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Chapter Text

"Charlie?"

Castiel feels the growl that had been gathering in the back of his throat die when Sam rushes past him to sweep the young redhead in a hug – one that quite literally takes her off her feet. She lets out a surprised oof, dwarfed by the large man, but she doesn’t protest or seem at all concerned. 

He and Balthazar, the last ones in the loop, are left behind to look at each other in confusion. The older omega is tense, jaw set, eyes flicking up and down the odd couple as though trying to determine whether the young lady is a threat. Castiel is sure that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

“Heya, Sam-squatch,” the redhead squeaks out, patting his back. Sam laughs as he plops her down and stands back to look at her again, the stress and frustration he’s carried on his shoulders for days visibly  lifted, at least for the moment. Whoever this woman is, she seems to be a good friend of his, and Castiel feels his own tense shoulders ease at the obvious camaraderie between the two. A friend of Sam’s, after all, is likely a friend of theirs. 

Balthazar, however, does not seem comforted by their obvious familiarity. 

“How did you find this address?” he snaps, stiff and irritated, and it’s only because Castiel knows him so well that he sees that the omega is hastily covering his fear. He’s stepped back several feet, wary. A fox retreating into his own den. Castiel remembers, with a jolt of guilt, that this is not his home – it’s Balthazar’s, and he’s never known a man to be quite as protective over his domain as his friend. 

Sam and the young woman – Charlie, it seems – turn to look at him, both owl-eyed like children caught with an open cookie jar. It’s the young lady who speaks up first, nerves making her words a little jittery. “Sorry – yeah. Uh. Okay, I can see how that’s, like, a total breach of privacy–” 

“Answer the question.” 

Castiel grimaces at the spike of acrid fear in the air – one he knows that Balthazar is loath to have let loose. The man’s grip on his nerves has been fraying over the last few days, and it’s little wonder why, what with the threat that Alastair is holding over him. This – an unexpected visitor who should very much not know where they are, considering that Sam had asked her not to come – it’s not doing much for his fragile grasp on himself. 

“Sorry. Right. I – Sam’s phone,” she blurts, face reddening nearly as much as her hair when Sam starts and turns to look at her, scandalized. “I tracked it. I know!” she hurries out, when Sam sputters. “I know, I know! But I was worried about you, man. You just went radio silent, and you know how I overthink –” 

“I told you that I was gonna be busy,” Sam says, shaking his head and looking back and forth between Balthazar and Charlie. It seems that it’s dawned on him that not everyone is as happy to see the woman as he is. “Balthazar, she’s – she’s a friend.” 

“Yes,” the omega snaps, teeth flashing. “One you did not invite.” 

Charlie blushes further, and Castiel takes that as his cue to take charge. “Why don’t you come in?” he offers quickly, stepping in front of Balthazar before the man takes a chunk out of her. He half wonders if it will be his own back that will feel the bite. “Sit down. You can explain then.” 

He can feel Balthazar’s glare boring holes into the back of his head, but the older man doesn’t protest. Castiel’s not sure if it’s because he can see that he can trust the woman – doubtful – or if it’s because he doesn’t want to stand in front of his open door for any longer than necessary. Probably the latter. 

After a few awkward shuffles around each other, they find themselves seated at the kitchen table. Well – Balthazar isn’t seated. He’s leaned against the counter in a deceptively easy stance, his eyes glued to Charlie. The cold irritation in his eyes is somewhat belayed by Couch, who has hopped up onto the marble behind him and is rubbing her cream colored fluff all over his turtleneck. She’s purring in an almost aggressive fashion, clearly ill at ease from her owner’s discomfort. 

Charlie, for her part, has not stopped nervously chattering since she stepped across the threshold. She looks to be about Sam’s age, perhaps a little older; delicate and slight against his gargantuan brawn. They make an odd pair, the two, but neither seem deterred by the obvious differences between them. 

“Anyway,” she continues, and Castiel starts – he hadn’t been listening, he realizes guiltily. The lack of sleep has started to catch up with him. He’d tossed and turned all night, dreading the upcoming meeting with the judge, sick to his stomach with his mind tangled around Dean. Dean, who’s been stuck in the county holding cell for nearly a week now. 

Dean, who, if they aren’t successful today, will be returned to his old master. 

He’s ashamed now, realizing that Charlie’s arrival has been a distraction, however slight. Dean has been the only thing on his mind for days, a never-ending hailstorm of desperation that’s making his very soul ache. As it should be, he thinks. It feels wrong to have his attention diverted, even for a moment.

“Like I said, though,” Charlie continues, and Castiel forces himself to focus on her, to set his immense yearning to the side for a moment more, “I didn’t mean to freak you guys out. I should have thought it through before charging in queen-of-the-kingdom style, but I just wanted to be sure I was here to – y’know. To be in Sam’s corner.” 

Balthazar does not look any less frosty at this tentative olive branch, so Castiel clears his throat. “I’m sure Sam appreciates the support,” he offers carefully. Balthazar huffs, looking away, but he, again, doesn’t protest. Castiel takes that as his cue to continue. “Be that as it may, it’s… I’d ask that you not do it again.” 

“Samuel will not be allowed a cellphone,” Balthazar corrects tersely, “if you do it again.” 

Charlie smiles awkwardly, tossing up a salute toward the elder omega. “Scout’s honor, I won’t,” she confirms quickly. Whatever her faults surrounding guest decorum, she’s clearly read the room at this point, and knows who’s in charge. “Nice to meet you, by the way – Sam’s told me lots of cool shit about you. Balthazar, right?”

“Charmed,” Balthazar responds flatly, clearly not in the mood for flattery. “Do you have anything in particular to offer, or are you simply here for cheerleading? We’ll be heading out for the meeting soon, so we haven’t time to waste on pleasantries.” 

It’s a sobering reminder. The pall that drops over the room is immediate and stifling – Sam’s expression goes dark. The young redhead looks around at them quickly, startled by the sudden change. “Meeting?”

“With the judge,” Sam answers, rubbing a hand across his chin. He’s clean-shaven this morning, dispensing with the five o’clock shadow he’d been sporting, in the name of what Castiel assumes is a bid at professionalism. “For – yeah. For Dean.” 

Charlie’s expression morphs from shock to sympathy. “Oh. Damn, that’s… fast.” 

Castiel, though he knows that they’d needed the time to prepare, disagrees. He feels as though it’s been years – years spent in the purgatory of waiting, breath held, the open wound that is Dean’s absence spilling blood from his ribs. Something of the pained thought must show in his countenance, because Charlie softens. 

“You’re Castiel, right?” she asks, reaching across the table. Her soft palm on his arm is startling, though not entirely unwelcome. He thinks, with a pang, of Dean. When he nods, throat tight, Charlie gives him a small smile, and then looks around the room. “Dean’s lucky to have you. All of you.” 

Castiel’s heart twists. He’s not sure how accurate her judgement could possibly be, considering where Dean is now. But the young woman, at the very least, seems to mean it. 

Balthazar has clearly had enough of the happy reunion. He pushes himself from the counter and disappears around the corner without a word. Couch, ever the loyalist, follows him without a backward glance, flicking her tail haughtily. 

“I didn’t mean to ruffle any feathers,” Charlie says guiltily, leaning back to rub the back of her neck. “It’s just, Sam, when you do that whole dark and broody and on my own thing, you get me all nervous, you know? I know you asked me to hang back, but I couldn’t.” 

Sam gives her a tired smile, strained from weariness and nerves but not from irritation. Castiel has certainly learned the difference. “It’s all good. Really, it is,” he insists, letting out a small huff of a laugh. “I’m…” 

“Gonna do great,” Charlie insists, reaching over to pat him on the back. “You’re a rockstar, champ.” 

“Thanks, Charlie.” 

Even to Castiel, the words seem hollow.

They don’t tell Dean where they’re taking him. 

He tries like hell to not let that little fact destroy what’s left of his brain. It ain’t like he’s new to this, ain’t like he’s unfamiliar with getting shuttled around to a new place against his will. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened to him a million goddamn times. 

But this time, it’s terrifying. 

