Freedom is a Length of Rope (Dean/Cas NC-17)
Summary: BDSM isn't an easy thing to negotiate, especially for two guys who kind of suck at talking about their feelings and who have more baggage between them than an airport on Christmas Eve. But, little by little, they figure it out.
Contains: bondage, masochist!Cas, sub!Dean, dom!Cas, references to Hell
For Sunny.
Author's Note/Disclaimer/Warning: [spoilers for fic]Some of the bondage techniques described in this fic would be highly irresponsible if applied to a non-angel. Rope that is too narrow, tied too tightly or with the wrong knots, wrapped in too few coils, or left on for too long can cause serious injury of the non-sexy variety. As can removing said rope with a pocket knife. Do your research and invest in some safety scissors.
This fic contains a failure to communicate that might be interpreted as dub-con. If you think this might trigger you, please don't read. Feel free to PM me with questions.
-----
Dean recognizes the rope when Cas holds it hesitantly out to him. It's the cheap, stiff-fiber, fraying, filthy, convenience store rope that Dean keeps deep in the trunk of the Impala. It usually sits in a tangled heap, but Cas has straightened out each strand and wrapped them neatly so they fall from his hand in even coils. He looks at Dean like he expects him to know what to do.
"I thought we were…" Dean says, trailing off as he gestures to himself and Cas. His shirt and Cas's tie and coats are on the ground, forming a trail from the hotel room door to the edge of the bed. Dean's fly is unzipped and his jeans are pushed low on his hips; Cas's shirt is unbuttoned and hanging loosely off one shoulder. Dean's dick had been straining against his boxers a moment ago, but now the pressure lessens as he tries to figure out how the night - which had been progressing encouragingly toward sex - got off track.
"Yes, I still want…" Cas replies, just as awkwardly. He swallows visibly as he sticks his hand out farther, and Dean takes the rope from him hesitantly. "Dean," says Cas, his eyes rising from the floor to Dean's face, bashfulness being overcome by excitement, "Would you tie me up?"
Cas doesn't miss the way Dean's hand tightens on the coiled rope.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," he's quick to add, "I recognize that you might…"
"Sure, babe!" Dean blurts out before Cas can bring up any of the horrifying reasons why Dean might have bad associations with bondage. He hopes his smile is convincing as he says, "I didn't know you were into that shit."
"It… interests me," Cas mumbles as Dean presses his fingertips to Cas's chest, pushing him down and backwards until he's forced to sit on the edge of the bed.
Dean's hand lingers there, knuckles brushing against Cas's skin, until he finally uses it to slide Cas's shirt the rest of the way off and toss it aside. "Hey, I'll try anything once," he says. When he kisses Cas, the push of his lips laying them both down on the dubiously clean comforter, the slide of Cas's tongue on the inside of his lips almost lets him forget the rope he's still holding clenched in his fist.
Cas reminds him by wiggling his way out from under Dean, positioning himself against the headboard, and holding his wrists out eagerly.
"Huh," Dean not-quite-laughs as he plays out a length of rope, "How are we gonna do this?"
"Any way you like," says Cas so submissively and so intensely that Dean is simultaneously terrified and turned the fuck on.
It's no big deal, he tells himself as he wraps the rope around Cas's left wrist. A little bit of bondage is like peach sherbet: practically vanilla. Nothing like the chains and shackles and barbed wire and… that he once used in Hell. Things don't have to get weird. Just keep it simple.
He throws a knot down and gently pulls out the slack.
"Tighter," Cas requests. Dean obliges. "Tighter," Cas says again, his eyes lighting up at the way the rope is digging into his skin. Dean cinches the knot down until Cas is satisfied, and puts another throw on top of it to hold it in place.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Dean asks. Cas still looks pleased as he admires Dean's handiwork, but Dean can feel his stomach turning from the way Cas's skin puckers between every twist of the rope as if it's being crushed and pinched.
Cas just smiles. "You can't hurt me, Dean," he promises. That doesn't reassure Dean as much as it should.
Three half-hitches secures Cas's wrist to one side of the headboard. Another square knot and another hitch-and-a-half does the same for the other wrist. And while Dean still isn't exactly thrilled with how he can already see the beginnings of bruises under the rope, he has to admit that Cas looks good all spread out for him.
Besides, Cas is still smiling. Maybe the bonds aren't as tight as they look. Maybe Dean is just overreacting. No need to ruin the moment.
Dean leans down to kiss his way tenderly across Cas's neck. He lets his lips find the furrow between muscles that makes Cas shiver and lean into his touch. It only takes a few seconds before Cas is hooking his knees over Dean's hips, locking his ankles behind Dean's back to pull them together and rub up against him through the barrier of their pants.
"Teeth," Cas whispers.
"Sorry," says Dean, kissing him even more gently than before.
"No," Cas groans, frustrated, "Use your teeth."
Cas is always like this when things start to get hot and heavy: always more, always faster, always now, like Dean is a drug he can't get enough of. And Dean can't deny Cas anything, so he opens his mouth and bites.
"Harder," Cas says almost immediately, his voice going all breathy and his legs tightening around Dean's waist.
Dean lets his teeth sink into the soft, stubble-dotted flesh and is rewarded with a stuttering moan from Cas. A little harder, and Cas gasps in ecstasy as his body begins to shake. And Dean can understand enjoying a little love-nip but that's not what this is, not anymore. Now it's an experiment to see how tight he can clench his jaw, digging his canines millimeter by millimeter into the thick part of the muscle to one side of Cas's neck, waiting to see how much pressure it takes before Cas admits that it hurts. Because it must hurt by now. It must.
But no matter how hard Dean bites, even when he's sure he's about to draw blood, Cas just keeps sobbing out, "Yes, yes, yes, Dean, yes!" while his cock grows so hard that Dean can feel it pressing through both of their pants. His arms flex as if he'd like to be running his hands over every inch of Dean that he could reach, gripping Dean's hair to pull him closer and deeper, but the bonds hold and all his pulling manages to accomplish is to cinch the knots over his wrists even tighter.
When Dean gives up and pulls away, there is a perfect set of tooth-marks in two deep crescents on Cas's neck. Dean watches. The marks are blanched white at first, but within seconds they turn a troubling shade of red.
Cas turns his head, hiding the marks and exposing the other side of his neck. "Again," he moans.
"Easy, tiger," Dean replies, "We're just getting warmed up." He moves down Cas's body - easier said than done with Cas's heels still digging into the small of his back- and laps at the freckle just beside his right nipple. As he slides his mouth over to the nipple itself, flicking his tongue against it until it starts to get firm, he loosens Cas's pants and works them down over his hips.
Cas seems satisfied with this, or at least he stops begging Dean for more as he leans back and relaxes into the soft touch of Dean's lips and tongue. He even lets his legs fall back down to the mattress so Dean can get his pants the rest of the way off. Dean wriggles out of his own pants, and the two of them give a simultaneous sigh at the indulgent pleasure of skin flush against bare skin.
"Did you bring lube?" Dean says.
Cas nods. "Side zipper of your bag. By the door."
Dean can feel Cas's eyes on him as he makes the quick trip across the room to retrieve the bottle of lube. On his way back Cas catches his gaze, and then flicks his eyes down to the ground. Dean follows the line of sight until he figures out what Cas is hinting at. There's one more coil of rope left on the floor.
Cas crosses his legs at the ankles and holds them up expectantly. And once again, Dean can't deny him. He scoops up the rope from the floor and loops it in a figure-eight around Cas's ankles, but this time he manages to tie it off nice and loose before Cas can object. He's left holding Cas's bound legs slightly off the bed, wondering what to do with them. He answers his own question a second later when he notices the bar running across the top of the headboard. Well, he needs access to Cas's backside anyway, and he can't exactly flip him over as long as his arms are still tied spread-eagled, so…
There's a long tail of rope running from the knot at Cas's ankles. Dean loops it over that bar and pulls on the free end, levering Cas's legs up until he's almost folded in half and his ass is sticking out attractively. Cas practically purrs with approval at the new position.
Cas is always open and eager. It seems like he can usually take two of Dean's fingers right off the bat with no trouble. But this time, tied almost upside-down with his legs in an uncomfortable stretch, Dean can tell that it's hard for him to relax. Dean lubes up and starts with one finger, only adding a second when he sees Cas's legs bend, the muscles going slack, and feels the tight ring of his ass begin to loosen.
"Give me more," Cas pants, "I can take it."
Dean kisses the backs of Cas's knees one by one as he continues to slowly work him open. "Patience, young Padawan," he says with a grin.
Cas's next groan is frustrated instead of needy. "Dean…" he says flatly.
"Sorry, sorry," Dean laughs, wincing, "Forgot the rules. 'No quoting Star Wars while I'm inside you.'"
"Thank you," says Cas, still sounding miffed. Then, when Dean pours more lube onto his hand and slides a third finger in beside the first two, he repeats more enthusiastically, "Thank you…"
Dean doesn't make Cas wait much longer before he replaces his fingers with his cock and thrusts his way inside with one easy motion. All three ropes creak as Cas yanks on them, his arms and legs constricting with the intensity of his pleasure. He's past making demands or even begging. All he can do is grip the ropes running from his wrists, shake with each motion of Dean's hips, and moan over and over, "Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean…"
Trying not to break the rhythm of his thrusts, Dean leans forward and unties the rope attaching Cas's feet to the headboard. He keeps a hold on the rope, slowly lowering Cas's bound legs until they are resting on his shoulder. That's better. Cas had seemed to enjoy having his body forced into the awkward position, but Dean would rather have a good look at Cas's face.
