It’s fairly empty, not that many personal touches. He’s never been to the Batcave yet, not yet. But when he does show up, Dean’s sure he’ll want to fill it up just like Dean did with his own room.
So Dean makes sure that he’s got a proper bed, that the bedding is freshly washed and there’s plenty of storage. A dresser that’s got a few clothes that are too small for Dean. Sam insists on installing a bookshelf and once they finish it, he places a few books there, tells Dean that they’re ones he found in the Men of Letters collection that he thought Cas might like.
The room is sparse, but it’s warm and cozy. Dean’s chest aches, but he digs through his journal until he finds one scrap of paper, the edges worn and creased. He smooths it out before he sets it down on the bedside table. He thinks maybe he should say something, and the words on his tongue (“Please come home. Please be okay.”), but he doesn’t say them. Just takes a deep breath, smiles because he has to and turns away. He shuts the door carefully, softly.
Scratch that just watched the new ep and IDEA
Skyrim AU where Dean is the Dragonborn and he goes around with his brother taking on missions, etc. and one day he meets a mysterious man with power they’ve never seen before. He helps them when they need it most until the day comes Dean and Sam are sent to kill a dragon and
CAS IS ACTUALLY A DRAGON WHO CAN TURN INTO A HUMAN AND WHAT ARE YOU GONNA DO WHEN YOU WERE BORN TO KILL THE ONE YOU LOVE????
I.e. I should be sleeping
MORE IDEAS ON THIS
Once upon a time there was a dragon.
“You sure about this, baby?”
“You’re making me nervous. You said you’ve done this before.”
“I have! I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into. It’s gonna hurt—”
“I’m not a child, Dean.”
“—like, a lot. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t know ‘what I was getting into.’ Now are you going to spank me or aren’t you?”
“Fine. Come here.”
Castiel did just as he was told, stopping only when his knees brushed against Dean’s legs where the man sat on the edge of their bed.
“Take your pants off.”
He rolled his eyes - just because he knew that Dean hated it when he did that - and stripped out of his jeans. Secretly, or perhaps not, a red-hot thrill went through him at the order and at the way Dean’s eyes widened considerably once he saw what Castiel was wearing underneath his normal, every day, jeans.
“Jesus, Cas.” Dean breathed, his gaze almost reverent as his hands came up to slide along the smooth fabric of the blue thigh highs, topped off with precious, pink bows. The panties were pink too, lazy and barely even there and Castiel would never get the memory of the way the woman at the counter looked at him when she asked if they were for his girlfriend and he replied, No, they are for my boyfriend.
“So fucking, pretty.” Dean murmured, his lips close enough to brush against the hem of pink around Castiel’s waist.
“Shut up,” Castiel breathed, stomach twitching as Dean grinned, wicked and warm against his skin.
“Tsk, tsk, Cas. Such a dirty mouth. Gonna have to punish you for talkin’ back like that.” Now it was Castiel’s turn to gasp as Dean’s hands wrapped, big and heavy, around his waist and yanked him down, down across Dean’s lap.
“I’d say 15 hits should do it, huh, Cas?” Dean muttered as Castiel struggled to find his balance, ending up with his elbows bracing him on the bed, Dean’s forearm around his waist keep him pinned down firmly.
The slap echoed in their room with Castiel’s loud cry, a slow burn spreading over his backside where Dean’s hand had gone crashing down.
“What did you call me?”
“Good boy.” Castiel was rewarded with another slap, this time on the other cheek, barehanded and hard and sending a rush of heat right to his cock. He moaned this time, squirming and pushing his ass up and out towards Dean’s hand.
“Now what did you want to say?” Dean’s hand came down, striking hard and fast and sending Castiel’s mind spinning.
“Happy birthday, sir.”
Warnings: graphic torture, graphic sex.
The first time he watched Dean kill someone, he was kneeling in a pool of blood.
It wasn’t not his blood, it was the blood of the man writhing in the chair he’s tied down to. His body was littered with cuts, with slices of skin completely removed, with bruises and burns and Castiel had wondered over and over, How can he still be alive?
Dean stood there, towering over the both of them, stripped down to his jeans now, hands and wrists covered in blood, spatters of it stark against pale, tight skin and Castiel had been dragging himself away from treacherous thoughts, voices that whispered at him how beautiful Dean looked like that, just like that.
