Chapter Text

Castiel 

The air smells like nothing. It’s supposed to relax him- put him at his ease- instead it sets his teeth on edge. 

The woman. Beta. Eileen (his mind corrects him) also smells like nothing. Everything and everybody he’s come in contact with smells like neutralizers, scent blockers, bleach, and that particular hospital scent. Castiel has smelled nothing of substance since the feds smashed into his personal hell and rescued him. At least at the ruttery people smelled, he didn’t like it, but he could practically taste people’s scents in the air. 

Rescued him. Damned him. Castiel hasn’t decided which one yet. 

“We’ll be at your new guardian’s house in forty-five minutes,” Eileen says and watches Castiel’s lips for his response. 

But he doesn’t feel like responding. What’s the point? Answering won’t matter… he’s feral. 

Feral. Feral. Feral. 

Fuck, he’s been classified feral. It sounds exotic, all Alpha rage and sensual wildness, but it’s nothing. It’s the lack of everything that would actually make him an Alpha, he’s been basically reduced to a burden and deemed infantile by society. The State of California has put him under the care of a guardian now. So, Castiel guesses in a manner of speaking he is infantile. Can’t be left alone on his own. The State doesn’t want his death on their hands. And truthfully, he would die. Slowly, painfully- starving for food, drink, and touch… but unable to get them himself. 

It’s what happens to Alphas who lose their Omegas. They pine, they starve, they lose their minds, and they die. 

But Castiel never had an Omega of his own. No, no he had Omegas… and Alphas… and Betas. He served them all. Was Alpha to them all. Fucked them all during his four-month medically induced rut. Not by choice, no, never by choice. A little piece of plastic, embedded in his hip, pumping poison into his bloodstream to keep him hard, keep him ready, just so he could fuck everything.  

And now Castiel himself is fucked. 

The scar on his hip and what’s left of the slog of his brain is a painful reminder that he is not what he once was. A brilliant electrical engineer with a future at one of the nation’s best companies. 

“His name is Samuel Winchester, Alpha, thirty-one, and he’s a working professional like you,” Eileen offers looking over at Castiel for any recognition. They’ve stopped for gas and snacks, Eileen pushing trail mix into his hand to put into his mouth. It tastes like ash. 

“I’m no longer an engineer,” Castiel replies blandly, looking straight ahead. 

“Yes, yes you are! Castiel, this is just a setback. Space-X informed us they’ll love for you to come back upon your recovery,” Eileen sounds passionate, enthusiastic and Castiel can’t bring himself to feel anything by her rousing speech. 

“I’ll never recover.” 

Facts are facts. Feral Alphas without families, without pups, siblings, parents, fuck even houseplants…anything- they don’t recover. He’s alone in this country and they won’t let him go home. Castiel has to remain in America because his father’s office fears that in his current condition, he’ll pose a risk to diplomatic relations. Truthfully, he knows his father just doesn’t want the burden of the scandal to reach his door. 

“I won’t recover,” he murmurs in one of his native tongues, away from Eileen’s eyes and so low that it’s barely a whisper, but he doesn’t feel sorry for himself, he doesn’t have that capability anymore. Everything is shades of gray. 

The ride is stifling after Eileen’s failed pep talk. The things left unsaid hang in the air between them.  He can practically hear Eileen’s thoughts, the opening and closing of her mouth. The GPS directions cut through the silence, the automated voice abrasive. Castiel is relieved when they pull up their destination and eventually knock on the wooden door. 

Samuel, Sam, Winchester is a tall shaggy haired Alpha whose scent washes over Castiel like the air of crisp dawn. It’s refreshing and fills all of his senses. Colors practically burst behind his eyelids and he can’t stop them from welling with tears. The Alpha smells of worn leather antique books, soothing soft smells that reminds him of his home within university walls. 

Sam is the first person that Castiel has smelled since his month-long foray in the hospital. And someone must finally be on his side because the man smells faintly of kin. It soothes his internal Alpha, the beast within has been pawing at his mind ever since they weaned him off the antipsychotics and heavy sedatives. 