Well. He can admit to himself that it’s terrifying every time. An officer or guard slamming open his door, rough hands on his collar, his arms wrenched together and cuffed in place. He’s lucky they left his hands in front of him this time – he thinks it’s only because of that Donna woman that they’d done so. He’d felt her sadness, her sympathy. He hadn’t had it in him to meet her eyes, but it’d been clear she hadn’t liked watching him get yanked out of his cell. Led, neck held down, into the back of a van. She’d snapped at them to be careful, to be professional. 

He rocks to the side with the latest turn of the police van, his knees protesting. Out of practice, he thinks. With kneeling. Cas never made him do it, and it’s been a while since he’d done it himself. The ridges of the rubber mat beneath him dig through his thin pants and feel like they go straight to bone. 

The guards with him are talking above him. Literally and figuratively. The conversation isn’t about him at all, and somewhere deep down, Dean rankles a bit at the insult. But he feels his indignation sputter and die inside of himself like a lighter in the wind. 

He listens to them discuss basketball, of all things – fucking sports – with something like deranged apathy.

There would have been a time where he’d have jerked up to the end of his scant little chain and tried to fucking bite them for their inhumanity. But the animal who would have done that had been culled by Alastair. His former master had reared a well-trained pet in that feral creature’s place. 

The two officer’s conversation peters out, and he’s left only with the sound of his own harsh breathing. Ironically, he wishes they would start shooting the shit again. He doesn’t do well with silence. He’s spent too much time over the last several days in it, in his own head, and it doesn’t take a whole lot for him to slip back into his memories. Doesn’t take much for the actual world around him to fade into something that doesn’t feel as real as the stop motion horror movies in his head. 

Dean remembers, distantly, the ride away from the burned down Hell. Remembers that it had been a lot like this. He hadn’t had the energy to kneel, then; had just curled up and shivered, stunned by the warmth of the van they’d transported him in, the blood in his ears rushing too loud to hear whatever the police had been muttering about him. He’d been too grateful to be alive, warm, to be scared about what was coming next 

But he’s scared now. 

He thinks, maybe, that it has to do with the fact that he’s leaving the last place he saw Cas. He knows, logically, that it’s not like Cas is there, but it doesn’t matter. In some ways, he feels like he’s being pulled apart, like the final bit of what makes him Dean is still in the interrogation room where Cas last held him. 

Maybe it is. Maybe he left his soul there, and he’s just an empty, omega-shaped shell now. It sure as shit feels like it. 

One of the officers – a young guy, probably a few years younger than Dean, even – glances at him, and Dean snaps his eyes down, heart jumping in his chest when he realizes he’d been looking at the man. He’s not supposed to look at them, he knows. Free people. Not in the eye. Really, he shouldn’t be looking anywhere but the ground, a scant couple of feet from his nose where his collar is chained down. The officers are both alphas, and he can smell the ping of disgust that pulses from the younger one loud and clear. 

“Seems fucked up,” the officer mutters to his partner on the other side of the van. 

“Huh?”

The officer hesitates. “I mean. You know. This whole – I mean, come on, man. Like he’s a dog, or something.”

Dean swallows. It’s tempting to appreciate the sympathy, however scant. But he’s seen this before, this… detached sort of distaste for slavery that never actually does him any favors. More often than not, it results in someone else reminding Dean of his place, like he’s the one who dared to question the status quo. And Dean’s damn well learned better than that now. 

There’s nothing but silence from the other man, and Dean’s heart quickens, sweat jumping out on his brow and his neck. He can’t help himself – he curls further down, closing his eyes. Smaller target, smaller target. Doesn’t really help when he’s the only target. 

The older officer sighs. “Don’t get weird about it, rookie,” he mutters, and Dean can only swallow, can only eye the older man’s boot with his heart in his throat and pray it doesn’t connect with his ribs. The police have done worse to him. Have done worse to other slaves. Fuck, they’ve done worse to free people, when they feel they have the power to.

“It don’t bother you?” the young man persists, the disgust in his scent twisting into something that might actually be sympathy. “I mean, come on. He’s –” 

“A slave, and you don’t got a fuckin’ clue what made him one,” the other man snaps, clearly irritated. Dean takes a slow breath, trying to still his shaking hands as the older alpha’s scent twists into frustration. “He could be a fucking pedo, for all you know.” 

This quiets the younger alpha, and Dean finds himself praying. He knows this is common rhetoric, knows that tons of people justify slavery in their own minds by pretending that the folks who end up like Dean had it coming. It hurts, somewhere deep, but Dean can’t worry about that right now. All he can do is grit his teeth and hope that they just leave him the fuck alone till they get there. 

Wherever the fuck there is.

“... Yeah.” The younger man doesn’t quite sound convinced. “I guess.” 

“You can’t get caught up thinking about that shit too much. Ain’t your job to – you know. Just. Do your damn job.” 

There’s a long beat of silence after this gruff reminder, and Dean forces himself to breathe. Just to breathe, and to not panic, which is what got him into this situation in the first place. Panicking. 

“Yeah, well. He knocked Kubrick on his ass, from what I hear, so he can’t be that bad.” 

This startles a huff of laughter out of the older officer, and Dean glances up, shocked. Both men are snickering, and he thanks his lucky stars they ain’t Kubrick’s buddies. He catches the younger alpha’s eye again, but this time, the man nods at him. “Thanks for that, y’know. Off the record. Dude’s an asshole.” 

Dean can’t exactly agree out loud, under the circumstances, but he can recognize a chance when he sees it. He licks his lips. Forces himself to ask while he’s got their attention in a semi-positive way.

“Where are we going?”

The words are the first ones he’s spoken since he saw Cas, and they’re hoarse. He doesn’t even know how many days ago that was. Both alphas seem shocked that he’s spoken at all, and they exchange a glance. 

The older one shrugs, and the younger one – his badge, Dean can finally see, says Evans – clears his throat. “They didn’t tell you?”

Dean holds back a scoff. No one ever tells him anything. Instead of saying as much, though, he just shakes his head, the lead that’s holding him down clinking against his collar. 

“We’re headed to the courthouse,” Evans says after another few seconds, looking Dean up and down like he’s assessing whether or not he’s some kind of heinous criminal. Apparently he doesn’t think so, because he continues. “Some kind of meeting with a judge, I guess.” 

“You don’t need to tell him shit, you know,” the other officer interrupts, but, maybe surprisingly, there’s no cruelty in his words. Just a dismissive sort of dryness. Dean eyes him, a bit nervous, but the man doesn’t seem inclined to discipline him for the disrespect. It seems that giving Kubrick a broken nose, for all the harm it’s probably going to do Dean, is actually helping him here. “Ain’t like he’s got Miranda Rights.” 

Dean swallows, but the young officer waves his partner off. “S’fucked up, man. Dude should at least know where he’s going.” 

Dean can’t help but agree. Though he’d like to know more, he decides he’s not gonna push his luck. “Thank you,” he murmurs, and he means it. The man just shrugs in reply. 

He lets his eyes fall again. The courthouse. That means that – 

A wave of nausea makes his stomach clench. He doesn’t think either officer, no matter how randomly kind – or at least indifferent – they might be, will appreciate it if he pukes on their shoes. He forces himself to breathe. 

Alastair. Alastair is going to be there. 

Even now, the thought makes him break out in a cold sweat. He’s tried his best over the last few days to get his fucking head screwed on straight, to pull himself out of the distant daze he’d let himself slip into. He’s scared – he’s so fucking scared – but he knows that lying down and taking it ain’t the way to go. 

He’s done that too much for Alastair already. 

Try as he might, though, he can’t quite help the fear from gripping him for a moment. The thousand and one ways that Alastair has hurt him crowd forward in his brain, fighting tooth and nail for the spotlight.  

Dean can’t help but think of all the times he’d run away from the man. Can’t help but think about what Alastair did when he’d dragged his sorry hide back. He can only assume that whatever torture his former master has planned for him this time will make those nights feel like summer camp. 

The curious gaze of the two officers are on Dean as he kneels there and fights with his own terror, but he doesn’t raise his eyes to meet them again. 

The drive to the courthouse, Castiel thinks, should have been a silent affair. A funeral march, as much as he’s tried to maintain hope. 

It isn’t, though, because Charlie and Sam have started to talk strategy. 

