Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Castiel wakes feeling strange. He’s calm and unsettled all at once. Pale morning light seeps around the blinds. His first thoughts are of Dean, as they often are these days. He should message him. The impulse lands before he’s even fully conscious, before coffee or reason. Make sure the man hasn’t woken with regret.

Dean had seemed good last night but Castiel knows how fragile that can be. He knows the drift after a scene, the hangover of too much trust. A body rewired by adrenaline and shame can change its mind by morning.

He stretches, joints cracking, and studies the room as if it might hold an answer. Everything looks the same, but he doesn’t feel it.

He hadn’t expected Dean’s reaction. When he confessed about the spyware, he’d braced that to be the end. Instead, Dean had stayed. Confused, yes, but curious. He’d stared right into the camera with his middle finger lifted like a challenge.

It still astonishes him.

He opens up KinkLife on his phone, types and deletes the first few words of his message.

Good morning.

Too ordinary.

Checking in after last night.

Too clinical.

He settles on nothing at all and leans back, rubbing at the ache behind his eyes. The honesty of it, admitting to what he’d done, should feel like relief. In some ways, it does. In others, it’s a new kind of exposure.

He wonders how Dean will react when he knows the rest. If he’ll accept it as easily as he did the spying. What he’ll think when—if—he learns that Castiel is the same man he knows as Jimmy. If Dean turns on him, Castiel isn’t sure how he’ll survive it.

He thinks of Dean’s expression last night, the way his mouth had softened when he said I’m good right where we are.There’d been trust in it. A dangerous thing, coming from someone like Dean Winchester.

Castiel’s fingers hover and he tries to think of what to say. He wants to tell him he hardly slept, too busy replaying Dean talking about what he liked as he stroked himself last night. The certainty of his “yes” to every dark and aching thing they both want.

Dean’s responses to the list soothed him. That for once, what he wants isn’t too much.

Fallenangel404:
How did you sleep?

He stares at the message, sent now, irrevocable. Wonders how long he can live in this middle ground, half known and half forgiven.

Dean’s acceptance should feel like safety. It feels like the edge of a cliff instead. There’s a thin line between being seen and being caught.

And Dean, God help him, makes him want both.

He moves through the routine on autopilot. Each motion interrupted by the need to check his phone. Dean’s reply hasn’t come yet. At least now he knows where some of Dean’s boundaries are, the edges of the map drawn in.

He sets the phone on the counter and takes a slow sip of coffee.

makemebeg4it:
morning sunshine!
im good slept great.

Castiel exhales, tension bleeding off his shoulders. Dean is already at work but he sounds good.

He leans against the counter, typing carefully.

Fallenangel404:
I wanted to check in and make sure you were still feeling good after last night.
I hope I didn’t push too hard.
I also wanted to check in again about the… watching. You said you weren’t excited about exhibition, but now that you know I’ve been indulging in my own voyeuristic indulgences, wanted to ask again if you wanted me to stop.

He sets the phone down, pulls his tie snug, and waits. The next buzz comes quick.

makemebeg4it:
i went straight to other people when u asked that
im good with u watching

Castiel’s mouth twitches. He types again.

Fallenangel404:
You can tell me no

Another ping:

makemebeg4it:
please watch me.
did u ever get urself off watching me? i hope u did

His breath catches involuntarily. He can almost hear Dean’s voice in it: the teasing edge, the heat underneath.

He smooths his tie, steadies himself.

Fallenangel404:
I’m getting read for work. Perhaps we can continue that part of the conversation later.

He locks the phone, slides it into his pocket, and catches his reflection in the mirror by the door. He looks almost composed.

Almost.

The morning feels ordinary again but under it hums the simple, dangerous fact that Dean still wants him watching.

***

The day unspools in the usual pattern. Emails, meetings, and the low hum of conversation all around him but Castiel can’t seem to keep his mind on any of it. His body goes through the motions: fingers on the keyboard, coffee gone cold, another meeting that could have been an email. The rest of him is elsewhere.

He keeps circling the same problem: Jimmy.

That fiction of a man he built to stand in for himself. The neighbor with the soft voice and bad timing.

He knows Dean finds him attractive. There’d been that moment, weeks ago, when he’d accidentally asked Dean on a date, and Dean had smiled in a way that means yes before remembering to say no. He’d said he wanted to see where things were going with someone online. With him.

The memory knots in Castiel’s stomach.

Dean had chosen him, in a way, but not the version that breathes and walks the same hallway. He’d chosen the ghost.

Castiel pushes his glasses higher on his nose and stares at the monitor until the text blurs.

It should be enough that Dean wants Castiel. That he trusts him, desires him, lets him watch. But every time he thinks of last weekend, the way Dean let Jimmy hold him while he shook apart, the way he’d admitted, voice small and wrecked, that it was sub drop… something inside him twists.

He’d given Dean comfort. And Dean had taken it, even needed it.

But he hadn’t known who it really came from. He had needed it in the first place because Castiel had abandoned him.

Castiel rubs at the bridge of his nose. It’s irrational. Jealousy makes no sense when both men are him, yet here he is, envious of his own mask.

Jimmy had been allowed to touch him. He hadn’t.

He opens another line of code, types, deletes. The cursor blinks like a pulse. Maybe he’s built this trap too well. He has walls inside walls, personas stacked like mirrors until he’s not sure which reflection Dean actually sees.

If Jimmy were an option… if he could somehow fold that version of himself into the truth… would Dean choose him instead?

The thought lodges somewhere deep and mean.

He minimizes the window, stares at the muted reflection in his screen. The man looking back at him doesn’t look like a monster. Just tired and lonely.

Still, the question hums beneath everything he does for the rest of the day.

***

Castiel sits at his desk, dinner dishes stacked in the sink, and the apartment quiet except for the faint hum of the fridge. The chat window glows against the dark. Dean is on his own computer downstairs, stretched out on his bed with that loose, half-dressed ease he always has at the end of the day.

Castiel types before he can talk himself out of it.

Fallenangel404:
Now that you know I’ve been watching I can say this without exposing myself.
You had some guy over with you last weekend after our scene and were cuddling with him.

Dean’s brow furrows on the feed. He takes a long swallow from his glass, obviously buying time. “Yeah. My neighbor.”

Does he feel guilty? Castiel has no idea how Dean feels about Jimmy or what he thinks about him beyond the few things he’s gathered from Dean’s email and overhead phone conversations.

Fallenangel404:
The “hot” one you tried to use to make me jealous?.

Dean sighs, sitting up straighter. “Are you pissed at me about that?”

The tone, half defensive and half weary, rubs something raw in Castiel. If he wasn’t also Jimmy, he’d be pissed about it. The more he thinks about it, the more he doesn’t like the idea that Dean could be doing these things with him while also cuddling with someone else.

Fallenangel404:
Are you fucking him? I need to know, if for no other reason than for my own health.

Dean drops his glass onto the nightstand with a sharp clack. “No, I’m not fucking him, you asshole.”

Fallenangel404:
But you wish you were.

