Fic: O Resilient Light 1/2

[castielssock]

Title: O Resilient Light/AO3
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 12,457
Summary: Decades after the Omega's Liberation Movement, Dean and Castiel walk the fine line of being both a progressive and a traditional Alpha/Omega couple. Or in which dirtybad kinks are awesome. Written for this prompt on the kink meme.
Warnings/Kinks: Alpha/Omega, mpreg, feminization, Dom/sub, spanking, fisting, dirty talk, pregnancy kink, crossdressing, knotting, panties, self-lubrication, erotic sexism??, light CBT.
Disclaimer: Not mine, not making any profit from it etc etc. Title taken from 'Teeth' by Bowerbirds.


+

“Alright guys, that's it for today. Remember to read chapters six-through-eight on Omega's Suffrage for Monday, you will be tested on it,” Dean said, huffing at the ensuing dramatic groaning and whining that filled the lecture hall.

For all their theatrics and fanfare, you'd think he'd just told his students the cafeteria was out of Nutella or something.

“No, don't look at me like that. You knew it was coming.”

Most kids took Dean's classes hoping for an easy-A; they showed up every so often thinking the material would be softball, that they could just wing it with minimal effort. It was unfortunately the expected attitude when you taught Gender Studies, and Dean was more than used to having to work to get people excited about the subject, but he also revelled in the challenge of being able to prove them wrong too.

Chalk it up to Alpha competitiveness or something.

“And the quality of your work this semester's pushed my standards higher too, so I'm expecting top marks,” he said, shaking his head with a chuckle at the outright stink-eye he received in return.

Kids.

“Seriously, you guys have got this. Okay?”

They didn't seem convinced, but slowly began clearing out with rolling eyes and slumped shoulders anyway, their textbooks held close to their chest like armour.

Dean snorted, turning back to his desk and gathering up his papers and reports and whatever else was to be added to the mountain of work he had to haul home with him over the weekend because, like his students, his job didn't finish as soon as he left the classroom either.

That didn't take the glint from his eyes though, didn't stop his lips from curling up at the corners as he packed his desk up to take with him.

Dean knew what was waiting for him at home, and that was all the enticement he needed.

Taking a moment to switch off the light like the goddamn environmentalist he'd been whipped into, Dean left the lecture hall and headed off towards freedom, only stopping for a moment when sidelined by his T.A, Charlie, who apparently wanted his signature in addition to their usual routine of snark and affection.

He couldn't say he begrudged her the five minutes, though. She'd be leaving him at the end of the year and truth be told, he'd miss having the snappy little Beta around his classroom and his ankles, giving him life lessons and sage words instead of marking papers like she was supposed to.

She might not have been the best T.A he'd ever had, but she was damn sure the only one he'd call a friend and that was a lot harder to replace. Charlie was the kind of person that came and went as she pleased though, and Dean knew she wouldn't stray too far for too long. Besides, after she'd come for dinner at his place, Cas had all but wanted to adopt her, and Dean knew from experience, no-one could say no to Cas. He had a feeling he'd be seeing her crashed out on his sofa again before too long.

After being slapped on the shoulder and given commands to “enjoy your downtime, Prof” Dean was dismissed by Ms Bradbury and allowed to leave the building.

He found himself grinning idly as he headed towards his car, squinting up at the yellowed sky, the sun holding its place easily and proudly above the grey earth, no clouds around to devour it, not a shade less than the brightest blue to even dare show its face.

The air was warm and fragrant and Dean loosened his tie, picturing Cas pottering around their garden, taking every opportunity the summer afforded him to be outdoors; barefooted and free and at his happiest.

Dean smiled, soft and joyful with the knowledge he married a damn hippy.

“Hey, Winchester!”

Dean's head turned in the direction of the familiar voice, his stomach clenching with the kind of subdued, fond dread you felt when your mortal enemy was also a close friend.

He felt somewhat legitimised for his dramatics though when something light and irritating bounced off the side of his face.

Clutching his cheek in protest, Dean scowled down at the offending ball of paper before quickly turning his glare to his assailant and spotting the smirking Alpha standing behind him.

“Really?” he asked, exasperated as he bent down to pick up the paper, wasting no time (or pride) in aiming it right back at his colleague.

“You want to start this now, Talbot? I thought we'd matured past this point.”

“Ah-buh-buh!” Bela cautioned, holding out a hand and pausing his attack, “I come in peace.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, mirth glittering in his eyes as he found the Impala at his back and leant against it.

