SPN FIC- DISLOCATED ROOM, PART 1/2
Title: Dislocated Room
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Word Count: 12,467
Summary: Turned out Dean wasn't quite so unaffected by Famine after all.
Warnings: D/s, bondage, dirty talk, spanking, possible dub-con (due to Famine's influence).
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Nothing.
A/N: Thank you to Ali for the beta clean-up.
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When Dean woke today it was in a familiar sweat. One side of the bed cold, the sheets twisted and damp, and the lingering howls of violent dreams clinging to the edges of a murky mind, like little seeds of impending alcoholism, just biding their time.
When Dean woke today, it was much the same as it had been everyday for the past year, maybe the past twenty, and nothing was different, just the same lather, rinse, try not to die, repeat. Sam still snored on in the bed next to his own and the world was still burning outside. An apocalypse raging on around ignorant ears, and nothing had changed.
Nothing obvious had changed.
Dean was pretty sure he was the only one who could actually identify the little signals and shifts, the polarised tension that coiled through the air, but then he knew what he was looking for. It was hard to miss, to his own eyes and ears, but the world around them hadn't heard; too busy trying not to collapse, to not fold in on itself.
From what Dean could tell, not even Sam knew what was going on-hadn't noticed the twist in atmosphere, the gradual changes between him and a certain angel of the Lord-but then the guy was pretty much focused on trying to curb his own addictions. He couldn't be expected to watch out for Dean's as well.
Dean didn't blame him; he blamed him for too much already to be adding that to list now. He kept trying and trying, almost desperately to shovel these issues with his brother under fragile layers of denial and refusal, but they were insistent little bastards and every time one went under, another cracked back through.
This time, Sam not being aware of what was going on around him was a blessing, or would have been if the term had any credit left whatsoever. From where Dean stood that was pretty freaking laughable.
Maybe once he might have cared about being smote on the spot but if there had ever truly been a God, he'd stopped listening, stopped caring a long time ago and blessings were definitely out of the question. They were on their own here.
Besides, for puppets on the end of cursed strings they'd been pretty subtle. Dean knew how to lie, how to deceive like any Winchester worth his salt and Castiel wouldn't tell because he saw no reason to. No, this wasn't something they talked about. This was all about action.
Castiel had never been talkative anyway, and less so about this topic. The only words used between them here were short things; crude and frank, tarnished and absolute, told in tones of commands or pleas and they were used sparingly.
That was fine. It only took a single word to get Castiel to his side anyway and Dean wasn't conservative about using it. Not anymore.
Not since Famine.
“Castiel.”
It was that simple, and Dean only had time to step up to their motel room window, draw together the old and stained-with hell-knows-what curtains and return to the bed before he heard the tell-tale buffering of air; tired wings whispering of Castiel's arrival.
When he looked up he could see the weariness in Castiel's eyes, the exhaustion in the sag of his shoulders, in the vessel that was getting just a little too heavy to wear.
He'd plucked Castiel right from the middle of his God-search but where else would he have been pulling him from these days? It was probably pretty fucked up that he'd stolen him away from his mission for this, but Dean had gotten used to fucked up. There wasn't much left here that wasn't.
Besides, Castiel needed this just as much as he did, needed it to distract him, to revive him, hell, for all Dean knew, maybe Castiel found new inspiration in the hard press of his body, in the flavours of suffering. Maybe Castiel sought hope in punishment.
That wouldn't have surprised him. All of that home-grown, heavenly taste for self-flagellation and all those miles of open, vulnerable trust had to go somewhere right? It just so happened that somehow it had ended up in Dean's blistered hands.
Castiel didn't greet him, didn't bother with coy words or games of pretend, didn't even consider asking if Dean had brought him here for a case, a lead.
They'd done this enough times now for Castiel to recognise the set-up, the tone in Dean's voice, and there weren't many other things that a dark, empty motel room pointed towards.
Castiel very, very rarely got this wrong and Dean was always there to correct him if he did.
This time there was nothing wrong and Castiel just stared at him; wide eyes bright with shaded anticipation edging into relief, just waiting for Dean to come along and cut the noose from around his throat.
He stood and he was like clay; a fresh, unblemished canvas every time. Sometimes Dean missed the permanency but other times this was what he liked the best. Castiel stood and he shone like opportunity, like an openness Dean had never had in the steel walls of an outlined-future, of an angel-lead fate.