Dean’s mouth twists; he bites down on the side of his finger, jaw working. “I’m fucking you,” he snaps. “I’m the one who said if we were going to involve anyone else we needed to talk about it first. That came from me, not you. So don’t start this. You want to be exclusive? Great, we already were. You’re the only person I’ve fucked in over a year, you stupid asshole.”

Fallenangel404:
So what would your terms be for involving someone else?

Dean stares at the screen, expression flat and incredulous. “What is this? What are you doing?”

Fallenangel404:
I have an idea for a scene.

“Involving other people,” Dean says, unimpressed.

Fallenangel404:
Yes. What would your rules be for such a scene? What are your limits?

The change in Dean’s face is immediate. Anything that is Dean is whipped away and he’s blank and still and Castiel doesn’t like it.

“No surprises in a scene like that,” he says finally. “I’d want to know who and what. I’d need it all planned out ahead of time. No deviations. Anything I’m not sure about is a hard no. What do you want to do?”

Castiel can see the caution in his eyes, the flicker that says don’t. But the idea’s already taken root.

Fallenangel404:
You mentioned getting double teamed by myself and this guy. Why not invite him to play in one of our games?

Dean crosses his arms, shoulders tense. “What is this, Cas?”

Fallenangel404:
You said he was probably an office worker who didn’t even know what BDSM was. Let’s test that theory.

Dean stares at the camera like he can’t decide whether to laugh or throw something. “I can’t believe you’re jealous of Jimmy.”

Castiel doesn’t respond. He just watches, trying to read Dean’s body language. He’s never been good at this. At parsing the small, human signals that mean stop or keep going.

It’s part of why he likes BDSM so much. There are rules and signals. They make sense. There’s no guessing.

It’s also why things with Alfie were so maddening. He’d done everything right. Followed the rules, listened to every boundary, honored every safeword. And still he’d been banned. Punished for doing the very things Alfie had asked for. For trusting the system more than the person.

Fallenangel404:
Do you want to hear my idea or not?

Dean shrugs and crosses his arms. He leans back like he couldn’t care less. “Dig your hole.”

Fallenangel404:
I thought you found him attractive?
Why are you being like this?

Dean doesn’t react to his message. He’s not looking at the webcam either. Castiel doesn’t send any messages and Dean doesn’t say anything. Dean doesn’t fill the silence. Castiel waits for Dean to break, to say something, but he doesn’t. Dean just keeps staring at some point off-screen, jaw tight.

There’s a part of Castiel that’s dying to take it back. To tell Dean to forget it, to start over.

But if he weren’t Jimmy, if he were only himself, this would be a real problem. The proximity, the touching, the comfort. He can’t act like he is Jimmy, so he has to do this. He has to push. If Dean prefers Jimmy, then he can disappear and spare them both the fallout.

“Are you trying to pawn me off?” Dean asks finally.

Fallenangel404:
No

Dean exhales hard. “That’s what it feels like. Pull some random guy into our dynamic and leave me with him like… like dropping a cat off at the shelter. Spoiler alert: the guy doesn’t want a cat.”

Fallenangel404:
You let him comfort you when you wouldn’t let me

Dean nods slowly, something cold settling behind his eyes, like he had an epiphany. “You’re punishing me.”

Castiel opens his mouth reflectively to argue. Punishing. Is that what this is? It doesn’t feel like dominance. It feels like spite. Like he’s cornered himself inside his own lies.

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like where he was going with this. It makes his skin crawl. But he also can’t say it isn’t punishment, because maybe it is… not just for Dean, but for himself. He should never have let both sides of himself touch Dean’s life. He should have stayed away as Jimmy.

Fallenangel404:
I have my way with you. I make a mess of you.
You text him to come use you, however he sees fit.
You’re there gaged and tied down, free to use.
When he’s done I’ll take care of you.

“No.”

Fallenangel404:
No or Poughkeepsie?

“Poughkeepsie,” Dean says in the flat, dead way. Castiel sees Dean close the laptop and the feed is dead.

Castiel stares at the blank screen for a long time. The silence feels physical, like pressure against his ribs. He should turn the monitor off, close the window, go to bed… but he can’t.

He replays it in his head: the moment Dean’s tone went cold, the flat way he said Poughkeepsie. The click of the laptop lid.

He exhales through his nose. This was supposed to be about control. A test, an experiment to measure where Dean’s loyalty actually lived. Instead, it feels like rot spreading through something that had finally started to grow.

The word sits in his mind like a bruise: punishment.

Maybe Dean was right.

Castiel rubs at the bridge of his nose until it hurts. The idea had started as a way to manage his jealousy… to prove to himself that Dean wouldn’t prefer Jimmy, that the softness between them hadn’t replaced the hunger that existed here. But somewhere between impulse and execution, it became something uglier.

He checks the feeds. The laptop is closed and the living room is dark and still.

He should be relieved Dean safeworded. It means the system works, that Dean trusts the framework enough to use it. But Castiel can’t shake the sense that the word wasn’t about safety; it was dismissal.

He leans back in his chair, fingers pressed to his eyes. “You’re a fool,” he mutters.

It’s what he deserves for trying to mix honesty with deception, for thinking he could separate Jimmy from Castiel when both are just masks he built to touch the same man from different angles.

He glances at the chat window, the cursor blinking like an accusation. He could send a message to apologize or explain but every draft sounds hollow in his head.

Instead, he leaves it open, just in case. Watches the feed another half hour. Still nothing.

When he finally drags himself to bed, he doesn’t bother with the lights. The apartment feels smaller somehow, airless. He lies there, staring into the dark, replaying Dean’s voice one last time.

Poughkeepsie.

He should find comfort in the word’s meaning but tonight, all it sounds like is enough.

Chapter Text

Dean ignores him all week.

He messages on KinkLife. When Castiel checks in as Jimmy and asks if Dean has weekend plans, if he wants to do a movie night, the reply is polite but distant.

Sorry, can’t do a movie night this week. Maybe another time.

By Wednesday, he’s desperate enough to walk downstairs and knock on Dean’s door. He hears movement inside but no answer. Dean doesn’t open the door.

He doesn’t open his laptop, either.

Castiel watches the dark screen from his own apartment, waiting for the soft green light that means connection. Nothing. He hadn’t told Dean about the TV feed, and he’s almost grateful for that now; if Dean knew, he’d have unplugged it too.

He keeps sending messages on KinkLife anyway, short, careful things. Thinking of you. Hope you’re okay. I’m sorry for how that went. No response. He can’t even tell if Dean’s seen them.

He doesn’t know what to do.

He’s thought about coming home early, timing it so he could intercept Dean on the stairs, or waiting outside his door under the pretense of borrowing something. But that would have to be as Jimmy, and he can’t imagine how to explain it without unraveling everything.

By Saturday, the silence feels unbearable. He orders roses and adds a card that says only I’m sorry. He sends them under Castiel.

He gets a delivery confirmation and nothing else.

Who would have thought it’d be jealousy that killed whatever this was and not the spying, not the lies?

And it isn’t even real jealousy. He’s jealous of himself.

