it takes more than a hammer and a few nails to slab pieces of wood together in a way that actually stands the test of time (or, in the case of their bed, the weight of two fully grown Alphas getting lost in each other on top of it).

He crosses the room, passing behind Cas’ chair so his hand can skate once over the warm line of Cas’ shoulder. It’s a touch that would’ve set his teeth on edge months ago - too easy, too open, too wrong. Now his palm tingles where they’ve met. Cas leans into it just enough to say he’s felt it too.

Outside, the first cool edge of autumn cuts the air, leaves already flirting with gold. Dean fills the kettle and sets it back on, then reaches without looking and takes the pencil from behind Cas’ ear. He twirls it and slips it back, playful now in the aftermath of the war in a way he was never quite allowed to be before. Carefree, almost, or at least ignorant of the dark shadows of his past for now. Cas makes a small noise - that soft, threadbare sound Dean has learned is for him alone.

“Guess we made it out alive after all,” Dean says, because the thing has been pressing against his teeth for days again now, and because Cas knows he needs to say it out loud, needs him to hear it, every few days, as if otherwise, it would all go up in smoke.

Cas’ eyes crease at the corners. “Alive,” he says, voice quiet. He reaches, fingers catching Dean’s belt loop to tug him close with a laziness that has nothing to do with strength. “And together.”

The familiar words immediately settle the uneasy feeling inside Dean’s chest, and his next smile is warmer still.

The kettle startles them both with its loud whistling. Dean laughs, making a face as he pours in some of the foul-smelling tea Cas is so fond of, setting his mug down within an easy reach and letting himself be pulled down the rest of the way by that hooked finger.

The kisses they share nowadays are not the desperate, bright-edged thing of the mildew-ridden bed somewhere in an underground bunker. This one is slow, a warm press that lingers, parts, returns. Dean’s scent curls low and content - spice, warm pine, a clean note that had only showed up once they’d stopped running. Cas’ scent rises to meet it, rain dark and cool, and the two slide together until Dean feels like his lungs have finally learned what air is for.

They eat later – bread, a pan of eggs, tomatoes from the neighbor who’s decided being friendly is better than being scared. After, Dean fixes the sticky latch on the back door. Cas finishes his notes and tucks them into Charlie’s envelope. On the porch at dusk they listen to the creek and the hum of something like peace. Dean’s fingers find the inside of Cas’ wrist, as if his body has mapped him by heart.

Night falls clean and black. When they climb the short stairs to the narrow bed, Dean thinks of all the places his body has learned to try and rest. Cots that stink of bleach and fear. The hard bench of a transport as his teeth chatter from the cold and adrenaline. Trenches filled with dirt and stale blood. There is a soft ache under his ribs, a place that has never been empty until now. He sets his hand there and feels it go quiet.

Cas stands at the edge of the bed and watches him lie down with that particular attention that made Dean crazy at first. His scent is calm and clear, that rain-hum deepening as it saturates the warm dark.

Dean opens his mouth to say something smart, to break the weight of it, but Cas moves before he can. He climbs onto the mattress with deliberate slowness, bracketing Dean with his knees, pressing him down into the narrow bed with nothing more than the inevitability of his body.

Dean’s breath stutters. His instincts twitch toward resistance, but Cas leans close, scent rolling heavy and steady, and Dean feels his chest loosen instead.

“It’s okay,” Cas murmurs, catching Dean’s wrist when he reaches up, pinning it against the pillow. “Let me take care of you.”

Dean swallows hard, his throat dry, but he nods, familiar by now with this dance of theirs. “Yeah. Okay.”

Cas kisses him, firm and unhurried, stealing every attempt at words until Dean goes pliant under the press of his mouth. When he pulls back, his hand trails down Dean’s chest, mapping him with reverence and claim both. Dean arches, caught between wanting more and trying not to beg for it.

Cas takes his time, just like he always does now that they can afford it. He drags his teeth along Dean’s jaw, noses at his throat, bites down just enough to make Dean gasp. His other hand slides down, holding Dean steady when his body jerks with the touch.

The room fills with scent, Dean’s spiking sharp, then settling into something softer, deeper, curling up to meet Cas’ storm. Cas hums against Dean’s neck, satisfied, and rolls his hips down, grinding slow until Dean chokes on a sound he can’t quite swallow.

“You’re mine,” Cas says, low and certain, as if it’s always been true.

Dean shudders, nodding desperately, his scent spilling open and sweet beneath Cas’. He tips his head back, baring his throat, and Cas claims it with his mouth, with his weight, with the steady rhythm that leaves Dean undone.

