#nonbinary!cas

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Sam sleeps through twenty-six solid hours. Sluggish wake-up, dazed and heavy and, right, Alpha gave him meds so he could… Alpha. Right. Sam has an owner, now.

Sam remains half-curled-up on his mattress. No, not his; Alpha’s, Alpha’s room… Sam swallows. He’s alone. The door is ajar. Golden afternoon light filters through the curtains. Sam’s collar is gone. The cuffs on his wrists and ankles persist. Sam’s eyes are wide open. He knows he won’t move.

Alpha comes to check on him eventually. The relief that Sam woke up is palpable even through the minimal emotions on Alpha’s face. Their scent, their body language… Sam swallows. He doesn’t want to get up. Alpha brought him food, though. Sam will have to at least sit up.

“No. On the floor.”

Sam’s head droops for a second before he complies. Carpet, here. Mostly tiles around the house, though, and Sam decides not to think and straightens his still-sore back and puts his hands in his lap, waits. Being handed the bowl is a surprise. Sam reluctantly peers up at Alpha to get consent before he reaches inside.

“I apologize. You still must be tired.”

Sam doesn’t agree nor object. Cubed fruit, cheese; nuts. Sam’s stomach gurgles happily. Sam paces himself. It’s a big bowl. He won’t go hungry if he’s allowed the whole thing.

Alpha stands up from where they sat on the edge of the bed and gestures for Sam to stay. “I will be right back,” they say. “Have as much as you want. I am getting you a glass of water.”

Sam nods, swallows. Stuffs the next piece into his mouth. He goes from singular pieces to handfuls as soon as Alpha exits the room.

The water tastes heavenly. Sam holds the glass with both hands as he drinks. Alpha watches. Sam ducks his head as he hands back the empty glass and goes straight back to his bowl. The long months of kibble and stale broth are a lifetime away with the pop and squelch of a grape between Sam’s teeth, the chewiness of cheese. Sam does his best to be quiet, silent. Alpha lifts the bowl out of Sam’s lap with only a dozen pieces left in it. Sam doesn’t complain, doesn’t strain after the food. Hands on his thighs, he blinks up at Alpha. Waiting.

“Would you like more water?”

“Yes, master.”

“Of course. Follow me downstairs, please. Oh, you can—” Alpha turns back and forth between the door and Sam on all fours. “You may—walk, Sam. There are stairs.” Alpha is flustered. Sam did bad.

Sam makes sure to leave extra distance, to duck his head extra low while he follows. It’s a nice house, light and quiet. Alpha asks him to kneel and wait by the kitchen door. An empty spot next to the counterspace with hooks drilled into the wall at two different heights—Sam’s spot, no doubt. Sam kneels, waits. More water. Sam accepts, drinks. Alpha watches him, again. Still.

“I spend most of my time here. Or over in the garden, or the living room.” Sam nods, listens. Hands back the empty glass. Alpha leans against the counter. That suit again, but no jacket, no tie, no shoes. Socks, soft-looking. Alpha fumbles with Sam’s glass before he puts it down, away. “I want—you will stay close to me at all times. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master.”

Alpha sighs, “Good,” and their relief puzzles Sam. “I need to get more writing done until dinner. Join me at the table.”

Sam decides that, since he is past the stairs, he is supposed to crawl now. Alpha doesn’t stop him again, so; right choice. Alpha grabs a cushion from the sofa to put it on the floor next to their chair. Relief tugs at Sam. He’d thank Alpha if he could. Well—he can, in a way.

Alpha sits down and so does Sam, back straight and the pillow gentle under his legs, and even seated, his eyes are above tabletop level. Shame creeps into Sam but he can’t hunch, can’t sit crooked or lazy, so he has to—accept. Shuffles a bit closer to Alpha’s chair, but Alpha isn’t even looking. Types on their laptop, puts the pair of glasses waiting for them back onto his nose but squints at the screen regardless. They huff before they peer down at Sam, brows pinched and their scent still dull, unbothered, and Sam’s nose points out: unimprinted. Empty. Virgin. Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Sam spirals and maybe Alpha notices because they’re reaching out, pet—the top of Sam’s head, scratch through his hair. Sam swallows. Alpha focuses on their laptop. Sam stays vigilant. A command might come at any time. It doesn’t, though.