He sits there for a long time, staring at the confirmation email, fully aware he’s managed to ruin the best thing he’s had in years.

***

On Sunday, Castiel does his grocery shopping.

He moves through the store on autopilot, thinking about what else he could do to apologize. The roses hadn’t worked. They’d been a stupid, clichéd idea anyway but it had felt like the thing to do at the time.

If he were a good man, he would leave Dean alone. But he isn’t a good man.

Still, as much as he likes the hunt, he wants prey that wants to be caught.

He drifts down the cereal aisle, wondering what life would be like if things had gone differently. If he and Dean lived together. What kind of cereal would Dean buy? Would they argue over milk, or the brand of coffee?

He could have had that. He was the one who ruined it.

On the drive home, he stops at the small bakery where he bought the mini pies before. It’s late in the day so there are no more of those left, but there’s a single full-sized one behind the glass. It’s apple and he buys it, and tells himself he’ll leave it inside Dean’s apartment before work tomorrow.

When he gets home, he puts away the groceries and opens his laptop by habit more than intention.

Dean has been subdued. Most days, when he watches him in the evenings he is in the living room, half-watching television, a microwave dinner balanced on his knee. Dean used to cook.

Another sign of what Castiel’s done.

Which is why he’s very surprised that the feed from Dean’s laptop webcam is live.

Dean is there, naked and sprawled in front of his laptop, skin flushed and chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths. The sight is so unexpected that Castiel’s mind blanks for a second. His first instinct is that it must be old footage. He’s watched the recordings, again and again, anything to fill the silence. But no, he doesn't recognize this. Dean shifts, reaching out to scroll on his trackpad, and Castiel sees the little cursor move.

He glances at Dean’s screen, and his heart lurches. He’s reading "Party Favor" again. His mouth is parted, eyes dark, and one hand sliding down over his chest to his cock.

Castiel’s breath stutters. He has no idea how long Dean’s been doing this. He could check the recording, catalog every second, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the live feed. All the hurt, the guilt, the desperate longing from the week of silence knots tight in his chest.

Dean’s hand moves slow, almost lazy, stroking himself just enough to keep his cock flushed and slick, never enough to chase release. He scrolls through the story with his other hand, thumb lingering on the lines where Kyle is tied down, ruined, made into a toy for anyone who wants him.

When Dean finally sets the laptop aside and reaches for the nightstand, Castiel’s chest tightens. He knows that drawer but watching Dean reach for the vibrator, watching the lube glisten on his fingers as he preps the toy, is different. Dean is putting on a show. For whoever’s watching. For whoever he decides is worthy.

Dean teases his rim, slicking himself up, rocking his hips forward as the tip presses against him. He bites his lip and lets out a shivery, punched-out breath as the toy breaches him. Castiel can almost feel that sound, like it’s vibrating through the screen, into his own bones.

Dean works the toy in, shallow at first, stretching himself open, ignoring his cock except for the occasional, lazy drag of his palm. Precum glistens on the head, dribbles down his shaft, untouched. He pushes the vibrator deeper, fucks himself on it for a minute, then switches it off and pulls it free.

Castiel expects him to reach for the lube again, but Dean doesn’t. He grabs the dildo and lubes it up.

Castiel’s own hand is clenched, knuckles white, jaw locked tight. He wants to reach through the screen, to hold Dean down, to tell him how fucking beautiful he looks right now: open, greedy, filthy, and his. He wants to own every sound, every twitch, every stretch.

Dean lines up the dildo and pushes, slow and relentless, working himself open. He lets his head fall back, mouth parted, breathing ragged as the toy finally pops inside. His body arches, a slow, controlled tremor running through his thighs. He fucks himself with it, deep, long strokes, moaning quietly, his eyes never leaving the black lens of the camera.

Castiel has to bite his fist, hard, to keep from groaning. To keep from typing anything, sending anything, ruining whatever it is Dean is trying to make him feel.

He wants to say, You’re mine. No one gets to watch you but me. No one gets to fuck you but me. But all he can do is watch, devoured by need, as Dean opens himself wider and wider, offering up every filthy inch for Castiel’s eyes alone.

It’s obscene, it’s perfect, it’s hell. Castiel’s eyes are glued to the screen, every inch of Dean’s body etched in hungry relief: the flush up his chest, the pink of his parted mouth, the heavy droop of his cock untouched and leaking. But it’s the way the dildo stretches him open, sliding in slow and deep, that nearly undoes him.

Mine, Castiel thinks, not for the first time. Mine to watch, mine to fuck, mine to ruin, even if he’s the one on the outside now.

Dean grits out a low, “Fuckkk,” voice thick and ruined. It vibrates through Castiel, makes him clench his jaw, nearly makes him reach for his own cock but he won’t, he won’t.

He can see from Dean’s angle, hips rolling, hand slow on the base of the dildo, the rhythm deliberate but never quite angled to catch his own prostate. Not trying to make himself come. Just working himself open, stretching, tempting, teasing, performing. It’s a taunt and an invitation.

Dean’s focus flickers between the story on his screen and the steady press of the toy. He reads a few lines, lashes lowering, lip caught between his teeth, then gasps and rocks down again, greedy and careful at once. The lens catches it all: the sweat at his hairline, the slack pleasure on his face, the growing need.

Castiel aches. He wants to reach through the screen, take Dean’s chin in his hand, say, Look at me when you come. You don’t get to finish unless I say so. You’re my hole, my pretty little mess, and you only come for me.

But he can only watch. His jeans bite into his cock, throbbing and desperate, but he stays perfectly still, refusing himself even this.

Dean’s head tips back, eyes fluttering closed, the dildo moving deeper now. It’s hypnotic. Castiel is caught between Dean’s face and the obscene stretch below, the way Dean’s body welcomes the toy, makes a show of taking more and more.

He wonders if Dean’s imagining his fist, his cock, his voice in his ear: Take it, take all of it, show me you can. He wonders if Dean’s punishing him, or begging to be claimed again.

Castiel can’t look away, not for a second. Every breath Dean takes, every tremor, every slick push of the toy, he commits to memory. He’ll replay it all later, if Dean won’t let him have it in real time. He’ll savor every second Dean gives him, even if it’s only as a spectator.

When Dean reaches the end of the story, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and just lays there, chest heaving.

He pulls out his dido and sets it aside too, then he grabs something colorful.

Dean holds the toy up, angling it so the camera gets the full effect: it’s massive, obscenely colorful, ridged and gleaming wet in his slicked palm. The size alone makes Castiel’s breath catch. He can’t look away, hunger and jealousy warring in his gut.

Dean grins, all teeth and challenge, eyes cutting straight to the lens. “Look what I bought myself. Got myself something special from bad dragon.” He turns it in his hand, showing off every inch, his fingers dwarfed by the sheer girth. “Could have been you using this on me, but instead I’m going to use it on myself. Stuff my hole with this monster. Fuck. Think you could fit your fist in me after?”