“That so?” he said, his voice dry and lined with too much history to afford her credit, but she only rolled her eyes when he held up the screwed-up little ball as proof for his incredulity.

“Well, honestly, if you weren't aimlessly wandering around in Wonderland with your brain-fairy friends, or whatever caused that ridiculous, drugged-up grin of yours, that would never have happened because you would have heard me calling your name. Several times.” Bela said, not giving Dean time to either blush or snipe back before she cut him off and continued.

“It's an invitation, genius. The Humanities' Faculty Summer Mixer? It's this Saturday at Crowley's and you're the only one who hasn't RSVP'd.”

If the words weren't pointed and disapproving enough, her eyebrows certainly got her point across.

Dean huffed, reaching into his pocket for his car keys.

“You know I don't go to those things, Bela,” he groused, opening the door and tossing his briefcase over to the passenger's side before turning to look back up at her.

“If I wanted to watch Adler spiking his own drinks, starting fights he can't win and hitting on Eleanor Visyak every five minutes, I'd hang out in the staff lounge. And besides, I already told Inias I can't make it.”

Bela sighed and shook her head, though her hands flexed open, placating.

“Fine, fine, but don't say I didn't try.” Her fingers rubbed at her forehead in exhaustion, like just talking to him was giving her a migraine.

“I swear to all that is Holy, teaching half-baked Sophmores the importance of Neuroeconomics is an easier task than trying to coax you out of your little love-den for an evening.”

Dean flashed her a grin that quite clearly conveyed exactly how true that statement was and exactly how many shits he gave about it.

Bela's lips thinned out, a sharply frustrated sound puffing out from her chest.

“I don't know why I bother. Socialising with someone other than your Omega is actually healthy you know, Dean,” she said, her voice stressed, but it was mostly for appearances.

They both knew she'd already lost the battle.

“Sorry, buddy,” he called out over his shoulder as he climbed into his car. “I have plans.”

Bela mumbled something about knowing exactly what he had planned, mixed with a few choice words about his priorities, but the smirk was back on her lips so Dean didn't think he'd have to worry about the screws of his desk being loosened over the weekend. Again.

Still, he made a mental note to check the frame stability before he'd let his morning class in on Monday just to be sure. He'd learned the hard way; Hell hath no fury like a Talbot scorned.

She hated going to faculty events almost as much as he did, but being the head of the Economics department meant she didn't get as much wiggle room as Dean, which in turn meant she was always eager to make him suffer alongside her.

“See you Monday?” Dean asked Bela's retreating form as he closed the door and fired up his baby, listening to her roar to life.

The flipped bird he received in response was as good a gesture of forgiveness as he was going to get and Dean snickered to himself, flicking on the radio as he pulled out of his parking space.

He really didn't get why she kept trying with this stuff. She knew as well as any of his friends; weekends were off limits.

Weekends were for Cas.

+

Dean walked through the front door and sighed out his relief, closing the wood against the swollen, heavy sunlight at his back.

The ride home, even with his windows wound down had been sweltering and although the sun was beginning to droop and wane into the tentative clouds, it was still hot enough that Dean's skin sang for joy at the sudden shelter.

The house was cool, airy, and blessed, only the soft scent of onion and aniseed hinting at any heat coming from within, a sweet heat Dean was more than happy to seek out.

“I'm home,” he called out, wandering with the path lead by the smell, following it to the kitchen.

There was no immediate answer and when Dean popped his head around the door frame he saw the room was quiet and still, save for the bubbling of two pots sat atop the stove.

Glancing around for signs of his mate, Dean relaxed into an easy smile as he eyes fell on the open back door-light sowing into the room like drops of rain over leaves through the paisley-patterned curtain. The veil tousled gently with the breeze, Castiel's delicate wind chimes dangling off the frame; kind, tinny sounds beckoning Dean to follow them outside once more.

Abandoning his briefcase and jacket on the counter top, he crossed the room and peeped his way into the broiling pots, both satisfying his curiosity and taunting his hunger because even he could tell the food wasn't quite ready yet, though he wasn't exactly above diving in with a spoon and scolding his mouth on undercooked vegetables either.

Dean gave each pot a stir and breathed in the earthy, herby scent of Castiel's cooking, reminding himself to praise Cas for it later.

It was definitely deserved; only Cas could make asparagus and spring greens look appealing.