Sam drifts, underneath. Looks at nothing, past Alpha’s lap, past the untouched-looking furniture and the bright white walls. It’s all so…surreal. Every moment Sam doesn’t wake up to being back in the cell, back with the others, with Bel, is a surprise. Leaves him stumbling, balking. This can’t be it. Suddenly, his life is supposed to be—this? It can’t be. It was so…easy.

Sam startles; Alpha startles back, takes their hand off Sam’s head. Sam immediately pushes back into the contact. Alpha pets him for nuzzling their leg. Yes. Okay.

Alpha doesn’t talk. Sam closes his eyes, listens: typing. The slow, steady scratch of Alpha’s fingers through Sam’s hair, across his scalp. Alpha thumbs Sam’s ear, behind, around. Sam rubs his cheek firmer against Alpha’s thigh. Their reactions feed into each other, so the change in Alpha’s scent is to be expected. Sam tenses regardless. Forces himself—calm. Breathe. Let it go. Alpha remains silent, still. Even through guiding Sam’s head aside and around. They scoot their chair back so Sam can move underneath the table, between their legs. Choppy, unsure movements—or just eager. Sam swallows, kisses—their knuckles while they unzip their pants, and he imagines hearing Alpha’s breath catching, out of sight. Sam licks his lip as he watches them peeling their dick out of their fly. He blinks, taken aback. Different than what he was made to practice on, but he can—yeah, he can—do this.

It twitches once Sam’s lips wrap around it, once it pushes across his tongue. Alpha squirms and makes a small noise, buries their fingers back into Sam’s hair. Tucks him close until Sam’s nose is flush with their pubic bone, and Sam can’t see their face but he hears their breath, feels them—thick in his mouth, wet with want and wetter yet down below, where… Sam swallows, airtight. Going dizzy with it already, with Alpha’s scent and taste taking over his system, his brain, everything. Drool, already. Alpha relishes in just this: being buried in something warm and wet and not moving, just absently pets Sam’s head and keeps typing, albeit slower with one hand only. Sam shuffles into more comfort. He can’t sit upright under the table anyway.

Alpha doesn’t move for the longest time, but once they do, their instincts quickly take over. Sam focuses on breathing through his nose on the downstrokes, doesn’t fight. The trickle of his saliva down his chin and throat still irritates him after all this time. It’s easy to give in, accept. Sam’s chemistry reacts, of course. His own scent revs him up even more, makes his hairs stand on end. Alpha growls low in their throat. They get their second hand on Sam’s head, too, helps him stay put while they hump his face. Their thrusts grow erratic and they grunt, and goosebumps race up Sam’s back for the thrill, the deep, intensifying musk in his mouth, throat, his airways, every hidden corner of him; taking over. Filling Sam. Completing him.

Alpha comes loud and sudden, roaring. They pull Sam’s face flush with their crotch and raise their ass off their chair to continue thrusting, even though there’s nowhere to go. Their knot swells belatedly—Sam’s panic gives him enough force to pull back and save the integrity of his jaw. Alpha gasps and then growls. Sam makes it up to them with firm suction, with practiced prods of his long tongue around the sensitive, taut throb of their knot. Sam’s eyes water with the sick, intense taste of actual Alpha come, with the tell-tale heat in his stomach, the damp warmth between Alpha’s legs. Sam can’t see their face, still.

They let him pull off, eventually. They slouch in their chair and Sam coughs and swallows, and Sam doesn’t notice they’re watching until their eyes meet on accident. Sam looks down—between Alpha’s legs, the still-thick, spent throb of their dick; to the inseam of their only-slightly smeared pants. Sam throbs, deep down. He knows Alpha can smell it. Hell, he can scent himself.