He was trying not to think of it because he had begged Dean not to do this. Had gotten on his knees, had crawled just like Dean asked him to, had pleaded with him for days, even as they stalked the very man Dean was now torturing. And Dean had let him think for a while that everything was fine. They moved out of the city and into a cabin out in the woods. Castiel liked the cabins, liked that they were isolated, and every time they found a new one, he let himself believe again that they could stay here, that they could settle down.
He’d been very naive then.
Dean had told him he had a surprise, something he knew that Castiel would enjoy, waiting down in the cellar of the cabin. There were no warning bells, no alarms, no signals that alerted Castiel. He trusted Dean, trusted the man with his life. Why should he have any reason to fear.
When Dean turned the cellar lights on it was clear that the man had been down there the entire time, for all the days they’d been at the cabin at least and it made sense then. Why Castiel had woken up to an empty bed at strange hours of the night. The screaming that he assumed could only be the wind, just the howling wind.
He had tried to move forward, to free the man, but Dean was there in an instant, shoving him back against the hard brick wall.
“Don’t do it, doc. I don’t wanna hurt you, I only wanna hurt him.” Castiel had ignored him, of course, had struggled, fought, shouted and clawed at Dean to try to get to the man, the victim. He learned then how strong Dean was and it was a night of many firsts.
It was the first night Dean hit him.
One backhanded slap across the face was enough to send Castiel stumbling back, Dean stomping right after him. Dean’s hands had be unyielding as they forced his hands back as they clasped tight cuffs around each of his wrists. Except they weren’t quite handcuffs, they were something more and Castiel knew it as soon as he felt similar ones latch around his ankles and, when he tried to pull his arms, he found that they were attached to the cuffs at his ankles. Dean had practically hog-tied him and placed him front and centre, where he would have the best view.
Dean warned him not to speak, told him that if he made a peep, it’d only be worse for all of them and then pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before he went to work.
The things he did to the man were horrifying, many times Castiel thought he might throw up. He wanted so badly to shout at Dean, to beg him to stop, to just come to bed, to let Castiel wash it all away, but he didn’t dare. Years of training had made him a good read of people, and he knew that nothing he said would change Dean’s mind.
But still, digging somewhere beneath the surface was a part of Castiel that betrayed him, that wondered. Curiousity. It felt like a light that flickered, a light that was near dying, the way the thoughts would flash in and out of his head. What did it feel like to have all that blood on your skin? How hard was he pressing in order to cut that deep? Was the blade sterilized? Did it matter when Dean was only going to kill the man in the end?
And Dean made it look so easy, so effortless. Castiel watched him saw through flesh and bone with a rusty handsaw wearing the same expression he used to cut a loaf of bread. It was fascinating and Castiel hated himself for thinking it. Hated himself for the twinge, the itch under his skin.
But he didn’t hate Dean for it. Not even when the man was finally dead and Castiel felt like he could breathe. He was responsible, he had failed to keep Dean on the righteous path, had failed to save a human being, he had been too weak, but as soon as the man breathed his last it finally felt like Castiel could breathe again.
Dean had walked to him then, had run bloody fingers through his hair in such a gentle caress that Castiel almost forgot where they were. The blood was soaking through his pants, but Dean’s hand stroking down his face had a way of taking all of that away. All that matter was that touch.
When Dean pulled out his cock, Castiel didn’t resist. He opened up his mouth, relaxed his throat, and followed only the grip of Dean’s hands as the man started fucking his mouth, thrusting deep into his throat without pause. He came quickly, shoved right down his throat and moaning about Castiel’s pretty mouth.
Then Dean had knelt down in front of him and pulled Castiel’s cock out of his pants, bloody hands and all. He’s kisses were hard and bruising and biting as he pumped his fist. He stroked an orgasm out of him, plucking from his as easy as plucking a string and Castiel tried not to notice the way his come looked mixed with all that blood on the floor.
Dean finally released him, sent him back up to the cabin with a pat on his rear and an order to bathe and sleep. Castiel didn’t ask what would happen to the body because he was certain then that he didn’t want to know.