He peered out into his garden, the small kitchen window adorned with the doily curtains Castiel had picked out for them at a small market, so immediately in love with the odd, vulnerable little drapes, running gentle fingers over them and asking please, Dean.

Their house was full and bright with these sorts of pretty things that Castiel loved and needed and drew into his collection of misfits and cast-offs.

The kitchen was no different, with its ancient appliances in friendly pastels and dollhouse chairs tucked into the dainty, speckled table Castiel insisted Dean eat breakfast at every morning.

They weren't Dean's taste but he hadn't minded them, not a bit, not when they made Cas smile so colourfully, such a genuine, simple joy smudged pink across his cheeks.

Out in some side corner of their wide vegetable-patch, Dean could see a figure crouched to the ground, deft hands working away at something and he smiled, his chest expanding with welcome, comfortable warmth.

He ducked his head outside, wilfully navigating the clever little stone path trailing up the length of their garden to his mate's side.

The heat seemed less intense out here, the garden blanketed in the pleasant shadow of sprawling old hickory trees and proud, strong oaks standing where shade was needed, shy plants curled happily in their harbour.

Dean's eyes closed lazily, ambling on, swept up in the vivid, saccharine scents of honeysuckle and elder flowers, clusters of bright cowslip and splaying butterfly weed embellishing the edge of the winding path, their jaunty petals upturned towards the haloing sun and nodding contentedly in the warm breeze.

Dean ducked out of the way of round, yellow bees humming their work songs and passed easily by the drowsy butterflies mottling the violets, undisturbed even as Dean with all his bulk slugged past.

The garden was beautiful and made even more so by the man that had so gingerly reared every last seedling from every tiny, little seed, nurtured the soil so it could bloom herbage as strong as houses.

When Dean found that man, Castiel was bent down, tucked into a quiet corner and carefully snipping away at sprigs of tarragon to use in his cooking. One hand was pressed gently, mindfully against the curve of his belly, his bump swelling out the fabric of his opal summer dress, his form soft and feminine and completely lovely among his plants.

Soon, Castiel would grow too big for the dresses and blouses he already owned and it would be time to buy new, more practical clothes, but Dean didn't have the heart to bring it up with him just yet.

Castiel was always so sad to put his dresses away during the winter and it had only just become hot enough to wear them once more. Dean wasn't about to take them away again.

“There's my beautiful wife,” Dean murmured, reluctantly interrupting the quiet song Castiel sang with the bees and smiling down at the wispy mound of dark hair that soon twisted around towards his voice.

Castiel's smile was dazzling as he beamed up at Dean, his cheeks flushed with the heat and his extra weight. Radiant.

“Hello, Dean.”

He stood up, struggling only minutely before accepting Dean's hand to help his way, and pressed himself into the net of Dean's arms, leaning up and offering his lips to kiss like he was starved of him.

Dean couldn't help ducking down and tasting the pink slip of Castiel's mouth. Nothing had ever been quite as tempting, he was sure.

Castiel hummed against his lips, his tongue flicking out to wet his mouth and swipe away the lingering taste of Dean, lapping him right up.

“Good day?” Cas asked, his chin resting against Dean's chest, completely at ease in his arms.

The collar around Castiel's neck had been loosened during the day, hanging neatly around the base of his throat to alleviate the clutching strain of the arid air but looking no less graceful for it.

Dean's fingers found the small, circular tag dangling at the front that proclaimed Cas as Dean's; collared and owned. He traced the cool metal engravings wordlessly, his thumb knowing the words by heart; a ritual.

Safe, mine.

Most modern omegas and their mates rejected the idea of these leather symbols of ownerships, these bitch-collars as they were known.

They were archaic and obsolete, a cruel reminder of a past paved by the subjugation of a whole breed of people, the crippling of their worth and their humanity by societal Alpharchy. The theft of autonomy, of agency worn like a noose around an undeserving throat.

Castiel, though, had wept when Dean had finally given in and collared him, had worn his gratitude proudly over blushed, pink skin and sang his thanks in cries and moans in the shroud of their bed, blissed to just belong.

He knew exactly what it was to wrap the heavy, iron chains of history around his neck but to love their weight over his heart, even when the disapproving, empty judgement of a stranger's glare threatened to trip him up.

Castiel had always known what he'd wanted and Dean thought he'd carried his head higher and with more grace from the moment the little key had twisted its head into that tiny seal, locking Castiel as Dean's.