Maybe a part of him liked that it was an angel at the end of his decisions now or maybe he just liked that it was Cas. Most days he didn't look too closely and the days that he did were quickly drowned out in the twinge of cheap liquor because it was rare Dean ever found answers he liked. That was fine. Not knowing had charms of its own.
“Come here,” Dean murmured.
A few weeks ago he'd have been mortified by his own tone, by the low cadence of arrogance, by the fact he was ordering around an Angel of the Lord-his friend-but a lot had changed in those few weeks and he'd done much, much worse to that same angel.
That angel had begged, wept for more.
It had taken a while but Dean had learned this wasn't so much a theft as an exchange. He hadn't stolen control from Castiel; he'd swapped it for a variety of freedom only found in the fibres of thick ropes, a mutual kind of pain-relief they could share for a handful of cheated minutes at a time.
This had never been their choice but somehow it had warped itself into the only thing dragging them through the sludgy waters of a new day. Somehow, this had become peace time in the midst of a war. The leftover worries and hatred were saved for later when they could fester nicely with the rest of Dean's defects.
For now, he simply watched.
If he squinted hard enough, Dean thought he could see the tension sloughing off from Castiel's body, peeling away in slow layers like flecks of curling paint as he obeyed, sinking down to grateful knees with a practised ease and crawling forward to a halt at Dean's feet.
Castiel found himself in this position often lately. Dean liked him there and Castiel liked to be there and they were both damaged enough to not care to bother analysing the whys of that. Dean was content to simply feel and Cas always seemed so excited to get to feel anything that wasn't dread, that wasn't dulled by a vacuum. Perhaps he found it nice to pretend. Dean had never asked.
They were still new enough at this that there weren't all that many solid rules, just hazy guidelines and ever-changing limits that Dean liked to find and crack open because he'd learnt to savour the taste of this under Alistair's care and Famine had never paused long enough to teach him how to handle it like a human.
He'd clawed himself up as high as he could, and he was pretty positive there was something ironic in that Castiel, the weight of him with all of his charred temptations and bludgeoned guilt, was the one dragging Dean down again. That Castiel, the being who had lifted him so far from the fangs and claws of Hell's maw, made him feel like he was going under again, like he was drowning.
Still, they tried to stay afloat, and sometimes at night Dean found himself dreaming in maybes that told him that whatever these secrets were, they were worth keeping, worth protecting and quietly cherishing.
At the start though, those first few days, things were different. Dean hadn't cared about possibilities or maybes, hadn't spared reason a passing glance. All he'd cared about, all he could concentrate on, was the violent, livid urge to take.
He'd managed to convince Sam, and even Castiel, that he hadn't been affected. That he'd somehow developed immunity to a horseman despite the force of the goddamn apocalypse behind him, even while everyone around him was debasing into ruthless desire like free crack at a rehab centre.
Amazingly, the show had been good enough that they'd bought it.
Then again Dean had become kind of a professional at this. He'd been putting on these same airs for long, excruciating months and keeping the uglier parts of himself hidden from anything interested enough to look his way was close to second nature now.
He knew how to sell this lie. Hell, lies were his only ally then because it sure as hell wasn't burgers or strippers he'd been jonesing for. Dean was actually kind of relieved that there was decency enough left in him to want to protect Castiel from this but that kind of hubris could easily have been selfishness in disguise.
He hadn't been able to find an option that lead to truth though, couldn't think of a way to get through this without warping reality, because how was he supposed explain exactly what kind of decayed cravings roiled in him? What fidgeted like fireants under his flesh?
How was he supposed to look his brother in the eye and tell him what he hungered for wasn't something anywhere near as simple, as innocuous as demon blood. That the images assaulting his mind were shaded in cravings and fantasies of forcing an angel to his knees and watching him bow over in pretty shades of submission, watching him take all the filth and the rot Dean wanted to sling at him and then thank him for it afterwards?
How was he supposed to say those words and feel the throb of truth that told him Famine didn't create need, only amplified it. How was he supposed to accept this as him? That this was what he wanted?
The answers was found in simple negatives and so he'd lied-pretended and shrugged off all concerned queries and doubtful, probing eyes, and he'd done it like a pro.
But everyone had a breaking point.
It was almost tragic how easy it had been. Sam was out and he'd been left alone with Cas, much like they were now, only unlike now, the hoard of all the scenarios and possibilities Dean wanted to act out over the scope of Castiel's body weren't just mingling distantly, comfortably in the back of his mind.
They were a barrage-all consuming, deafening, itches that screamed, roared at him to scratch, to bite, to give in-and it got so loud that Dean was left wondering why he was even saying no, when saying yes would be so much more rewarding.