He works the lube over the toy, deliberately stroking it like it’s a cock, like he’s tempting Castiel with every filthy second. He brings it up to his lips, letting the head brush his mouth, then drags it down over his chest, leaving a smear of lube on his skin.

“You asked me if I’d ever been fisted, but I’m starting to think you write about this because you can’t find anyone who’ll let you do it. Maybe I would’ve. Maybe I still would.” He locks eyes with the camera. “But you fucked it up, Cas. Now you just get to watch.”

Dean slides the toy between his thighs, the head pressing at his slicked, stretched hole. He laughs, breathless, as he lines it up.

“I think they call this small.?” He rocks his hips forward, teasing the head inside, gasping at the stretch. “Feels bigger than your beer bottle. Almost too big for me, but I know you’d want to see me take it. Want to see how much I can open up for you.”

He groans as he works it deeper, the obscene girth making him shudder and sweat. “Bet you wish you could tell me what to do right now, huh? Bet you’re jerking off watching me. Go ahead. I’d say you could come, but I’m not giving you permission.”

Dean fucks himself on the toy, pushing slowly deliberately, savoring every filthy second, every burn and tremor. “Hope you’re enjoying the show, asshole,” he grits out, eyes fluttering as the stretch goes from pain to pleasure, his cock leaking untouched against his belly.

He holds the toy steady, breathing hard, sweat trickling down his chest. “Maybe next time, you’ll get to use me. But for now? You just get to watch. Just like you always do.”

He sinks it in a little further, a guttural sound tearing from his throat, part agony, part ecstasy. “Fuck. Maybe I could take a fist after all. You want to see me split open, Cas? Want to see what you’re missing?”

Dean keeps working the toy in, sweat gleaming across his chest, every muscle drawn tight with the effort and the ache. The dildo is so thick it looks obscene even half-buried inside him, the ridges dragging over his rim with every thrust. His chest heaves, breath coming in rough pants, eyes fluttering closed in pleasure or rolling back, lost in the overwhelming stretch and burn.

He stops with the dildo still halfway in, just resting there, making a filthy, lewd show of the way it stretches him open. He grabs the lube and drizzles it messily over the toy, watching it drip down around his hole. His fingers massage it in, circling his rim, working the slick around and under the ridges. He moans, biting his lip, then starts to work the dildo out and in, trying to force it deeper with each rock of his hips.

“I’ve never taken something this big,” he groans, voice thick with pain and pleasure. “Fuck, it hurts—feels so fucking good. You were too damn careful with me when we did it for real, Cas. You were scared you’d break me, and now you’re missing out on all the things you always wanted to do. All the things you wrote about—bet you wish you’d tried them when you had the chance.”

He pushes more of the toy into his hole, the stretch making his thighs tremble. “I’m so greedy for it. So greedy to be used and hurt. That’s what you want, right? Someone to ruin. Someone to split open and fill until they can’t take anymore. You could have done it to me, Cas. Could have made me take your fist, your cock, anything you wanted.”

He rocks down harder, forcing another inch inside, jaw clenched, tears pricking at his eyes. “I read your story, ‘Handful.’ Bratty little sub gets put in his place by his Dom. Fisted, made to beg, shown exactly who he belongs to. That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you wanted to do to me?”

Dean’s head drops back, sweat-slick hair sticking to his forehead. He keeps working the toy in, every sound filthy and desperate, every word meant to twist the knife.

“Look at me now. You could have had all this. You could have made me your hole, your toy, your little cumdump. Instead, you get to watch me ruin myself. Hope you’re enjoying it, Cas. Hope you know what you lost.”

Castiel has to force himself to breathe, chest aching with the effort. His cock strains painfully against his jeans, so hard he’s dizzy, matching Dean’s frantic rhythm, like if he syncs up enough, if he just wants enough, Dean will somehow feel it and give in.

Tears leak from the corners of Dean’s eyes, sweat sheening his flushed skin. Each low whine he makes is ambiguous. They could be agony, could be bliss. For Castiel, it’s both: every sound Dean lets slip is another stake through his heart, another flash of envy, ownership, love that burns so hot it’s almost rage.

This should be mine. The thought loops wild in Castiel’s mind. He’s mine to ruin, mine to wreck, mine to hold together after. Dean keeps saying he’s lost this, but Castiel knows that if Dean truly wanted him gone, he wouldn’t be putting on this show. He wouldn’t be saying his name.

Dean’s fingertips drag around his stretched rim, slick with lube and sweat. “Fuck. Fuck. Look at how stretched I am. Fuck, I’m going to be gaping. I wonder if I could fit my own hand in there. Fuck, it’s too much.” His voice breaks, high and desperate. There’s hardly any toy left to go; he’s worked it almost all the way in, the base pressing at his skin, obscene and glistening.

He fucks himself slowly, the toy heavy in his hand, working the last inch in, body shaking with effort. His head lolls, hair damp with sweat, breath coming in frantic little pants.

“Oh fuck, Cas. God, I wish you were fucking this into me. Fuck, I’m going to get it in and be too spent to even fuck myself with it.” He’s shaking all over now, whole body trembling with exertion, with surrender, with the overwhelming need to be filled, to be seen, to be ruined.

Castiel watches, eyes burning, fists clenched, so hungry for Dean he could die from it. He can’t look away. He wants to reach through the screen and finish it for him, wants to be the one making him weep and beg and split apart. He wants every filthy, beautiful inch of Dean. His tears, his shame, his pleasure, his pain.

And as Dean finally grinds down, trying to take the last of the toy, Castiel realizes he’s mouthing the words ‘Mine, mine, mine even’ if Dean can’t hear him.

Dean finally gets the last thick inch inside himself, the toy’s base flush against his rim, leaving him open, ruined, trembling. He sprawls back, spent and glorious, cock hard and dark, chest heaving, eyes wild and wet. For a moment, he doesn’t move, his arms stretched out, hands lax on the sheets, and his whole body shaking with what he’s taken.

Castiel can hardly breathe. He’s never seen anything so beautiful, so filthy, so his. He watches, mesmerized, as Dean fumbles in the nightstand, pulling out a black strip of cloth. Dean ties the blindfold on, knotting it tight, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

Then, finally, Dean turns to the camera, voice rough and shaking, but steady as a promise. “You have twenty minutes. The door’s unlocked. Come here, fuck me with this thing, and you can do whatever you want with me. If you don’t come or can’t make it, I’ll call my fucking neighbor and you and I are done.”

And then, just like that, Dean closes the laptop. The feed goes black.

Chapter Text

Castiel is already moving before he realizes it. His hands are shaking so badly he drops his keys, twice. He barely remembers to lock his own door, nearly trips down the stairs. Heart in his throat, cock aching, he runs.

He doesn’t think about what he’ll say. He just knows he’ll get there. He has to. He’ll do anything to not let Dean go.

Castiel locks the door behind him and crosses the apartment, moving on muscle memory and need. Dean’s bedroom is just as it was on the feed: sheets tangled, lamplight low, the air hot and thick with sex.