“It’s an internal affairs question,” Sam is arguing. They’ve been discussing the officer who arrested Dean, and if going after him is worth their time. Kubrick’s actions have a little legal standing – apparently, he’d written down in his report that he’d simply “suspected” that Dean was a slave. But that doesn’t match up with Dean’s testimony. 

Not that it matters, apparently. Dean’s word carries about as much weight as a drug store gossip magazine. 

“He couldn’t have known that Dean was enslaved before arresting him,” Charlie argues back, shaking her head. Cas recognizes – envies, if he’s honest – the raw passion and fire in her voice. He thinks he’d sounded like that, once. “Not unless he was tipped off, and that stinks of a bribe.” 

Balthazar, arms crossed beside Castiel in the passenger seat, rubs the bridge of his nose. He looks sick. Pale. Castiel thinks, after this, that he is going to demand that Balthazar take a long vacation somewhere sunny. 

“We know that,” Castiel says, and Sam and Charlie’s eyes meet his in the rearview. “We assume he’s on Alastair’s payroll.” 

“Then it’s worth looking into!” Charlie insists. “Cops don’t like it when one of their own is taking money from crooks, you know.” 

“They also don’t like it when one of their own is injured by a civilian,” Balthazar points out frostily. “Let alone by a slave.” 

Castiel grips the wheel a little tighter. This is true, unfortunately. Though they’ve gotten the impression that Kubrick is not exactly well-liked within the department, the fact stands that Dean had physically injured a free man. That’s grounds for a lot that Castiel doesn’t want to think about. 

Grounds for retraining, for one. Grounds to have Dean taken from him forever, if they’re unlucky, even without the threat of Alastair. 

He’s not sure how they’re going to work around that one, but at the very least, they have to try. 

Charlie has finally grown quieter in the back seat. When Castiel glances at her through the rearview, she’s chewing her bottom lip. “This shit sucks,” she sums up succinctly. 

This finally produces a huff of something like amusement from Balthazar, and Castiel cautiously jots that down as a win. 

Gold lettering – The Honorable Judge M. Etratron – stands out starkly on the dark, paneled wood of the judge’s door. It is 1:53 in the afternoon. 

In seven minutes, it will be time to decide Dean’s fate. 

Sam, cold and wolflike in his black suit, looks nothing like the man that Castiel has come to know as he pushes himself off of the cool stone that decorates the hallway wall. He’s thrown back to when the younger Winchester first arrived at the center – the frosty, on-edge exterior he’d presented then, when he’d been afraid that his brother was in danger. Now that Dean really is at risk, Castiel can only be glad that Sam is on his side today. 

The other lawyer, though, does not seem to be concerned by the imposing figure that Sam cuts. Balding and smug, the beta – Zachariah Adler, as he’d introduced himself – shakes Sam’s hand with nary a flinch at the way the alpha’s palm seems to dwarf his own. Castiel wouldn’t be surprised if both lawyers were squeezing with a little more force than necessary. 

Sam peers down the hallway with a false sort of nonchalance, feigning indifference. “Are you repping your client solo today, or…” 

A brief, unpleasant smile slithers across the man’s face. “Mr. Carn will be arriving shortly. He wouldn’t miss it.”  

Castiel clamps down as hard as he can on a flash of rage at the thought of seeing the alpha. It will be his first time laying eyes on Alastair in person, though he’s been haunting them for months. 

Behind him, Balthazar has gone still. Castiel, very consciously, does not look at him. Nor does Sam.

Adler peers past the younger Winchester, his eyes flicking up and down as though he’s determining the value of Castiel’s suit. He turns his attention, briefly, to Balthazar, and the sour little smile returns when he nods at them both.

“Misters Novak, I presume?” he asks, as if he doesn’t already know. Castiel is positive that this man has been doing the worst kinds of reconnaissance for his client – he would bet money that Adler has a large file on him in the shiny briefcase he’s toting. “What a pleasure to meet you both. It’s a shame it’s under these… distressing circumstances.” 

Adler gives Castiel another assessing look. “I’ve done some work for the Morningstars,” he says in an offhand sort of way, smiling again when Castiel stiffens. “I’ll say, you don’t look much like the twins. Your late father, though…” He tilts his head to the side. “I suppose I could see the resemblance.” 

Castiel doesn’t miss the way the man cuts his eyes at Balthazar. Clearly, this is not simply meant to be a dig at Castiel. Bal, to his credit, does not flinch. He just stares steadily back at Adler, his eyes a cold mask of distaste. 

“Perhaps it’s time for a new prescription, Mr. Adler,” Balthazar replies coolly. “I’m afraid I see no resemblance at all.” 

Castiel takes a breath. If Balthazar can remain calm, he can, too. The man is playing mind games, he knows. Trying to throw them off balance before the real battle begins, tossing dirt in their eyes.

“I suppose you would be the authority on that,” Adler simpers, nodding condescendingly at Balthazar. “You’ve certainly worked with them more than anyone else present.” He chuckles, and the sound makes Castiel want to clock him in the face. Sam, to the left of him, looks as though he’s considering doing the same. “Though, of course, perhaps work isn’t the right word. I’m not sure how I would describe your…” he trails off, eyes glittering in a venomous sort of way, “relationship.”  

Balthazar smiles back. It isn’t a friendly expression. “Don’t sell yourself short,” he answers, words slick as a knife. “You seem to me to be plenty familiar with carrying out your master’s bidding.” 

The implication is not lost on the man – he huffs, shaking his head. “My, my,” he chides, tsking. “The bitch does bite.” 

“Hard,” Balthazar confirms, baring his teeth as if to drive home the point. 

“Perhaps,” says a voice from behind Adler, “it’s best not to dangle your hand within range, Zachariah.” 

Castiel stiffens, the hair on the back of his neck standing to attention. 

He smells Alastair before he sees him – a sickly sweet mix, something like antifreeze. Like rot. The alpha in question steps forward smoothly, reaching toward him with his hand out as if to shake his own. As if this is nothing more than a business meeting. 

Castiel feels his lip curl up in response, feels something primal and animal inside of himself snap its teeth at the offending alpha. This man was on his territory. This man touched his omega, hurt his omega. In a different day and age, Castiel would have had the right to kill him for those offenses alone. He can tell that, to the side of him, Sam is thinking the same. He can smell the rage on the man. 

As though he’s well aware of their thwarted desires to end him, the man smiles at them, his fetid, rotting scent curling around him almost intentionally. Castiel smells the sulphur of hell on him. 

Alastair himself is wane and pale, sharp as a blade, his tall, angular body clothed in a dark suit with glittering accents. It doesn’t fit him well, as though he’s lost weight – Castiel is savagely joyful at the thought that his injuries from the bombing are causing him harm. 

With all the harm he’s caused Dean, it feels more than fair. 

Castiel snarls at him, making no move to take his offered hand. “This is cruel,” he spits instead, ignoring Sam’s warning glance. “There is no need for what you’re doing here.” 

He’s not sure what he expected – it’s not as though he believes Alastair will see reason. That there’s an ounce of humanity present in the dark-eyed predator standing before him. 

Alastair’s smile widens, the silvery scar on one side of his face stretching grotesquely. “On the contrary,” he argues, the words as nonchalant as a curled up viper, “I am only asking for what is rightfully mine. Surely you wouldn’t deny a man his lawful property, Mr. Novak.” He eyes Balthazar, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “It would seem as though you already have your own toy to play with, anyway.” 

There’s red tingeing the corners of his vision, and Castiel can see it clearly – the man’s blood on his hands, pooling on the dark green tile beneath their feet, his cold, lifeless eyes locked on a far distant nothing. He’s dreamed of killing Alastair. Yearned for it. 

And he might have given in to that pulsing, wrathful urge, if not for Balthazar’s sudden hand on his arm.

He takes a shaky breath. Forces himself to look at his friend rather than at the snake curled up in his path. He knows that Alastair is just trying to goad him, knows that it would work to his advantage if Castiel attacked him. 

Unfortunately, now is not the time to rip Alastair’s windpipe from his throat. Castiel will not be able to help Dean from a jail cell. 

It doesn’t mean, if push comes to shove, that Castiel will not reconsider that particular gamble.

The violence inside of him should scare him, and he thinks that in any other circumstance it would. But now is not the time to worry for his mortal soul. Not when Dean’s very life is in danger. 