This is what Dean loves best about fucking Cas: not the tight, slick warmth enveloping him (although that's pretty awesome too), but the look on Cas's face when Dean finds just the right angle at just the right speed. Cas's eyes are closed, his mouth open, the hollows over his collarbones disappearing and reappearing as every muscle in his body responds to Dean's movements. He's quieter now that he's close to coming. Little whimpers bubble up from his throat, occasionally interrupted by a long, shuddering groan. He looks at once beautifully serene and utterly wrecked, and it does things to Dean to know that he is the cause of that.
Even Cas's arms are flexing and relaxing over and over - not fighting his bonds, but constantly reminding himself that they're there. Dean lets his eyes wander along the curve of Cas's shoulder, over his bicep, into the crook of his elbow, up his forearm to where the rope encircles his wrist.
Fuck.
Dean's rhythm falters as his heart drops into his stomach. Cas's bonds were tight before, but now the skin around them has swollen up and the rope is almost completely buried. His hands aren't gripping the rope anymore; they're hanging limp, and they look puffy and dark.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"Don't stop!" Cas moans out from underneath him, but Dean couldn't keep going even if he wanted to. His dick is already half-soft, all hint of arousal fading fast. He ignores Cas's complaints and pulls out.
He's actually muttering it out loud now - "Fuck. Fuck." - as he unties the rope from the headboard and moves Cas's hands into his lap. Cas can see how awful they look now, but he doesn't seem concerned.
"Please, Dean," he says, "I'm fine."
Dean is already running for his coat and fishing out the pocket knife he always keeps there. The ropes have pulled themselves so tight and sunk so deep into skin that he has no hope of loosening the knots. He'll have to cut them off. "Why didn't you say something?" Dean demands as he returns to the bed and starts carefully slicing away at the exposed part of the rope, fiber by fiber.
"I'm fine," Cas says again. And if Dean couldn't feel how stiff and cold his hands are, he might believe him. Cas's breath is still shallow with arousal, his cheeks still pink and his eyes still dilated. His dick is still hard. Hell, Dean thinks it might even be getting harder now that there's a blade against his skin, the stupid kinky bastard.
When the last fiber of the rope is cut, Dean peels it out of the impression it has made in Cas's wrist. The skin underneath is deeply bruised and oozing, rubbed raw until it's just shy of bleeding, and Dean can feel the resistance as each twist of the rope pops free. Suddenly, Cas's eyes fly wide open and he doubles over, curling his body around his hand and letting out an awful, choking sob.
Dean remembers a night spent on a stakeout when he was fourteen years old. It had been a miserable, sleeting, cold night, and he had forgotten his gloves. After six hours huddled under a piece of broken fence, not daring to complain to his father, the ends of his fingers had had little nubs of ice clinging to them. He remembers the deep, helpless pain of the blood rushing back into the deadened flesh when he'd finally gotten the chance to hold his frozen hands up to the car heater, knowing that there was nothing to do about it but wait for it to end.
He rubs slow circles on Cas's back. "Sorry," he says softly, "I'm sorry, babe."
But when Cas picks his head up, his face doesn't look pained. It looks transcendent. He holds out his other hand - the one with the rope still cutting into his skin. "The other one now," he says eagerly.
And while Dean is glad that Cas doesn't seem to be suffering, the whole situation is just so incredibly wrong that his skin is crawling. His hands shake a little as he works the knife under the rope, and though he tries to still them he can't prevent the tip from catching on Cas's skin and drawing a slow-welling droplet of blood.
When the blood rush hits him for the second time, Cas collapses against Dean. His face presses into Dean's shoulder to muffle a groan that comes from so deep in his chest that it might as well be a scream. And Dean doesn't have a fucking clue what to do, so he just holds onto Cas's shoulders to help keep him upright and wonders frantically if the noises Cas is making are good or bad.
He gets his answer a second later when he feels something hot and wet splash onto his thighs, and he realizes that Cas is coming - fucking coming - without so much as touching himself, just from the pain in his hands.
Dean holds on while Cas's body stiffens and then melts. Cas ends up sitting between Dean's legs, curled up against him, with Dean's arms still wrapped tightly around him.
And Dean wants to be angry. Wants to find a way to tell Cas how fucked up this is. But he can't, not with Cas still gasping and vibrating from his orgasm, limbs splayed out like a marionette. So without a word, he takes Cas's left hand into both of his own hands and slowly, gently, finger by finger, begins to massage life back into it.
Each push of Dean's thumbs draws a weak whimper from Cas's lips, but he holds still and lets Dean work. Eventually the awful purple hue leaves Cas's skin and the swelling goes down. The movement of Cas's fingers goes from pained twitching to smooth flexion and extension. His wrist still looks awful - all welts, bruises, and blisters - but there's nothing Dean can do about that, so he moves on to the next hand. He gives it the same attention he gave the first.
When both of Cas's hands are semi-functional again, Dean puts his two index fingers crossways into Cas's palms. "Squeeze," he orders. Cas closes his fists around Dean's fingers. The right hand seems normal enough, but the grip on his left is weak. Very weak. "You stupid son of a bitch," Dean mutters.
"This is what I wanted, Dean," Cas reassures him. He absently grabs his left wrist with his right hand and digs his thumb into the welt, keeping the pain fresh. He doesn't so much as wince.
But Dean does. "You want to get hurt?" he says.
"In a certain context," says Cas.
Dean is silent for a moment. Then his hands tighten on Cas's shoulders as he asks quietly, "Do you want me to hurt you?"
Cas sighs blissfully and replies, "I want you to do everything to me."
"I don't get it, Cas," says Dean. He tries to swallow, but it sticks in his throat and he almost feels like gagging. Being with Cas is nothing like Hell; he never even wants to think about the two in the same sentence. And yet, somehow he has found himself once again playing a game where someone else has set the rules and cast him, against his will, as a tormenter. "You're saying that in your fantasy, I'm the bad guy?"
In an instant, Cas goes from languid and boneless to taut as a bowstring. He clenches his fists, both of them, hard, and the marks on his wrists disappear. Even the bruised impressions of Dean's teeth on his neck fill in and fade back to a normal color. As soon as Dean sees the healed skin, he feels as though he is letting out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding.
Cas sits up straight and turns to face Dean. Dean has seldom seen his face so distraught. "Dean…" he says, his voice full of regret, "I'm sorry. That's not what I intended at all."
"Then why?" is all Dean can say.
Cas looks down at his hands, and for a long time he seems to just collect his thoughts. When he looks back up, his eyes bore holes into Dean's with their intensity. "The fraction of my existence that I have spent in a human vessel is vanishingly small," he says, "For most of history, I have been more concept than organism. Angels do not feel - at least, not the way humans feel. And even when we took vessels, we were warned against giving in to the urges of our borrowed flesh. We were to remain aloof."
He pauses for a moment, scooting closer and placing a hand on Dean's knee before continuing, "But your influence has broken down that barrier for me. My grace is fused to my vessel in a way that few angels ever experience. Now that its original owner has vacated it, I consider it my own body. I am learning to perceive the world through it. And I am learning that the scope of human perception is vast. I would no more stop at only a small selection of sensations than you would sample only half the available flavors of pie."
Dean's eyebrows twitch upward. Now that's an analogy that he can almost understand.
Cas picks up a piece of discarded rope from the mattress and drags it lazily across his forearm, savoring the touch of the prickly, frayed fibers. "I want it all," he says, "I want to feel."
"Even pain?" Dean asks, his lip twisting upwards at the idea.
"Yes," Cas answers without hesitation, "Especially pain. Human bodies perceive pain with such intensity. It's overwhelming. It's… pure." He peers up at Dean as though begging him to understand.
Dean understands. Kind of. In a way. He understands how a being of light and sound might delight in touching and being touched. And he understands getting a sort of perverse satisfaction out of pain - like going to bed with a fresh wound and feeling the slow, aching pulse of it reminding you that you're alive. He still has to swallow his stomach down when he thinks about it, but he gets it.
"Okay," he says, "Okay."
Cas reaches up to stroke Dean's cheek affectionately. "I promise you, I didn't intend for you to…"
"Forget it," says Dean, forcing a smile onto his face, "It's okay. Hey, maybe next time you can tie me up too."
Cas cocks his head and narrows his eyes. "Really?" he says.
Before he can pause to think about it, Dean answers, "Sure, why not? All in good fun, right?"
He doesn't know why he does this - make light of the situation when he's torn up inside. Throw out clichés when he ought to speak his mind. But Cas smiles nervously, and the tension between them fades, so maybe it was the right thing to say after all.
They slide under the covers together, and Dean finds the place where his head fits perfectly against Cas's chest. Cas throws an arm over him, his hand coming to rest on Dean's hip.
In the morning, Dean finds all the cut, knotted, bloodied pieces of rope and stuffs them in the trash on the way out.
-----
When Dean had said that maybe Cas could tie him up next time, he hadn't actually expected Cas to take him up on it. But he can't exactly say that to Cas, not now, not when the poor guy is looking so earnest and vulnerable with his handful of brand-new rope.