At first, when the usual background-buzz of these wants had begun to gain volume, he'd thought it was just remnants of all the hell-bred poisonous desires Alistair had carved out of him, mangled and twisted into something more human and about a hundred times more confusing.
It was easier to point fingers and cast blame, to consider it external, but Famine only existed inside and by the time they'd figured that out, it was far, far too late.
It had been whirring and winding inside of him like a fever, his insides feeling molten with it, the air choking him when he tried to breathe it, his sight fooling him whenever he opened his eyes. It'd only built up, gained in power, leaving him fragile and overwhelmed. It was all too close to Hell-only this time, Dean was much quicker to break.
Castiel had shifted just a little closer, a frown creasing on his forehead and worry in his eyes as he asked if Dean was okay and that had been fucking it.
Dean had snapped, and then nothing was held back anymore. He'd stormed across the room in seconds, pushing Castiel against the wall, a hand fisted in wild hair that was manipulated to yank his head back, exposing a long line of neck Dean couldn't stop to admire because he was too busy biting down onto the pink swell of slack, shocked lips.
He'd been expecting one hell of a smiting, or at least a broken nose, but Castiel had surprised him as well, had arched into it
and moaned-all sweet virgin eagerness and innate instincts to serve and please blooming over his skin in pretty blushes that Dean soon learned how to create at will.
It turned out burgers weren't the only thing Castiel had been craving either.
They wanted hurt and they wanted control, each in different flavours, in different ways. Castiel wanted sacrifice where Dean wanted gain. Castiel needed to suffer and Dean needed to inflict, and Famine had preyed on every little singed, secret corner of their psyches, flaying them raw and open for buzzards to pick apart.
There hadn't been time to think or consider why Castiel wanted this, to decode what could possibly mangle an angel so far past recognisable that he'd ended up craving punishments at the end of Dean's instruments, that he wanted the orders falling from Dean's mouth.
Everything had quickly bled away into nonsense and need, and Dean hadn't understood how they'd gotten there but he'd had Castiel bound in crude knots, on his knees with a cock shoved so far down his throat it robbed him of the breath he'd never needed, and Dean had rapidly stopped caring.
He could see the unoccupied dips and cracks free will had left in Castiel, imagined he could see tender, broken skin where he'd been ripped from heaven's womb and told to fly without his wings.
He'd been free-falling, spun off orbit and these orders kept him balanced, these commands gave him purpose again, if only for a short while. Castiel craved to be useful and he could satisfy that under Dean, could lose himself in the shelter of his vessel and float again, could stop and remember what it felt like to be sure.
Or at least that's what Dean had deciphered from his close study of Castiel's responses, from the way he'd curve and unwind into something soft and malleable and almost happy under Dean's touches, in the gentle way his voice could sigh while Dean hissed filth into his ears. In the way he looked at Dean like he was an answer instead of a question.
Dean wasn't fluent in the language of this body, but more and more he found himself wanting to be, wanting to know the words carved out in sweat over his skin.
Even now, without Famine, he was addicted. It should have scared him that he wasn't scared, but he'd stopped finding fear in the scant inches between their bodies weeks ago. Dean only found quietness here. Even when the air around them crackled with howls and screams, it was calm.
He couldn't tell even now how they'd managed to pull themselves together out of the mottled tangle of the narcotics in their bodies long enough to gank Famine, but they had, eventually. They'd won, like they always had to win, and Famine's spell had dispersed into the wind.
And that should have been all she wrote.
It should have been the last of it, the last time Dean would have ever gotten to watch Castiel's body bend in formless undulations underneath him, to hear him gasp and moan in pain that sounded too pleasured to be called any kind of real suffering, but still every flavour or pure agony.
It should have been the last time their bodies would writhe together and the last time they'd get to see each other break apart.
It should have been, but of course, it wasn't.
Regret was a strange thing, and longing stranger still, and to be ensnared in both was practically fatal. They'd barely lasted half a week after killing Famine before they were falling into each other again and Dean was letting himself draw Castiel back into undeserving sheets.
It couldn't have been anything less than a mistake but Dean was no stranger to mistakes, and they'd never been so sweet.
That had been weeks ago, maybe months, and since then they'd settled into something small and fragile, but already Dean could feel it throb inside of him; vital and constant.
He'd begun to notice that the air grew too thick, too stodgy to breathe when he wasn't with Castiel, that he felt asphyxiated by reality, and that whenever they could find these spare, bruised moments, the weight on his lungs subsided and breath came easier again.