A beckoning, slightly muffled voice from inside the judge’s chambers interrupts whatever ill-conceived threat he might have foolishly snapped back at Alastair. Castiel supposes he should be grateful, but all he can feel is his heart plummeting out of his chest. 

It’s time.

Castiel tears his gaze away from Alastair, digging his nails into his palm. He channels every bit of cold indifference that the Morningstars have cultivated in him, and steels his expression until there is nothing left of the murderous rage he feels inside remaining on his face. 

Balthazar gives him a singular nod, his eyes lingering warily on Alastair. “Bring him home,” he murmurs as Castiel steps forward. Castiel can only nod in response. 

No one but he and Sam are allowed inside – Judge Etatron himself had made that very clear, insisting that they not bring “an audience” for the afternoon’s proceedings. This had ruffled Balthazar’s feathers considerably, but he hadn’t protested. Castiel is fairly certain he intends to stand guard outside of the room until they are done.

Charlie, for her part, had been asked – told, really, – by Sam to wait a floor down from them. Sam had claimed that she was a very necessary form of moral support, though Castiel is fairly certain he hadn’t wanted her to interact with Alastair at all.

It isn’t hard to see why. Castiel cannot help but think of the many omegas, just like Charlie, who have been cruelly broken by this man. It’s little wonder that Sam would want to protect her. To keep her out of his ever-hungry sights. 

The chambers inside are dark and academic – wooden shelves stained nearly black, heavy velvet curtains blocking out the majority of the sunlight. Four leather chairs lined up in front of a massive wooden desk, ornate carvings and glinting gold accents decorating the edges. Behind the desk, a large, dark oil painting is just visible in the dim lighting from the lamp on the desk – a weeping man in a blue robe, a thick tome beneath his arm, golden treasure spilling down a stone outcropping at his side. 

Castiel steps forward, the first into the room, and locks eyes with the judge. The man is older, dark gray hair curling into wisps that frame his face, his scraggly beard more present than one might expect. He’s wearing a patterned sweater vest, a pocket watch, trousers which, Castiel thinks, might look more at home in a nursing home than in a law office. He looks at ease, upon first glance.

Any grandfatherly charm he might have possessed is swept away by his gaze, though, piercing through his half-rimmed glasses like twin searchlights hunting for a criminal on the run. 

“Have a seat,” he commands, all business, and they file in and do. It’s not until they have shut the door behind them that Castiel realizes, with a jolt, who else is in the room with them. 

Dean, hands shackled before him, head bent low, is kneeling to the side of the judge’s desk. 

Pleasantries exchanged, hands shaken, and introductions made, they start in without further ado. 

The judge is surprisingly familiar with their case. He waves off their initial explanations, tells them without fanfare to skip the preamble, to cut to the chase, for the love of God. For whatever reason, it’s clear he’s done his research. 

“In short,” Sam says, nerves clear in the line of his shoulders, in the way he is very, very carefully not looking at his brother, “Mr. Carn unlawfully utilized blackmarket tracking data to relocate Dean on multiple occasions. Furthermore, it is clear that Mr. Carn’s license to own slaves of any sort should have been revoked well before the explosion that destroyed his establishment.” 

From his briefcase, Sam produces the slim laptop that the center had provided for him – Castiel remembers, with a pang, how Dean had chuckled at Sam’s bulky brick of a computer when he’d first brought it out of his backpack. How he’d asked, tongue in cheek, if Sam had been carrying the thing since Dean first went missing.

Dean’s not laughing now.

Castiel has tried – god, how he has tried – not to look at the man. Has tried to maintain a professional, neutral air, the way both Balthazar and Sam had begged him to during this case. But he finds his eyes drawn to his love like a moth to a flame, finds that he cannot stop prodding at the painful sight of him prone and subservient like he’s pushing on a bruise. 

This will be Dean’s fate forever, if they aren’t successful here. 

“I’m not sure you had a chance to review this recording,” Sam starts, fingers flying over the keyboard, “but it makes it exceedingly clear that Mr. Carn–” 

The click of the laptop shutting startles them all. The judge, unbothered by their shock, nudges the computer back toward Sam. “I have heard it,” he explains succinctly.

Adler, next to them, smiles. He’s played it cool so far, allowing Sam to speak first – Castiel can’t help but believe this is a very intentional strategy. His smile dims when Etratron speaks again, though, and Castiel grips on to the sliver of hope like a life preserver in the slashing waves. 

“That must have been difficult for you to hear, Mr. Winchester. As the slave’s brother.” 

Sam blinks, clearly taken aback. He’d made his relation to Dean no secret, of course – trying to hide a fact like that would have made them canon fodder for Adler, and he’d known it. But he clearly hadn’t been expecting the judge to acknowledge it. The best they’d hoped for was a polite pretend ignorance. 

“Um – I. Yes,” Sam says, recovering quickly. “It was.”

“I can imagine,” Etatron says, his gaze flickering to Alastair. The man, thus far, has not said much – he’s simply sitting back, watching the proceedings as though viewing a play, his eyes glittering. If he’d been surprised that there’s a recording of his conversation with Dean at the bar, he doesn’t show it. 

The judge presses him. “Would you say that the recording is accurate, Mr. Carn? I assume you’ve also taken the time to review it.”

Alastair tilts his head to the side, sliding his eyes at Etatron in an almost lazy way. He seems to consider his words before he speaks, turning each of them over carefully in his hands. Adler leans to the side, murmuring something into his ear. 

Smiling, the elder alpha spreads his hands in a helpless sort of gesture. “I certainly don’t remember saying those things,” he offers, shrugging. “Desperation breeds ingenuity, I suppose.”

Sam raises his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Are you suggesting that this recording is documented?”

“Fabricated entirely, more likely,” Adler sniffs. “And a ridiculous fabrication, at that.” 

“You’re claiming,” Sam confirms, something dangerous in his tone, “that Dean never escaped Mr. Carn’s property in the first place?”

Adler huffs out a laugh, but Alastair speaks before he can, his words calm and calculated. “I won’t deny that my pet was rebellious, Mr. Winchester. I’m sure Mr. Novak can attest to that.” He ignores Castiel’s bristling, his eyes landing on Dean in a heavy, possessive way. “But I can assure you that he never got farther than the property line.” 

He bares his teeth at Castiel directly, then, all pretense of hiding his jabs gone. “And, of course, by the end, he was far too well-trained to attempt any nonsense of that nature.” 

Sam’s hands, at this point, are gripping the arms of his chair. “Judge, if you’d simply take the time to question Dean, I’m sure–” 

“You’re asking him to get testimony from the slave?” Alder crows, clearly amused at the idea. “Surely not, Mr. Winchester.” 

“It’s not typical,” the judge agrees, eyes lingering on Sam. “To take statements from the property in a dispute, that is.” 

Silence, at that. Sam, the wind knocked out of him, has frozen in place. It’s clear that, while they all knew this was a long shot, the alpha hadn’t expected it to fall this flat this fast. 

Adler hums, sending a look toward Alastair. The alpha doesn’t do much more than flick his eyes at the older beta, his expression unreadable behind his tented fingers. His gaze travels back to Dean in an almost lazy sort of way – Castiel doesn’t think he’s imagining the ghost of a smile flickering across the cruel alpha’s face at the way Dean shrinks further to the ground.

“Quite a serious accusation has been made against Mr. Carn, here,” Adler points out pleasantly, giving the judge what Castiel supposes is meant to be a conspiratorial look. “Though it’s been made with… no real evidence, if I’m not mistaken?”

Castiel feels a protest forming, especially when he watches Dean’s eyes close in exhausted defeat, but Sam beats him to the punch. “Testimony from slaves has plenty of legal precedent–” 

“When, and only when, it is related to the safety or property of a free man,” Judge Etatron interrupts. He doesn’t share Adler’s patronizing look, but he doesn’t look particularly pleased, either. “I’m sure you can appreciate that this is not quite the same, Mr. Winchester.” 

Sam doesn’t falter for a second more, to his credit. With his feet back under him, he presses harder, leaning forward. “We’ve taken the liberty of attempting to find other witnesses, as well – if you look in what I’ve submitted for review, you’ll see statements from several who saw Dean during the dates he was off property.” 