Dean lies splayed on the bed, blindfold tight over his eyes, arms thrown wide in surrender,the monstrous toy buried deep in his ass. His cock stands hard and furious, purple and leaking, almost painful to look at.

For a heartbeat, Castiel just stares. The reality is even filthier, even more beautiful than the show. He feels wild with it, dizzy with want. All the hunger and loneliness of the past week, the ache of being locked out and denied… suddenly, impossibly, he has it. All of it. All of Dean.

“Dean,” he breathes. Dean shivers, every muscle tensing as if the word itself is a hand on his skin.

“Fuck, Angel. Were you just watching from the parking lot, you freak?” Dean’s voice is wrecked, threaded with laughter and want.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees; it’s close enough to the truth.

Dean arches. “Fuck me. Hurt me. Please.”

Castiel moves to the bed, standing over Dean, hands trailing over warm skin. He swallows, dizzy with what he wants… what he’s allowed. “How—” He stops, steadies himself. “How badly can I hurt you?”

Dean’s hands clutch the sheets, his whole body trembling. “Stop holding back,” he pleads. “Please, please, I need you to hurt me. Do everything you wrote about. Everything you dreamed of. I want it. I want all of it.”

Something breaks loose inside Castiel, something that’s been caged for years. He knows what Dean needs, knows it in his bones, from every word, every scene, every hungry, broken prayer. He will give Dean everything. He will take everything Dean has to give.

He strips with shaking hands, climbs onto the bed, crawls between Dean’s thighs. The sight of Dean’s hole, gaping and stretched around the toy, is almost more than he can bear.

He presses a kiss to the inside of Dean’s trembling thigh, then bites, hard enough to break the skin. “You’re mine,” he growls. “I’m going to ruin you, Dean. You won’t belong to anyone else. Not after tonight.”

Dean moans, offering himself up with everything he has.

And Castiel, finally, takes what’s his.

“There’s a box under the bed,” Dean says, voice rough. “I went shopping after our last conversation. Use whatever you want on me. Or whatever you have. Or whatever you can find.”

“You want to be hurt?” Castiel’s voice is a snarl, pure sadism. “Then you’re going to beg for it. You’ll take everything I give you and thank me for it. Understand?”

“Please, please hurt me,” Dean breathes, already half gone.

Castiel drags the box from under the bed, hands trembling. He flips open the lid—and his breath catches. Dildos of every size and color, plugs, clamps, paddles, lube, a coil of thick rope, gleaming stainless steel sounds, a vicious-looking crop. Dean’s been busy.

He picks up the set of steel sounds, cock throbbing at the thought of making Dean take more. Filling him up, ruining him from the inside out. He chooses the largest, holds it up to the light, lets Dean hear the metallic clink as he lays the rest out on the bed.

“Look at you,” Castiel sneers. “Did you get yourself this desperate for me? Or do you do this for anyone who watches?”

“Just you, Cas.”

The slap lands sharp across Dean’s cheek, then Castiel’s hand fisting in his hair, yanking his head back. “You will fucking call me Sir. Other people get my name. You’re not a person right now. You’re my toy.”

Dean’s voice shakes. “Yes, Sir.”

Castiel shoves his face aside, like he can barely stand to look at him. He feels giddy, almost drunk, thinking of everything he could do to Dean, everything he’s finally allowed.

“Open your mouth.”

The man obeys, tongue out, and Castiel spits, slow and deliberate. “Swallow it. Thank me for it.”

Dean does, voice breaking. “Thank you for spitting in my mouth, Sir.”

“You’re fucking pathetic,” Castiel taunts, cold. “You stretched your hole out so much I don’t even have something decent to fuck. You broke my toy, and only I get to break my toy. I’m going to have to punish you for that. I want to see how much you can take before you beg me to stop. And you’d better not come until I tell you.”

Dean’s hips jerk, hands twisted in the sheets, desperate and obedient as Castiel kneels between his thighs.

Castiel pours a slick ribbon of lube over Dean’s cock. Rough, clinical, and not gentle in the least. “You’re going to take this for me,” he purrs. “You’re going to let me use every hole you have. That’s all you’re good for. Try not to flinch. I want a clean insertion.”

Dean nods frantically, shuddering. “Yes, yes, please, Sir—please—”

He fists Dean’s cock, squeezing at the base until Dean cries out, cock pulsing, impossibly hard. Then he presses the steel sound to Dean’s slit, slow, inexorable, watching Dean’s face twist between agony and rapture as the metal sinks inside.

Dean arches off the bed, a strangled sob ripped from his throat. “Fuck! Oh fuck, ‘s too big, I thought we’d work up to that size—oh, fuck—”

Castiel slaps him, hard. “You’re my toy. I own you. I decide what you take. Thank me for fucking your piss hole.”

Dean’s chest heaves, lips shaking before he can get the words out. “Thank you—for fucking my piss hole, Sir.”

Castiel jerks Dean’s cock, slow and rough, admiring the way the tip gleams, the sound buried inside. It’s obscene. “You love it, don’t you? Love being used, being filled, ruined from both ends. You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you?”

Dean whimpers, “Yes, Sir. Please hurt me.”

Castiel pushes the sound in deeper, feeling Dean’s cock twitch and leak, his whole body shuddering. He twists the sound, just to make Dean scream. “You’re fucking disgusting. Look at you. Stretched out, stuffed full, begging for more like a little cumdump. I could do this all night.”

Dean moans, the stretch and burn overwhelming, the shame and pleasure indistinguishable.

Castiel’s grip is cruel and possessive, one hand fisting the base of Dean’s cock, the other holding the steel sound poised just at the tip. Dean’s thighs tremble, every muscle taut with anticipation and raw, needy pain.

He leans in, bites Dean’s jaw, licks the sweat from his cheek. “That’s it. Cry for me. Scream for me. Show me how much you love being my worthless, ruined toy.”

Castiel slides the sound out a few inches watching Dean’s mouth fall open, a ragged, desperate sound wrenched from him. Then, with a wicked smile, Castiel flicks the exposed steel, sending a shudder of agony-pleasure through Dean’s whole body.

And Dean lets out a short, aborted scream. He’s sobbing beautifully, the sensation white-hot, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Sir, ‘s too much. Too much,” Dean says, sounding drunk.

Castiel doesn’t let up. He manipulates the sound with clinical precision, working it in and out, twisting his wrist, ensuring Dean registers every inch. “Look at you,” he sneers, voice heavy with cruel satisfaction. “Taking it like a good little whore. You like that? Like being opened up and played with? Like being nothing but a broken fucktoy for me to ruin?”

Dean doesn’t or can’t answer, strung out between pain and pleasure. His cock leaking around the invasive steel, the head flushed and swollen.

Castiel leans down, biting at Dean’s neck, his words a dark rasp. “You’ll never be tight again after this. Just a used-up hole for anyone who wants you. Maybe I’ll invite someone to watch next time—see how much you can take before you break.”

He gives the sound another flick, then slides it back in, deep and slow, savoring the way Dean writhes for him.

“Beg for it,” Castiel growls. “Beg me to ruin you, to break you, to use every part of you until there’s nothing left.”