It isn't like the rope Dean used to keep in the trunk. This stuff is nice: synthetic, thick, solid braid, with no broken fibers sticking out to scratch at bare skin. And it looks smooth from the way Cas's thumb slides easily over it, back and forth.
Dean doesn't say anything, but something must show on his face because Cas frowns and says, "Again, Dean. You don't have to if you don't want to."
Last time, Dean hadn't wanted to. He really hadn't. But he'd pushed it aside because what Cas wanted had been more important to him at the time. After how well (read: terribly) that had turned out, Dean decides that it might be best if he takes his time answering.
So this time, when he says, "I want to," he means it. Kind of. Mostly. Sometimes it's hard for Dean to parse out what he's doing because he wants to do it and what he's doing because someone else wants him to do it, but at least he's sure that the idea of ropes digging deep into his skin is worlds better than the memory of the same thing happening to Cas. Even if Cas claims to like it.
And even beyond that, beyond the guilt and self-destructive obedience, there is something in Dean that craves what Cas is offering him. Not the rope, not necessarily. The rope is just a prop for something much more fundamental and indescribable.
Cas narrows his eyes and says, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," says Dean, holding his wrists out the way Cas had done, "I'm sure."
But Cas doesn't bind his wrists. Not yet. First he drops the long coils of rope in the bed in a neat pile and begins to take off Dean's clothes. He takes his time, removing layers one by one like he's unwrapping a present, and waiting for Dean to lift his arms before pulling the final t-shirt over Dean's head. He drops to his knees to undo Dean's belt and slide it - pants and boxers and all - down to his ankles.
"Thought you were gonna tie me up, not suck me off," Dean says with a nervous chuckle.
"I can do both," Cas answers with a tiny smile, but he doesn't so much as touch Dean's cock even though it's right in front of his face. Instead, Cas reaches down and picks up Dean's feet one by one, slipping his shoes off and pulling his pants the rest of the way off. He moves so slowly that Dean starts to lose his balance, but Cas's grip is so sure and strong that Dean couldn't fall even if he tried. When Dean is completely naked, Cas stands again and looks him in the eye.
"Turn around," he orders (and Dean can tell that it's an order, not a suggestion, even though Cas's voice hasn't changed much), "And cross your arms behind your back."
Dean obeys instantaneously and easily. Cas guides him with gentle movements, forcing his hands upwards and his shoulders back until Dean's forearms are parallel and each hand is grabbing the opposite elbow.
"Is that uncomfortable?" Cas asks as he reaches around Dean to pick up a thirty-odd-foot piece of rope up off the bed.
"No," says Dean automatically. He peeks over his shoulder to see Cas folding the length of rope in half. Starting with the bight, he begins winding it around Dean's forearms where they overlap, again and again. The rope is as smooth as it had looked; the tight braid leaves no gaps or twists for skin to get caught and pinched in. When there are four loops - eight rope widths total, thick enough that it's impossible for it to dig into Dean's skin the way he'd expected - Cas slips two fingers under the rope and runs them all the way around, checking for any kinks or overlies that might create pressure points. And though the rope feels snug, Cas leaves enough slack that those two fingers fit easily. "Where did you learn to do all this?" Dean mutters.
"The internet," says Cas as he runs the bight under the loops and begins to tie it off to the long tail of the rope.
And even as Dean finds it incredibly endearing that Cas has put so much effort into this, he can't help but choke on guilt one more time. Cas has bought nice rope instead of just using whatever was in the trunk. He's taught himself how to tie it safely instead of just throwing it on and cinching it down. This is what Dean should have done for Cas.
"C'mon, Cas," Dean grunts, "Don't get all fancy on me. Do it like I did to you."
Cas pauses in the middle of tying the knot that will hold Dean's arms in place. "Why?" he says.
"Cause it's your turn, man," Dean says, his voice rising, "You deserve a chance to…" He stops abruptly. That didn't come out right.
Cas drops the rope ends and moves around until he's facing Dean. He stares until Dean is forced to meet his eyes. "To get back at you?" he says, "Dean, that's not what this is about."
Dean mumbles, "Then what is it about?" The knot over his arms isn't finished, and now that Cas isn't holding it closed anymore it would be easy to pull free. But Dean leaves his arms where they are, stretched behind his back.
"Giving you what you need," Cas says, cupping Dean's face in his hands, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't enjoy pain. Not the way I do. I would never do anything to you that you didn't want." Dean tries to look away, but Cas holds his face steady as he sighs and adds, "We should stop."
"No," says Dean, surprising himself with how sure his own voice sounds, "No, Cas, it's okay. I want you to keep going."
Cas still looks dubious. "You're not just trying to prove something?" he says.
Dean takes a deep breath before repeating, "I want it," and this time he's telling the truth.
Cas studies Dean's face for a few more seconds before he seems to take him at his word. Finally, he moves back behind Dean and finishes his knot. Then, still holding the tail of the rope, he takes Dean by the shoulder and spins him around in a full circle. The rope crosses Dean's chest and hugs his upper arms. Cas fastens it behind Dean's back and then spins Dean around again in the opposite direction. Dean is amazed at how easy it is to turn off all resistance and let Cas manhandle him back and forth, cocooning him in rope.
After four spins, there's a thick band of rope around Dean's chest and his arms are completely immobilized behind his back. Cas ties off the end and says, "Take a deep breath."
Dean breathes. At the top of his breath, just before his lungs are full, he uses up all the slack in the rope and it goes tight around his ribs. It loosens again when he breathes out, but not enough for him to escape. He takes a few more experimental breaths. He's fine. He's not fighting for air. He's just constantly aware that he can only breathe as deeply as Cas allows him to.
"Okay?" says Cas.
Dean nods. "Okay."
Cas waits a moment, giving Dean time to change his mind, before he says, "Lie on the bed, on your back, and put your knees against your chest."
Dean sits down and lies back, blowing out a long, slow, steadying breath. His arms are squashed awkwardly under him. He can feel that they'll start to get seriously uncomfortable soon, but he trusts that Cas won't leave him in this position for long enough for that to happen. He picks his feet up off the floor and folds his legs against his body. He's completely exposed now, with his ass sticking out and spread wide, and if it were anyone but Cas that might have worried him.
Cas picks up another length of rope from the pile. Carefully, deliberately, he winds it around Dean's left shin and thigh until it's holding the two irresistibly together. He does the same to the other leg. Then he tucks a long length of rope up under Dean's bent knees and, tilting Dean up with one hand under his tailbone, wraps it around Dean's back just under his arms. One more short length fastens the rope around Dean's knees to the rope around his chest.
And then, with practically no visible effort, Cas picks Dean up off the bed. Dean's only airborne for half a second before Cas flips him over long-ways and one hundred and eighty degrees around and sets him back down.
It's a strange position: folded like a piece of paper, bent at the knees and waist, his shoulders held back, his spine bowed, his head hanging over the edge of the bed so he's staring at the floor between Cas's feet. He unconsciously tries to move his limbs or shift his weight to relieve the vertigo, but his bonds hold him tight. Every muscle strains against the coils, and soon his limbs are shaking with the effort of it. He can feel his chest constricting, not from the pressure of the rope, but from a terrible, air-stealing claustrophobia.
But just as the panic begins to set in, Cas's cool hand comes down to rest in the deep furrow between Dean's shoulder blades. He says nothing; he just stands there, touching Dean with a hand that could break granite. But Dean can almost hear his own name on Cas's lips, as clearly as if he'd said it out loud.
Dean takes a breath and relaxes into his bonds. The thick loops take the weight of his limbs and the bend of his spine, cradling him like a hammock. As soon as he stops resisting, all the fear and discomfort evaporates effortlessly.
Only then does Cas say it. "Dean…"
"I'm okay," says Dean. He tries to look up at Cas, but his position will only let him raise his face so far. He says to Cas's navel, "Really, Cas. I'm fine."
It's nice to be able to say that and not have it be a lie.
The hand on Dean's back slides down and laces its fingers into Dean's hand, which is still tied behind his back. Cas squeezes gently. "If you want me to stop," he says, "Squeeze my hand twice fast."
Dean can't help but huff out a little laugh. "Cas," he says, "I promise, if I want you to stop, I'll tell you."
"You might not be able to," Cas replies with a devious twinkle in his eye. He unbuttons his pants with his free hand, letting them fall to his ankles, and only then does Dean realize that his face is almost perfectly even with Cas's stiffening cock.
With a grin, Dean tries to lean forward far enough to get his mouth around it. But it turns out that he has even less range of motion than he'd thought; Cas only has to back away by a few inches to keep Dean from reaching his goal. Dean can't help but make a little exasperated noise in the back of his throat as he gives up and relaxes back into the ropes that hold him.
When Cas leans forward, bringing his cock inches closer to Dean's lips, Dean cranes his neck toward it again, open-mouthed. But Cas only moves away again. They continue like that, Dean getting more and more deliciously frustrated and Cas getting more and more smug, until Dean finally catches on.
With a sigh of realization, Dean settles back and waits as Cas leans slowly in. Even when the head of Cas's cock is so close to Dean's mouth that he could stick his tongue out and taste it, he remains passive and still. Cas makes him wait for a few agonizing seconds before closing the gap and smearing a bead of pre-cum from one corner of Dean's mouth to the other and Dean, God help him, actually whimpers at the effort it takes to keep himself from licking his lips.
"Open your mouth," Cas orders, and Dean eagerly obeys.
