Work Text:
When Castiel awoke on the dirty, cracked cement floor, the first thing he noticed was a throbbing pain in his wrist.
It wasn’t unusual for him to feel some pain after a night down here, so he didn’t think much of it as he fought past his various lingering aches to sit up, groaning in harmony with the rattle of chains attached to his hands and feet. He noted with annoyance that his cheek and ear were coated with itchy dried blood – he must have scraped his face or maybe even bashed it against the floor during the night. The smell of it made him almost as nauseated as his ravenously empty stomach.
The small lockbox bolted down in a corner of the room was just barely within his reach, as designed, and he pressed his thumb to fingerprint mechanism to open it. He used his left hand to retrieve the set of keys inside, since his right was hurting so much. He unlocked the right wrist cuff, and let the engraved shackle fall and clank on the ground.
“Great,” he rasped when he got a good luck at the damage. “Of course.”
Purple-red and swollen, his wrist was obviously sprained. He must have wrenched it during the transformation back to human at dawn. And now that the full moon was over, it would have to heal the normal way.
The urgent care had started asking him uncomfortable questions after the number of times he’d been there in the past year. At least this seemed like a minor sprain – if he just took it easy, he’d be fine, he told himself, then immediately cried out hoarsely when he had to use the hand to unlock his left cuff.
He used his left hand for the ankle cuffs, and to reach for his cell phone to check whether he’d missed any emergencies from his residents. There was a text message from the resident in apartment 2A, sent at five o’clock this morning, asking if he could urgently install a new deadbolt on their front door. He clumsily thumbed out a response that he’d be there in 30 minutes.
It was slow going, tugging stiff denim over raw and bruised skin, and he gave himself a moment of self-pity over having injured his dominant hand. The fly on his pants was tricky to navigate, and he had to leave his jacket unzipped.
There was a process to exiting the storage shed: first he had to unlock and unwind the chain around the door handles, then crack the thick steel door an inch in order to peek out and ensure no one was around to see him, then finally lock it back up from the outside. He stumbled through grass still wet with dew, squinting against the rising sun, and finally felt his shoulders begin to relax as he entered his apartment building.
Mrs. Norris’ wretched little Yorkie sensed Castiel while he was peering around a corner cautiously with his body pressed to the wall to avoid being seen by Mrs. Norris herself.
“Roscoe, stop that,” she scolded the dog as it yapped so hard it nearly fell out of her arms.
Castiel remained pressed against the wall until she shuffled out for the first of several daily walks, and blew out a breath of relief when the front door of the building closed behind her. If she had seen him, with his dirty jeans and blood on his face, she’d have scolded him for being unkempt without bothering to ask if he was all right. Instead, Castiel made it to his own unit unaccosted.
The first order of business was to dig through the pile of junk mail and discarded tools on his kitchen counter to find the Tylenol, and chase three of them with the cold remains of yesterday’s coffee directly from the pot. He carried the pot with him to the bathroom to shower, then search out an ace bandage for his wrist.
Washed and dressed, he didn’t bother with trying to force a comb through his hair since all it would accomplish was to make the disaster somewhat fluffier but no neater. He was sure there was a trick to finding the right brush or hair wax, but he just… couldn’t be bothered to find out. He was the maintenance man for an apartment complex, nobody cared how his hair looked.
The last of the steak he’d stocked up on a few days ago waited in its plastic packaging in his fridge. Ravenous, he started choking it down while he got himself organized to start work.
He had to fish his reading glasses out of the pile of magazines, fidget spinners, and half-eaten cans of honey-roasted peanuts on the side table in his living area so he could squint at his own chicken scratch and try to decipher what was on his list of tasks for the day. Changing air filters for all the apartments on the second floor was the main thing, albeit mind-numbingly boring. Replace a stove burner coil in unit 3F. Go check for a “funny squeaking sound” in Mrs. Norris’ unit, again.
But first, the deadbolt for 2A.
Castiel had received a handful of noise complaints about that flat recently, because the residents didn’t seem to care that he was the maintenance guy, not the manager or the police, and he was going to take the opportunity afforded to him to peek into the apartment and see if he could suss out if there was anything weird going on in that apartment.