Alpha drags their hand down their face. Says, raw and scratchy, “Christ,” and wipes through the mess on Sam’s face; flings the major wetness away, onto the floor. Sam blinks, high. Chases those fingers, the salt on them, Alpha’s skin. Is told, “It wasn’t supposed to escalate this early,” and gets that palm to nuzzle into. Warm, gentle—open. Willing. “But I guess it can’t be helped.”

For the last nine months, Dean has fallen asleep with Castiel by his side.

Light streams along the linoleum. Sheets of yellow and white glow from a Jack-made star curls under the crack in the door and draw itself up the chest at the end of the bed. Morning creeps into Dean’s room. From there it leaves a shadow over two bodies still asleep in the bed, and gently illuminates the shelf above their heads. An old monitor, salt bags, books - things they had found in the bunker, things that they hadn’t managed to lose over the 30+ years of hunting also on the shelf were a few of the most treasured Men Of Letter’s trinkets: the handcuffs etched with Enochian, warded brass knuckles and the demon expelling egg. There weren’t always all of these things.

When Dean felt worthless he would hide his physical trail, his belongings, away from sight. If he had true possessions he would give them away, to Sam and in later years sometimes even to Castiel. It’s true that Dean’s deep sense of feeling unworthy manifested itself in this manner, among others. He cut that right out after hearing the speech that seared itself in his brain forever, last November. Cas’s I love you had flipped a switch Dean wasn’t even aware of and yet here they are, still sleeping as the mini sun grows brighter and brighter in the small windowless room. He’s done fighting himself every day, and so instead of being chained to self-doubt for the rest of his existence, Dean focuses on the words of the person that he loves.

A few years ago, Dean thought having his mom back would fix him. He thought that she would make his life make sense. He had fixated on it his whole childhood and when he came face to face with the woman he’s never known, he saw her for the false idol John made her out to be. Now she lives a couple of towns over and they laugh over scotch, growing as a girl, as a hunter, and bloody vampire stories. But he doesn’t worship her.

Now it’s nearing the end of a humid summer and Dean’s known for years that blindly praising anyone you think is better than you will get you absolutely nothing. That’s why he tangles himself in the sheets around someone he hated and detested before ever trusting and loving. The motions make it real. Seeing it with his own eyes and feeling the rise and fall of Cas’s chest, in grief and in pleasure, is proof to him that it’s neither a dream nor some sort of crazed worship. He is in love.

The room is quickly turning a shade of bright to fit a sun that has started its journey through the sky for the day. Dean grumbles, inhaling the scents of coffee and french toast. He scrunches his eyes against the daylight and deftly rolls over to pull Cas close.

“Good mornin’, sunshine.” He says against Cas’s cheek.

Stirring, Cas wraps his arm around Dean in return and breathes along Dean’s neck before sighing. “Good morning.” He says.

They have agreements, Dean and Cas, like all grateful people of faith do. What the agreements are is nobody’s business, Sam knows this well, but it doesn’t matter. It’s clear to the other residents of the bunker that Dean and Cas have developed a system of care that is only for them. To an outsider, it often looks like sleep when you are tired, eat when you are hungry, let the sun feed your skin and soul, and kiss to feed the inner fire. Honestly and communication. Jack would have had no less of an agreement between the three of them, but he is wise enough to let his family figure out some aspects of a healthy relationship on their own. Castiel and Dean had made it this far already.

Dean cards Cas’s unruly hair through his fingers and relaxes in the warms puffs of air against his neck. The smells of breakfast keep him distracted enough that his eyes can’t shut again, so he leaves kisses in Cas’s hair to pass a minute or two.

“Baby… breakfast?” He asks.

Cas nods and scrubs a hand over his eyes, wiping away the dream sand. Dean starts to sit up, his shoulders popping.