Until that moment, in the back of his mind Dean had quietly worried that he wouldn't be able to go through with this. That submitting to Cas would stir up just as many bad memories as seeing Cas's mangled wrists had. But even though he's bound and now effectively gagged, his recollections of Hell remain distant. They hold no power over him. Not when Cas is being so deliberately gentle. Not when Dean trusts unconditionally that he can bring everything to a stop with two squeezes of his hand.
As Cas presses slowly forward into Dean's mouth, Dean is struck by the notion that there is something ironically freeing about being able to kneel there, slack-jawed and immobilized. He doesn't have to worry about whether he is the bad guy in this scene or the good guy or something in between. He doesn't have to make decisions and wonder what those decisions mean about him as a person. He doesn't even have to move - in fact he can't unless Cas allows it.
Let Cas decide. Let Cas give the orders. Dean can relax into Cas's authority the same way he'd relaxed into the ropes.
Cas thrusts shallowly at first, giving Dean room to breathe. The only movement that Dean allows himself is to press his tongue upwards slightly to get a better taste of warm, salty skin. Otherwise he just rests his lips around the circumference of Cas's cock and lets it move smoothly in and out, a little deeper each time.
When Cas finally thrusts deeply enough to block Dean's windpipe, he doesn't pull back out. He just waits there while Dean holds his breath patiently. After a few seconds, Dean turns his eyes all the way upward, so far that he sees double, and he can just make out Cas's face looking down at him as if to say, "You can squeeze my hand now, if you want."
Dean turns his eyes back down and lets his hand go limp in Cas's grasp. Cas doesn't move, and doesn't move, and doesn't move, and Dean doesn't worry, and doesn't worry, and doesn't worry.
The instant before Dean's lungs start to burn, Cas pulls out. Dean gasps as deeply as the ropes around his chest allow.
When Dean opens his eyes, Cas is kneeling so that they are level with each other. The expression on his face is so fragile that you would think that he were the one bound in ropes. He almost sounds surprised when he says, "You trust me." It's not a question.
When Dean catches his breath, he just smiles, licks his lips, and says, "Yeah."
Cas kisses him then, and it's like the first time, like Dean still can't believe that the crush of lips on lips can feel so good.
Cas is close enough that Dean can feel his breath on his face when he says, "Should I keep going?"
"Fuck, yes," Dean whispers.
Dean closes his eyes and opens his mouth expectantly, but instead of fucking his face Cas is crawling into bed with him, shaking his pants the rest of the way off as he runs a hand over every inch of Dean's back not covered by rope. Dean doesn't ask what Cas is doing. He just waits and sees, and soon he's rewarded by Cas's hand sweeping lower and lower down his back until it reaches the curve of his ass.
A finger slides inside him with no warning and no resistance. The lack of warning makes Dean arch his back and groan involuntarily. The lack of resistance makes Dean think that Cas must be abusing his angel mojo instead of fetching the lube. Dean would normally tease him about that, but this time he holds his tongue.
In fact, he doesn't speak at all as Cas works him slowly open, one finger at a time. He doesn't feel the need to offer direction or keep up a stream of snarky comments. He doesn't feel obligated to make noise to let Cas know he's doing a good job. No demands are being made on him. He's just free, free to do nothing, free to be acted upon, free to be the object instead of the subject for one sentence out of the story of his life.
He only moans again when Cas pulls his fingers out and begins to fuck him with his cock, and then Dean honestly can't help himself.
"Cas… Cas!" Dean whines, each thrust of Cas's hips drawing a single syllable out of him.
Cas leans forward to nuzzle his face against the back of Dean's neck, the buttons of his shirt cool against Dean's spine and his tie falling over Dean's shoulder, and says so softly that Dean can barely make it out, "Mine."
Cas never picks up the pace. He just rocks their bodies together, in and out, each motion bringing them both infinitesimally closer to the edge. And when Dean finally comes he comes slowly, so slowly, like rolling a boulder up a hill - a long, lazy orgasm that keeps him buzzing for what feels like minutes.
"Dean?" says Cas, one hand on Dean's forehead and his cock still deep in Dean's ass, "Did you enjoy that?"
Dean makes a sound that is desperately trying and failing to be words.
Cas presses a kiss to Dean's shoulder with a quiet chuckle. When he pulls out of Dean, he also pulls his hand free of Dean's gentle grasp. Only then does Dean realize that Cas has been holding his hand the entire time, never letting go since the moment he instructed Dean on how to use his silent safeword.
The ropes around Dean's arms come off first. Cas pulls each loop free, the length of the rope running across Dean's chest on its way through and out of its attachment. Somehow Cas knows just how fast he can pull to make the friction heat Dean's skin without burning it. When the knot over his forearms comes apart, Dean's shoulders want to fall forward out of their strained position. But Cas catches Dean by the elbows and slowly straightens each joint, working the stiffness out of them before letting Dean have control of his own muscles again. It feels like ages before Cas finally lets go completely, and Dean's arms are his own. They feel tingly and foreign, but not at all painful. Dean hugs them to his chest while Cas rolls him over and goes to work freeing his legs.
He gives them the same treatment, massaging Dean's knees and hips carefully before allowing them to fall straight. When Dean is finally free of all his bonds, lying on his back, feeling delightfully boneless, Cas takes a moment to look down at him with a look of smug appreciation. Then Cas scoots down to crouch between Dean's legs and slowly, gently lap the cum from where it's smeared all over Dean's abdomen and the tops of his thighs. He takes his time. He doesn't miss a drop.
There's no need for words after that. Cas just kicks the ropes off the side of the bed and maneuvers himself and Dean under the covers. Dean can't remember the last time he slept so well.
-----
Dean half-expects the ropes to become a regular thing, but for the next few weeks they remain chain-stitched and coiled neatly in the trunk. Dean could swear that they've even been washed so that no hint of sweat and sex remain on them.
Except for giving Dean's joints another thorough massage the morning after, satisfying himself that everything is in working order, Cas doesn't mention that night. Dean doesn't know how to bring it up either. He'd be tempted to believe that it was a freakishly vivid dream if Sam hadn't pulled him aside the next day with a long-suffering look on his face.
"Dean," says Sam, "You know I love you, right?"
Dean raises one eyebrow as he replies, "Right…" and waits to see where Sam is going with this.
"And you know I love Cas too, right?" says Sam next.
The seriousness with which Sam is speaking is freaking Dean out, so he tries to defuse the awkwardness by grinning and asking, "Sammy, are you proposing to us?"
Sam doesn't react to the joke. He just continues, "And you know that I love that you're together, and that you make each other happy."
Dean gives up on trying to figure out what's going on and just nods.
Sam puts his hands on Dean's shoulders and looks his brother straight in the eye. "If I ever again click on my web browser and find eight open tabs of bondage tutorials, both of you will lose your laptop privileges forever."
Dean starts laughing and doesn't stop until they've crossed two state borders.
But then the weeks pass, and the rope stays in the trunk. Cas comes to Dean at night empty-handed, and they make love in the ordinary way.
It's nearly three weeks later, at a gas station, Sam filling up the Impala outside while Dean and Cas stock up on snacks in the attached 7-11, when Dean catches Cas eyeing some rope. It's not the synthetic braid that Cas had bought for Dean. It's the kind of stuff that Dean used to keep in the trunk - the cheap, twisted, unfinished hemp with the scratchy fibers. Dean pauses on his way to the checkout counter, his arms full of candy bars and bags of pretzels, and watches as Cas reaches a hand tentatively out and runs the backs of his knuckles over the exposed part of the rope.
When Cas notices Dean watching, he quickly turns around and tries to look very interested in the potato chip aisle.
Dean snags the rope off the rack, adds it to his pile of food, and pays for all of it while Cas looks on in disbelief.
"Are you sure?" Cas whispers as they head back toward the car.
"I bought it, didn't I?" says Dean.
But that night, when a trail of clothes marks their path from the door of the hotel room to the bed and Cas is holding his wrists out expectantly, Dean feels the beginnings of panic welling up in his chest. "Any way I like?" he says, trying to reassure himself.
Cas nods. "Any way you like."
Dean takes a deep breath and brings Cas's hands together, palm-to-palm. Then he picks up a length of rope and tries to mimic the knots Cas had used - folded over, four loops, loose enough to get two fingers between rope and skin. The tips of the rough fibers leave tiny white scratches on Cas's arms, but there's not enough pressure for it to cause any real damage.
"Tighter," Cas requests.
Dean flinches. "Thought we were doing this any way I liked," he says quietly.
"Right," says Cas, looking chastised. "Right. Sorry."
Dean wants to do everything to Cas. Everything that Cas can imagine. He wants to give Cas the intensity of sensation and the purity of pain that he desires. But not tonight. Tonight, he needs to teach himself to tie knots and untie knots and still feel like a human being when it's over. And maybe, one day, when he's proved to himself that he can love Cas with violence and still love himself, maybe then he'll pull those knots as tight as Cas likes them.
"Maybe I'd like to take it slow," Dean says.
Cas nods as he says, "I understand."
"Do you?"
Cas raises his bound wrists to hold Dean's face in his hands. He holds Dean's gaze steady with his bright eyes as he repeats, "Dean. I understand."
Dean picks up another length of rope. The panic in his chest is quieting now. He can do this. If he takes his time, he can unpack just enough of his baggage to be able to set his guilt aside and play this game that Cas has invited him into.