Before he left his apartment, he hung his big, over-ear noise-cancelling headphones around his neck. His hearing was better than average, and he tended to hear things he shouldn’t and didn’t want to when he was working. The headphones not only blocked some of it, but somehow seemed to alert people to the fact that he was a bit strange and bad at conversation, which was a nice side bonus.
In his big workroom on the basement level, he loaded up his portable toolbox with the supplies he needed, then proceeded to bash it against his own leg several times as he worked out how to carry it left-handed. Normally he’d take the stairs, but his whole body ached and his head spun with exhaustion, so he gave himself permission to take the elevator today.
He rang the bell for the unit, then looked back down at his scribbled note to check the resident’s name.
“Dean Smith?” he blurted out, just as the door opened. “That’s not a real name.”
The man who stood in the doorway pursed his mouth in annoyance, forming small dimples that framed the expression. He was young, with skin so insultingly healthy it nearly glowed, and he was all buttoned up into a precise, clean suit. But it was the imperfections that drew Castiel’s eye: the yellow tie draped around his neck but not tied, the cartoonish pineapple print on the socks on his shoe-less feet, and, most glaringly, the swollen bruise at the corner of his mouth. His lip was split, and the scab over it was so new and fragile that it tore open again and bled as soon as he spoke.
“I’m pretty sure I’m real, pal,” the man shot back. He eyed the dinged-up metal toolbox in Castiel’s hand. “Please be the maintenance guy here to install the new lock.”
“Okay,” Castiel responded. “I mean, I am.”
“Great. And what’s your name?”
“Castiel Randolph.”
“And you’re giving me shit about my name?” Dean Smith asked him incredulously.
“No,” Castiel said. “I mean, I didn’t intend to. I mean, you opened the door very quickly, I didn’t know you’d hear it. But it makes you sound like you’re in Witness Protection.”
Dean Smith let out a sudden, hearty laugh. “Okay, guy. Anyway, do you need anything from me before you get started?”
What Castiel needed was for the resident to say that the job could wait, so Castiel could go collapse into bed and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. He needed free prescription painkillers. A full pot of fresh coffee. A fucking hug, maybe.
“No,” Castiel said.
He set his toolbox down on the ground so he could open it up, and fitted the headphones over his ears. He couldn’t help but favor his bandaged right hand, which drew the sharp eye of the resident, but Smith eventually retreated into his apartment somewhere, and Castiel took a quick peek into the space.
It was meticulously clean, only sparsely decorated, and absolutely nothing was wrong that Castiel could see. Vaguely unsatisfied, but unable to justify needing to look around inside, he turned to the door to measure and mark the placement for the deadbolt installation. There were some perks to the affliction he had, one of which was greater dexterity and strength so that he could still do his job mostly one-handed.
Just as he fitted the attachment to the drill so he could get started, someone tapped him on the shoulder. His baseline paranoia had him whipping around with the drill cocked back to use as a weapon, only to find Smith standing there with his eyes wide and surprised. His tie was done up, he had shoes on, and he’d dabbed some kind of makeup onto his face to make the bruising less obvious.
He had a steaming mug of coffee in his outstretched hand.
Castiel lowered the drill and pulled the headphones down.
“Thanks for getting to this first thing,” Smith said, nodding at the door, and his cheeks were flushed for some reason. “I thought, um, maybe you could use a coffee?”
Castiel had been offered everything from a glass of lemonade to a full turkey dinner in his relatively brief tenure at this job, but he’d never quite grown used to the casual offers of kindness and rarely took the tenants up on them. He took the coffee with a gruff, mumbled thanks.
So close to Smith, the scent of him was strong. He wore the best cologne Castiel had ever smelled, like petrichor, moss and cedar, and his own natural smell underneath it was just as clean and earthy. Castiel fought the urge to stick his face into the man’s shirt, bury his head under his arm or chin, and just breathe him in for a while. Even his reputation as an oddball wouldn’t give him a free pass for that kind of behavior.
“I can’t stay,” Smith continued. “I’m… I only just got promoted out of being an intern, and I can’t get away with taking the morning off without notice yet.”
“That’s fine,” Castiel said, baffled. “I can do this without supervision.”