“The dates the slave claims that it ran away,” Adler corrects dismissively, rolling his eyes. “Which, even if that was the truth, only bolsters Mr. Carn’s point. The slave is a loose cannon,” he concludes triumphantly. “One that needs a firm hand – one that you are certainly not providing, Mr. Novak.” 

Castiel grits his teeth. “Dean isn’t –” 

“Are we not here,” Adler interrupts, counting off on his fingers, “because the slave escaped its owner, stole a vehicle, drove it without the proper credentials, ignored direct orders to return, purchased alcohol, and then, let me recall –” He pauses, tapping his chin with his thumb. “Oh, yes. He assaulted an officer and resisted a lawful detainment. How could I have forgotten?” 

Etatron is watching Adler with a vaguely interested expression, which is more emotion than he’s shown for most of the proceedings. It leaves Castiel with a sick, squirming feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“In contrast,” Adler continues, clearly gaining momentum, “in the years that Mr. Carn owned the slave before it was unlawfully removed from his possession, not one single incident of misconduct was reported. Not one!” 

“Just because it wasn’t reported doesn’t mean it didn’t happen,” Sam snaps, his hands splayed out on the desk as though he’s searching for stability. “We have every reason to believe that Mr. Carn would lie about Dean’s escape attempts to avoid the strikes on his record. After all, his business revolves around owning slaves – there’s no world in which he would allow his ability to do that to be thrown into jeopardy.” 

“Pure speculation,” Adler retorts dismissively, shooing Sam’s defense to the side like an irritating fly. “With no proof, as we’ve already covered.” 

The lawyer rears up in his seat like a dark-eyed cobra, the scent of prey in the air. “It’s obvious that Mr. Novak has no regard for the law. His own business partner is a former slave, after all, and –” he pauses for dramatic effect, clearly enjoying the way that Sam and Castiel and even Dean freeze in place, collective breath held as he finally plays the card that Alastair has been dangling in front of them for weeks. “We have reason to believe that his emancipation was not even legal.” 

The judge peers at them both over the top of his glasses, frowning. Adler, clearly feeling as though he has the high ground, looks gleeful to bury them further. Sam starts to interrupt, to argue for, at the very least, the safety of Balthazar, but is stopped by Etatron’s raised hand. 

“I fear we’ve lost the plot of this story, gentlemen,” the older man says, shaking his head. “Entertaining as it is to watch you two chase each other’s tails, that isn’t why we’re here today.”  

He sighs, tapping his fingers on his desk. “You’ve both made accusations that could warrant their own case,” he admits, peering at them both with a weary look. “But let’s not forget that we are not here to drag each other through the mud. We are here,” he insists, pointing down at Dean, “to discuss the rightful owner of this slave. Nothing more, nothing less. So, let’s stick to the matter at hand, yes?”

Adler settles back into his chair, the picture of obedience as he nods, but Castiel can’t miss the glitter of triumph in his eyes. Without those arguments, the man knows, they don’t have a leg to stand on. 

Sam knows it, too – he looks stricken. The expression is hidden as fast as it can be, but it’s there all the same. 

Alastair, for his part, is smiling. 

The judge gives them all a lingering look, pressing his lips together. “Though I’m sure my reputation as a hardass precedes me,” he says finally, ignoring Castiel’s shocked look, “I’m not actually heartless. It’s exceedingly obvious that the way the slave has been treated while under the… care of Mr. Carn can be called nothing but cruel.” 

Perhaps Castiel is hallucinating, but he swears he sees a bit of disgust twist across the judge’s face. It’s possible that he’s not as impartial as he has seemed thus far – but his next words shatter the illusion. 

“That being said, no crime has been committed against this slave. In fact, he has only committed crimes. The burden of proof has not been met for me to see anything but that.” His words are wooden – final. “The recording, compelling as it is, is not enough. It could have been doctored, could have been manufactured entirely. With nothing but a slave’s word that the man speaking there is Alastair Carn, it cannot be used as evidence here.” 

Castiel’s heart sinks. Despair, thick and acrid, seeps out of Dean like oil. 

The judge fixes his gray eyes on Sam. His next words are pointed – almost a suggestion. “I hate to see bravery wasted, I’ll admit. And I have an even greater distaste for pointless cruelty. I hope you have a different angle to take here, Mr. Winchester. I’m afraid that, thus far, the most compelling argument I’ve heard has come from your opposition.” 

Sam swallows. He keeps a brave face, but even through the blockers he’s wearing, Castiel can smell the pulse of panic that shoots out of him. 

“Frankly, though, I’m in need of a break,” the judge continues, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “as I’m sure you all are as well. Half an hour to gather yourselves, gentlemen.” 

“What about Dean?”

The question has burst out of Castiel without his permission, and Sam stiffens. It’s the wrong move, showing this complete and utter lack of impartiality toward Dean, but Castiel can’t help himself. The thought of him hauled off, manhandled into some holding room while they pace – it makes his stomach turn. 

If things don’t go well, this could well be the last time he will see Dean. And he can’t stand for his final image of the man to be in shackles. 

The judge is indifferent to his obvious desire, though. His gray eyes betray nothing. “The slave will wait with a bailiff,” he says dismissively, not even bothering to look at the man kneeling beside him. “I hardly think thirty minutes will kill him.” 

The bailiff in question is gentle with him, at least. He waits patiently for Dean to rise to his feet, face impassive as he leads him, stumbling, out the door. 

Castiel tries to be grateful for this. But he finds, as they file out into their respective conference rooms, that the sight of Dean’s face bowed to the floor as the door shuts behind him is not any kind of solace. 

The room they are given to “collect” themselves in is bland as toast – flickering fluorescents and water-stained ceiling tiles. A buzzing vending machine in the corner, a pot of burned coffee spiraling out steam on a table next to ripped sugar packets and dented styrofoam cups. Sam finds himself wishing he were anywhere else. 

Finds himself wishing the whole building would get blown to smithereens, with nothing left standing but his pack. 

They’ve only been out of the judge’s chambers for a couple of minutes. Not enough time to scrub the screaming scent of Dean’s fear from his mind. 

Castiel, for his part, had been swiftly whisked outside by a waiting Balthazar. The omega had quickly guessed that fresh air was in order if they’d wanted to keep Castiel from ripping Alastair’s head clean off his shoulders – Sam is grateful for the older man. Grateful that, if they lose this, Castiel will have someone there to support him. 

“God, if there was only a real paper trail,” Charlie says wistfully, blowing her feathery bangs out of her face with a sigh. Sam looks up, forcing the wailing despair in his head to the background. Focus, focus. Charlie’s been talking for a while, but Sam has only just tuned in – she doesn’t seem offended by this. “2008 wasn’t exactly fully computerized, though. I don’t guess you’ve got any, like, receipts or anything–” 

Receipts. God, he wishes. There’s nothing he can think of to prove that the date on Dean’s contact is wrong. Nothing but the photo in his wallet, and he knows, already, that it won’t be enough. Not if the official sale has a different date in the system. It would be too likely that he’d faked the picture, too likely that he’d been desperate enough to make something up. The fact that he hadn’t doesn't really matter. It’s clear that Etatron is not about to take him at his word. 

Dean had been bought and paid for, as far as the state was concerned, in March. When it was perfectly legal for a sixteen-year-old to sign his own freedom away. 

The thought, though, makes something light up in the back of Sam’s brain. Charlie is still chattering away, oblivious to the gears turning in his head. 

It’s true that the paperwork that they have has the wrong date – all of it. Every copy of Dean’s life in the system says the same damn thing. They don’t have the original bill of sale, of course – only John would have that, and Sam knows, no matter what level of desperation he’s been pushed to, that it's long gone. Ripped to shreds, likely, or burned in a drunken rage. Bobby had asked John for it years ago, begged him for it, really, hoping against hope there was some error on it that they could use. 

John had never produced it, of course. Had never made any effort to, and had blustered and bellowed at Bobby for even asking. It had been the latest in a long, long list of the way their father had failed Dean. He hadn’t been interested in holding on to evidence of his failure – a bitter fact that Sam has held against him for years. 

Except. Except John had held on to something, hadn’t he? 

“Charlie,” Sam interrupts, brimming with excitement that he’s too scared to feel, just yet. He grabs her shoulders. “Say that again.” 