And there is something freeing in that, too.
Contains: bondage, masochist!Cas, sub!Dean, dom!Cas, references to Hell
For Sunny.
Author's Note/Disclaimer/Warning: [spoilers for fic]Some of the bondage techniques described in this fic would be highly irresponsible if applied to a non-angel. Rope that is too narrow, tied too tightly or with the wrong knots, wrapped in too few coils, or left on for too long can cause serious injury of the non-sexy variety. As can removing said rope with a pocket knife. Do your research and invest in some safety scissors.
This fic contains a failure to communicate that might be interpreted as dub-con. If you think this might trigger you, please don't read. Feel free to PM me with questions.
-----
Dean recognizes the rope when Cas holds it hesitantly out to him. It's the cheap, stiff-fiber, fraying, filthy, convenience store rope that Dean keeps deep in the trunk of the Impala. It usually sits in a tangled heap, but Cas has straightened out each strand and wrapped them neatly so they fall from his hand in even coils. He looks at Dean like he expects him to know what to do.
"I thought we were…" Dean says, trailing off as he gestures to himself and Cas. His shirt and Cas's tie and coats are on the ground, forming a trail from the hotel room door to the edge of the bed. Dean's fly is unzipped and his jeans are pushed low on his hips; Cas's shirt is unbuttoned and hanging loosely off one shoulder. Dean's dick had been straining against his boxers a moment ago, but now the pressure lessens as he tries to figure out how the night - which had been progressing encouragingly toward sex - got off track.
"Yes, I still want…" Cas replies, just as awkwardly. He swallows visibly as he sticks his hand out farther, and Dean takes the rope from him hesitantly. "Dean," says Cas, his eyes rising from the floor to Dean's face, bashfulness being overcome by excitement, "Would you tie me up?"
Cas doesn't miss the way Dean's hand tightens on the coiled rope.
"You don't have to if you don't want to," he's quick to add, "I recognize that you might…"
"Sure, babe!" Dean blurts out before Cas can bring up any of the horrifying reasons why Dean might have bad associations with bondage. He hopes his smile is convincing as he says, "I didn't know you were into that shit."
"It… interests me," Cas mumbles as Dean presses his fingertips to Cas's chest, pushing him down and backwards until he's forced to sit on the edge of the bed.
Dean's hand lingers there, knuckles brushing against Cas's skin, until he finally uses it to slide Cas's shirt the rest of the way off and toss it aside. "Hey, I'll try anything once," he says. When he kisses Cas, the push of his lips laying them both down on the dubiously clean comforter, the slide of Cas's tongue on the inside of his lips almost lets him forget the rope he's still holding clenched in his fist.
Cas reminds him by wiggling his way out from under Dean, positioning himself against the headboard, and holding his wrists out eagerly.
"Huh," Dean not-quite-laughs as he plays out a length of rope, "How are we gonna do this?"
"Any way you like," says Cas so submissively and so intensely that Dean is simultaneously terrified and turned the fuck on.
It's no big deal, he tells himself as he wraps the rope around Cas's left wrist. A little bit of bondage is like peach sherbet: practically vanilla. Nothing like the chains and shackles and barbed wire and… that he once used in Hell. Things don't have to get weird. Just keep it simple.
He throws a knot down and gently pulls out the slack.
"Tighter," Cas requests. Dean obliges. "Tighter," Cas says again, his eyes lighting up at the way the rope is digging into his skin. Dean cinches the knot down until Cas is satisfied, and puts another throw on top of it to hold it in place.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Dean asks. Cas still looks pleased as he admires Dean's handiwork, but Dean can feel his stomach turning from the way Cas's skin puckers between every twist of the rope as if it's being crushed and pinched.
Cas just smiles. "You can't hurt me, Dean," he promises. That doesn't reassure Dean as much as it should.
Three half-hitches secures Cas's wrist to one side of the headboard. Another square knot and another hitch-and-a-half does the same for the other wrist. And while Dean still isn't exactly thrilled with how he can already see the beginnings of bruises under the rope, he has to admit that Cas looks good all spread out for him.
Besides, Cas is still smiling. Maybe the bonds aren't as tight as they look. Maybe Dean is just overreacting. No need to ruin the moment.
Dean leans down to kiss his way tenderly across Cas's neck. He lets his lips find the furrow between muscles that makes Cas shiver and lean into his touch. It only takes a few seconds before Cas is hooking his knees over Dean's hips, locking his ankles behind Dean's back to pull them together and rub up against him through the barrier of their pants.
"Teeth," Cas whispers.
"Sorry," says Dean, kissing him even more gently than before.
"No," Cas groans, frustrated, "Use your teeth."
Cas is always like this when things start to get hot and heavy: always more, always faster, always now, like Dean is a drug he can't get enough of. And Dean can't deny Cas anything, so he opens his mouth and bites.
"Harder," Cas says almost immediately, his voice going all breathy and his legs tightening around Dean's waist.
Dean lets his teeth sink into the soft, stubble-dotted flesh and is rewarded with a stuttering moan from Cas. A little harder, and Cas gasps in ecstasy as his body begins to shake. And Dean can understand enjoying a little love-nip but that's not what this is, not anymore. Now it's an experiment to see how tight he can clench his jaw, digging his canines millimeter by millimeter into the thick part of the muscle to one side of Cas's neck, waiting to see how much pressure it takes before Cas admits that it hurts. Because it must hurt by now. It must.
But no matter how hard Dean bites, even when he's sure he's about to draw blood, Cas just keeps sobbing out, "Yes, yes, yes, Dean, yes!" while his cock grows so hard that Dean can feel it pressing through both of their pants. His arms flex as if he'd like to be running his hands over every inch of Dean that he could reach, gripping Dean's hair to pull him closer and deeper, but the bonds hold and all his pulling manages to accomplish is to cinch the knots over his wrists even tighter.
When Dean gives up and pulls away, there is a perfect set of tooth-marks in two deep crescents on Cas's neck. Dean watches. The marks are blanched white at first, but within seconds they turn a troubling shade of red.
Cas turns his head, hiding the marks and exposing the other side of his neck. "Again," he moans.
"Easy, tiger," Dean replies, "We're just getting warmed up." He moves down Cas's body - easier said than done with Cas's heels still digging into the small of his back- and laps at the freckle just beside his right nipple. As he slides his mouth over to the nipple itself, flicking his tongue against it until it starts to get firm, he loosens Cas's pants and works them down over his hips.
Cas seems satisfied with this, or at least he stops begging Dean for more as he leans back and relaxes into the soft touch of Dean's lips and tongue. He even lets his legs fall back down to the mattress so Dean can get his pants the rest of the way off. Dean wriggles out of his own pants, and the two of them give a simultaneous sigh at the indulgent pleasure of skin flush against bare skin.
"Did you bring lube?" Dean says.
Cas nods. "Side zipper of your bag. By the door."
Dean can feel Cas's eyes on him as he makes the quick trip across the room to retrieve the bottle of lube. On his way back Cas catches his gaze, and then flicks his eyes down to the ground. Dean follows the line of sight until he figures out what Cas is hinting at. There's one more coil of rope left on the floor.
Cas crosses his legs at the ankles and holds them up expectantly. And once again, Dean can't deny him. He scoops up the rope from the floor and loops it in a figure-eight around Cas's ankles, but this time he manages to tie it off nice and loose before Cas can object. He's left holding Cas's bound legs slightly off the bed, wondering what to do with them. He answers his own question a second later when he notices the bar running across the top of the headboard. Well, he needs access to Cas's backside anyway, and he can't exactly flip him over as long as his arms are still tied spread-eagled, so…
There's a long tail of rope running from the knot at Cas's ankles. Dean loops it over that bar and pulls on the free end, levering Cas's legs up until he's almost folded in half and his ass is sticking out attractively. Cas practically purrs with approval at the new position.
Cas is always open and eager. It seems like he can usually take two of Dean's fingers right off the bat with no trouble. But this time, tied almost upside-down with his legs in an uncomfortable stretch, Dean can tell that it's hard for him to relax. Dean lubes up and starts with one finger, only adding a second when he sees Cas's legs bend, the muscles going slack, and feels the tight ring of his ass begin to loosen.
"Give me more," Cas pants, "I can take it."
Dean kisses the backs of Cas's knees one by one as he continues to slowly work him open. "Patience, young Padawan," he says with a grin.
Cas's next groan is frustrated instead of needy. "Dean…" he says flatly.
"Sorry, sorry," Dean laughs, wincing, "Forgot the rules. 'No quoting Star Wars while I'm inside you.'"
"Thank you," says Cas, still sounding miffed. Then, when Dean pours more lube onto his hand and slides a third finger in beside the first two, he repeats more enthusiastically, "Thank you…"
Dean doesn't make Cas wait much longer before he replaces his fingers with his cock and thrusts his way inside with one easy motion. All three ropes creak as Cas yanks on them, his arms and legs constricting with the intensity of his pleasure. He's past making demands or even begging. All he can do is grip the ropes running from his wrists, shake with each motion of Dean's hips, and moan over and over, "Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean…"
Trying not to break the rhythm of his thrusts, Dean leans forward and unties the rope attaching Cas's feet to the headboard. He keeps a hold on the rope, slowly lowering Cas's bound legs until they are resting on his shoulder. That's better. Cas had seemed to enjoy having his body forced into the awkward position, but Dean would rather have a good look at Cas's face.