The other Alpha ushers them both into his home with a big smile, a modest three-bedroom Spanish revival with stucco walls and earthen tiled floors running through the whole house. It’s peaceful and the atmosphere gives Castiel that Sam strives for a sense of serenity. He decorates with muted shades of whites, grays, and warm wood tones. There are books everywhere, stacked open with their white pages glistening and closed with the covers spelling out familiar titles.  Exercise equipment occupies the back patio, and a small unkept garden beyond the doors. It’s comfortable and Castiel wonders how long he’ll be living here. 

“You’ll be in this bedroom,” Sam indicates to a moderately sized room with a full mattress, a dresser, and desk. The room is furnished with wooden furniture, second-hand antiques but incredibly sturdy. This room too has been decorated in shades of creamy bland. Castiel doesn’t have a lot of things to contribute to this room, just his state-issued clothes. Nothing survived his move to the ruttery, not his suits, his books, his diplomas. Not that he was cognizant enough to enjoy any of those things during his capture there. 

“Will it do?” Sam asks, standing off to the side. 

“Yes, thank you,” Castiel answers, his English polished and perfect. He had drilled his English American primers and his European accent was negligible even before he’d applied to Space-X.  Even more so now, Castiel was determined that he wasn’t going to be looked down upon for being that poor broken foreigner. His father was a diplomat, technically he was American. 

“Have you set up a schedule?” Eileen asks, pulling out her clipboard from her work bag.

“I have,” Sam’s eyes dart towards Castiel, “But I would like Castiel’s input on a few things.” 

After relinquishing his garbage bag of clothes to his new bed, Castiel drags himself into the kitchen. Feeling suddenly exhausted, he’s not in the mood to talk anymore but the sooner he gets this housekeeping out of the way… the sooner he can sleep.  

“So,” Sam pauses and stands and spreads out some paperwork for Eileen, “I’ve got all the information you need here. What a normal work week will look like for me, when and what we’ll typically eat, and a mild exercise regime. I’m working remotely as a junior partner and so I’ll be available for Castiel’s needs all throughout the day. ” 

“This is very organized, Sam,” Eileen comments, clearly impressed. “Do you have any amendments, Castiel?” 

Castiel’s eyes flick over the list and he shakes his head no, willing for this meeting to be over soon. Honestly, he doesn’t care. Apathy is pretty much the emotion that rides him nowadays. 

“That’s good, Castiel,” Sam blushes at Eileen’s praise, “My brother, he uh, I’m just following after him. He’s done this before, a couple of times. Just wanted to do my part too.” 

“Where is your brother, again?” Eileen asks, shuffling the papers back into a neat pile. 

“He lives in South Dakota, with the rest of my family,” Sam answers, hesitating only slightly looking and smelling bashful while adding, “I sort of rebelled and moved back out here a year ago.” 

“California is the place to be,” she answers pleasantly and turns to Castiel, “Are you sure you don’t have any questions for me? For Sam?”

“I don’t,” Castiel answers, and he doesn’t. He’s being dropped here. Whether here or some other stranger's house… he doesn’t actually care. At least Sam smells comforting, not abrasive like many other Alphas. 

Eileen looks hesitant to leave, Castiel can’t quite determine why since his brain feels like it’s filled with molasses and she’s still wearing oppressive blockers. But Sam must perceive the same hesitance and decided to offer her hospitality, “How about you stay for dinner? While I’m cooking, we can talk more, and Castiel can unpack or unwind?” 

“Thank you, that would be great,” Eileen sighs and looks over at Castiel, “Go ahead Castiel, get comfortable.” 