Cas yawns, “I demand more kisses before we leave this room.”  He sits up to meet Dean and pulls him into a kiss. Sweet and soft like the magic light that is cast around their room. Dean kisses him back and rests a hand between Cas’s shoulder blades to ground himself.

“I love you,” Dean says. He can feel his cheeks stain pink, like always. “I love you, ” says Cas in return.

They each get up now, the clatter and aroma originating from the kitchen too much to ignore. Cas holds his hand out to Dean as they pad down the hall in their pajamas and Dean takes it playfully. At the kitchen doorway, they’re greeted by laughter and warm cinnamon, and the whirr of a fan.  Claire and Jody sit across from Donna and Sam at the table and Alex and Eilleen stand pouring pancakes and flipping toast at the stove.

Claire looks up to see them and smiles big, showing her teeth.

She throws her arms around Dean. “Hey, kid,” Dean says.

“Hey,” she says, then quickly steps over to Cas. He squeezes her gently.

“Hello, Claire.”

“I have something for you.” She says, a sparkle in her eye. Out of her back pocket, she pulls a small rectangular patch. Cas takes it and studies the yellow, white, purple and black stripes. Claire has gotten him a nonbinary flag patch to go on his jacket for the fall.

“You didn’t ask, but, since you’re finally here, without your wings and everything, I thought maybe you’d want it. After we talked last time it seemed to me like this was the best one…”

Cas looks at her and wipes at his eyes. “Thank you, Claire. I--I think it’s perfect.”

Dean’s been watching the interaction since he sat down next to Jody and gets up now to give Claire back her seat. “First pride patch for your jacket, huh?” Dean says as he comes to wrap an arm around Cas. Cas nods, grinning. “Yeah,” he says and puts the patch in his pocket until later.

“I got one for you, too, old man.” She says to Dean, then pulls out another small patch that is striped in pink, white, and blue. “Now you can both be dorks with your jean jackets.”

Dean laughs lightly and ruffles her hair. “Thanks. Really, I appreciate it.” He says and pockets the small patch.

Sam pulls a small table and four more chairs to the head of the kitchen table and soon enough the breakfast is ready and everyone has coffee. Jody and Donna catch the boys up on recent hunts and, apparently, “the best bar to go to if you’re a lesbian living in Sioux Falls” which has Cas looking quizzical and Claire rolling her eyes. She chimes in to correct that it’s the best bar for lesbians “only if you’re over the age of 50”. Dean slates his questions for a later point in time. Right now he’s too content that his family is together to try and dampen the mood. Cas is here, and safe, and knows that he is loved. Sam is here, in one piece, and Eilleen too, and they make the hunter networks tick. Jody and Donna are finally together, and Claire and Alex are growing up along with the other hunter kids. And Dean? Well, he’s here too, and he’s happy about it.

The handcuffs sit on the shelf above the bed he sleeps in with the love of his life. Sometimes they sit in a drawer and sometimes they click around his wrists. The fear that was inside him, that he grew around like a metal shard in a young tree, slowly melts away. He’s not chained to some devil, man-made or Lucifer, and he’s just starting to lean into the rhythm of a life that doesn’t end with a painted-in nightmare.

A cool evening prompts the unearthing of denim and a night out with his partner and daughter. A flash of each of the flags brings a smile to Dean’s face and his chest feels light. The three of them walk past a storefront with giant glass windows and he watches his own reflection as they pass. What a picture he chuckles to himself Oh hi, I’m Dean Winchester. The love of my life used to be an angel, and he’s nonbinary. My adopted daughter that was my husband’s vessel’s daughter is a lesbian and she calls us both “old man”. I’m trans, and the only reason I have this body is because my lover, who was my enemy, saved me from hell -- long story -- and figured I’d like to come back with a body I didn’t hate. Nice to meet you.

They get to the end of the block and Dean is still looking at their collective reflection, eying each little pride flag (and his eyes are not watery!)

“We look badass,” Claire says, noticing Dean’s lack of attention to her and Cas’s conversation as they walked from the car.