This is what Dean loves best about fucking Cas: not the tight, slick warmth enveloping him (although that's pretty awesome too), but the look on Cas's face when Dean finds just the right angle at just the right speed. Cas's eyes are closed, his mouth open, the hollows over his collarbones disappearing and reappearing as every muscle in his body responds to Dean's movements. He's quieter now that he's close to coming. Little whimpers bubble up from his throat, occasionally interrupted by a long, shuddering groan. He looks at once beautifully serene and utterly wrecked, and it does things to Dean to know that he is the cause of that.
Even Cas's arms are flexing and relaxing over and over - not fighting his bonds, but constantly reminding himself that they're there. Dean lets his eyes wander along the curve of Cas's shoulder, over his bicep, into the crook of his elbow, up his forearm to where the rope encircles his wrist.
Fuck.
Dean's rhythm falters as his heart drops into his stomach. Cas's bonds were tight before, but now the skin around them has swollen up and the rope is almost completely buried. His hands aren't gripping the rope anymore; they're hanging limp, and they look puffy and dark.
Fuck fuck fuck.
"Don't stop!" Cas moans out from underneath him, but Dean couldn't keep going even if he wanted to. His dick is already half-soft, all hint of arousal fading fast. He ignores Cas's complaints and pulls out.
He's actually muttering it out loud now - "Fuck. Fuck." - as he unties the rope from the headboard and moves Cas's hands into his lap. Cas can see how awful they look now, but he doesn't seem concerned.
"Please, Dean," he says, "I'm fine."
Dean is already running for his coat and fishing out the pocket knife he always keeps there. The ropes have pulled themselves so tight and sunk so deep into skin that he has no hope of loosening the knots. He'll have to cut them off. "Why didn't you say something?" Dean demands as he returns to the bed and starts carefully slicing away at the exposed part of the rope, fiber by fiber.
"I'm fine," Cas says again. And if Dean couldn't feel how stiff and cold his hands are, he might believe him. Cas's breath is still shallow with arousal, his cheeks still pink and his eyes still dilated. His dick is still hard. Hell, Dean thinks it might even be getting harder now that there's a blade against his skin, the stupid kinky bastard.
When the last fiber of the rope is cut, Dean peels it out of the impression it has made in Cas's wrist. The skin underneath is deeply bruised and oozing, rubbed raw until it's just shy of bleeding, and Dean can feel the resistance as each twist of the rope pops free. Suddenly, Cas's eyes fly wide open and he doubles over, curling his body around his hand and letting out an awful, choking sob.
Dean remembers a night spent on a stakeout when he was fourteen years old. It had been a miserable, sleeting, cold night, and he had forgotten his gloves. After six hours huddled under a piece of broken fence, not daring to complain to his father, the ends of his fingers had had little nubs of ice clinging to them. He remembers the deep, helpless pain of the blood rushing back into the deadened flesh when he'd finally gotten the chance to hold his frozen hands up to the car heater, knowing that there was nothing to do about it but wait for it to end.
He rubs slow circles on Cas's back. "Sorry," he says softly, "I'm sorry, babe."
But when Cas picks his head up, his face doesn't look pained. It looks transcendent. He holds out his other hand - the one with the rope still cutting into his skin. "The other one now," he says eagerly.
And while Dean is glad that Cas doesn't seem to be suffering, the whole situation is just so incredibly wrong that his skin is crawling. His hands shake a little as he works the knife under the rope, and though he tries to still them he can't prevent the tip from catching on Cas's skin and drawing a slow-welling droplet of blood.
When the blood rush hits him for the second time, Cas collapses against Dean. His face presses into Dean's shoulder to muffle a groan that comes from so deep in his chest that it might as well be a scream. And Dean doesn't have a fucking clue what to do, so he just holds onto Cas's shoulders to help keep him upright and wonders frantically if the noises Cas is making are good or bad.
He gets his answer a second later when he feels something hot and wet splash onto his thighs, and he realizes that Cas is coming - fucking coming - without so much as touching himself, just from the pain in his hands.
Dean holds on while Cas's body stiffens and then melts. Cas ends up sitting between Dean's legs, curled up against him, with Dean's arms still wrapped tightly around him.
And Dean wants to be angry. Wants to find a way to tell Cas how fucked up this is. But he can't, not with Cas still gasping and vibrating from his orgasm, limbs splayed out like a marionette. So without a word, he takes Cas's left hand into both of his own hands and slowly, gently, finger by finger, begins to massage life back into it.
Each push of Dean's thumbs draws a weak whimper from Cas's lips, but he holds still and lets Dean work. Eventually the awful purple hue leaves Cas's skin and the swelling goes down. The movement of Cas's fingers goes from pained twitching to smooth flexion and extension. His wrist still looks awful - all welts, bruises, and blisters - but there's nothing Dean can do about that, so he moves on to the next hand. He gives it the same attention he gave the first.
When both of Cas's hands are semi-functional again, Dean puts his two index fingers crossways into Cas's palms. "Squeeze," he orders. Cas closes his fists around Dean's fingers. The right hand seems normal enough, but the grip on his left is weak. Very weak. "You stupid son of a bitch," Dean mutters.
"This is what I wanted, Dean," Cas reassures him. He absently grabs his left wrist with his right hand and digs his thumb into the welt, keeping the pain fresh. He doesn't so much as wince.
But Dean does. "You want to get hurt?" he says.
"In a certain context," says Cas.
Dean is silent for a moment. Then his hands tighten on Cas's shoulders as he asks quietly, "Do you want me to hurt you?"
Cas sighs blissfully and replies, "I want you to do everything to me."
"I don't get it, Cas," says Dean. He tries to swallow, but it sticks in his throat and he almost feels like gagging. Being with Cas is nothing like Hell; he never even wants to think about the two in the same sentence. And yet, somehow he has found himself once again playing a game where someone else has set the rules and cast him, against his will, as a tormenter. "You're saying that in your fantasy, I'm the bad guy?"
In an instant, Cas goes from languid and boneless to taut as a bowstring. He clenches his fists, both of them, hard, and the marks on his wrists disappear. Even the bruised impressions of Dean's teeth on his neck fill in and fade back to a normal color. As soon as Dean sees the healed skin, he feels as though he is letting out a breath that he hadn't known he was holding.
Cas sits up straight and turns to face Dean. Dean has seldom seen his face so distraught. "Dean…" he says, his voice full of regret, "I'm sorry. That's not what I intended at all."
"Then why?" is all Dean can say.
Cas looks down at his hands, and for a long time he seems to just collect his thoughts. When he looks back up, his eyes bore holes into Dean's with their intensity. "The fraction of my existence that I have spent in a human vessel is vanishingly small," he says, "For most of history, I have been more concept than organism. Angels do not feel - at least, not the way humans feel. And even when we took vessels, we were warned against giving in to the urges of our borrowed flesh. We were to remain aloof."
He pauses for a moment, scooting closer and placing a hand on Dean's knee before continuing, "But your influence has broken down that barrier for me. My grace is fused to my vessel in a way that few angels ever experience. Now that its original owner has vacated it, I consider it my own body. I am learning to perceive the world through it. And I am learning that the scope of human perception is vast. I would no more stop at only a small selection of sensations than you would sample only half the available flavors of pie."
Dean's eyebrows twitch upward. Now that's an analogy that he can almost understand.
Cas picks up a piece of discarded rope from the mattress and drags it lazily across his forearm, savoring the touch of the prickly, frayed fibers. "I want it all," he says, "I want to feel."
"Even pain?" Dean asks, his lip twisting upwards at the idea.
"Yes," Cas answers without hesitation, "Especially pain. Human bodies perceive pain with such intensity. It's overwhelming. It's… pure." He peers up at Dean as though begging him to understand.
Dean understands. Kind of. In a way. He understands how a being of light and sound might delight in touching and being touched. And he understands getting a sort of perverse satisfaction out of pain - like going to bed with a fresh wound and feeling the slow, aching pulse of it reminding you that you're alive. He still has to swallow his stomach down when he thinks about it, but he gets it.
"Okay," he says, "Okay."
Cas reaches up to stroke Dean's cheek affectionately. "I promise you, I didn't intend for you to…"
"Forget it," says Dean, forcing a smile onto his face, "It's okay. Hey, maybe next time you can tie me up too."
Cas cocks his head and narrows his eyes. "Really?" he says.
Before he can pause to think about it, Dean answers, "Sure, why not? All in good fun, right?"
He doesn't know why he does this - make light of the situation when he's torn up inside. Throw out clichés when he ought to speak his mind. But Cas smiles nervously, and the tension between them fades, so maybe it was the right thing to say after all.
They slide under the covers together, and Dean finds the place where his head fits perfectly against Cas's chest. Cas throws an arm over him, his hand coming to rest on Dean's hip.
In the morning, Dean finds all the cut, knotted, bloodied pieces of rope and stuffs them in the trash on the way out.
-----
When Dean had said that maybe Cas could tie him up next time, he hadn't actually expected Cas to take him up on it. But he can't exactly say that to Cas, not now, not when the poor guy is looking so earnest and vulnerable with his handful of brand-new rope.
It isn't like the rope Dean used to keep in the trunk. This stuff is nice: synthetic, thick, solid braid, with no broken fibers sticking out to scratch at bare skin. And it looks smooth from the way Cas's thumb slides easily over it, back and forth.