The red-head blinks at him, caught off guard. “I – I don’t even remember, Sam-squatch, I was – I was kinda, y’know, ranting–”  

Sam stands up. Feels his heart pounding in his chest. “Charlie, he was sixteen. He was sixteen!” 

Charlie blinks at him again. “Riiiight,” she answers slowly, looking at him as if he’s finally lost his mind. “We, uh. We already knew that, didn’t we? Isn’t that what we were just talking about?”

“Yes, but,” Sam continues, running a hand through his hair as his mind races, his eyes flicking back and forth as he forces his exhausted mind to think. “But he was – it wasn’t legal. It wasn’t legal, and if we have evidence of that, any evidence–” 

At this point, his friend is looking at him like he’s babbling in tongues, her eyes furrowed together in concern. She speaks like she’s spelling out something simple to someone she suspects might have sustained head trauma. “Yeah, big guy, but – but that doesn’t really matter, remember? The dude – Crowley. He falsified the paperwork. ‘Cause if he hadn’t, Dean wouldn’t have been bought in the first place, right?” 

Sam’s heart is racing, hands shaking. “Shit. Shit. It’s in the car – I need to go out to the car. I need – fuck,” he realizes a moment later. “Fuck, fuck, it’s in impound–” 

“Hey!” 

Sam ignores Charlie’s indignant yell as he darts out of the nook, cramming his hand into his pocket to fish frantically for his phone as his shoes clack against the cold tile of the hall. He can hardly dial the number, he’s shaking so bad. 

“Hey, kid.” 

Bobby’s voice is gruff over the line – it’s clear he’s been as sleep deprived as Sam, if not more. He can’t imagine how helpless the man has felt, stuck in South Dakota with his hands tied while they fight this.“Bobby,” he says quickly, breathless. “Bobby, the check. He – Dad never cashed it, right? So-” 

“Slow down, Sam,” Bobby interrupts. “I’m not following.” 

Charlie, at this point, is standing in front of him too, confused as hell, and Sam would probably feel bad about not explaining if not for the context of it all. “The check! Did you – have you seen it? Did you look at it?” he questions, the words tumbling out. Bobby hesitates, clearly bewildered, and Sam can’t help but be impatient when he repeats himself. “Did you look at the check?”

His uncle huffs. “I – no, Sam. I didn’t look at the damn thing – how could I?”

Sam tries not to panic. Tries to breathe, tries to keep his heart from kicking right out of his chest. They don’t have time, they don’t have time – the recess is almost over, and he’s got to get back in there. He thinks he knows what he saw, but it could be his mind playing tricks on him. Could be grasping at straws. 

There’s only one way to know. 

“I gotta go.” 

“Sam–” 

“I love you. I gotta go, Bobby,” he insists, and hangs up. Charlie is staring at him wide-eyed, and he can see her trying to put the pieces together.

His hands are shaking when he fumbles his wallet out of his pocket, when he fishes the picture out of the billfold for what feels like the billionth time.

He remembers how tired he’d been that morning, how he hadn’t even wanted to pose for the stupid picture that all the other parents had been taking with their kids. He remembers neon green camp t-shirt Dean had somehow scrounged up the money for – a size too big and pulled over his long-sleeved tee against his will. Sam’s frowning in the photo, something he’s thought about a lot, over the years.The fact that he hadn’t even been thankful that Dean had found the cash and the bravery to let him go to the stupid science camp in the first place. 

The fact that Dean’s last memory of him was of him being a shitty, ungrateful brat. 

He’s carried this photo for years, tucked away from everyone, Bobby included. He remembers when the counselors had handed them out to all the kids – meant as a way to keep them from crying about home too much on the third day of camp, he guesses. At the time, he’d just tossed it into his duffel, too wrapped up in looking cool to admit to any of his bunkmates that he missed his brother like he’d miss a limb. 

He’d had no idea, at the time, what missing Dean actually meant. 

This isn’t the first time, of course, that Sam has considered Crowley’s forgery. He’s thought of it countless times over the last week, turned it over in his mind for any trace of a way to use it to their advantage. 

Knowing that he’d broken the law seemed like it would be enough. He’d been so convinced, for a merciful few seconds, that it would prove something. That Dean would be let go, that the authorities would write it off as one big mistake, a mix up in paperwork. A slip through the cracks that they’d want to rectify. That someone, even, might come after Crowley for the lie – if Crowley was even still around. 

But, with the photo alone, no one will care. There’s too many ways around it, too many explanations. He has no doubt that Alastair’s lawyer will think of about a hundred in ten seconds flat. Alone, it’s meaningless against Dean’s signature on his own misdated contract. It had just been another aspect of the unfairness of it all. The injustice of the system, the lack of protections in place for omegas like Dean. 

But if Sam has another bit of proof – if there’s something to support it, something dated… 

“I need,” he starts, and then forces himself to take a breath, to center himself. He can’t afford to mess up now, can’t afford to let this opportunity pass them by. They’re out of time. “I need you to get into the Impala, Charlie. There’s a folder in there, with a manilla envelope. There’s a check inside it that I need you to get and bring here. I can’t believe I forgot it–” 

“You’re not making sense!” Charlie blurts, throwing up her hands with something close to anger. “What check are you even fucking talking about–” 

“Dean’s!” he shouts, grabbing her shoulders. “Charlie! It’s – it’s Dean’s.” 

Her eyes widen slowly, her mouth forming a little o. “Oh. Oh. You mean…” 

“Yes,” he says, nearly hopping with how much energy he suddenly has, with the sudden and fierce hope in his chest. “Yes, that check. It could–” 

Charlie gets it faster than he can even explain it, and the round of emotions that flashes across her expression makes him dizzy. Hope, like his, and then fear, and a tenderness that only she’s ever been able to pull off. “Oh, Sam. Sam, it’s probably not… He had to have back-dated it. He was smart,” she says gently, her hand wrapping around his wrist. “Everything we’ve dug up on him tells us that.” 

“We have to try,” he interrupts, voice cracking. “It’s our only shot, Charlie. It’s our only shot.” 

“But the rest of his paperwork–”

“I know,” he snaps, and then swallows, hands shaking as he stands there, passersby in the hall raising their eyebrows at him as they go. He forces himself to calm down, wrestles with the hope until it’s as subdued as it can be. “I know that. It’s a long-shot, but…” 

“But you love those,” Charlie finishes, fond, and a determined look has stolen over her. She nods, a grim smile in place. “Hold them off, alright?”

“I will. And, Charlie–” 

“Don’t thank me yet, idiot,” she interrupts with half a laugh, and darts away, a blaze of red hair and confidence that Sam wants to feel, too. 

He takes a deep breath, steals his jaw, and gets himself ready. 

The slip of paper is as delicate as ash in his hands. 

Age has worn the check thin, the crease in the middle threatening to split at any moment. He can see smears along the sides – his dad’s fingerprints, he’s willing to bet, dirtied by the week-long bender he’d still been on when Sam had returned from camp. He wonders how often his father had looked at this check. Wonders how often he’d tortured himself over it. 

Their father had been a lot of things. Cruel, capricious. A militant, angry man who had demanded unquestioning adherence to his rules. Dean had always been his perfect soldier. The only blot on his eldest son’s record had been his own biology – something their dad, Sam thinks, had somehow felt shame for. As if it’d been his fault that Dean had presented as he had. 

For all Sam knows, it had been. Sam’s seen the studies, read up on the bickering between scientists. Like so much of human biology, designations were a mystery. There was a genetic component, yes – just like with primary genders. But there was also plenty of argument that a child’s environment sometimes pushed them one way or another, that there was a gray area of nurture that made a difference, too. Dean, the willing caretaker of his broken little family… had he stood a chance? Could he have been a beta, in a different life, if the stressors around him hadn’t pushed him in a different direction? If the needs of his broken little pack hadn’t folded and molded him into a role that society, incidentally, also deemed shameful?

Whatever the case, John had seemed to take Dean’s presentation personally. And, like the rest of the guilt the man carried, he’d buried it in drink and barked orders and cruelty to cover it up. 

The check is shaking in Sam’s hands, he realizes. He’s afraid. 