There would be many more days and nights like this one, but it was the first.
wow I wrote like the greatest thing and then pressed the wrong button and it disappeared so I’M RE-WRITING IT ALL FROM MEMORY JUST FOR YOU BEE OMFG.
Cas loves wearing the stockings his daddy bought for him, loves the little bows that adorn them. He loves wearing the panties too, all pink and satiny and daddy picked them out just for him. His cock gets hard, but he doesn’t touch it, not yet, not until daddy tells him to.
And when Dean comes home, he sits on the couch and Cas crawls into his lap and they talk, Dean tells Cas about his day at work and Cas tells him about all the things he learned in school. And some time during the conversation Dean’s hand will slip down into Cas’s panties and start teasing at the rim of his hole and his baby boy will sigh in his arms and whimper for more.
And Dean will give it to him, shifting him around so Dean can push aside the fabric of his panties and slip inside his tight, wet boy-pussy, fucking him rough and whispering dirty words in his ear, just like his sweetheart likes it.
Warnings: graphic depictions of torture
“Why’d you do that?”
The man’s lips are sewn shut.
Castiel shrugs. “He called me a ‘faggot whore.’” He doesn’t tell Dean the other things this one said. Castiel sits crossed-legged on the floor of the man’s basement, dragging a very sharp knife down the skin of his calf.
Dean laughs, but his eyes are dark as he swigs his beer (he’s been drinking more than usual and Castiel can’t decide if that’s a Good Thing or a Bad Thing). “Well, he got half of it right – you are a whore.”
A blush rises hot and bright over Castiel’s neck and he refocuses on his work, muttering, “Shut up, Dean.” He does not think about the heat that pools in his stomach.
The symbols he’s carving into the man’s skin are curved in some places, harshly angled in others. He doesn’t know what they mean, but they do look pretty this way.
“What do they mean?”
“I don’t know. I think I dreamed them once.”
On rare nights, he dreams. Not nightmares, of ghosts who come back for him, for Dean, but actual dreams. He dreams of a place filled with bright, white light and singing. The symbols are everywhere, carved and sewn and written, voices call out to him, begging him to come home, crying when he tells them he can’t, Dean needs him. The voices always turn to mournful singing then, and when he wakes he can’t remember the song, but he always remembers the symbols.
The man’s skin is covered in sweat, but not too much blood. Castiel has been wiping it away as he carves, as his blade digs out pieces of the man’s skin to get the effect he wants. Strips of skin have been pulled off in the shapes of Castiel’s symbols, revealing red muscle underneath. The room is freezing, but Castiel wants it that way, wants it to slow down the flow of blood just a bit more so he can make sure he gets it right.
Dean doesn’t enquire further just takes a seat in the La-Z-Boy he dragged down here so he could have somewhere comfortable to watch.
This is probably the first one who hasn’t started crying at this point and Castiel admires that. It’s quaint, the way this one has been trying so hard to hold out. Keeping himself together, barely even screaming when Castiel first put the needle through his skin and pulled the thread through. Admirable, but foolish. Dean was watching, and these types were always Dean’s favorite. The ones who refused to give in, the ones who refused to cry and scream for their lives properly. It only made him want to try harder.
So he’ll let Castiel have the first couple of hours, let Castiel start taking him apart in that slow, calculating way that Dean always teases him for. Just do it, Dean will say, Just fucking rip him a part – but make it hurt. But Castiel never likes it that way.
Most times, he can pretend that he’s a doctor again, the kind of doctor his mother wanted him to be. He only took a few courses in anatomy, only saw a dead body twice before he met Dean. They were cold things, looked like they were carved out of marble. It’s easy to make himself believe that even when they were struggling, when they were screaming, they were just slabs of rock waiting to be carved.
He hardly notices the time that has passed when Dean’s lips press to the back of his neck and warm hands slide around his waist. He’s standing then, bent over the curve of the man’s shoulder and he didn’t even notice that the subject had passed out, probably from the pain, or perhaps blood loss.
It’s not as thorough a job as Castiel would like. He would like to keep on going, keep on cutting and puling away layers of skin until only faint traces of white skin are visible. Until the subject’s body is covered in Castiel’s design, covered in the symbols he dreams. Of course, that would take hours and Castiel knows they don’t have that kind of time.