Cas’ hand slides lower, cupping Dean through the thin fabric, squeezing until Dean’s hips jerk up helplessly. Dean grits his teeth, breath hissing through them, but he doesn’t break the eye contact Cas pins him with.

“Cas,” he starts, not even knowing himself where he’s going with it, but Cas cuts him off with another kiss, harder this time, swallowing the sound as his grip tightens. He strokes him through the rough fabric until Dean is panting into his mouth, trembling with the effort not to rut up against the pressure.

Cas pulls back just enough to speak, his voice steady even as his scent thickens around them, storm-dark and possessive. “I want you.”

Dean’s chest heaves. He nods, wordless, his body already giving the permission his mouth can’t seem to shape.

Cas strips him bare with quick, sure hands, then pushes Dean’s thighs open with his knees. He doesn’t ask again, he doesn’t need to. Dean’s scent is laid open for him, hot and sharp, and Cas presses into it, easing Dean open with slickened fingers and a clever tongue before he lines himself up with one hand as the other keeps Dean pinned at the wrist.

The first push drags a sound out of Dean he can’t smother, a raw groan that seems to rattle the frame of the bed. Cas takes him slow but relentless, burying himself inch by inch until the stretch leaves Dean arching, his throat bared and his voice breaking on Cas’ name.

Cas stills only when he’s seated fully, chest pressed to Dean’s, knot already swelling at the base, holding him there. He breathes deep against Dean’s jaw, taking in his scent, marking him with his own until the air between them is thick with it.

Dean shudders, caught wide open, his pulse racing under Cas’ mouth. “Fuck, Alpha,” he whispers, half-plea, half-reverence.

“Mine,” Cas growls again, the word vibrating against Dean’s skin. He rolls his hips, pulling almost free before driving back in with force enough to rock the bedframe. Dean cries out, his free hand fisting the sheets.

The rhythm builds, heavy and consuming, Cas setting the pace and Dean breaking apart under it. Each thrust grinds them tighter together, knots straining, Dean’s catching on Cas’ stomach with each wet drag. Dean’s eyes squeeze shut, but Cas bites at his jaw until he looks again, until green locks with blue and the weight of it holds him steady.

“Look at me,” Cas commands, voice low, breath harsh. “Stay with me.”

Dean obeys. He can’t do anything else. His body shakes with the strain of holding on, with the sharp coil of heat winding tighter at the base of his spine. Cas’ hand finally releases his wrist only to wrap around his cock, stroking rough and sure in time with his thrusts, kneading at his swollen knot.

Dean’s snarl tears loose, helpless, his knot swelling the last bit as his body gives. The scent of it floods the room, sharp and wild. Cas answers with his own, knot locking them together, storm breaking open as he drives Dean over the edge.

Dean spills with a hoarse shout, clenching around Cas as his whole body shudders apart. Cas follows a heartbeat later, pressing in as deep as he can, the low sound in his throat more animal than man as he spends himself inside Dean.

They collapse together, breath ragged, the bed creaking under their weight. Cas keeps him pinned, his knot holding them locked, his scent rolling steady and satisfied as he mouths along Dean’s throat.

They lie tangled, sweating into the cool of the room, breathing each other in. Dean smiles against Cas’ mouth as he leans in for a gentle kiss, urgency and heat of the moment giving space to something quieter, but not less meaningful.

“Hi,” Dean says after a while, because he’s an idiot.

Cas’ laugh is quiet and warm. “Hi.”

Dean noses into the crook where Cas’ neck meets his shoulder and stays there. The scent there is the one that haunted him in the worst places. Now it is just Cas, clean and close, threaded through with Dean’s own. He doesn’t know when that became everything. He doesn’t need to.

“Tomorrow,” Cas says, voice low, as he strokes senseless circles down Dean’s back, “Charlie wants us to go into town to sign the things.”

“Right.” The amnesty papers. The aid forms for the guys who made it out. The small legalities of peace.

Cas’ mouth curves against his temple. Quiet moves in around them like a blanket. Outside, a night bird calls. Somewhere down the slope, the creek keeps on doing what it has always done.

The war is over. The world isn’t fixed and won’t be for a long while, but the thing that chewed Dean up from the inside has no purchase here. Tomorrow will be paperwork and nails for the second shelf and coffee that’s still too bitter. Maybe he’ll let Cas talk him into tea. Maybe he’ll fix the squeak in the porch step. Maybe he’ll hold Cas on that porch and smell the last sweet of pine as the air goes cold for real.

He turns his face and finds Cas’ mouth in the dark. It’s easy, which still feels like a miracle.

“Alive,” Dean says again, because he can.

“Together,” Cas says, and their scents rise and settle, and Dean breathes in until his lungs are full of home.