Happily, perfectly Dean's.

Neither of their eyes had been dry as their bodies found their way into one that night, trembling with the truth held taut in their breaths and endless as the pulse in their veins. This lock was not a burden but a freedom, this collar a choice, a gift, a promise.

Beloved.

“Way better now I'm home.” Dean said honestly and kissed Castiel's forehead, his hand gravitating naturally towards the mound of Cas' tummy, rubbing gently over the soft material with something like worship softening his expression.

“And how were my girls today?”

Castiel huffed, his eyes rolling. Dean's smile widened.

“I told you, Dean,” Castiel said, managing to sound chiding without putting too much heart into it as his hand came up to join Dean's atop his belly, “It's a boy. You have to trust me; I do know these things.”

“Oh yeah? And how's that?” Dean asked, amused.

His fingers curled around Castiel's waist, drawing him close and into the web of his scent, as though nine hours apart could have possibly swept away Dean's claim on him. Castiel shrugged.

“Mother's intuition.”

Dean laughed lightly, easy, mellow limbs tightening around Cas' swollen shape and Castiel's accompanying grin was so impish that Dean had no choice but to duck down and kiss it away.

Castiel wriggled in his hold, quite pleased with himself, but relaxed against Dean's mouth happily, his neck tilting back and stretching like an offering.

Dean growled, low and just as pleased, nipping at Castiel's lips just to hear the resulting whimper, to feel his body shuddering against his own.

Heat, a different kind now, spread through him as he licked his way into Castiel's mouth, their tongues rolling just as their bodies began to pick up the same rhythm, curling and rocking like they wanted to be as wet and open as their kisses, growing deeper with every second and Dean felt no hurry to stop.

Castiel drew back though, just an inch, his eyes pleasantly dazed and his voice breathless.

“Dean,” he whispered, wiggling a little against Dean's hips in a delicious little arch, “I-Dinner.”

A noise of displeasure and then Dean was ducking down, his teeth sharp and warning against the root of Castiel's neck, grazing over the speckled purple of a day-old bruise and digging in enough for Cas to still.

“Are you telling me no, Omega?” Dean demanded and Castiel shivered at the low rumble, his eyelids fluttering over pupil-drowned blue.

The sudden rolling, sweet scent of something other than the flowers, something wet and cloying permeating the air told Dean just how much Castiel loved these little reminders, these little challenges.

Loved knowing the power Dean had over him and just how quickly he would fold to it.

Castiel's hips ground up against him apologetically and his neck and spine bent back in a pretty curve of deliberate submission, opening himself up for his Alpha.

“Of course not,” Castiel breathed, his voice a little slack around the edges, “It would be a shame if dinner got ruined though. I made apple and blackberry pie for dessert.”

Dean smiled fondly, his palms stroking up the dip of Castiel's back, feeling a burst of pink affection as Cas blinked up at him with too-innocent eyes even while he continued to rub up onto Dean's crotch enticingly, like he wasn't internally freaking out about the possibility of their food spoiling.

Dean let him rut against him for a few more moments, just to test Castiel's resolve and when Cas just carried on like the good little bitch he was, Dean grinned and slapped his ass in dismissal, pulling away.

Castiel always knew how to get himself out of trouble.

“Slut,” he remarked gruffly, scenting Castiel's slickness in the air, but there was no humiliation in Castiel's smile as he turned around to gather up his tarragon once more, bending over unnecessarily and presenting himself shamelessly for Dean's hungry eyes.

“Your slut, sir.” Castiel pointed out, his eyes shining like lightning and chicanery at Dean's groan.

Omegas.

+

Dinner was, of course, perfect but Dean expected nothing less from Cas by now, there'd been a reason he'd proclaimed him to be the 'Stove Whisperer' way back in college, the first time shy little Castiel Milton had plucked up the courage to ask Dean over for dinner and subsequently proven everything they said about Alphas and their stomachs to be true.

He'd always had a way with food and he'd only gotten better since then, ever since they'd settled down and Castiel found room in his tidy garden to grow his own lumpy fruit and vegetables; the ugly, misshapen things Cas so loved and could create wonders with.

Dean pushed his plate away, sated and stuffed and groaning pleasantly. He took Castiel's hand in his own and brought those clever, green-fingers to his lips, soft kisses peppering over gentle knuckles.

He found Cas' eyes and smiled.