Besides, it’s Dean’s turn now.
Castiel presses a kiss to the harsh line of Dean’s jaw, murmuring about getting food. He hadn’t realized until then how hungry he was. His whole body feels sore and stiff and he’s so cold, the break will do him good. He’ll cook something warm, something with red meat, and sit by the fire to wait for Dean. He knows that Dean will probably kill this man and after that, Dean will want to fuck. Not that Castiel minds, of course, because that heat crawling under his skin never faded.
He goes upstairs and it’s only when he closes the door that the screaming starts.
Hamburgers. He wants a hamburger.
Warnings: graphic depictions of murder, brief sexual content.
The first man he killed was a man named Roger.
Of course, he didn’t know that was the man’s name before he drove the scalpel through his throat. He recognized the man’s face, had seen him roaming the halls at night with his cart of cleaning supplies. He remembered asking after the man’s family and the way he would grin when he spoke of his six-year-old.
And Castiel hadn’t known his named until his hands were covered with the man’s blood.
They were escaping, getting out of there. Castiel had known then that Dean was not what everyone made him out to be, that he was capable of great kindness and compassion (Castiel still believes this). He liked to think that he could prove this to Dean, that he could be the one who saved a man like Dean, who turned him away from the path of sin and on to the path of righteousness.
But not there, not with cages all around them and people who only wanted to keep them apart. That’s why they did it, why they escaped. Dean was being transferred to another facility, one that was notoriously known for its harsh methods. No matter how many times Castiel begged, his superiors insisted that they couldn’t keep him there. The families of the people he tortured and murdered were calling for blood and they wouldn’t stop until they got it. If he truly was getting better, they argued, then he would be fine in such a facility as Sunnyside.
How could Castiel leave Dean to that fate? How could he ever claim to love Dean if he abandoned him? These were the same questions Dean posed to Castiel and, for the life of him, Castiel could not find an answer. The guilt tore him up, threatened to eat him from the inside out and he knew that he couldn’t just stand idly by and let the only man he’d ever loved – the only man who’d ever loved him – be taken from him like that.
The plan was going well up until the janitor interrupted them.
They were standing in a hallway, so close to freedom, but Castiel’s hands wouldn’t stop shaking. They were shaking when he tried to push the key into the lock, when his fingers slipped and the key ring dropped to the ground.
Dean had cursed and pushed him out of the way, shoving him up against the wall and Castiel bit off a groan of pain. The keys were in Dean’s hand, the other pressed against Castiel’s chest to keep him out of the way while he thumbed through the keys. Glancing down, Castiel tried not to think about the scalpel Dean was holding in the hand that lay against his chest, “The small one. Silver.”
The man had said nothing, just grunted in thanks and started to turn the key and that was when the janitor appeared.
Castiel didn’t have time to warn Dean when the hard metal of a broomstick handle came down across his back. He just watched as the man went down on his knees as Roger hit him again and once more.
“I got him, Mr. Novak! Run and get help! Get out of here!”
He had frozen, watched as Dean surged up from the ground and grabbed the broom before it could come down on him again. He watched them struggle for purchase, watched Dean charge Roger into the wall, watched Roger twist so it was Dean pressed there instead, the metal rod pressing down on his throat. He watched Dean struggle and gasp for air, while Roger shouted at him some more to leave, get out while he could, get help. He realized then that Dean was dying right before him, that the janitor was choking the life out of him (Dean may have had the practice, but he was much smaller than the janitor) and he couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything to help.
It glinted, like it was calling to him, begging him to hold it tight. The scalpel, right at his feet where Dean had dropped it, and then it was in his hand.
It was easier than he would have thought, to drive such a blade through someone’s skin. Then again, scalpels were made to be especially sharp. It was like cutting through butter when the tip of the blade went through Roger’s jugular and blood spilled out over his hands. He watched it gush out, splash on Dean’s face, on the wall, on them. It was everywhere and Castiel found himself going down with Roger, following him to the ground, pressing his hands against the wound he created as if it might help. But it didn’t. Castiel sat there kneeling beside the body of a man who he say every day and who’s name he had never known and it was no longer a man anymore, just a body.