And Dean, sobbing and desperate, does. “Please, please, please, Sir. Please—ruin me. Break me. Use me. I need it.”

Castiel isn’t done. Not even close. He leaves the sound buried in Dean’s cock, the cold metal gleaming, then moves his focus to the monstrous dildo wedged inside Dean’s ass.

He grabs the base, twisting it cruelly before starting to work it in and out, slowly at first, just to watch Dean keen and squirm, then harder, faster, each thrust wrenching another broken cry from Dean’s throat.

“Look at you,” Castiel spits, his voice thick with arousal and contempt. “Gaping around this monster, stretched so wide you’ll never be tight again. What good are you now? Just a ruined hole. That’s all you are. A used-up fucktoy. My gaping little cumdump. Bet you couldn’t even keep a real cock in you now. Worthless except being played with.”

Dean’s breath comes ragged, choked sobs and moans spilling past his lips. He nods frantically, gone with it, lost in the pain and the pleasure.

“You’re fucking gaping for me,” Castiel sneers. “I could fit my whole fist in you, you greedy fucking slut.” He drives the dildo deeper, twisting his wrist until Dean jerks and whimpers, helpless. “You think you’re getting off tonight? That’s not your decision. You’re just a toy. Just a hole for me to use however I want. You’re not even a person right now—do you get that?”

“Pathetic,” Castiel hisses, and leans over to spit in Dean’s face. The spit lands hot, slick, and Dean shudders with it, cock jumping uselessly.

“You’ll take whatever I give you and you’ll thank me for it. Tell me you’re nothing but my fucktoy. Tell me you’re a disgusting little cumdump. Tell me you want to be ruined.”

He jerks the dildo out, then slams it back in, rough and merciless, his other hand gripping Dean’s thigh hard enough to leave bruises behind. “Beg for it, Dean. Scream for me. Let the neighbors hear what a filthy, worthless hole you are.”

Dean is already crying, tears streaming, cock twitching helplessly with every thrust. He babbles and begs, blindfold soaked through with sweat and tears, offering himself up on every word.

Castiel growls, voice a razor at Dean’s ear, fingers leaving marks. “You’re mine. Say it. Say you’re my cumdump, my hole, my worthless fucking toy.”

“’M yours, ‘m yours, Sir,” Dean sobs out.

Castiel just smiles, savage and triumphant, and starts to ruin him all over again.

He pulls the toy nearly all the way out, utterly transfixed by the way Dean’s ruined hole tries, futilely, to close. He drags a finger along the swollen rim, watching Dean shudder and flinch, then slams it back in, over and over, making sure Dean feels every thick, ridged inch. The room is slick with sweat and the obscene sound of Dean’s body taking it.

“Do you think you’ll ever feel anything again after this?” Castiel taunts, voice cold as steel. “Your hole’s no good for fucking now—nothing left in there to grip me. Maybe I should just tie you up, leave you spread and drooling, and let anyone use you. Glory hole. Cumdump. Leave you in a public restroom where anyone can piss in you, fuck you, fist you—whatever amuses them. Would you like that, slut? Left loose and leaking, nothing but a filthy mess for me?”

Dean sobs, shakes his head, whimpers, but his cock betrays him, flushed and leaking, helpless and raw.

Castiel twists the dildo hard, fucking it deep, feeling Dean’s body lock up, every muscle trembling, useless to resist.

“Come for me,” Castiel orders, mean and implacable, never letting up. “Come from being ruined. Come for your Master, you disgusting little whore.”

And Dean does. Pathetic, broken, a ruined orgasm forced from his spent, trembling body. The sound he makes is raw, shameful, blissed-out and devastated, nothing but a wrecked thing in Castiel’s hands.

Castiel pumps the sound in and out, slow, clinical, watching Dean twitch. “I hear for some people, coming with a sound in their piss hole is either the best or the worst pain of their life. Which was it for you?”

Dean just shakes his head, fists twisting the sheets until his knuckles go white, unable to speak.

Castiel just grins triumphantly, and doesn’t stop. He keeps working the toy, drawing every last shudder and sob from Dean, until there’s nothing left but surrender, nothing left but the ruin.

He sits back, panting, eyes fixed on the gaping stretch of Dean’s hole, still oozing lube and flushed angry red. “You’re fucking ruined,” he sneers, voice gone half-wild, half-reverent. “Not even worth fucking anymore. Just a wreck. A hole. A filthy, stretched-out toy.”

He slides the monstrous dildo out slow, savoring every inch, savoring the broken sound Dean makes as he goes. Castiel’s own cock is leaking, his knuckles white around the base, trembling with the need to mark what’s his.

“Open wide for me,” Castiel snarls, shoving Dean’s thighs apart, spreading him until his hips strain and there’s nothing left to hide. He leans in, eyes drinking in the ruin, Dean’s hole slack, gaping wide, fluttering and trembling as it tries to close, but never really makes it. The rim’s swollen and flushed, streaked with lube and Castiel’s spit, glistening in the light.

Castiel spits into his palm and strokes himself with punishing speed, eyes never leaving the obscene display between Dean’s legs. “Bet you can’t feel a fucking thing. Bet I could shove my whole hand in and you’d just beg for more.” He shudders, the words catching in his throat. “That’s all you’re good for, Dean. Just a place for me to come. That’s all you are.”

He lines himself up and fists his cock, grip turning white-knuckled, hips jerking as he uses Dean’s ruined hole as nothing but a target. “God, look at you. Still gaping. Fucking empty. Just waiting to be filled up again.” When he comes, it’s hot, so much hotter than the slick, sterile lube, a messy, living heat splattering across Dean’s slack hole, dripping into the places the toy left open. It pools, shines, runs in glistening rivulets down the raw, overused skin.

He doesn’t stop. Keeps stroking, milking every last drop, letting it spill, smear, and mix with the lube already cooling on Dean’s thighs and ass. Once the shudders have wrung him dry, he wipes his hand on Dean’s thigh, then ust stares at the mess he’s made, greedy and not yet sated.

Then he pushes two fingers in, the heat of his cum a living contrast to the slick, clinical chill of the lube. Dean’s hole clings to him, fluttering and trying desperately to close around his fingers, but all it can do is tremble, leaking everything Castiel tries to stuff inside. He works the cum deeper, makes a slow show of it, of refusing to let Dean lose even a drop.

“You like this, don’t you?” Castiel growls, pushing his fingers in up to the knuckle, the heat and slickness and mess combining, squelching around his hand. “Like being filled, made worthless, fucked out until you’re nothing but a leaking, broken hole.”

He scoops up more of his own cum, what’s dripping from Dean’s ass, what’s smeared across flushed skin, sticky and cooling now, and shoves it back in, rubbing it in rough, making Dean take it, making him wear it.

“Not even good for a real fuck anymore. Just a dumping ground. Something to empty myself into, use up, leave open for whoever wants a turn. That’s all you are. You’re mine, Dean. My cumdump. My toy. I’ll fill you every night, stuff you until you’re leaking, until you’re nothing but a mess for me.”