“Yeah, of course, but how will I get the keys from you…?”
“Oh,” Castiel said, and took a hasty gulp of coffee to cover his embarrassment. “I can leave them in your mailbox. Oh, wow, that’s great coffee.”
“I know, right?” Smith smiled. “I’m kind of a nerd about my coffee. Oh, yeah, my mailbox, duh. You’re sure this lock is gonna be… good? It’s high-quality?”
Castiel almost went for sarcasm, something about Fort Knox, but two fingers of Smith’s hand were brushing across his made-over swollen lip. The urgency of the request, coupled with the unconscious, nervous gesture, suddenly registered for what they were, and Castiel bit back his first response.
“It is,” Castiel said. “And if you have any problems with it, I live on the premises. On the ground floor, in 1H. I’m usually home in the evenings, if you need anything.”
His usual line was a reminder to tenants to leave him alone in the evenings unless they had an emergency, and emergencies were restricted to fire and flood. But it would help Smith feel better, and he didn’t think Smith was the type to overstep.
Smith’s shoulders relaxed, and Castiel knew he’d said the right thing, for once.
“Okay. Thanks. Um, see you around, then.”
“Yes,” Castiel said, already bending to his work. He often found it difficult to know how to end a conversation with a tenant, since they all lived in the same building and would see each other regularly. So normally he just let them end it and found something to do.
When he was finished, he carefully washed his mug in Smith’s kitchen sink, and left it to dry with a barely-legible note thanking him for the coffee. The deadbolt’s keys went into Smith’s mailbox, and that was that. On to 3F and their stove coil.
The image of Smith’s fingers brushing over his split lip lingered all day as Castiel changed air filters and used his headphones as an excuse for ignoring various tenants’ chatter and complaints, and their endless apologies for the “weird” behavior of their pets: cats hissing and hiding, dogs barking furiously after being enclosed in the bathroom. They weren’t being weird, it was a normal reaction to a large apex predator walking into their home. But it wasn’t as though Castiel could explain this, so he did his best to ignore it. He also did his best to stop thinking about Dean Smith, but that was less successful.
When he finally got back to his own apartment, he was utterly exhausted, aching all over, and all he wanted to do was collapse into bed. But he had to eat something, and seeing Smith’s spotless counters made him somewhat embarrassed about his own living quarters. While he waited for canned soup and toast to heat up, he made a half-hearted effort at sorting some mail and making a pile of items that should actually be in his workroom downstairs rather than scattered around his small apartment.
He dumped his dirty dishes into the pile of other dirty dishes in the sink and had just started his shuffle to his bed when his sharp hearing picked up something worth paying attention to. At the other end of the hall, one floor up. Someone pounding repeatedly on a door, shouting something too muffled to make out from here.
Castiel’s fatigue was briefly washed away by a flood of adrenaline, and he burst out of his unit and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor.
As Castiel came into the hall, one of the residents of 2C stuck her face out the door to say to the unfamiliar man, “Can you stop? It doesn’t seem like anybody’s home.”
The man was broad and handsome, but it was marred by the ugly, supercilious snarl he turned on the resident as he walked toward their door. “Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“Go back inside,” Castiel said to the resident as he strode forward to cut the stranger off from her. There was a flare of recognition in her eyes – she’d just met him earlier today when he’d given her new air filters – and she gave him a brief nod before she slammed the door of 2C closed. “I don’t think you live here,” he addressed the stranger. “What are you doing?”
“God, can nobody in this goddamned building mind their own goddamned business?” the man snarled. “I just want to talk to my fucking boyfriend!” On that note, he turned and pounded his fist on the door of 2A again. “Come on, Dean, you’re making a scene here,” he hissed. “Just open the fucking door!”
“I don’t think he wants to talk to you,” Castiel observed. “And I think now would be a great time for you to leave before I have you arrested for trespassing.”
The man abruptly advanced on him. “Oh yeah? You gonna call the cops? Pretty wuss move, if you ask me.”
