Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dean wakes slowly. His body’s the first thing to speak. There’s a dull ache in his thighs and a pull in his muscles from being used hard. He doesn’t move right away. He basks in the afterglow. Behind him, Castiel is solid heat, an arm heavy around his ribs, a leg tangled over his own. It feels… good. Dangerous.

He’s glad he took the day off. He’d told himself it was for recovery, though at the time he had no idea if his plan would work. Now, every part of him is grateful. He’s sore, sure, but not hurt. A little bruised, (very) stretched, and tender in ways that remind him exactly what they did. But he’d wanted every second of it.

The blindfold’s still on. He could take it off but he wants to wait. Let Castiel be the one to choose honesty this time. Dean’s forced the issue before, and yeah, it got them here, but maybe they could’ve found this (whatever this is) without so much wreckage in between.

He exhales and shifts, feels the remnants of pain and pleasure. Castiel murmurs in his sleep and his stubble scrapes against Dean’s ear. It makes him smile.

He still doesn’t know what last night was. Punishment, jealousy, or some kind of test. Maybe all three. The man’s mind is a labyrinth, and Dean’s done pretending he can map it. What matters is that it ended here. Castiel finally let go, stopped trying to prove or protect and just took. And Dean let him. Asked for it. Needed it.

It had been magnificent, in the truest sense of the word. Wild and mean and real. Proof that Castiel finally understood him, that Dean’s not just talking a big game. He meant every word. Every bruise.

Dean’s just starting to drift again when his alarm goes off, sharp against the quiet. He fumbles for it on the nightstand. Behind him, Castiel grumbles and lets him go, his arm falling away in defeat.

“I’m going to the bathroom so I can see what I’m doing,” Dean murmurs. His legs are unsteady when he stands, muscles trembling under him even after a full night’s sleep. Every step reminds him what they did. It’s a nice kind of sore, if a little humbling.

He shuts the bathroom door and peels off the blindfold. The world rushes back in—muted daylight, white tile, his own reflection looking well-fucked and half-feral. The clock on his phone says 9:03. Seven a.m. for Charlie.

She picks up on the first ring. “You’re late, Winchester.”

He sinks down onto the bath mat, back to the cabinet. “Sorry, Red. Little shaky this morning.”

“You okay?”

“Great. Perfect.”

The sigh she gives him is pure Charlie: part concern, part judgment. “So that means you and your stalker boyfriend made up?”

Dean grins, staring at the grout line between his feet. “We did indeed. He spent the night. Left him in bed while I called you.”

“Holy shit. Did we finally get the identity reveal?”

“Not yet, but I think he’s almost ready.”

“Don’t let him drag this thing out forever,” she grumbles.

“He won’t,” Dean says, too easy, still smiling. “But honestly? If the sex is anything like last night, I think I’d let him. I’d get married in a blindfold.”

There’s a moment of silence before she asks, “He’s still following all your limits?”

Her tone is a little judgmental and it makes something in him deflate. They used to talk like this all the time with no filters. At one point they had known every detail about each other’s sex life. Now every conversation feels like a checklist. He gets it. She’s worried. But Christ, sometimes he doesn’t want to dissect everything. Sometimes he just wants to bask in it. Smell the fucking flowers.

“Yes, Charlie,” he says, flatly. Not even the part about Castiel setting new boundaries, getting him to fill out a damn kink inventory, had reassured her last time.

“Just be careful,” she says. “I worry.”

“I know. I’m gonna brush my teeth and get ready. Love you, Red.”

“I know.”

She hangs up before he can answer, and he stares at the phone, incredulous. “Did she just Han Solo me?” he mutters.

Dean splashes water on his face, leans in close to the mirror. Same green eyes, same half-crooked mouth. He looks the same, and somehow that feels wrong. After a night like that, he thought there’d be a mark, something visible, a shift he could point to. But no.

He brushes his teeth with one hand and scrolls through headlines with the other, half awake, when the door handle turns.

“Hold up!” he blurts, choking on toothpaste foam. He fumbles to set the brush and phone down, snatching the blindfold from the counter. “Okay, safe now,” he says once it’s back in place.

The door opens. He hears bare feet on tile, the soft slide of skin against cotton. Then Castiel’s fingers trail up his spine and back down again. Dean shivers, breath hitching around the mint in his mouth.