“That was awesome, honey,” Dean said, running his thumb over the bumps of Castiel's fist, his fingers curling just slightly, watching with quite pleasure as Cas visibly preened; his eyes and cheeks bright with Dean's praise.

Castiel nodded in subdued acknowledgement, a beautiful humility he didn't need.

“Thank you,” he smiled, his nose scrunching into tiny, happy wrinkles for a second.

He squeezed Dean's hand once before pulling away, his chair whisping as it pushed back against the polished floor and Castiel rose to his feet to gather the dishes.

“I'll put the left overs in the fridge for you to pick at later.”

Dean huffed at Castiel's knowing expression, but he found no argument to counter him, instead standing to help clear the table.

By all rights, these small tasks were Cas' chores, agreed on by both of them when they'd understood just how they wanted to live and just what roles they'd each play but now that Castiel had fallen pregnant, Dean didn't feel right just sitting down and watching his Omega struggle with the dishes they'd both eaten from. Especially after being on his swollen feet cooking and cleaning all afternoon. Dean didn't mind helping him out.

Castiel, however, did.

“Dean, please,” he said curtly as he stole the plates from Dean's hands, adding them to the precariously balanced pile already in his arms, “I've got this.”

Castiel's smile was a calm, convincing thing but Dean frowned, the pull of something deep and protective tugging in his chest, watching Cas try to nudge open the door with his hip, his toes nosing along the frame and navigating their way into the crack.

“Cas, we've talked about this,” Dean started, the gentle core of his voice cracking over the low, sincere blades balanced on his tongue.

He held out his hands to collect some of Castiel's burden but the man was swift and crafty with his yoga-hips, even as plumped as he was, and evaded Dean's help like a phone call from his mother.

Castiel hated Dean coming to his rescue when it came to the kingdom of his own kitchen. Dean knew he felt as though he could master at least this, that he was fulfilling his duties as an Omega-wife by allowing Dean rest from his hard day while Cas took to keeping their house clean and prim, as was his responsibility.

As they'd agreed.

Before Castiel had been introduced to the new limitations and boundaries set by the bulk of his womb and his pride had to make way for the baby he carried instead.

“I'm fine, Dean, really,” he stressed, pushing into the kitchen and thoroughly ignoring his Alpha.

A throaty growl rumbled in Dean's chest, displeasure arching his lip as he watched Castiel sway and stammer.

“Cas.”

Too late.

It wasn't the avalanche Dean had been expecting and cringing for but Castiel stumbled just that little bit too far to the left and, though he quickly regained his balance and the dishes were steadied, two escapees crashed to the wooden floor in a spray of shattered porcelain and uneaten pasta.

A sharp silence followed, clinging on to the walls of the old house like Castiel's breath had frozen in his throat, his wide, sorry eyes staring down at his mistake, a stain on the ground.

Dean sighed, his shoulders slouching away into stiff, wound arms.

Mutely, he stepped forward and plucked the remaining plates out of Castiel's now pliant hands, stopping in front of the shamed Omega and watching Castiel's face tighten around the edges.

Reaching out for his chin, Dean angled Castiel's head up towards him, demanding his eyes.

Cas came easily now, supple and resigned under Dean's touch, that bright virgin-blue flickering up submissively for judgement.

He shifted awkwardly under Dean's shadow, his fingers wriggling like confused birds at his sides, hands twitching and shuffling, uncertain of where to come to rest.

He radiated nervousness, but Dean knew how to read this body, knew its language and he could hear the whir of anticipation bobbing in Castiel's pulse, the wise length of his neck.

This game was theirs and Dean knew the rules.

He let out a tutting noise, his face masked with disappointment, and Castiel shrunk back slightly, though his eyes barely blinked.

“Clean this up,” Dean said gruffly, the order tasting as harsh and stony as his tone.

Castiel's teeth worried over the rosy pout of his lips before a tongue darted out and wetted over the chapped flesh, his head bowing forward.

“Come upstairs when you're done.”

He watched as Cas nodded, tracking the movement with his jagged gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, just to watch him squirm, before he stepped back, satisfied, and allowed Castiel to slip past him and out towards the utility cupboard to fetch the broom, traipsing off to do as he was told.

Dean let out a staggered breath, walking to the kitchen with the dirty pots held steady in his grip. He wasn't keen on the idea of his pregnant wife bending down to clean up sharp peaks of broken pottery off the floor, but this was the order they had to uphold, the contract they'd delighted to write themselves into.