Castiel has no intention of unpacking, instead, he falls face-first into the lightly scented bed, a nice clean smell puffs out like a big cloud, and his eyes shutter closed. He’s fatigued and it’s got a death grip on him so deep it’s in his marrow. Toeing off his ugly state-issued sneakers, he curls around himself in the center of the clean-smelling bed and pulls at his clothes. The sensation of the fabrics is itchy, unfamiliar. It grates against him, feeling like the long ago memories of his falls and failures. Once again he is a boy falling off his skateboard and the tarmac is being dragged along his skin. Burning, stretching, itching. 

The clothes also itch at him, they are new and were provided by the State upon his release. They smell like nothing. After wearing literally nothing for four months fucking strangers and then only a hospital gown… the first clothes he puts back on his body are a grey blob of a t-shirt, a red hoodie, and denim jeans that poorly fit. The loose boxers that pull and twist around his thin thighs. Castiel hates them. 

He hates them. 

Springing up, he removes the clothes angrily, jerkily from his body, and throws them to the floor. The thwack of clothing hitting the floor echoes through the quiet house. Panting, he runs his hands through his hair and a frustrated scream erupts out of his chest but is muted by his clenched teeth. 

It’s the first flicker of emotion he’s felt in months besides chemically induced lust. He could roar, beat his chest and snarl… but just the little emotion he’s expressed has left him even more exhausted than before. Legs shaking, he stumbles back to the bed, wrapping his arms around him and bowing his head to drop it down to his knees. He’s so thin, he feels each of his ribs. His fingertips trace the Enochian symbols that inked into the skin, ironically they are for protection. His nails create little crescent moons in his skin, against the markings that didn’t quite live up to their promise. Every bone in Castiel’s body shifts and grates against each other, his muscles emaciated. Without the hospital's heavy painkillers, he hurts, a side effect of the rut anorexia. 

“They think they're helping, making everything neutral and scentless,” Sam says from the door, unperturbed by Castiel’s nudity, “But really, it can drive you crazy. No one goes through life in a bubble of nothing.” 

Handing Castiel some really worn out sweats that thankfully smell like him, Sam’s voice is soothing, “Until we can find something that you are comfortable with, or we wash those, you can wear my clothes. We’re having enchiladas, they’ll be ready in forty-five. Rest, Castiel. You are safe here.”  

With that, Sam closes the door softly, leaving Cas with his sweats… naked in so many ways in his new room. In his new life. 

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Castiel sleeps. 

He sleeps for quite some time, whenever he’s not being made to adhere to Sam’s schedule… he finds himself in Sam’s comfortable clothes dozing away his days. Curled up on the couch, in bed, even falling asleep in the garden at one point. His skin turning pink and then tan underneath the sun’s rays. He has no intention of ending his lethargic ways until Sam hangs up a suit in the early sun one morning. The dust motes dance in the sliver of rays reaching the fabric. Hanging on the back of his door, the navy stark against all that cream. 

“Morning. They caught her in Mexico City, she’s being extradited and arraignment is this morning. Suit if you want to go,” Sam says simply, throwing a plain blue tie on the bed where Cas is sprawled out. The tie doesn’t make a sound against his bedclothes, but he feels the weight of it in his mind regardless. 

Eyeing the suit, Castiel mulls on whether to attend. He’d like to get one glance at her. Closure? The satisfaction that she got caught? Castiel doesn’t quite know, but he feels the quiver of emotions in his gut and the crispness of the clarity of his thoughts. That alone spurs him into action. After eating and showering, in adherence to Sam’s schedule, sitting on the edge of the bed… he decides to do it. Like armor, he folds his far too thin limbs into the crisp white cotton and dark navy. Shaking fingers fold the necktie clumsily, but Castiel leaves it. 

No one will be looking at him anyways. Or so he hopes. 

Sam, dressed in his own suit, sits patiently in the living room. A book spread across his lap. Cas takes a deep breath, noting that Sam’s scent betrays nothing. 

“You look nice,” Sam comments, “It’s good to see you out of gray sweats.”  

Castiel nods, pulling on the oversized suit. 