The toothbrush is pressed back into his hand. He finishes, spits, rinses. He can feel Castiel’s gaze on him the whole time, quiet and heavy. Doesn’t know if the guy’s just standing there watching him like a total creeper or what.

When he finally wipes his mouth, Castiel asks, “How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Not too sore?”

Dean shakes his head. “Sore, yeah, but nothing hurts. Still feel good. Kinda floaty.”

Castiel hums and leans in, nuzzles against his neck. “Good. You mind if I stay here today? For you, and for me. We had an especially intense scene.”

Dean smirks behind the blindfold. “Does that mean I’ve gotta keep this thing on all day?”

There’s a pause before Castiel answers, “Until the next scene.”

“Promise?” Dean teases.

A whisper close to his ear: “Cross my heart.”

***

The day unfolds soft around the edges. Castiel stays, just like he said he would. He’s attentive, quiet, and impossibly gentle.

He makes breakfast while Dean sits at the counter in his tshirt and boxers, the blindfold still in place. The smell hits first: coffee, butter, a hint of pepper from the eggs. When Castiel returns, he presses the fork to Dean’s lips and murmurs, “Open.”

Dean obeys, grinning around the bite. It becomes a rhythm: open, chew, swallow, another mouthful waiting. There’s something absurdly intimate about it, the quiet scrape of the fork, Castiel’s patience, the way Dean can feel the man’s gaze like a hand on his skin.

When Dean suggests they could fool around, Cas only says, “No. You need to recover.”

Dean licks his lips. “My throat didn’t get any action last night. Pretty sure it’s good to go.”

Castiel’s hand lands in a playful swat across his ass, firm enough to make him yelp and laugh. “Eat your breakfast.”

Afterward they drift to the couch. Dean listens while Castiel watches movies, the sound washing over him in waves of dialogue and background score. They keep changing positions: Dean’s head pillowed in Castiel’s lap, then sprawled across his chest, then Castiel stretched out between Dean’s legs while Dean toys lazily with his hair.

It’s easy.

By afternoon, the day has settled into something quiet and golden, the kind of domestic peace Dean’s only ever borrowed from other people’s lives. He lets himself have it.

Which is why the quiet in the following days throws him.

Castiel isn’t ignoring him exactly, but something’s changed. His messages are shorter. His tone, cooler. Not distant enough to call it avoidance, just… restrained.

Dean doesn’t know what the hell to make of it. Maybe Cas is having second thoughts about the identity reveal. Maybe he’s spooked by how close things got. Either way, the change itches under his skin.

They’ve got a scene tentatively planned for the weekend. Dean had tried to nudge him into screening earlier but Cas shut it down fast. He said Dean’s body needed a full week to recover. Fair enough. He is still tender in places. But dammit, he wants to see him. Wants to feel that voice pressed against his skin again.

He’s even rehearsed it in his head: Oh my god, Jimmy, you’re Castiel? Complete with fake shock and a hand to his chest. It’s stupid, but the thought makes him grin every time. No, when it happens, he’ll make it believable.

He keeps wondering how it’ll happen. If Cas will just show up at his door one night, or if he’ll start another scene with Dean blindfold first. Either way, Dean’s ready. Whatever the man has planned, it’s going to be good.

He can feel it.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning starts the way it always does with coffee and Charlie. He tells her what she wants to hear: that Castiel promised to reveal himself the next time they scene, that it’s supposed to be today.

Charlie’s voice softens through the receiver. “Then good luck, Winchester. Try not to combust.”

“Can’t make any promises,” he grins, letting her hear the bravado.

He hangs up, barely ten minutes pass before someone knocks. Dean glances down at himself: bare legs, T-shirt, boxers. Not exactly presentable, but whatever. He pads to the door, peeks through the peephole, and is startled to see Jimmy standing there.

Dean opens up. Jimmy looks at him but, no, this is not Jimmy. Castiel. Dean sees it, clear as day.

“Hey, what’s up?” Dean tries for casual, but his heart’s hammering.

Castiel bursts through the door, crowding Dean back against the wall before Dean can even process what’s happening. The door slams, the lock clicks. Dean, caught between shock and instinct, lets out a nervous laugh, trying to play it cool.