Defiances and slip-ups, no matter how well-intended, were to be punished as Dean saw fit and Castiel was to defer to his authority without question. He needed his Alpha to guide him back into his place, back into line; to force Castiel to remember exactly what he was and where he stood.

Otherwise, how would the Omega ever learn?

Soon, Castiel came into the bedroom where Dean was sat, tall and opaque in an arm chair.

No words were exchanged as Dean beckoned him over. Castiel knew better than to speak without being spoken to when he'd done something wrong.

They knew this dance off by heart.

Castiel shuffled forward on tentative feet, hands cupped in front of his bump, face down-turned and eyes tracking the floor until he came to Dean's feet, the tag of his collar bobbing at his throat.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Dean asked.

Castiel swallowed hard, steeling himself, and turned his face up.

“Alpha,” he said, a plea in his voice, “I'm so sorry. I didn't-I didn't listen to you, I ignored you and I messed up because of it. I should know better.”

His head bowed again, his eyes skipping to the left.

“I wanted for you to relax, but your orders come first. I know that. I'm very sorry.”

Dean sighed, shaking his head, his fingers drumming absently on the arm of the chair. The term 'puppy eyes' could have easily been invented to describe Castiel's expression right now, the man looking like he was two seconds away from a full blown lip-quiver.

Good thing Dean was feeling generous today, and it had been an accident after all.

Castiel wouldn't be punished for his clumsiness, not when he was still learning how to navigate around his new shape, but the disobedience couldn't be allowed to slip by unchecked.

“Cas,” Dean said, his voice surprising in its gentleness, “You know what I have to do.”

Castiel chewed his lip, but nodded as he slipped out of his pumps, silently walking over to the bed and hoisting himself up on it, folding at the waist. Such a good boy.

Dean slowly came to his feet and moved behind Castiel, watching his thighs quiver slightly and press together.

The air thickened.

He shivered, his spine arching when Dean's palm ghosted up the smooth, pale curve of his leg, a thumb trailing a path along the inner crease, just watching the skin pebble.

A hitch of breath and Castiel's dress was pulled up, bunched at his hip and exposing the swell of his ass to Dean's greedy eyes.

He tugged up the soft material of Castiel's ruffled, lacy panties, opening up more flesh, and skimmed his fingertips idly up the curve of blushing skin. He decided any thoughts that swelled and howled wicked and red in the back of his mind, the pit of his stomach, could be quelled and smoothed over for now.

There was no need for the furore. There was no rush, and Dean delighted in taking his time, in taking Castiel's strings and pulling, slow and careful, watching Castiel unravel breath by breath; vulnerable and ripe.

Before, Dean would have simply pulled Castiel over his knees where he'd sat on the chair, yanked down his panties and beat his ass raw and red until Castiel was crying and writhing and begging for absolution, yowling promises of being a good Omega, pledging to be such a good slut, anything so long as Dean would just relent his assault.

Those times were made of mud, of the red, bloodied earth their kind had sprouted from; pure basal instinct and the clamour of need in their bones.

There was something pure about giving into the blood-song you shared with your ancestors and rising an Alpha over the trembling, supple form of a well-punished bitch.

They had to be more careful now though. Castiel couldn't take as much as he used to, as he wanted to, and Dean was always so mindful of his new delicateness, so cautious not to put any pressure on his belly, not to do anything to harm the precious life Castiel was growing for them.

Still he knew they'd both go more than a little bit insane if they stripped this outlet away entirely, if they robbed themselves of this kind of catharsis.

They just had to find a balance. Adapt.

“Since you know what you did wrong,” Dean said, brushing his fingers over Castiel's thighs, watching the muscles leap and startle under his touch, “and since you've been such a good little wife otherwise, you only get ten. But don't go thinking you can just zone out and it'll be over. I want you to count them out for me. Got it?”

“Yes, Dean.”

Satisfied, Dean seized Castiel's navy panties in one hand, using his grip on the material to hold Cas still and stop him from swaying.

The first blow was as always the lightest, a warning shot, but still Castiel shook with it, a half-strangled, open-mouthed mewl Castiel was trying to squash down breaking free because there was always so much in Cas' body; he could never find the room to hide his sounds as well.

“One!” Castiel shouted, jolting forward a little and gasping so prettily.

Dean brought his hand down again, harder this time and more precise in his aim as he swatted at the roundness of Castiel's cheeks, enjoying the way they juddered with the impact, his cock jerking in his pants in sympathy.