“It was my brother’s, he’s a tad taller than you, but it works in a pinch,” Sam offers, shutting his book and putting it on the coffee table. He goes into the coat closet and pulls out two thin rain overcoats for them. It's pouring outside. Sam pulls a grey one over his suit, offers the tan one over to Castiel. “Not my brother’s, but my nephew Jack bought it on a whim last summer and it swims on him, he left it here.” 

The extra layer of the tan overcoat is a comfort to Castiel, throughout his life he’s always felt comfort in the many layers that were worn to keep out the chill in old classrooms and lecture halls. 

“Thank you,” Castiel responds, tucking his hands into the pockets, shoulders rounded. The numbness ebbs and flows, emotion and crystal thoughts peeking through the haze, and retreating. He feels the wisps dancing around in his chest and he chases them. 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” 

“As much as I can be.” Castiel doesn’t quite feel the words. He was betrayed, even worse… he was betrayed by family. 

The ride is quiet to the courthouse in Inglewood, California. Ignoring Sam’s attempts to converse, Castiel watches the cars and people zip in and out in the midmorning rain. The water beading and following its own path against his window. He enjoys watching the raindrops gather and zip down the glass, feeling the coolness against his fingertips as he traces nature’s pattern. 

Before his internment, whenever he was in any mode of transportation, a sense of sonder would fill him. He’d see each person and just imagine what their lives were like. Even as a child, Castiel would create stories; a spouse going home to her seventh wedding anniversary to a celebratory dinner, children going to soccer practice with their mother as a coach, partners going on a fishing trip with their newly adopted son. Now, he sees blue cars and red cars, he sees men and women drive. He sees them talk in their cars on cellphones and to each other, sing along with the radio, and dance like no one is watching… but Castiel doesn’t wonder anymore. 

She took that from him with that little piece of plastic pumping hormones into his bloodstream. He feels a swell of rage. 

“You ok, man?” Sam coughs, clearing his throat. Castiel has filled the cabin with the smell of burnt forest and singed ozone.

“My apologies,” Castiel responds quickly and cracks the window. 

“No, it’s alright. Kinda refreshing, you’ve smelt like nothing but bland apathy for the past three weeks,” Sam scrubs his hand under his nose and over his lips, “It’s not bad, just intense. What were you thinking of?” 

“The hormonal implant,” Castiel murmurs, feeling ashamed. He used to be so in control of his scent, of everything. 

“Yeah, that’s really fucked up,” Sam responds, nodding and drumming his fingers along the wheel. 

A noise of agreement rumbles from his chest, Castiel deems the conversation over and resumes staring blankly out the passenger window. 

“You know, you can talk to me,” Sam says after some time, “I know they’ve got you slotted to start therapy soon but sometimes just talking to a friend helps too.” 

“And what exactly would I speak of?” Castiel asks, his words sharp as Sam pulls into the parking lot. The floppy-haired Alpha cards his fingers through his hair and tucks the strands behind his ears. 

“Anything. Past, present, future, you can talk to me about anything,” Sam states so earnestly that it makes Castiel’s teeth ache with how saccharine he’s being. Castiel just stares at the other Alpha, watching the expression of hope slowly melt from his face. “Alright, I get it,” Sam finally admits with a weak laugh, “You don’t want to talk to me about anything. I get it, truly I was the same way. But my brother, he wouldn’t leave me too alone in my head for too long… he saved me from myself and I’d really like to do that for you.”  

Castiel just stares out the window, letting out a sigh, more just letting air out his lungs forcibly. A part of him likes Sam. Truly, in another life, they could have been friends. Met up at the bar or the gym and Castiel would have greatly enjoyed the other Alpha’s company. But now, Sam is his paid caretaker. 

Sam makes sure he uses soap and checks if Castiel properly shampooed his hair, Sam gives him his pills, makes his food, and handles his remaining outstanding bills for Castiel. Castiel can’t be trusted to do any of these things, he probably wouldn’t do them if anyone did actually trust him. He’s pretty sure that if he was released without Sam, Castiel would have laid down in a field somewhere and would have just never gotten up. Let the vultures pick at his pathetic remains. 