Dean doesn't say anything, but something must show on his face because Cas frowns and says, "Again, Dean. You don't have to if you don't want to."
Last time, Dean hadn't wanted to. He really hadn't. But he'd pushed it aside because what Cas wanted had been more important to him at the time. After how well (read: terribly) that had turned out, Dean decides that it might be best if he takes his time answering.
So this time, when he says, "I want to," he means it. Kind of. Mostly. Sometimes it's hard for Dean to parse out what he's doing because he wants to do it and what he's doing because someone else wants him to do it, but at least he's sure that the idea of ropes digging deep into his skin is worlds better than the memory of the same thing happening to Cas. Even if Cas claims to like it.
And even beyond that, beyond the guilt and self-destructive obedience, there is something in Dean that craves what Cas is offering him. Not the rope, not necessarily. The rope is just a prop for something much more fundamental and indescribable.
Cas narrows his eyes and says, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," says Dean, holding his wrists out the way Cas had done, "I'm sure."
But Cas doesn't bind his wrists. Not yet. First he drops the long coils of rope in the bed in a neat pile and begins to take off Dean's clothes. He takes his time, removing layers one by one like he's unwrapping a present, and waiting for Dean to lift his arms before pulling the final t-shirt over Dean's head. He drops to his knees to undo Dean's belt and slide it - pants and boxers and all - down to his ankles.
"Thought you were gonna tie me up, not suck me off," Dean says with a nervous chuckle.
"I can do both," Cas answers with a tiny smile, but he doesn't so much as touch Dean's cock even though it's right in front of his face. Instead, Cas reaches down and picks up Dean's feet one by one, slipping his shoes off and pulling his pants the rest of the way off. He moves so slowly that Dean starts to lose his balance, but Cas's grip is so sure and strong that Dean couldn't fall even if he tried. When Dean is completely naked, Cas stands again and looks him in the eye.
"Turn around," he orders (and Dean can tell that it's an order, not a suggestion, even though Cas's voice hasn't changed much), "And cross your arms behind your back."
Dean obeys instantaneously and easily. Cas guides him with gentle movements, forcing his hands upwards and his shoulders back until Dean's forearms are parallel and each hand is grabbing the opposite elbow.
"Is that uncomfortable?" Cas asks as he reaches around Dean to pick up a thirty-odd-foot piece of rope up off the bed.
"No," says Dean automatically. He peeks over his shoulder to see Cas folding the length of rope in half. Starting with the bight, he begins winding it around Dean's forearms where they overlap, again and again. The rope is as smooth as it had looked; the tight braid leaves no gaps or twists for skin to get caught and pinched in. When there are four loops - eight rope widths total, thick enough that it's impossible for it to dig into Dean's skin the way he'd expected - Cas slips two fingers under the rope and runs them all the way around, checking for any kinks or overlies that might create pressure points. And though the rope feels snug, Cas leaves enough slack that those two fingers fit easily. "Where did you learn to do all this?" Dean mutters.
"The internet," says Cas as he runs the bight under the loops and begins to tie it off to the long tail of the rope.
And even as Dean finds it incredibly endearing that Cas has put so much effort into this, he can't help but choke on guilt one more time. Cas has bought nice rope instead of just using whatever was in the trunk. He's taught himself how to tie it safely instead of just throwing it on and cinching it down. This is what Dean should have done for Cas.
"C'mon, Cas," Dean grunts, "Don't get all fancy on me. Do it like I did to you."
Cas pauses in the middle of tying the knot that will hold Dean's arms in place. "Why?" he says.
"Cause it's your turn, man," Dean says, his voice rising, "You deserve a chance to…" He stops abruptly. That didn't come out right.
Cas drops the rope ends and moves around until he's facing Dean. He stares until Dean is forced to meet his eyes. "To get back at you?" he says, "Dean, that's not what this is about."
Dean mumbles, "Then what is it about?" The knot over his arms isn't finished, and now that Cas isn't holding it closed anymore it would be easy to pull free. But Dean leaves his arms where they are, stretched behind his back.
"Giving you what you need," Cas says, cupping Dean's face in his hands, "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you don't enjoy pain. Not the way I do. I would never do anything to you that you didn't want." Dean tries to look away, but Cas holds his face steady as he sighs and adds, "We should stop."
"No," says Dean, surprising himself with how sure his own voice sounds, "No, Cas, it's okay. I want you to keep going."
Cas still looks dubious. "You're not just trying to prove something?" he says.
Dean takes a deep breath before repeating, "I want it," and this time he's telling the truth.
Cas studies Dean's face for a few more seconds before he seems to take him at his word. Finally, he moves back behind Dean and finishes his knot. Then, still holding the tail of the rope, he takes Dean by the shoulder and spins him around in a full circle. The rope crosses Dean's chest and hugs his upper arms. Cas fastens it behind Dean's back and then spins Dean around again in the opposite direction. Dean is amazed at how easy it is to turn off all resistance and let Cas manhandle him back and forth, cocooning him in rope.
After four spins, there's a thick band of rope around Dean's chest and his arms are completely immobilized behind his back. Cas ties off the end and says, "Take a deep breath."
Dean breathes. At the top of his breath, just before his lungs are full, he uses up all the slack in the rope and it goes tight around his ribs. It loosens again when he breathes out, but not enough for him to escape. He takes a few more experimental breaths. He's fine. He's not fighting for air. He's just constantly aware that he can only breathe as deeply as Cas allows him to.
"Okay?" says Cas.
Dean nods. "Okay."
Cas waits a moment, giving Dean time to change his mind, before he says, "Lie on the bed, on your back, and put your knees against your chest."
Dean sits down and lies back, blowing out a long, slow, steadying breath. His arms are squashed awkwardly under him. He can feel that they'll start to get seriously uncomfortable soon, but he trusts that Cas won't leave him in this position for long enough for that to happen. He picks his feet up off the floor and folds his legs against his body. He's completely exposed now, with his ass sticking out and spread wide, and if it were anyone but Cas that might have worried him.
Cas picks up another length of rope from the pile. Carefully, deliberately, he winds it around Dean's left shin and thigh until it's holding the two irresistibly together. He does the same to the other leg. Then he tucks a long length of rope up under Dean's bent knees and, tilting Dean up with one hand under his tailbone, wraps it around Dean's back just under his arms. One more short length fastens the rope around Dean's knees to the rope around his chest.
And then, with practically no visible effort, Cas picks Dean up off the bed. Dean's only airborne for half a second before Cas flips him over long-ways and one hundred and eighty degrees around and sets him back down.
It's a strange position: folded like a piece of paper, bent at the knees and waist, his shoulders held back, his spine bowed, his head hanging over the edge of the bed so he's staring at the floor between Cas's feet. He unconsciously tries to move his limbs or shift his weight to relieve the vertigo, but his bonds hold him tight. Every muscle strains against the coils, and soon his limbs are shaking with the effort of it. He can feel his chest constricting, not from the pressure of the rope, but from a terrible, air-stealing claustrophobia.
But just as the panic begins to set in, Cas's cool hand comes down to rest in the deep furrow between Dean's shoulder blades. He says nothing; he just stands there, touching Dean with a hand that could break granite. But Dean can almost hear his own name on Cas's lips, as clearly as if he'd said it out loud.
Dean takes a breath and relaxes into his bonds. The thick loops take the weight of his limbs and the bend of his spine, cradling him like a hammock. As soon as he stops resisting, all the fear and discomfort evaporates effortlessly.
Only then does Cas say it. "Dean…"
"I'm okay," says Dean. He tries to look up at Cas, but his position will only let him raise his face so far. He says to Cas's navel, "Really, Cas. I'm fine."
It's nice to be able to say that and not have it be a lie.
The hand on Dean's back slides down and laces its fingers into Dean's hand, which is still tied behind his back. Cas squeezes gently. "If you want me to stop," he says, "Squeeze my hand twice fast."
Dean can't help but huff out a little laugh. "Cas," he says, "I promise, if I want you to stop, I'll tell you."
"You might not be able to," Cas replies with a devious twinkle in his eye. He unbuttons his pants with his free hand, letting them fall to his ankles, and only then does Dean realize that his face is almost perfectly even with Cas's stiffening cock.
With a grin, Dean tries to lean forward far enough to get his mouth around it. But it turns out that he has even less range of motion than he'd thought; Cas only has to back away by a few inches to keep Dean from reaching his goal. Dean can't help but make a little exasperated noise in the back of his throat as he gives up and relaxes back into the ropes that hold him.
When Cas leans forward, bringing his cock inches closer to Dean's lips, Dean cranes his neck toward it again, open-mouthed. But Cas only moves away again. They continue like that, Dean getting more and more deliciously frustrated and Cas getting more and more smug, until Dean finally catches on.
With a sigh of realization, Dean settles back and waits as Cas leans slowly in. Even when the head of Cas's cock is so close to Dean's mouth that he could stick his tongue out and taste it, he remains passive and still. Cas makes him wait for a few agonizing seconds before closing the gap and smearing a bead of pre-cum from one corner of Dean's mouth to the other and Dean, God help him, actually whimpers at the effort it takes to keep himself from licking his lips.
"Open your mouth," Cas orders, and Dean eagerly obeys.