Dean sobs, limp and helpless, twitching around Castiel’s fingers. Castiel keeps going, gathering Dean’s own slick mess from his stomach and thighs, working it into the open, ruined hole, smearing it everywhere, not stopping until the mess is everywhere: on his hand, Dean’s skin, the ruined, open gape that can’t close, can only try and fail.

The room reeks of sweat, lube, cum, every inch of Dean’s body sticky and stained, filled until there’s nothing left but the shame and the ache and the relentless, humiliating pleasure of being used.

Castiel stares at Dean’s wrecked hole, slick and glistening. It’s already loose from the monstrous toy, stretched wide and weeping with the come he’s forced deep inside. He’s breathless, cock still aching, mind roaring with hunger, victory, and a raw, bright terror at how much he wants this. He usually feels calmer after he comes, but tonight his body is still thrumming, every nerve on edge.

He drags his slick fingers around Dean’s ruined rim, stretching him wider, marveling at how Dean’s hole gapes and trembles, never quite closing. “Look at you,” he rasps, voice ragged and shaky. “Can’t believe how loose you are. Used up, just like you wanted. Can’t even hold me in. Nobody else would even bother trying to fuck you now. Why would they? There’s nothing left to ruin.”

He lets the humiliation hang, lets it sink in, before slicking his hand and letting Dean hear the squelch, watching Dean tense and suck in a shaky breath.

“I’ve never done this,” Castiel admits, reverently “Never fisted anyone before. No one’s ever been stupid enough to let me.” He lines his hand up, the threat implicit. “But now I get to. I wonder how much it’ll hurt. Do you think you’re stretched enough? I hope it’s excruciating.” Every word meant to cut, to mark Dean forever as the first, the only. “You want that, don’t you? Want it to hurt. Want to be ruined for anyone else. Want to be the only thing I’ll ever think of when I remember this—when I remember ruining you.”

Dean makes a broken, hungry noise, hips shifting, hole twitching in anticipation.

Castiel drags the backs of his knuckles over Dean’s ruined rim. Still gaping, still fluttering, struggling to close. The skin is flushed, slick with lube and come, clinging to him even as he pushes four fingers in, slow but inexorable.

He feels the resistance, the ring of muscle fighting him, but he doesn’t let up. He just breathes through it, eyes locked on Dean’s face: lips parted, sweat shining on his skin, blindfold soaked, every muscle trembling with the effort of surrender.

Bit by bit, he works his hand deeper, marveling at the obscene heat, the soft squelch where lube and come mix, the desperate whimper Dean lets out every time Castiel forces him wider. “God, you’re so empty,” he rasps, voice thick. “So fucking loose. I can feel my own cum inside you. Your cum, too—worked in so deep you’ll never get it out. You’re disgusting, Dean. Just a toy for whatever filth I want to pour into you. That’s all you are. You like it, don’t you? You love being nothing.”

Dean’s rim clings to his knuckles, fluttering and spasming, stretched so wide Castiel can feel the pulse of Dean’s heartbeat against his palm. He twists his hand, grinds it, working his thumb past the brutal stretch. The pain makes Dean sob, but still he takes it, hips rocking up, pleading, desperate, ruined.

Castiel pauses for a breath staring at where his hand is sunk deep, wrist pressed to Dean’s ass, and he’s stunned. By the power of it. By the heat and the impossible tightness, even after all the ruin. By the sound Dean makes: a wreck, a ruin, and all his.

“You’re so fucking ruined,” Castiel breathes, awe and contempt tangled in every word. “Just a hole, Dean. Mine. Nobody else’s. Nobody could ever use you like this, not after I’m done with you.”

He rocks his fist, slow and cruel, feeling the obscene stretch, the way Dean’s body shudders around him, fighting and yielding all at once. “Tell me,” Castiel orders, voice low, inexorable, “tell me you love it. Tell me you want to be nothing but my hole.”

Dean’s chest hitches, mouth opening and closing, lips wet, breath shaking. He can’t speak at first, so Castiel twists his fist, making sure Dean feels every inch.

“Say it,” Castiel commands, rougher now. “Say you love being my hole. My toy.”

Dean licks his lips, tries again, voice broken and raw. “L—love being your h—hole, S—Sir. Love it.”

Castiel’s own breath stutters, something savage and reverent in his chest. “That’s right. All mine. Nothing but a hole for me.”

He glances down, and despite everything, despite the ruin and the pain and the brutal stretch of his fist inside, Dean’s cock is hard again, flushed and leaking, twitching helplessly against his belly.

“Fuck, you like this?” Castiel growls, half in awe, half in cruel, disbelieving mockery. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He thrusts his fist deeper, slow and punishing, watches Dean’s hips jolt, his cock pulse even harder at the invasion.

“You’re fucking sick,” Castiel breathes, voice gone hoarse with want and a trace of wonder. “No one else is ever going to have you like this. No one will ever touch you the way I have. You’re mine. Mine to keep. Mine to use. You hear me?”

He twists his wrist, the movement obscene, wringing a gasp from Dean, making his cock strain and his whole body quiver.

“I’m never letting you get away,” Castiel promises, breathless. “I’ll keep you, use you, ruin you over and over. And you’ll let me, won’t you? Because you fucking love it. You get off on being nothing for me but a hole to fill. Don’t you?”

He punctuates each word with another slow thrust of his fist, relishing the way Dean sobs and trembles. He is utterly broken and utterly his.

Castiel pulls his hand out, slow and messy. Lube and come drip down his wrist, the sound wet and obscene. Dean’s ruined hole twitches, fluttering uselessly, struggling to close but failing, still stretched wide and gaping.

Castiel can’t help himself, he stares, transfixed, at the devastation. The rim is swollen and flushed, raw and shining, leaking lube and slick with his own spend. It looks almost impossible, inhuman, obscene in a way that makes his cock ache all over again.

He lets his gaze linger, drinking in the wreckage he’s made, half in clinical detachment, half in worship. “Look at that,” he murmurs, voice low and possessive, almost reverent. “You’re fucking wrecked. I did that. That’s mine. No one else will ever fuck you like this. No one else will even try.”

For a long, silent moment, he just watches, chest heaving, hand still slick, cock twitching with a dull, hungry ache. The only sound is Dean’s ragged breathing, the faint, humiliating squelch as his hole tries and fails to close around nothing.

Then, with deliberate carelessness, Castiel spits into his palm, drags it down the length of Dean’s cock, feigning indifference but still claiming him, leaving a wet, possessive mark. He lets his hand rest there, lazy and heavy, thumb brushing the leaking slit.

He looks up at Dean’s face through the sweat-soaked blindfold, drinking in the sight of his wrecked, whimpering mess.

He lets himself have a moment of raw, possessive quiet. For them. For what they are to each other right now.

Finally, Castiel huffs a rough, flat laugh. “If you’re going to enjoy it so much, I don’t want to do it,” he sneers, voice suddenly cold, distant. “That’s no fun for me.”