He knew it would be all too easy to lose himself to this, to let his mind drift and unlatch from the grounding hooks of inhibition and just lay into Castiel. To let those emancipated cries and whimpers shuttle them forward until they'd both debased into clawed, caustic wounds, open and snared by the ardour.

Tempting but impossible for now, so Dean paused and drew in slow air through his nostrils, listening to the harsh, slashed panting of Castiel's breath as the man struggled to keep it manageable and timing his own to match. Focus.

Dean could hear Castiel obeying his orders, could remember him listing off the numbers like he was bleeding with gratitude for each one, even as his voice broke over the most recent smack rattling up his spine.

Dean beamed with pride-such a good bitch he had.

He palmed Castiel's ass with harsh fingers and pushed him up, aiming his next blow on the under, more tender side of a cheek, enjoying the jolt of Castiel's body, every noise he made shooting directly to Dean's groin.

The smacks were alternated, because Dean really was feeling generous for all his quiet cruelty, and quickly ten had been delivered, leaving Castiel's skin flushed and smarting; pretty blotches of pink deepening at the centre where Castiel wore Dean's ownership as beautifully and proudly as the collar around his neck.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hushing Castiel's little whimpers, “There we go, all done.”

Dean rubbed Castiel's back and hips, waiting for the hiccups to sooth. He couldn't take his eyes off the reddened flesh, the sharp marks that matched his fingers perfectly.

Like a labourer, Dean was proud of his hands, of the work they welded, the mastery they could create. A sculptor whose most precious tools were his fingers, moulding the hard clay into something supple. Something wonderful.

Something like Cas.

Castiel looked back over his shoulder at Dean, eyes wet and wide, so much sincerity woven into the blue.

“Thank you, Dean,” he said.

Wonderful boy.

Dean smiled, leaning to kiss the bowl of his spine, the staircase of his bowed back, the freckles at his hips.

“Why do you need this?” Dean murmured, his breath hot and wet and formless at his lips, prickling over Castiel's skin and plucking out a shiver from his chest.

“Why do I have to punish you?”

A moan.

“Because-oh-Because I was bad and my behaviour needed to be corrected,” Castiel said, lust thickening his words. “Because I need to be a good boy for you.”

Fingers tiptoed up the bridge of Castiel's ribs, wandering around his torso to curl around the tender swell of blossoming breasts, catching themselves at the lace-chain of Cas' dress and discovering they could slip beneath.

Dean came closer, his body rising over an invisible hurdle to rest flush against Castiel's ass, rocking forward just barely.

His lips ghosted, now that they could, along the sweeping length of Castiel's neck to the thatches of hair at his nape, a touch of tongue to catch and cradle a stuttered gasp.

“Why else?”

The subtle slip of cloth and Dean's fingers found Castiel's nipples-perky little buds, sore and swollen and ready for milk.

Castiel's head tipped backwards like Dean had drawn tight a string, eyelashes fluttering, his voice collared where leather sat at his throat, shapeless sound strangled around ruined-whines.

Such a slutty bitch, a goddamn whore for the torture biting at his chest.

“Cas.” Dean pinched, irritation itching his veins, nails digging punishingly down into the tiny, aching peaks.

Castiel yelped.

“Why else?”

“Because I need putting in my place. N-need to be reminded what-ah- what I'm good for. What I am.”

Dean tried not to moan, forcing himself to swallow almost painfully, and squinted, as though narrowing his vision could trick him into concentration and away from fantasy, could coax him to see with his eyes and not his dick.

One hand trailed down Castiel's sternum and over the expanse of his pregnant belly, a soft roundness at this five month mark, and crept towards the nooks and jutting hiding spaces at his hipbones.

More kisses, pressed wet and open down towards the slope of a shoulder, lips braced over the silvery scar of a decade old mating.

Castiel rocked backwards, all his empty spaces moulding to Dean's shape and enveloping any distance between them with skin and heat, pressing as close as he could get without stripping himself to the bones.

“And what are you, Cas?” Brittle words, rough and wanting.

“I'm an Omega. I'm a good bitch and I should act like it.” Castiel said, his lips stumbling around the words, squirming impatiently to get what he wanted.

Dean couldn't hold back the groan this time.

Hundreds, thousands of times they'd done this, Castiel repeating those words like an oath, a pledge, and still the words got to him like hot lashes on bare skin.

Still the words were new.

Dangerous.
[ Part 2- split for length]