Until that moment, in the back of his mind Dean had quietly worried that he wouldn't be able to go through with this. That submitting to Cas would stir up just as many bad memories as seeing Cas's mangled wrists had. But even though he's bound and now effectively gagged, his recollections of Hell remain distant. They hold no power over him. Not when Cas is being so deliberately gentle. Not when Dean trusts unconditionally that he can bring everything to a stop with two squeezes of his hand.
As Cas presses slowly forward into Dean's mouth, Dean is struck by the notion that there is something ironically freeing about being able to kneel there, slack-jawed and immobilized. He doesn't have to worry about whether he is the bad guy in this scene or the good guy or something in between. He doesn't have to make decisions and wonder what those decisions mean about him as a person. He doesn't even have to move - in fact he can't unless Cas allows it.
Let Cas decide. Let Cas give the orders. Dean can relax into Cas's authority the same way he'd relaxed into the ropes.
Cas thrusts shallowly at first, giving Dean room to breathe. The only movement that Dean allows himself is to press his tongue upwards slightly to get a better taste of warm, salty skin. Otherwise he just rests his lips around the circumference of Cas's cock and lets it move smoothly in and out, a little deeper each time.
When Cas finally thrusts deeply enough to block Dean's windpipe, he doesn't pull back out. He just waits there while Dean holds his breath patiently. After a few seconds, Dean turns his eyes all the way upward, so far that he sees double, and he can just make out Cas's face looking down at him as if to say, "You can squeeze my hand now, if you want."
Dean turns his eyes back down and lets his hand go limp in Cas's grasp. Cas doesn't move, and doesn't move, and doesn't move, and Dean doesn't worry, and doesn't worry, and doesn't worry.
The instant before Dean's lungs start to burn, Cas pulls out. Dean gasps as deeply as the ropes around his chest allow.
When Dean opens his eyes, Cas is kneeling so that they are level with each other. The expression on his face is so fragile that you would think that he were the one bound in ropes. He almost sounds surprised when he says, "You trust me." It's not a question.
When Dean catches his breath, he just smiles, licks his lips, and says, "Yeah."
Cas kisses him then, and it's like the first time, like Dean still can't believe that the crush of lips on lips can feel so good.
Cas is close enough that Dean can feel his breath on his face when he says, "Should I keep going?"
"Fuck, yes," Dean whispers.
Dean closes his eyes and opens his mouth expectantly, but instead of fucking his face Cas is crawling into bed with him, shaking his pants the rest of the way off as he runs a hand over every inch of Dean's back not covered by rope. Dean doesn't ask what Cas is doing. He just waits and sees, and soon he's rewarded by Cas's hand sweeping lower and lower down his back until it reaches the curve of his ass.
A finger slides inside him with no warning and no resistance. The lack of warning makes Dean arch his back and groan involuntarily. The lack of resistance makes Dean think that Cas must be abusing his angel mojo instead of fetching the lube. Dean would normally tease him about that, but this time he holds his tongue.
In fact, he doesn't speak at all as Cas works him slowly open, one finger at a time. He doesn't feel the need to offer direction or keep up a stream of snarky comments. He doesn't feel obligated to make noise to let Cas know he's doing a good job. No demands are being made on him. He's just free, free to do nothing, free to be acted upon, free to be the object instead of the subject for one sentence out of the story of his life.
He only moans again when Cas pulls his fingers out and begins to fuck him with his cock, and then Dean honestly can't help himself.
"Cas… Cas!" Dean whines, each thrust of Cas's hips drawing a single syllable out of him.
Cas leans forward to nuzzle his face against the back of Dean's neck, the buttons of his shirt cool against Dean's spine and his tie falling over Dean's shoulder, and says so softly that Dean can barely make it out, "Mine."
Cas never picks up the pace. He just rocks their bodies together, in and out, each motion bringing them both infinitesimally closer to the edge. And when Dean finally comes he comes slowly, so slowly, like rolling a boulder up a hill - a long, lazy orgasm that keeps him buzzing for what feels like minutes.
"Dean?" says Cas, one hand on Dean's forehead and his cock still deep in Dean's ass, "Did you enjoy that?"
Dean makes a sound that is desperately trying and failing to be words.
Cas presses a kiss to Dean's shoulder with a quiet chuckle. When he pulls out of Dean, he also pulls his hand free of Dean's gentle grasp. Only then does Dean realize that Cas has been holding his hand the entire time, never letting go since the moment he instructed Dean on how to use his silent safeword.
The ropes around Dean's arms come off first. Cas pulls each loop free, the length of the rope running across Dean's chest on its way through and out of its attachment. Somehow Cas knows just how fast he can pull to make the friction heat Dean's skin without burning it. When the knot over his forearms comes apart, Dean's shoulders want to fall forward out of their strained position. But Cas catches Dean by the elbows and slowly straightens each joint, working the stiffness out of them before letting Dean have control of his own muscles again. It feels like ages before Cas finally lets go completely, and Dean's arms are his own. They feel tingly and foreign, but not at all painful. Dean hugs them to his chest while Cas rolls him over and goes to work freeing his legs.
He gives them the same treatment, massaging Dean's knees and hips carefully before allowing them to fall straight. When Dean is finally free of all his bonds, lying on his back, feeling delightfully boneless, Cas takes a moment to look down at him with a look of smug appreciation. Then Cas scoots down to crouch between Dean's legs and slowly, gently lap the cum from where it's smeared all over Dean's abdomen and the tops of his thighs. He takes his time. He doesn't miss a drop.
There's no need for words after that. Cas just kicks the ropes off the side of the bed and maneuvers himself and Dean under the covers. Dean can't remember the last time he slept so well.
-----
Dean half-expects the ropes to become a regular thing, but for the next few weeks they remain chain-stitched and coiled neatly in the trunk. Dean could swear that they've even been washed so that no hint of sweat and sex remain on them.
Except for giving Dean's joints another thorough massage the morning after, satisfying himself that everything is in working order, Cas doesn't mention that night. Dean doesn't know how to bring it up either. He'd be tempted to believe that it was a freakishly vivid dream if Sam hadn't pulled him aside the next day with a long-suffering look on his face.
"Dean," says Sam, "You know I love you, right?"
Dean raises one eyebrow as he replies, "Right…" and waits to see where Sam is going with this.
"And you know I love Cas too, right?" says Sam next.
The seriousness with which Sam is speaking is freaking Dean out, so he tries to defuse the awkwardness by grinning and asking, "Sammy, are you proposing to us?"
Sam doesn't react to the joke. He just continues, "And you know that I love that you're together, and that you make each other happy."
Dean gives up on trying to figure out what's going on and just nods.
Sam puts his hands on Dean's shoulders and looks his brother straight in the eye. "If I ever again click on my web browser and find eight open tabs of bondage tutorials, both of you will lose your laptop privileges forever."
Dean starts laughing and doesn't stop until they've crossed two state borders.
But then the weeks pass, and the rope stays in the trunk. Cas comes to Dean at night empty-handed, and they make love in the ordinary way.
It's nearly three weeks later, at a gas station, Sam filling up the Impala outside while Dean and Cas stock up on snacks in the attached 7-11, when Dean catches Cas eyeing some rope. It's not the synthetic braid that Cas had bought for Dean. It's the kind of stuff that Dean used to keep in the trunk - the cheap, twisted, unfinished hemp with the scratchy fibers. Dean pauses on his way to the checkout counter, his arms full of candy bars and bags of pretzels, and watches as Cas reaches a hand tentatively out and runs the backs of his knuckles over the exposed part of the rope.
When Cas notices Dean watching, he quickly turns around and tries to look very interested in the potato chip aisle.
Dean snags the rope off the rack, adds it to his pile of food, and pays for all of it while Cas looks on in disbelief.
"Are you sure?" Cas whispers as they head back toward the car.
"I bought it, didn't I?" says Dean.
But that night, when a trail of clothes marks their path from the door of the hotel room to the bed and Cas is holding his wrists out expectantly, Dean feels the beginnings of panic welling up in his chest. "Any way I like?" he says, trying to reassure himself.
Cas nods. "Any way you like."
Dean takes a deep breath and brings Cas's hands together, palm-to-palm. Then he picks up a length of rope and tries to mimic the knots Cas had used - folded over, four loops, loose enough to get two fingers between rope and skin. The tips of the rough fibers leave tiny white scratches on Cas's arms, but there's not enough pressure for it to cause any real damage.
"Tighter," Cas requests.
Dean flinches. "Thought we were doing this any way I liked," he says quietly.
"Right," says Cas, looking chastised. "Right. Sorry."
Dean wants to do everything to Cas. Everything that Cas can imagine. He wants to give Cas the intensity of sensation and the purity of pain that he desires. But not tonight. Tonight, he needs to teach himself to tie knots and untie knots and still feel like a human being when it's over. And maybe, one day, when he's proved to himself that he can love Cas with violence and still love himself, maybe then he'll pull those knots as tight as Cas likes them.
"Maybe I'd like to take it slow," Dean says.
Cas nods as he says, "I understand."
"Do you?"
Cas raises his bound wrists to hold Dean's face in his hands. He holds Dean's gaze steady with his bright eyes as he repeats, "Dean. I understand."
Dean picks up another length of rope. The panic in his chest is quieting now. He can do this. If he takes his time, he can unpack just enough of his baggage to be able to set his guilt aside and play this game that Cas has invited him into.
And there is something freeing in that, too.