Dean’s hands were pulling at him, hauling him to his feet and dragging him away, but all Castiel could see was the word on his name tag.
When they found shelter that night, Dean forced him to wash up. Dean pulled his arms out of his overcoat and shirt and tossed them to the floor. Dean pulled him into a cold shower (“Hot water’s not working.”) and scrubbed all the blood off his skin, cradled his hands and kissed them even though the blood wasn’t all gone yet, Dean still kissed his hands.
Later, when Dean was inside him, when Dean’s hips were rocking up into his at a tortuously slow pace, when Dean’s fist was wrapped around his cock and pulling in languid strokes until Castiel thought he might fall to pieces, Dean murmured words of praise into Castiel’s skin. Told Castiel how proud he was, how he always knew that he could rely on Cas to keep him safe, to do anything for him, to rescue him.
And Castiel knew he was lost.
Warnings: domestic violence, dub!con, knifeplay.
It’s been one month and two weeks since their last kill and Dean isn’t doing well.
He’s sitting on the couch with the remnants of his fifth beer dangling from his fingertips. Castiel can’t tell if Dean is really even aware of what he’s watching since he seems to be watching some program about a doctor everyone calls ‘sexy,’ but honestly he doesn’t care.
They’ve been cooped up in the same cabin, hiding out from the police this entire time. They’d barely made it out of the last town they were in, barely managed to lose the tail and make it back to the Impala without ending up behind bars. And now, they were just waiting for the hype to die down.
Castiel is in the kitchen doing the dishes just because there’s nothing else for him to do. He’s been power cleaning the entire cabin for the past few days and he doesn’t want to admit it, but it’s getting to him too. Not just having to stay inside, not just being confined to this kitchen/dining room/living room with a barely walled in bedroom and a shower that only gets hot water on a good day. It’s not just that.
It’s that he’s been missing something else too. He’s missing the blood and the screaming and the feeling of a life fading out right before your eyes. It sickens him, to think that he’s becoming like that, that he’s falling further and further into this rabbit hole Dean dug for him. Yet he knows it would be so easy to stop it. So easy to turn himself in, to turn Dean in, to end up locked in an asylum just like Dean was where he wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone ever again. It would be so easy.
He tries not to think about it. Not thinking about it lets him pretend none of it exists. It’s better that way.
It’s been three weeks since Dean last fucked him. Since Dean even looked at him. And Castiel knows what this is, he knows that Dean’s trying not to snap, that he’s even worse. Castiel can see it every time he tries to talk to Dean, but the man’s eyes only wander the space around him, never looking right at him even if he does talk back. Castiel tries to tell himself that it’s just the nerves, that it’s better this way, but that doesn’t stop the way he wants.
A crash brings him out of his revere and when Castiel looks down the glass he had been washing is in pieces. He doesn’t curse, but he wants to, wants to take the broken pieces and hurl them at the wall. It was the last glass they had. The ones that had been left here by the cabin’s owners only numbered three. One had some kind of liquid caked into the bottom that no matter how many times Castiel soaked it and washed it, he could just not remove. The second Dean had thrown at the TV when his favorite team lost the game. Thankfully, the TV hadn’t broken from the impact, but the glass was certainly unsalvageable.
And the third now lay shattered in the sink.
“What was that?”
Castiel hadn’t even heard Dean approach. The man was standing there, the beer bottle still held loose between his fingers, nearly empty now. Somehow, Dean never got that glazed look in his eyes that most drunks got. Instead, his eyes just seemed to darken, focused suddenly on him like there was no one else in the room. It was scarier than the way Castiel’s father used to get—
“Don’t ‘what?’ me. What the hell was that?” Dean’s grip around the bottle goes white-knuckled.
“The glass. It broke. I dropped it, and it broke.” He can feel something hot rising inside him, not desire, not anything like that. Just anger. “It was an accident, Dean.”
He knows his tone is condescending, that really he’s sneering out, ‘What the fuck do you think that sound was?’ But he can’t help it. He really should have because then Dean’s arm is raising and the bottle in his hand is hurling through the air at him.
It doesn’t hit him, but it wasn’t meant to. The bottle crashes against the cupboards to the right of Castiel and he immediately ducks away, throwing arms over his head to block his head. Beer splashes along his arms, but he doesn’t have much time to consider it before Dean’s yelling.