The judge had given them the recess as a gift. Sam’s no idiot – he knows what he looks like. Rookie lawyer, gone green around the gills while arguing his first big case. Whatever Etatron’s reputation, he seems to at least have a little sympathy for them. 

Whatever. It doesn’t matter – if it had gotten them the extra time, he’ll shoulder any embarrassment he needs to. 

Charlie, somehow, had produced the check within the scant half hour they’d been given. She hadn’t said how – hadn’t said a word, actually – had just shoved the envelope into his hands, out of breath and frazzled, her cheeks flushed pink and her eyes alight. She’s still with him now, her hand covering her mouth, her eyes locked on the small bit of paper. 

She’s plenty smart, Sam knows. She understands what this could mean. 

Sam hasn’t breathed a word to Cas, or to Balthazar. They’d been huddled up with one another on the other side of the room, murmuring to one another while he’d waited on Charlie – Balthazar’s hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Castiel’s grief, his fear, clouding like a storm above them. 

They’d gone ahead of him, back to the judge’s chambers. A few minutes early – few enough that Sam hopes the man won’t be offended. It had been everything they could do to tear Cas away from Dean in the first place. 

Sam shakes himself. He has to know if what he’d seen had been real, and they have no time to waste. 

There’s been no reason to think that Crowley would have dated the thing honestly – he’d lied on everything else, after all. But something in Sam had forced him to hold on to this hope, however scant it might be. 

If – when – he confirms that this check is forged, too, he’ll have to move on. Will have to hope that the photo will be enough to cast doubt, that the judge is feeling unusually magnanimous. From what he’s seen so far, he doesn’t think that will be the case. 

But this isn’t the only avenue of resistance. 

He’s learned the lesson from Jo, from Ellen, from Charlie – even from Castiel and his crew. Where the law fails, man must step in. Some wrongs, he knows, are so vile and corrupted that they must be corrected by any means necessary. 

And when the time comes for Dean to go home with his old master, Sam will be waiting. Cas will be, too. They all will.

The thought steels him. He takes a deep breath. 

Unfolds the check. 

Sam doesn’t say a word to Castiel as he returns to the room. His shoulders are tight, pulled like a bow string. No arrow in sight, tiger dead ahead. 

Dean, in the short period of time that they’ve been gone, has gone entirely pale. The bailiff had hauled him off with little resistance from the omega, but with little help, either – it had seemed like Dean hadn’t quite been able to stand. Like he was already back to the lifeless puppet that Castiel had first brought home. 

Like he’d been preparing for Alastair to take him home. 

Castiel tears his eyes away from the omega, forcing himself to focus on Sam. The alpha is shaking very slightly where he stands, the manilla folder that’s dwarfed in his large hands quivering. The judge doesn’t comment on their sudden recess, nor their return – he just raises his eyebrows, taking the offered folder and examining it like it’s a vaguely interesting museum specimen. 

Sam is terrified, he realizes. Castiel doesn’t know what’s in the file the young man just handed over, doesn’t have a damn clue. But the way the alpha is holding himself, the tension in his stance, the way he slowly lowers himself into the chair like he’s not even aware he’s doing it… He’s dazed, almost. Stunned. 

It isn’t just fear that’s sharpening his scent, isn’t just fear that’s making Alastair’s hateful little lawyer sit forward in his chair like a shark smelling blood in the water. 

There’s hope in Sam’s expression. Tentative, careful. Breathless. But hope all the same. 

Castiel can’t tell if it’s real or delusional; if Sam has given up, or has seen a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. 

An escape.

The judge removes his glasses, slowly cleaning them with the dark lapel of his robe. The tension in the room is thick, tangible, and Castiel finds himself holding his breath for the fiftieth time in the last few hours as the man pushes them back over the bridge of his nose. 

This is it. This, he realizes, is their last real shot. 

The older beta opens the folder with a distant sort of skepticism on his face, flipping through the documents on his desk slowly. The silence is unbearable. Unending. It’s clear he doesn’t expect to be impressed.

But, as Castiel watches, the expression of polite disinterest on the judge’s face slowly blooms into the opposite. He furrows his brow. Snorts, the huff of breath fluttering the small slip of paper in his hand. 

Adler is frowning himself, his eyes flicking between Sam and his client. He looks… nervous. And it’s not hard to see why. 

Alastair is leaning forward, his hands splayed out on his thighs like implements of torture proudly displayed on a wall. His expression is dark. Unreadable. There’s a flash of something. Hunger, Castiel thinks. A ravenous wolf circling a whale-eyed buck, slipping in and out of the shadows. 

His silence is deadly. Sharp, careful. Calculated. 

And it’s unsure. 

For the very first time, Castiel realizes with a dawning incredulity, Alastair thinks he could lose. 

“Well.” The judge finally speaks, his tone wry. “This seems as though it should have been entered into evidence a little earlier, no?”

Sam clears his throat, cutting his eyes at Castiel for a moment. “Yes, sir. Apologies. It was –” 

“A hail-mary?” the man finishes, not looking at Sam at all even as he mocks him. His eyes are still on the small slip of paper in front of him. “Do you have any way to verify that this is authentic?”

Sam clears his throat again, his throat dry. He, inexplicably, fishes out his wallet.

From inside, he pulls out that same photograph he’d shown them all before, folded into fourths. It hits Castiel, then, what this could mean. 

The judge reaches out. Flattens the worn picture out on the desk, his eyes skating over it, jumping back to the check. The silence is suffocating. 

Next to him, he can feel Dean’s attention sharpens. He’s looking up for the first time in hours, his eyes fixed on the judge, on the papers in his hands. Dean seems to recognize them – he gives Sam a quick glance, eyes wide. 

Sam shuffles, nerves clear in his voice. “There are fingerprints along the back of the check, as you can see. Comparing those with police records will show that they belong to John Eric Winchester.” 

“The original owner?” the judge asks, flipping the check over as though he could scan those fingerprints himself. 

Sam flinches. “The…” he swallows. Pauses. Castiel, heart clenching in his throat, watches as Dean drops his eyes back to the ground, his shoulders tightening. “The seller. The, uh. The father.” 

The judge hums. There’s no real reaction to that – to the revelation that Dean’s own flesh and blood, for all he knows, sold him into slavery as a child. Castiel wonders if the man’s heart is that cold, or if he’s seen it so many times that it doesn’t faze him any longer. It’s not as uncommon as it should be. 

“And he never cashed it,” he checks, eyes still locked on the photo. “Fascinating.” 

Dean takes a small, nearly silent breath. Castiel doesn’t dare look at him, doesn’t dare react to the pulse of relief Dean’s scent curls into. He can’t afford to lose it, can’t afford to give into the urge to comfort him now. His heart aches uselessly with the knowledge that not even Dean knew that his father hadn’t taken the money for his sale. 

Sam says nothing to the judge. There’s nothing he can say – what John had been doing with slave tracking data had been very illegal. Yes, he’d been blackmailed by Crowley, yes, Crowley’s actions had been illegal as well. But none of that matters. Not here, not now. This man doesn’t care, has made it clear that he doesn’t care, about injustices outside of this case. 

The judge leans back in his chair, and the room takes a breath. The older man looks up at Sam, and then at Alastair – and then his eyes flicker to Dean for what Castiel thinks might be the first time. As if, only now, he is realizing that the very property they are fighting over is in the room. 

As if he is realizing that the property has a soul. 

“The applicable age law– “

“Was changed before this sale, if we’re to take the date on this check as proof. Yes,” the judge interrupts Sam, shaking his head. It’s clear he knows the history. Castiel isn’t sure whether he should be surprised by that or not. Etatron’s record is mixed – he seems, above all, to side with the letter of the law. Not with the slaves he’s condemning or saving. 

It had given them a little hope, at least, that the man wasn’t overly prejudiced against slaves. But he hadn’t been prejudiced in their favor, either, and that had been a problem. He’d seen just as likely to dispense the wisdom of Solomon as to be on either of their sides. 

Perhaps, though, that’s exactly what they’d needed. 

“This is a first for me. I hope you all can appreciate how novel that is.” 

Sam doesn’t say a word. Castiel is pretty sure the young alpha is holding his breath, stockstill where he’s standing. The judge shakes his head, his gray curls bouncing a little with the force of it. He’s smiling, and Castiel knows by now that he can’t actually take that as a good sign, even though he desperately wants to do so. 