It terrified him, just how dependent he was on this already, how vulnerable it had left him but he'd look over to Cas where he lay pretending to sleep next to his exhausted body in the after times and realise that Castiel hadn't abandoned him at this precipice.
He'd taken his hand and stood there with him, ready to fall.
He still didn't know if this would save them or ruin them, but something in him incinerated every time Castiel let himself fall a notch deeper into debasement, let Dean take away each burden of control until the only responsibility Castiel had left was to simply obey.
All Dean had to do was give the order.
He was free to take now, and Castiel was already here, so Dean reached out with steady fingers and cupped his jaw, so grateful that he could even do this, that Castiel just pressed into his touch and let him, like he was worth it, like this wasn't all selfish games and welted addictions.
Like Castiel wanted to be here, not because it helped him survive the next day, but because surviving the next day meant he could be here.
Dean watched Castiel nuzzle against his fingers, a small smile on his face at how easy this appeared on the surface, at how simple it was to pretend. It was only the vindictive hisses in his mind that told him the truth; this could never be easy, but sometimes it came close.
“Are you wearing it?” Dean asked, hearing the rough metre of his own voice, the way it had already lilted down into something solid and dangerous.
Once in a sprained moment when they were still sweaty and panting, relaxed and floating on enough endorphins to actually speak, Castiel had told him in languid, ruined words that he liked that sound, liked to hear Dean's voice this way. Dean had smiled and thought much the same thing.
Castiel nodded against his hand, a light, pretty flush spreading pink across his cheeks as his eyes flickered to the floor, away from Dean's.
It was interesting to see how Castiel interacted with his vessel like this-how bewildered and almost irritated he seemed whenever it acted out around him without his consent. At the start he'd get flustered, almost panicked whenever he realised just how easy it was for Dean to read the codes and hints crafted into his skin, to find the buttons to press.
Even then he hadn't tried to hide his reactions from Dean. He'd never been taught or allowed to conceal, and embarrassment was never his own-just muscle memory. Castiel's responses were quiet in sound, but loud in colour and Dean loved that about him.
“Show me,” Dean told him, pleased as the rosy shades darkened to red over Castiel's face. Castiel curled in on himself instinctively, his head wanting to duck down but Dean held it up, held it firm, didn't let him hide.
This wasn't embarrassment, wasn't shyness but still Dean could see that Castiel wanted to shrink away,like he wished he could deny Dean even when he couldn't find it in him to.
Castiel only acted like that when he knew he'd done something wrong.
Dean's eyes narrowed.
He watched Castiel's Adam’s apple bob in his throat, almost like nerves, but then Castiel was standing anyway because he'd never refused Dean inside their secret walls and today was no different.
Dean stepped to the side, giving Castiel room, and then his clothes were gone-mojoed away to God only knew where. Castiel may have been falling but he had enough juice in him left to not have to undress and deal with buttons like a commoner.
Dean couldn't say he didn't appreciate it; not when six foot of smooth, unmarred skin was exposed like fresh, crisp parchment in front of him, the dips and lines of lithe, strong muscles flexing in temptations as Castiel shuffled forward to the bed.
He bent over, not needing specificity to obey; Dean had programmed this into him and Castiel had always been a fast study. Quickly his legs were spread, his upper body flat against the scratchy sheets, the pert swell of his ass pushed up to reveal the thick, black plug keeping his hole open and full.
Dean hummed, satisfied by the sight, something bright and antsy biting in his veins with fresh ideas he'd never dare to breathe, never mind carry out, though he was sure Castiel would let him.
It would have been so easy and Dean wanted so badly, Dean wanted-to take Castiel apart into pieces, into the most reduced, bare molecules, to watch him break into everything soiled and human his brothers scoffed and sneered at. Wanted to remind him exactly why sin was the better option.
There was something off-grey in Dean that craved to swell up and consume Castiel entirely. To prod around and dissect and tear, to inspect the ooze that bubbled out and coax him into ruin, and he knew if this was Hell, someone would have already been close to bleeding out.
But this wasn't Hell and Dean wasn't that creature, and the pain he wanted to inspire in Castiel could only be limited to pleasure. Had to be.
That was okay too. He could work with that.
The base of the plug was firm in his fingers when Dean reached for it, but Castiel only tensed for a moment before he was melting in liquids into the bedsheets; moaning and mewling prettily as Dean absently twisted the toy into his slick hole.
He was always so quick to unravel, so sensitive, like a single mass of endless nerve endings-electrified and burning, waiting to catch alight like tiny little trip wires.