“Look,” Sam says, “I’ve been letting you do your own thing. Rest, sleep. But after today, I can’t in good conscience let this continue anymore. Dean told me that you need a purpose and I could use some help with research.” 

“You want me to research?” 

“Yes, you are an extremely intelligent man,” Sam states with a smile, “It’d be wasteful to let that brain go.”  

Letting out a real sigh this time, Castiel nods. Sam is correct in a fashion, he possesses a certain type of intelligence, but Castiel is not certain that it will translate over to judiciary research. With a soft smile and a pat on the shoulder, Castiel fights flinching under his touch while they walk into the concrete building as the rain pelts into their skin. Stepping up to the building, Castiel looks up and is tempted to count the multitude of glass windows in this hideous utilitarian building. 

Castiel feels longing for the beauty and history of the buildings of home. He remembers standing in front of the Tomsk main building. The beauty of the architecture, the promise of knowledge, filling him with hope and wonder. He remembers the buildings of his childhood, the history and the reverence the people took care of the buildings that were hundreds of years old. 

“Ready?” Sam asks breaking the reverie, holding the door open, he’s wearing an encouraging smile while Castiel stands out in the rain. 

Castiel briskly walks past him, raking his fingers through his hair and shaking the rain from the locks. After being vetted by security, Sam leads them to the courtroom where the arraignment will transpire. The room is empty besides a few people. Sam and Castiel slide into a booth behind the prosecution side.

Rain drips from his hair, running down his nose, and plops on his clasped hands while they wait. Castiel counts the raindrops until he hears a familiar name. 

“Cases 87LS12A and 87LS12B, are you Naomi Novak?” The judge stops and then moves on, “And we also have counsel, attorney Mrs. Cerra. How are we proceeding today, Mrs. Cerra?” 

Zoning in on the figure in a blue jumpsuit, Castiel recognizes the slope of her neck and the shell of her ear. The blonde curl of her short bob is gone, now a brown chignon in its place. Feeling sick, Castiel fights the memories of being able to barely open his eyes to stare at that profile, pleading with her for help during the maelstrom of his never-ending rut. 

He must have made a noise, because her eyes flick to his and blue meets blue. Flat and cold, they hold Castiel’s just for a moment and she turns back to the judge. A chill races down Castiel’s spine, nauseating him. Panic flares low in his belly and for a moment he’s back in that awful room, laying on plain cotton sheets just waiting for another customer. 

“We are prepared to enter a plea, your honor…” 

A plea. A plea for a lesser charge? His life ruined and she’s able to plea? 

Feeling sick and lost, Castiel darts up and out of the room. Finding a bathroom by instinct, he blindly races through the hall. His knees hit the cold hard tile in front of the commode and he barely makes it before he retches the breakfast Sam made him. Eggs, toast, and a rasher of bacon come up, burning his throat and coating his mouth with the bite of acidity.

Sputtering and gagging, he remembers being a child and Naomi taking care of him when sick. She was a decade older than Castiel, from his father’s first marriage, and Castiel remembers her as so sure, so driven, and wise. Her fingers were almost as cool as the washcloth she’d place on the back of his neck in their apartment near the Embassy. Whispering soft Russian that their father would come home soon and that he was strong, that this sickness would not beat him, and that they would go get a slice of medovik when he was better. His half-sister had been so kind before she had moved to America. 

Something about this great country had taken her, twisted her up and made her bitter, made her cruel. Driven her to sell her own blood to a ruttery. Even now, after all this time, his Alpha calls out to her, to his kin, to his family.

“Castiel?” Sam calls, and he can feel Sam’s presence at the stall opening. Sam’s concern clogs his senses, overwhelming him. 

“Go away,” Castiel growls, anger filling him. Choking back tears and nausea, Castiel feels the conflicting joy of actually feeling something… even if it’s sickening rage.