“Fucking talk to me like that? You gonna fucking get smart with me?” Dean’s hands circle around his wrists and yank them down and Dean’s so strong, he’s always been the stronger one. Castiel barely has time to clench his teeth before the back of Dean’s hand hits his cheek hard enough to send him reeling.
He doesn’t feel it when he hits the floor, but he’s glad for the moment that at least Dean didn’t hit him in the other direction, didn’t send him flying into all that broken glass. Castiel tries to sit up, tries to push himself up off the floor, but Dean’s hand digs into his hair and shoves him face first into the floor. The wood is rough and scrapes against his chin, his cheek, his forehead and he cries out. Dean ignores him as he pushes a knee into the back of his neck with just enough pressure to keep him down.
Dean’s hands are squeezing hard and when did he get the rope? Where did he get it? Castiel tries to squirm, tries to kick his feet out, tries to twist away, but it only makes the knee at the back of his neck press harder, press him down under he can hardly breathe. He can feel the twine knotting around his wrists, pulling too hard for this to mean fun, too hard for him to think that this is just a game.
Dean finally lets up on his neck and Castiel thrashes upwards, teeth gnashed together, grunting as he tries to get away, tries to fight against what Dean has done to him. But it’s not over yet, he realizes that when Dean’s hand hits him hard, open-palmed, against his ear and then more rope is coiling around his neck, pulling dangerously tight.
Castiel tries to struggle at first only to realize that Dean has tied his hands to his neck and every time he tries to tug his way free, he only ends up choking himself.
Dean rolls him over onto his side then and when Castiel’s eyes finally find him, the man is standing so tall over him, legs braced on either side of his body, watching with a cruel turn of his mouth as Castiel tries to arch, tries to relieve some of the pull against his throat. Dean just grins and grins.
Patience has never been one of Dean’s virtues, but he’s had weeks of nothing. So this time, he’s slow. He cuts Castiel’s clothes off, uses his knife (his special one, his baby, Ruby) to cut into Castiel’s skin, engraves his initials right on the curve of hipbones. He presses his boot down on Castiel’s cock when he starts to get hard, calls him a sick fuck, a filthy fucking slut for getting hard from this. He makes Castiel crawl on his knees to get to the bedroom, laughs at him when he tries to keep the rope’s tension off his neck, kicks him along when he starts to falter or slow down.
Weeks of nothing and it’s made Dean crueler than ever. When he fucks into Castiel’s hole, there’s only spit smeared on his cock to help ease the way, not even the precursory stretching of fingers inside him. Dean’s hand use the rope around his neck and wrist like a leash, like reins, pulling him down onto Dean’s cock, forcing his cock deeper and deeper into his hole and it fucking hurts, every bit of him hurts and he’s crying, but he doesn’t beg for it to stop because, truthfully, he’s grateful for the attention. He doesn’t come, Dean doesn’t allow it, but it doesn’t matter because at least Dean is touching him now, even if his touch just brings pain.
He passes out.
When he wakes up, his wrists and neck are free, he hurts all over and he can feel come warm inside him. Dean is sitting on the edge of the bed, and when Castiel tries to sit up, Dean pushes him back down with hands that are gentle this time. He presses a reverent kiss to Castiel temple before slipping his arms under Castiel’s knees and around his shoulders, carrying him into the bathroom. There’s warm water waiting for him, but Dean cleans all of the wounds he made first. Castiel watches Dean’s fingers trace reverently into the D.W. carved into that spot right next to his hip bone and he is thankful that at least something good came out of this, knowing that no one will be able to deny that he belongs to Dean now.
The man washes all the dirt, the come, and the blood off his skin, and they don’t speak. Castiel wonders briefly if Dean will apologize, will beg for forgiveness, but he already knows the answer.
He thought there would be more time.
Once they got out - both of them, it didn’t matter how - he thought he had all the time in the world. The time to save it, again. The time for them all to decide what they wanted to do with their lives, with the wide open road ahead of them.
He should have said it then, when they were in the car and Sammy was passed out in the back and Cas was right there. When he reached his hand over and grasped Cas’s hand, laced their fingers together and thought to himself that this was home. He should have said it.