He pulls his hand away, wipes it on the sheets, and sits back on his heels, letting Dean feel the emptiness, the loss, the ache, and the humiliating knowledge that all of it, every broken inch, still belongs to him.

He rises, goes to the box at the foot of the bed, and pulls out the crop, flexing it between his hands so Dean can hear the threat in the air.

Without ceremony, Castiel yanks the sound from Dean’s cock. “Turn over onto your stomach,” he orders, voice cold. “You can rut against the bed if you want to get yourself off, whore.”

Dean obeys, trembling as he pushes up on shaking arms, sweat slicking his battered skin. He’s a wreck, body loose and gaping, marked all over, every nerve humming from everything he’s taken. Castiel runs his hands up Dean’s back, savoring the shudders, the fine tremors of overstimulation. Dean’s beautiful like this, but Castiel doesn’t say it. He knows what Dean wants; he knows praise would only sour the moment.

Instead, he spits on Dean’s ruined hole, presses two fingers in, twisting cruelly, just to hear Dean groan and see him rut helplessly against the mattress.

He trails the crop down Dean’s spine, letting him feel the warning. The first crack is sharp, snapping across Dean’s ass. Dean whimpers, hips rolling, cock grinding against the sheets.

“Repeat after me,” Castiel commands, cold and implacable.

“I belong to Castiel.” The crop falls hard, a red line blooming instantly. Dean chokes out the words, thrusting into the bed.

“I am a disgusting cum dump.” Another strike. Dean’s voice falters, pleasure and pain blending until he’s breathless, desperate, nearly gone.

“I am Castiel’s toy, to do with as he pleases.” This time Castiel aims lower, the crop biting right across Dean’s ruined hole. Dean screams, sobbing into the pillow, his body wracked with pain and relief.

“Fuck—I—I can’t—” Dean gasps, voice shattered.

Castiel pinches his ass cheek, a petty, mean gesture that still makes Dean convulse and cry out.

“You can because I say you can. And you forgot to call me Sir.” For that, Castiel brings the crop down three times in quick, punishing succession.

Dean’s hips are undulating, desperate. “Are you humping the mattress like a dog? Is that how horny you are, bitch?”

“Sir—” Dean chokes, “can I—please—let me touch my dick.”

Castiel pretends to consider, then nods. “Fine. But I’m going to keep hitting you until you come. Understood?”

Dean nods frantically, hand flying to his cock, jerking himself with frantic, reckless strokes, chasing release as fast as he can.

Castiel keeps striking him, sharp and punishing, every blow a brand, a reminder, a claim. It doesn’t take long. Dean’s whole body bows, back arching, and he comes hard, shaking, sobbing, rutting against the bed as Castiel marks him again and again.

When it’s over, Dean collapses, boneless and destroyed, skin blazing, breath coming in broken, grateful gasps. Every inch of him marked, claimed, ruined and utterly, perfectly spent.

Castiel isn’t sure he’s ever come twice in a single scene before, but he feels electric, alive. It doesn’t take long to jerk himself to completion, his cum spilling across Dean’s welted, red ass. He smears it in, slow and possessive, and finally, finally, feels the wildness inside him settle.

Castiel climbs onto the bed, pressing his chest to Dean’s back, arms winding around him. Dean is still trembling, breath stuttering, every muscle loose and spent. Castiel pulls him close, anchoring him, holding tight, like he could gather up every scattered piece and keep them safe.

He buries his face in Dean’s hair, breathing him in, and murmurs softly into the sweat-damp strands. “You did such a good job,” he whispers, the wonder clear in his voice. “You were beautiful. Amazing.” He strokes a hand down Dean’s side soothing the last shudders with warmth and touch.

“Thank you,” Castiel breathes, pressing a kiss to the back of Dean’s neck. “Thank you for letting me have this. For letting me do this with you. You give me everything. I don’t take it for granted. Not for a second.”

Dean doesn’t speak, but he melts into Castiel’s hold, boneless and easy, his breath gradually evening out as the tremors fade. The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, sex, and skin.

Castiel just holds him. After a while, when the silence feels soft instead of raw, Castiel leans in, lips brushing Dean’s temple. “I have pie,” he murmurs. “If you want it. I can go get it after we clean up. I was going to leave it in your apartment tomorrow as an apology.”

Dean lets out a hoarse, shaky laugh. “You were going to break in again, huh? Stalker.” There’s no accusation, just fondness.

Castiel smiles against Dean’s hair, guilt pricking at the edges of his satisfaction. He knows how hard he was. Dean’s throat is going to ache tomorrow, and his ass, and probably every other part of him.

He feels a little guilty for that.

But only a little.

“I think that was the best sexual experience of my entire life,” Castiel says. He feels satisfied in a way that is spiritual and emotional, not just sexual.

Dean hums in agreement. “That was so fucking good.”

Castiel hesitates, then risks, “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, lazy and fond. “Just stop being a jealous asshole. You’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m yours.”

“I am a jealous asshole, though.”

Dean groans, half-hearted and affectionate. “Just don’t be an idiot and we’ll be fine. Be as possessive as you want in a scene, but not outside of it.”

Castiel smiles. “I wasn’t exactly prepared for aftercare. I usually try to have things ready. Food, water, lotion for… bruising or welts.”

“‘S fine,” Dean mumbles. “Just glad you’re here.”

Castiel presses a kiss to the back of Dean’s sweaty head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

They shuffle to the bathroom, Castiel guiding Dean, steadying him when his legs threaten to give. He sits Dean on the closed toilet seat, adjusting the water, making sure the temperature is right.

“Can you keep your eyes closed?” Castiel asks, and Dean sighs.

“Still hiding?”

“For tonight,” Castiel admits. “Tonight was… intense. Let’s wait. But I think I’m ready.”

Dean nods, patiently. Castiel helps him into the shower, hands gentle now, careful with every bruise and scrape. He washes Dean slowly, rinsing away sweat and come and the last traces of humiliation, replacing it with something soft and good.

By the time they’re done, both of them feel cleaner and lighter. Dean leans into him, eyes closed, safe in the hush of running water and Castiel’s arms.

Finished with the shower, Castiel kneels before Dean, trying the man off. He tries in his own way to worship the man now. To show him how much his submission and pain and tears meant to him. Even now, he suspects Dean would fight the words, but will accept his service.

Castiel has Dean lie back on the couch, limbs heavy, while he moves through the room, gathering up bedding and toys. He works quietly, glancing over every few minutes to check on Dean, who lies boneless and wrecked but safe, flushed with afterglow.

He brings Dean a glass of water, presses it into his hand, and waits until Dean has taken a few sips. “Drink,” he orders softly, and Dean obeys without protest, the edge of submission still lingering.

When Dean’s done, Castiel gently slips a new, clean blindfold over his eyes, careful not to pull at sweat-matted hair or already-tender skin.

After everything is tidied and the bed remade with fresh sheets, Castiel guides Dean into the bedroom. They climb in together, the room still thick with the scent sex.

Dean, still floating, tugs at Castiel’s arm. “Stay?” he asks.

Castiel slides in close, wrapping around him. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.