It was an obvious feint, a way to keep Castiel’s attention so he’d be surprised when the man punched him. Castiel sighed in exhausted aggravation as he caught the man’s fist on its downswing, wrapping it in his own, larger fist. He used his unbreakable grip on the man’s hand to drag him forward, into Castiel, so that Castiel could twist his arm up behind his back, spin him around, and grab a fistful of hair. He quickly put the man down on his belly, with Castiel’s knee on his back and the man’s cheek pressed to the floor.
“Do you want to continue this, or do you think you’d like to leave now?” he asked.
The man smelled terrible. Like rancid cooking oil and the battery-acid burn of anger.
“Fuck, ah, my hand!”
“I’m interpreting that as you choosing the second option,” Castiel said, releasing him and backing into a defensive stance.
But when the man staggered to his feet, he didn’t come near Castiel again. “This is bullshit!” he shouted. “I’ll be back, Dean, you hear me?” he shouted at the closed door of 2A.
“I’d advise against it,” Castiel said, and inserted himself between the man and Smith’s door.
The man continued to mutter slurs and insults as he slunk away in defeat. Castiel waited until he heard the outer door close before he relaxed.
“He’s gone,” he said. “But you should probably get a restraining order, if you can.”
The lock turned, and the door cracked open a little. Smith’s face was pale, and he couldn’t seem to lift his eyes from the floor. “Thank you,” he said to the linoleum.
Castiel didn’t really know what to say. This was his building, these were his residents. Strangers had no right to track their terrible smells in his hallways or hurt his people.
“It’s no problem,” he said awkwardly.
“Hey,” Smith said, raising his eyes and wearing the beginnings of a crooked smile. “That’s some deadbolt installation you did. Do they make deadbolt awards? Do you think we could make that a thing?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel scoffed, but he felt his mouth trying to return the smile.
“Hey, um,” Smith said, fidgeting with the slide of the bolt, moving it in and out repeatedly. “Is your arm okay? Do you want an ice pack or something?”
Castiel hadn’t realized he was clutching his injured wrist to his chest, and made himself lower it. “Oh. No, that’s… I just live downstairs, I can…”
“I could, uh, you already did a lot for me, but I could maybe use the company for a minute,” Smith mumbled.
Castiel opened his mouth to say no, but somehow, next thing he knew, he was in the apartment, seated on the sofa with a cold beer in his good hand and a blue gel ice pack wrapped around the bad one. A TV show called I love the 80s was playing, and he was being invited to call the other man Dean. It all felt inappropriate in some way he was too tired and achy to define. So he didn’t try; he drank the beer and tried to stay awake enough to respond to Dean’s enthusiasm about, apparently, the entirety of the 80s. Castiel didn’t think Dean had even been alive for the 80s.
He saw Dean’s eyes land on the bruising and chafing around his relatively uninjured wrist, and he carefully tugged the cuff of his shirt sleeve down over it. Dean flicked his eyes away and didn’t ask.
As soon as the episode ended, Castiel hurried back to his own apartment. A whine broke open in his chest as soon as the door closed, but he quickly swallowed it down. He couldn’t allow anything like that again. He knew better.
Dean’s campaign to befriend him started small: a travel mug full of excellent coffee brought down to his workshop a few days later while he was digging out his landscaping supplies to trim the hedges near the parking area. Dean was dressed for the office, and minced across the oil-stained concrete flooring like he was afraid it would leap up and attack his over-starched shirt.
“Uh, I made myself too much coffee this morning,” he said, and set the mug on Castiel’s cluttered worktable. “Don’t have time to finish it. And you said you liked this roast. So.”
Castiel knew it was a bad idea to accept it, but Dean was already turning to go before he could protest.
“Uh, have a good day.”
“You, too,” Castiel said faintly.
As soon as Dean was out of sight, Castiel beelined for the cup and started sipping it like a top-shelf Scotch.
A few days later, Dean came down again with another mug of coffee for him, but he didn’t leave as quickly. He stood there, looking uncomfortable and uncertain while Castiel was gathering the supplies to replace a leaky kitchen faucet for 3B.
“Are you all right?” Castiel asked when Dean didn’t speak up. He felt himself go on alert, shoulders tensing, and he looked Dean up and down for further injuries. The bruising around Dean’s mouth had healed well enough for the concealer to be convincing, and Castiel could only see it because he was looking for it. “He hasn’t been back, has he?”