He should have said it when they were fighting back to back and they were just barely keeping up, just barely surviving. When the battle was finally over and they were breathing heavy and then they were groping at clothes and clashing teeth and tongue and lips together and he thought his heart might fly out of his chest. He should have said it.
He should have said it when they were in each other’s arms. When skin was pressed to skin and the scent of sweat hung in the air and he caught Cas’s moans with his mouth. When they were warm and sated and happy and Dean promised himself that he would never lose this, that he would never let go. He should have said it then.
He shouldn’t be saying it now. When he’s got Cas in his arms, but it’s not like last time. There’s too much blood, there’s coughing, there’s bright, sweet light leaking out of him. He shouldn’t be chanting it like a mantra, like saying it will somehow heal him, but he knows it won’t. He shouldn’t be sobbing it when Cas’s hand reaches for his face and fingers trace his skin and Dean feels the wetness of blood there and Cas smiles like it’s all gonna be just fine when he says,
“I love you too, Dean.”
Warnings: graphic sex.
They were in Castiel’s office and Dean’s hand was down the front of his pants.
It was wrong, it broke every code that Castiel had ever sworn himself to, but it was too good. Dean was pressed against his back, grinding his cock – all thick and hard – against the swell of Castiel’s ass. They were trying to keep quiet, at least Castiel was, but Dean’s hand was relentless, twisting and squeezing his cock mercilessly.
Dean’s behavior had been good for a long time. After the last incident, Dean seemed to really open up to Castiel. He told Castiel about his mother, about watching a stranger string her from the ceiling and set her on fire. He talked about his father, about the fists that rained down on him in anger. And about his brother, the one he often dove in front of those fists for.
And he spoke of Alastair, the man who taught him how to hurt, how to maniputlate, how to make even the strongest of men plead for their lives. The one who killed his brother. His first real kill.
Castiel understood or, at least, he tried to. He believed that Dean wasn’t really as dangerous as everyone seemed to think; he was only doing as he had been taught, what an entire lifetime of trauma taught him was okay. Castiel’s heart ached for this man, this man who was broken and left behind again and again. Some times, it was all Castiel could do to stop himself from reaching out and holding on to Dean’s hand, giving the only comfort he could.
But then the day came when Dean reached for his hand, holding it so gently, so carefully that Castiel could never believe that this man could ever hurt another human being. Those eyes, so sincere, so sweet, stared right into Castiel like he was the only salvation he had, like Castiel was the only one who could save him.
Castiel had been trying so hard to hide his wants, his need. To hide the way even a glance from Dean had him squirming in his seat, a warm thrill skirting up and down his spine. Every smile, every drag of Dean’s eyes over his skin was like a physical touch that sent heat rushing through him. Castiel tried to hide it, the way that Dean effected him, emotionally and physically, but Dean would always look at him like he knew, like there was no way Castiel could deny it around him.
So he stopped trying.
A camera was on in the room, somewhere, filming their session. Except Castiel knew he would have to hide this video like he’s done with so many others, hide away all the evidence because his superiors just wouldn’t understand, they didn’t know Dean like he did.
Dean’s hand squeezed and Castiel whimpered, hips bucking forward. His shirt was unbuttoned enough for Dean to latch his mouth to the length of his neck, for him to suck bruises into Castiel’s skin. His fingers were sliding into Castiel’s hole now, slicked up with the lube he’d started keeping in the top drawer of his desk. Castiel’s hands gripped the edge of the desk with a white knuckled grip and he swayed where he stood as Dean pressed a third finger inside, stretching him out quickly. They only had another hour before security would come escort him back to his room.
“Dean,” Castiel sighed as Dean shoved Castiel’s slacks out of the way, pushed his work coat up and off to the side, and started to press the head of his cock inside.
“Fuck, doc. So warm and tight and good.” Dean groaned as his hands gripped at Castiel’s hips, as he started to set a devilishly slow pace. “Gonna make you feel so good, Cas.”
Only Dean ever called him that, and Castiel liked it that way. In elementary school, the teachers would stumble over his name during roll call and the other children would tease him for having a funny name. When he got to middle school he would always tell the teacher, “Just call me Jimmy, it’s my middle name.” He never liked it when anyone called him by his first name, but there was something about the way Dean said it, the way it rolled off his tongue made Castiel feel like he was someone to be treasured and adored.