Dean constantly found himself fascinated, observing as each level of sobriety was shed, leaving Castiel a mess of want and too much sensation, so unused to feeling, so overwhelmed by it, lost in an ocean of chemicals and hormones he couldn't hope to understand.
It was beautiful, but Dean couldn't be paid enough to admit that out loud. So he simply watched.
Watching wasn't quite so lethal.
“Did you touch yourself today?” Dean asked, his voice little more than guttural now, “Did you touch this pretty little cock, thinking about all that fake dick shoved inside your hole?”
His words were dirty, but Castiel moaned with them; liking the pitch, maybe, or the intent. The obscenities Dean liked to hurl around were worthless, inane on their own but Dean was quickly learning that with the right timing, the right tone, words could be daggers designed to pick Castiel apart and he strove to become a master in wielding them.
Castiel gasped, his hands twisting into the bed covers with white knuckles as Dean began fucking the toy into his body. Dean could see the clenching and tensing of his thigh muscles, of where he was struggling not to thrust back, not to buck down.
He didn't actually move though, because Castiel took orders like they were the whole reason for his existence, like it was all he could think to serve and somehow he'd chosen to serve Dean.
“N-no sir,” Castiel stuttered, and Dean was inclined to believe him, because it was true that once he'd been introduced to pleasure to sex, Castiel had indeed become quite the slut, but he was an obedient slut and Dean trusted him. Mostly.
Still, there was something hidden in his words, a stutter that sounded just a little too uncertain, that didn't quite sound like truth.
“Cas,” Dean said, for all the world like a chastising parent, his hand pausing over Castiel's hole, “What did you do?”
There was a whine then, something high and miserable and Castiel's face was pressing against the sheets in shame, like he wanted to crawl into them and never resurface, and Dean was trying very, very hard to not find it cute.
He had his suspicions it could be traced to balled up guilt stored from rebelling against the only home he'd known, but Castiel took disobedience very seriously. He relied on Dean to maintain the shaky order they'd begun to build, needed the security of it and basked in the frayed sort of safety offered with knowing it was all out of his hands.
Dean could provide that for him, and in return, he got something similar. Some kind of balance.
Castiel's back arched in guilty shapes, as though he was trying to get away from the truth. Dean could hear him babbling into the pillows but he had to strain to make out the words, to decrypt the rushed stream of them.
“-didn't intend to...I only sat to rest a moment, and I could...feel it and it was so good and I couldn't-”
“What did you do, Cas?” Dean asked again, cutting off his rambling because for all Castiel preferred to stay quiet, to just observe outside of the bedroom, Dean had found that inside, once he'd started his words had a tendency to run away from him, to shelter and expose him all at once.
The atmosphere crackled with static tension, like the beat before a sentencing was delivered and Dean heard Castiel inhale, shakily and slow. He seemed so stiff Dean was afraid to touch him for fear he'd snap in two.
“I...played with myself. With m-my hole.” Castiel admitted in a stumbled rush, and Dean had to bite down on his lip to stifle the responding moan.
Heat flared in him with the admission, pooling in the lowest parts of his stomach as mental images flashed across his eyes; his imagination supplying how Castiel would look, flushed with shame and pleasure as he reached between spread legs, so taken over by the new sensations that he just had to touch.
Dean clenched his fists tight and it was all he could do not to yank the plug out, hold Castiel down and fuck right into his needy little ass, intoxicated by the pictures Castiel was painting for him. But he knew Castiel had broken the rules, and he had to do something about it.
Taking a breath, Dean nodded to himself, leaving Castiel to twitch and squirm under the weight of the silence, leaving him to his thoughts, to whatever restless mess his anxiousness was riling him up into.
He crossed the room to retrieve his duffle bag, only having to search inside for a few seconds before pulling out the hemp coils of his prize. He wanted to keep Castiel in place for this.
No ropes, no restrains outside a circle of holy fire could ever really hold Castiel down, but maybe Dean liked it for that reason, for the reminder that Castiel was only here because he chose to be, because he liked the pretense of being trapped, of being made to take it.
Dean knew somehow that he didn't need to tie Castiel down, that the angel would have stayed exactly where he put him regardless, but Castiel made it so simple for him to take what he wanted, and he wanted this.
“Hands behind your back,” Dean ordered, watching Castiel hastily comply.
He seemed almost relieved with the gift of something so easy, something he could understand, a clearer communication. Castiel understood commands like a normal person understood language, like they were his mother tongue.