“No,” Dean said, and licked his lips. “Uh, I didn’t want to… but I’m finally getting a decent paycheck, so I guess I’m less scared of losing my deposit now. Can you fix a hole in the bedroom wall?”
He held out his phone and showed Castiel a photo of a small depression left in the drywall near the closet door.
“How did this—?” Castiel cut himself off when he saw Dean’s eyes close on a wince. It was a stupid question. “Yes, I can fix that. It’s just drywall, which can be patched easily. And you won’t lose your deposit if I don’t log a maintenance ticket for it.”
Dean looked startled. “You don’t need to do that.”
“I know,” Castiel said. “Do I have permission to come in while you’re not home?”
Dean licked his lips again. “I was hoping that you could show me how to do it, when I get home from work. It seems like a useful skill. And I could pay you in cash.”
“You don’t need to pay me.”
“I’ll at least make you dinner or something,” Dean said.
Castiel needed to tell Dean that Castiel was not worth pursuing. That he was unreliable and frustrating, not a good person to invite into Dean’s life. Not available, really, not even for friendship.
When he opened his mouth, what came out was, “What time should I be there?”
Castiel lost track of how many evenings he spent on Dean’s couch watching TV with him. Dean enjoyed cooking but rarely had anyone to do it for, and insisted that Castiel was doing him a favor by joining him for dinner so many nights. But he understood Castiel’s obvious, almost desperate need for privacy, and he didn’t ask about the nights Castiel didn’t answer his texts or about the chafing on his wrists in the days afterward. And he didn’t push for something Castiel couldn’t give him. They each had their side of the couch and there were no invitations to stay the night.
Dean’s asshole ex-boyfriend tried to come by once, but turned and left immediately without a word when Castiel was the one who answered the pounding fist on the door. That was the one night that Castiel broke one of his rules for himself about this friendship, and touched Dean. He put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it reassuringly on his way back to the couch to finish eating. And felt the phantom heat of Dean’s skin on his palm for hours afterward.
It was at the end of the third moon cycle, when Castiel reappeared after a few days’ absence with a goose egg on his temple and a mild concussion, that things came to a head. The argument that Castiel had always been bracing for.
Dean cared about him, didn’t want to accept “I just fell” as an answer, claimed Castiel couldn’t bullshit a bullshitter. Castiel had never managed a friendship for long, and knew this one was falling apart on him, so instead of even trying for a half-truth, he just said if Dean was going to act like this then they had nothing to talk about. He walked out of his own workshop, pushing the still-full mug of coffee back into Dean’s hands, and that was that.
Being back in his own quiet apartment alone in the evenings hurt more than he’d expected it to. He’d never quite latched onto anyone else the way he had to Dean. Curling up in bed and sleeping off the ache in his bones left him shivering. But he knew it was better this way.
When the next full moon came, and he crossed the back lot to the abandoned building he would spend the night in, he thought he was being followed. He smelled nothing and heard nothing, but the sensation of being watched was there and he couldn’t shake it. So he circled the block before letting himself into the empty basement and locking himself in.
First he wrapped the chain around the door handles, as always, then crossed the room to the shackles, attached to bolts in the floor by a short chain. As he locked them into place around his ankles, he knew that his time in this place was almost up.
He had a pretty good guess about who was watching him, and he needed to leave before Dean found out the truth.
He didn’t want to. He’d never let himself get attached before, but he had. He liked his job and his little, cluttered apartment, and the people under his charge. What if the next maintenance worker was too lazy to change the air filters on time, and Alfie’s asthma got bad again? What if Dean’s asshole ex came back, and Castiel wasn’t here to chase him away?
The thoughts went on pause while pain swept through him and his night was lost to red rage and hunger. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it when he limped out the next morning. He wanted to stay.
Maybe he could just talk to Dean.
He had a routine for the daytime when the moon was full and he was too restless and aggressive to do his job or be around anyone. First, creep into his apartment to devour some of the meat he’d stockpiled in the fridge, then back out, to run around the city until he was exhausted, then back to his apartment to gorge again, and finally back to the basement.