Some times, it seemed like Dean was holding back. His hands would dance over Castiel’s skin, squeezing at his nipples, fingertips pressing into his skin, but not too hard, not hard enough to leave behind bruises. He was careful with Castiel in a way that no one else ever was and Castiel appreciated it, loved it really, but he couldn’t help feeling that Dean was so restrained in these moments.
Dean’s hips were thrusting into him hard enough for him to jostle the desk he was leaning on and Castiel could feel Dean going in so deep and he loved it, loved the drag of Dean’s cock against the sensitive skin of his hole, loved to feel Dean’s breath panting out against his ear, loved the way Dean’s hands never stopped touching him. But still he wondered if there was more, if Dean really was holding himself back.
But it didn’t matter really because Dean was always perfect to him, especially when he could feel Dean shuddering against him, when he could feel Dean’s arms around him squeezing hard as he painted the inside of Castiel’s body with streaks of come, when he wrapped his big hand around Castiel’s cock and made him come too, all over the floor of his office, all over Dean’s hand.
Even now, Dean is still perfect.
Some times, Castiel wonders how he got here. How he went from being one of the top experts in his field to sleeping in the back seat of a big black car on cold winter nights. How did he end up here, with this man, this green-eyed killer that he loves so much? Some times he wonders, but he never regrets.
The Promised Land Is Here, a Dean/Castiel serial killer AU.
Read here! Please heed the warnings.
Warnings: domestic violence, graphic sex.
They don’t check into hotels anymore, it’s too easy to get caught that way. If they can, they stick to cabins that have been abandoned for the season or camping grounds. But most times they end up sleeping in the Impala.
Dean’s chest is pressed to his back and Castiel is finally starting to drift to sleep when a hard jerk wakes him up. It’s Dean, twitching and trembling and when Castiel cranes to look him, he sees Dean’s face is tight, brows furrowed together and jaw clenched hard.
“Dean.” Castiel nudges the man with his elbow and when that doesn’t work, when Dean just keeps on jolting and shaking he sits up slightly, twisting around to shake Dean’s shoulder. “Dean, wake up.”
It works then and Dean’s eyes snap open. Before Castiel can get a word out, Dean’s fist comes hurtling through the air at him and sends him flying back against the window behind him. His head is throbbing, spinning and he feels a fist clenching in the cloth of his shirt and then Dean hits him again and again.
He must have said something, called out perhaps because, just as suddenly it stops.
Dean’s hands are on his face and he can hear him sobbing out, “Oh God. Cas? Cas, you okay? Come on, doc answer me. Talk to me.”
“’M okay.” Cas manages, but his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. He can taste blood on his tongue and it must be from the split lip because it stings when he tries to lick his lip. “I’m okay, Dean.”
They’re both crying, he realizes when Dean buries his face in Cas’s neck, big arms wrapped around him and holding him tight. Dean’s shoulders are heaving and it takes a moment before Castiel can decipher the words he’s mumbling.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, just so fucking sorry.” Over and over Dean weeps it into his shoulder and Castiel feels like he’s breaking open.
“It’s okay, Dean. It’s okay. I’m okay.” This isn’t the first time that Dean has hit him, but it’s the first time that it wasn’t planned. This is the first time that Dean has apologized for it. The fist time that Castiel has seen Dean cry.
When Dean’s lips kiss along his jaw and up to his mouth, Castiel whimpers when he presses too hard, but instead of pressing harder, Dean eases up. His tongue licks the blood away from Castiel’s lip, hands pushing his shirt up and off.
Dean’s hands explore his face, perhaps tracing the bruises his fist left behind as he steadily rocks into Castiel. Castiel’s hands are braced on Dean’s shoulders, his hips surging down to meet the man, thrust for thrust. He loves this feeling, sitting in Dean’s lap, split open on Dean’s cock, the drag of Dean’s cock inside him setting his nerves on fire.
Every so often, Dean murmurs against Castiel’s skin, “Sorry. ‘M sorry,” and Castiel isn’t sure if Dean’s apologizing to him anymore.