Dean moved back to him then, kneeling at the edge of the bed, and he could almost hear the cogs whirring away in Cas' skull but he decided he could let him wonder a little longer. Curiosity looked pretty on him but anticipation was prettier still.
He picked up Castiel's deceptively delicate-looking wrist from where it was clasped at the small of his back and began looping the rope-scratchy, certainly, but convenient-around the bones in simple, crass ties.
Dean pulled tight, watching the skin pinch. There would be bruises there later, burns, but they'd soon fade again. Castiel's grace didn't allow for anything long term and Dean knew he could take much more than this.
He felt almost dizzy with desire as Castiel fidgeted in his new bonds, the friction already drawing out light pink dents around his wrists, and Dean's vision faltered for a moment, even as he found some peace, some relief in the simple act of binding.
He couldn't risk getting tangled in it though, so he forced himself into action when he only wanted to linger and toy with the bonds a little more, instead tying them off in square knots and letting Castiel test the give.
Dean lacked the resources and the patience right then to attempt to form anything impressive or extravagant, and settled on practicality instead. He was too drunk with the rush of power and security to mess around with flare, strung between feeling like he could topple out of control and being firmly in control, entirely baffled by the difference.
Castiel was confusing and this thing between them was complex, maddening, but Dean couldn't stop. He didn't want to.
“You've been very bad, Cas,” Dean said, running his fingertips over the rough bumps of the rope, deciding he was satisfied with their hold, with the illusion of fragility Castiel made. “You know I have to punish you.”
Castiel nodded, a sigh that seemed too glad to be rational passing between his lips, a slight sheen of what could have been either want or soft fear building over the long promises of touchable skin, tempting Dean. All of it tempting him.
“Yes, sir.”
Dean sucked his bottom lip into his mouth in thought, absently drawing circles over Castiel's back as he considered what was appropriate, as if there was any real method, any reason to this.
“Thirty slaps on each side,” Dean said, straightening up as if to match the authority delivered with his verdict, “Twenty on your hole.”
Castiel whimpered pathetically but nodded and it was so relieving to have his judgement so readily accepted that Dean wondered how he hadn't let all of this power go to his head yet. Then, maybe he had.
Spanking wasn't the worst form of punishment they'd experienced together, though, or the worst form of anything, really.
Dean dealt in much harder tones than these, in the times when he felt like dismantling Castiel piece by piece, the times where Castiel wanted to feel himself slowly crack open until he broke.
These simpler, baser pains helped remind Castiel of the rules, though, brought soft shades of humiliation and hurt that Dean could appreciate the sight of.
Besides, there was something rewarding about the touches to pliable flesh, in beating it into submission where once not so long ago it was immovable and destructive. Dean had broken his hand trying to move Castiel once. Now, he swayed naturally in his hands.
Castiel always gave in, always yielded, no matter how much he took, and Dean hadn't yet found anything he'd say no to.
Castiel had never been taught to say no.
Dean wanted to keep digging anyway; wanted to reach inside with entitled fingers and pull the mass of whatever made Castiel tick apart, to inspect the remains until he'd found the stop button, until he'd reached the edge.
How far he could take it seemed to be measured in years not space, but Dean didn't know for sure he'd give this up when they got to that point. He liked to think he would.
Castiel shivered minutely when Dean placed his fingers on his back; fanned out and steadying, restraining and guiding in that way that came all too instinctive in here. Dean could see the goosebumps pebbling over his flesh and he decided they were pretty.
Castiel's cheek was pressed against coarse cotton that would scratch if he moved, just as the ropes would burn with too much rubbing. He was in somewhat of a rut, but it was a place he wanted to be and Dean was more than happy to play host.
Smoothing his hand over the roundness of Castiel's ass, Dean let him wonder only for a few seconds before he was bringing the flats of his fingers down against the skin, a warning shot over the fleshier parts. Then the time for waiting, for playing around was quickly over and Dean saw Castiel bite his lip, close his eyes, and then he was gone.
The slaps came down quickly, the hard clash of skin on skin raining down in strikes that rapidly gained intensity, gained force, because Dean liked the sound of a harsher clash, and Castiel responded more loudly to a sting than a thud.
If Dean was ever tempted to blame all of this on Famine, to hold his hands up and plead complete innocence, there was no way he'd get away with it right now. It was never Famine that made Dean want to see Castiel squirm, to hear him beg. He'd only set the wheels in motion.
Sometimes, secretly, Dean thought maybe he owed Famine a drink.
( Next)