He didn’t chain himself up right away. He waited to see if Dean would appear first. He wasn’t sure what he would say to get Dean to stay out of Castiel’s business. Anything but the truth.
Twilight fell, and Castiel was running out of time. He picked up the chain for the door, then stopped and listened.
Footsteps. Coming closer.
He clenched his teeth. It was too late, he couldn’t talk to Dean now. The transformation was coming, and he couldn’t let it happen while he was unrestrained.
Sharp pain shot through his legs. He was out of time.
He couldn’t even afford the moments it would take to lock the door. He dropped the chain, and ran across the room, already feeling his heart break. Dean was going to come in, and see what he was. All Castiel could do now was make sure Dean lived through it. Dean’s inevitable reaction would have to wait for sunrise.
Castiel hurried to put the shackles on his ankles, hands shaking. A ripple in his chest, his ribs creaking, and he desperately tried to shove the transformation away a little longer.
The door opened.
“Cas?” Dean asked, eyes wide. “What the hell is this?”
“Dean,” Castiel groaned. “You have to leave. Please. Go now.”
He got the shackle closed on his left hand, then fell to his knees as his spine crackled and shifted under his skin. He cried out in pain.
“Just tell me what’s going on!”
“Get out!” Castiel shouted.
He didn’t get his right wrist in time. The pain swelled and took over. He fell to hands and knees and started screaming.
There was no more Cas, no more Dean. The pain was all there was.
His nose and his jaw broke as his face elongated and fangs descended. Elbows, knees, shoulders dislocated, claws punched out of his fingers. Skin torn open as fur raced to the surface.
The screams turned to howls and yelps that drowned out the soft sobbing noise coming from nearby.
When it was over, he stood up again and sniffed the air. His vision was a red haze. He hurt, so badly. He wanted take it out on something. He wanted to run. He wanted to get out of this musty, damp room and hunt. He knew he couldn’t, he could feel the chains holding him down, and he growled as he strained against them.
“Cas,” whispered a broken voice.
He swung his head toward the smaller figure who knelt in front of him, arms up as if to shield itself. It was trembling, but it didn’t run. Was it not prey?
He crouched to get closer to it. Sniffed it all over. It smelled like sweat, and the forest after rain. It was a familiar smell. A good one.
“Hey, buddy,” the voice croaked. “Don’t eat me, okay?”
Warm fingers touched his ear, and he flicked it with irritation. But the fingers didn’t go away. He growled and bared his fangs.
The fingers tentatively rubbed at his fur. It felt… not like pain.
It was very confusing for a creature that only knew how to feel pain. He sat very still and waited for it to make sense.
More fingers. They stroked over his neck and shoulders and chest, warm and growing firmer as they went. He couldn’t understand it, and he heard himself whine. Pathetic.
One of his paws was free, and he used it to push against the figure who knelt on the floor. He needed to make the man go away and stop being confusing. But the hands just moved to grab onto him and hold his paw to the man’s chest.
“Yeah, we’re okay, right?”
He sniffed the man’s hair. It smelled like hairspray, which made him sneeze.
“Gross, dude. Oh man, twelve-year-old Dean is somewhere inside me freaking out. Werewolves are real, and he is over the moon.” A deep laugh rang out. “Pun absolutely intended.”
‘Dean’ meant something good. Food, comfort, and safety.
“I guess this answers the question of why your ankles and wrists are always bruised, huh? That, uh, that whole thing looked like it hurt pretty bad. I would ask if you’re okay, but you’re probably not. Man, no wonder you’re always so friggin tired and grumpy.”
As the man babbled at him, he continued to pet his fur, a repetitive motion that was unexpectedly soothing.
“I have so many questions, but I doubt I’m going to get answers to any of them before morning. Do you just… spend all night down here, chained up like this? That sounds terrible.”
It was terrible. The man had that right.
“Does the room have to be this crappy? Can’t you at least put like, a dog bed down here or something? Sorry, is that insensitive?”
He lowered himself fully down to sit on the ground. He leaned in and turned a little so the man could reach an itchy spot on his shoulder, which the man scratched for him obligingly.
“You got any more requests, Ginger Snaps?”