But then, the man laughs.

“This – this is extraordinary!” He looks up, locks eyes with Sam and then with Castiel, and then, for the first time since the battle began, he looks down at Dean. The omega is still staring at the floor with wide eyes, confusion and shock at the sudden turn plain on his face.

“Mr. Winchester,” the judge says, only he’s not talking to Sam. He’s speaking to Dean, and Castiel feels his breath catch in his chest. 

“You, my friend, are one lucky man.”

Castiel all but stands, hearing those impossible words like a bolt of lightning to the chest, and he can’t even take a breath before the judge is speaking again, holding up his hand against Adler’s instant protests. “Do you have any idea,” he continues, laughing again, the sound almost childlike with glee, “the collection of improbable events that have led you to this moment? It’s almost unbelievable – if it were a book, I’d write it off as unrealistic. Your story, Mr. Winchester… it’s something for the ages.” 

Dean, at this point, is blatantly staring up at the man. A dangerous break of slave etiquette, under any other circumstances. But Judge Etatron doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. In fact, he smiles down at Dean, and, like an angel to a shepherd, speaks to him in spite of his fear. 

“Stand up, child,” he commands, warm for the first time – his humanity, whatever little he might have, bleeding through. Adler stutters, spitting out some kind of argument – the judge ignores him entirely, gesturing for Dean to come closer. 

Dean does, stumbling a little over his no-doubt numb feet. He looks dazed. Scared. Alastair, a scant few feet from him, is staring a hole into Dean, his eyes as sharp as razor wire. But Dean doesn’t give him a second glance. 

Instead, he looks back at Castiel. Bewildered. And all Castiel can do is stand himself, his hand reaching out to steady him without his permission. Dean’s back is warm against his hand. 

The judge looks up at them both, laughing again. “This meeting is – and I’m not sorry to say it, though I’m sure it’s unprofessional– ” he glances back at Sam, and then at Alastair’s lawyer, another small smile quirking the corners of his mouth when he takes in the man’s seething, tight lipped frustration at being silenced, “beautifully and entirely pointless.” 

He wraps his hand around the phone on his desk, chuckling again as he dials the number with an unhurried sort of accuracy. “After all,” he adds, raising the receiver to his ear as he does so, locking eyes with a wide-eyed Dean –  

“You can’t dispute the ownership of a free man.” 

The words don’t make sense. 

They don’t make sense, and 

And Dean. Dean can’t. He can’t understand them. He doesn’t – 

Free. Free? 

His mind has gone blank, bright and white as a flashbang, all noise silenced. He’s not sure when or how he ends up on the ground, but when he stutters back into reality he can feel the floor under his knees; can feel his palms, still cuffed together, pressed against the cool dark wood. He’s breathing too fast. He can’t get air. 

The judge is still talking, saying something, something – probably something that’s pretty damn important, but Dean can’t understand a single word. There’s an uproar in the office, several voices talking over each other all at once, and the gavel’s hitting its base twice, three times, and Dean’s repeating the man’s words over and over and over. 

Free. Free. Free. 

It’s not real, can’t be. It’s – 

But Cas’s hands are on his shoulders, now, the man’s scent wrapping around him like a shock blanket at a crash site. He’s crouched down with Dean, his hand just below the nape of Dean’s neck, and he’s saying something, too. Saying words that Dean doesn’t understand, can’t make himself understand. There’s a barked-out order, one that makes Dean flinch down into the floor and an answering growl from the alpha, and a jingle of keys and a flippant sort of command from the judge, something like amusement in his voice. 

And then the bailiff is there, his boots shiny and too close, too close to Dean’s face, and he jerks back into Castiel’s waiting arms, and he lets himself be manhandled and lets the shackles fall from his wrists without understanding that they have. And then there’s a chair being pushed under him, and his hand is around a pen, and Cas is murmuring to him to sign, sign it, please, Dean, please, sign it – 

Dean does. Jerky, mechanical. Illegible, probably, but no one seems to care. He doesn’t even know what it is. 

He lets himself be pulled from the floor, lets Cas wrap his arms around him, lets the noise and the light from the office dim behind him as he’s bundled out the door.  

Free?

It’s not real. He’s – he’s still in the cell, surely. Asleep. He’s finally snapped, back in a new fresh Hell with Alastair’s hand around his collar again, and his mind just – just couldn’t take it. That makes more sense than this, makes way more sense than what the judge just said. 

But, no. No, Cas is here. Cas feels so real. He smells real, sounds real. 

“It is real, Dean. It is,” the alpha is saying, voice thick and emotional, and Dean figures his thoughts haven’t been staying in his head after all. “It’s real.” 

He can hear Sam shouting something, something loud and victorious, and can hear the snake that is Alastair’s lawyer snapping something back, and an answering bark from the waiting bailiff. He doesn’t know much other than that, other than the clumsy shuffle of his feet as he follows Cas out into the long tiled hall and into the elevator and away, away, away. Away from Alastair’s sulphur stench and hot breath, away from his cold eyes. He feels them bore into his back through the floors, through the walls. Feels them like a noose. 

Dean doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask what’s happening, doesn’t say anything at all. He’s too scared to. He can barely keep his feet underneath him, is leaning on Cas more than he should, but it doesn’t matter. He’s terrified that this is the last time he’ll feel this, the safety of the alpha’s hand on his back, his guiding arm, his warm honey and rainstorm smell. 

The collar is still around his neck, choking out his hopes. He can’t believe his own ears, his own eyes. His own mind. He’d learned that a long time ago – sometimes, his brain lies to him to keep him alive. Finds hope where there is none, just to keep him from tumbling over the edge into darkness that would swallow him whole. He’s hallucinated before, seen and heard things that, in the light of day, are painfully imaginary. 

This… this has to be that. There’s nothing else that makes sense. 

The ride passes in a blink, in a blur, and when Dean breathes again they’re in a different room, a room filled with people, and Dean’s so scared and so confused that it doesn’t sink in that they’re his people for a long time. Too long. 

He tucks his face into Cas’s chest more tightly, refuses to open his eyes, refuses to wake up from this. Refuses to look and see Alastair, who must still be there with them, who must just be letting Dean dream a little more of freedom so it’s all the worse when he takes it away. 

And then the room has gone silent. 

When Dean opens his eyes, he realizes that the room is… empty. Alastair isn’t here after all.  

Well, it’s not empty. Cas is still here. Cas and Sam and some redheaded chick, and Balthazar, too, leaning against the wall with his hand over his eyes, his sentry duty in the hall finally abandoned. The other people from the center are gone, he thinks, though he can’t really see through the people around him. They’re surrounding him. Protecting him, he thinks. 

Sam’s face is streaked with tears. It’s one of the first things he notices, his brother’s tears. The first thing he’s always noticed, ever since they were kids. He can feel his brow furrowing, can feel his tongue moving, thick and heavy in his mouth. “Sammy?”

Sam lets out a sob, and he turns and hugs the redhead close. The woman lets out a surprised oof and hugs him back, tiny against the hulking frame of his brother. “There you go, Sam-squatch,” she says, and Dean can see she’s been crying too, though she pats the only part of Sam’s back that she can reach bracingly. “Let it out, buddy.” 

Dean, dazed, looks around for Cas. The alpha is sitting next to him, his arms still around him, and he’s looking at Dean with the same shock that Dean feels. “Cas,” he says slowly, the words heavy and stupid. “What…?”

“You’re free, Dean,” Cas says, and it hits Dean, then, that he’s awake. 

He’s awake. 

His heart leaps up in his chest, a bird set free from its cage. 

“I’m…?”

Cas nods, a sob ripping out of him, and his shoulders shake as he hides his eyes. His scent is dazed and dizzying, joy and fear and relief, so strong that Dean’s head is spinning with it, and he finds himself reaching out. Pulling Cas’s hand from his face, searching for the truth in his gaze. 

“Cas,” he says, quiet and dumbfounded, and Cas just looks at him, looks at him, his eyes brimming over with tears. 

And then, before he quite knows what’s happening, he and Cas are crashing their mouths together, their lips meeting for the first time in what feels like years, and Dean feels his soul expand in his chest until his ribs crack.