He carefully shifted one chained paw closer. The man’s fingers scratched around the edges of the manacle, but it fit too tightly to get underneath it. He whined, but the man just apologized and went back to scratching behind his ears.
The moon was calling him, and the restlessness under his skin hurt. But the man’s hands felt good, and it was easier to ignore the call and resist the urge to throw himself against his chains and try to escape when he had such a pleasant distraction.
He sunk lower and lower, until he was sprawled out on the floor with his head occupying the space made by the man’s crossed legs. His one free arm curled loosely around the man’s waist, possessive and content with it. The hands continued to pet at him, lazier and slower now, but it still felt good.
“Yeah, we’re gonna get a mattress down here. Maybe a radio or something. I am not just gonna sleep on cold concrete every full moon. That’s ridiculous and unnecessary, you know that, right?”
It went on like that all night. Whenever the call got too strong and made him start twitching and shifting, the man would wake from a doze and start petting him and murmuring to him again.
And when the transformation came at dawn, when his bones broke and his skin tore, the man stayed. Let him yelp and bury his head against the man’s chest while the man cried and said he was so sorry.
Normally, Castiel passed out for a few hours before he felt strong enough to get up and unlock his shackles. But this time, when he shuddered through the last of it, he was being cradled in someone’s arms, and he wasn’t as exhausted as he should have been. He blinked up at Dean stupidly, trying to find his voice. It wasn’t as though he’d forgotten what had happened, but it always took a moment to organize his daytime brain.
Dean was crying.
Castiel forced himself to sit up. “Dean,” he croaked.
“You could have just told me,” Dean sniffled.
“I could have hurt you,” Castiel said. He took a deep breath, but it didn’t help, and he started breathing too hard as a delayed panic gripped him. “I could have killed you.”
“But you didn’t,” Dean said.
“But I could have!”
“Have you? Before?”
It was a long time ago, and he knew he had better control now that he wasn’t newly turned, terrified, with no explanation for what he was. But he’d never forget the sound of the screams of the people he’d torn apart.
“Do you think I lock myself up like this for fun?”
Dean could never be anything but Dean, and there was a brief but noticeable spark of humor in his eyes before he thought better of making the joke that had clearly occurred to him.
“You didn’t even try to hurt me, Cas. You were doing that whole gentle giant thing. Maybe you’re not as dangerous as you think you are.”
Castiel used his unshackled right hand to shove Dean in anger. “I know! I know what I’ve done! Do you know what it would have done to me if I woke up and you were… if you… if I had…”
“Cas,” Dean said, and put his hand on Castiel’s cheek. Castiel froze in place. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”
“Okay,” he repeated dumbly.
“We’ll be better after a shower and some breakfast, and then we’re going shopping,” Dean said. “I at least want a goddamn beanbag chair or something if I have to spend all night on the floor again. Did it seriously not occur to you, or do you just think you deserve to suffer?”
“Dean, you can’t just—”
“Sure, I can,” Dean said, cutting him off. “Come on, where’s the keys for your stupid magic prisoner shackles that apparently change size when you transform? We’re going to circle back to where those came from and if witches are real later. Does the magic not work if you put some padding under there, or is that just you being ridiculous again? Don’t answer that. I need coffee before I can deal with whatever you’re about to say.”
Dean didn’t shut up once through the process of getting out of the basement and into the apartment and into a shower. He talked all the way through stripping down and climbing into the shower together, and all the way through making coffee and making Castiel sit and wait for his meat to be cooked before he was allowed to eat it, and chiding him for how messy his apartment was. Castiel realized as he followed Dean in bewilderment to his car that Dean was going to keep talking until Castiel accepted that he wasn’t going anywhere.
Castiel couldn’t let this happen. He knew better.
But somehow, he found himself resting that night on a soft mattress, with soft fleece glued to the inside of the cuffs around his limbs, and a soft hand stroking through the fur on his neck.
The next morning, he kissed Dean’s cheeks and said a cup of coffee would be a lot more useful than his tears, if Dean could pull himself together and stop worrying so much. That earned him a punch to the arm, but he did still get his coffee, not to mention shower sex, so he assumed he hadn’t offended Dean too much.