“Jimmy, what the—”

“Get on your knees,” Castiel cuts in and there’s nothing of Jimmy in it.

Dean hesitates, still clinging to the script of who’s supposed to be here. “What’s going on?”

Castiel doesn’t answer. Instead, he slaps Dean across the face. “When a toy’s master gives a command, it obeys. On your knees.”

Dean’s mouth falls open. For a second, he just stares, the world tilting, the last bit of doubt gone. Then he drops, knees hitting the floor, still blinking up at Castiel like he’s seeing him for the first time, because he is. He’s seen Jimmy, but never Castiel.

Castiel studies him, mouth curling in a way that’s not a smile. “No need to pretend, Imp.”

Dean’s heart stutters. Imp. His original KinkLife handle. If Castiel knows that, what else does he know? He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He can’t look away.

The man crouches, meeting Dean’s eyes with a fierce intensity. “I know you’ve known all along. Isn’t that right?”

Dean waits for the next shoe to drop. He doesn’t know what’s coming: Is this real trouble? Is he actually in danger, or is this just another turn of the game they’ve been playing for weeks? He can’t read Castiel’s face, can’t read the mood. His pulse pounds.

He doesn’t know if he should speak, or just keep his mouth shut. He doesn’t know what answer Castiel wants. He doesn’t know what answer will keep him safe or, god, what answer will keep this going.

Castiel stands, looming over Dean. He lets the silence thicken before he speaks.

“I’m careful about my privacy,” he says, tone conversational, almost lecturing. “People think hacking is about brute force, about breaking code. But it’s always been people. Social engineering is how most hacks happen. The strongest systems always break at the human variable.” He lets that hang for a beat, before continuing. “Alfie was a variable I didn’t fully appreciate. Dangerous, really, even if he didn’t know my real name. Knowing me and my location… that was enough for you and your little hacker friend, wasn’t it?”

Dean swallows, but doesn’t look away.

Castiel steps closer, sinking his hand into Dean’s hair. His fingers stroke, almost gentle, almost loving. “You didn’t just manipulate Alfie, did you?” he murmurs. The touch is reverent, but there’s an edge underneath. “You manipulated me, too.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He can’t. All his instincts are scrambling: play along, don’t play along, is this the game, is this real? And it’s so strange, looking up at Castiel’s face and seeing Jimmy, but not Jimmy at all. Nothing soft about him, not right now.

Castiel’s grip tightens, possessive pull at Dean’s hair. “I asked you a question, toy. Did you just manipulate Alfie?”

Dean shakes his head, licks his lips. “No, Sir.”

Castiel’s eyes flicker, mouth curving in a way Dean can’t quite parse. It could easily be pleased, angry, or amused. “Not Sir. Not today. Call me Master.”

Dean’s heart hammers. “No, Master.”

Castiel hums, a low sound that could be satisfaction or threat. Dean can’t tell. The uncertainty leaves him off-balance, wanting.

Then Castiel steps back. “Unzip my pants. Take me out.”

Dean’s hands move reflexively. He unzips Castiel’s pants and frees his cock. The man is hard and leaking. Dean waits for the next instruction, heart in his throat.

“Hands clasped behind your back. Mouth open.”

Dean obeys, but he’s feeling uncertain. He opens his mouth, looks up. Castiel strokes the tip of his cock over Dean’s lips, dragging pre-come across his mouth and chin, marking him.

“Eyes on me,” Castiel murmurs. “Such pretty green eyes. Those lashes. The blindfold hid too many freckles. I like seeing all of you.”

Dean’s gaze wavers, nervous under the scrutiny, but Castiel taps his cheek. It’s firm but not punishing. “No, pet. Eyes on me. Let me see you.”

Something about pet lands differently. Dean lets himself be still, lets Castiel see everything. He doesn’t know what happens next. He has no idea if this is a reward or punishment, if he’s safe or about to be ruined. He just knows he wants it, whatever it is.

Castiel slides his cock between Dean’s parted lips, the movement unhurried. For a moment, neither of them moves. Dean just kneels, mouth open, letting Castiel fill the space. He hasn’t been given an order, so he doesn’t act. He just waits, eyes steady on Castiel’s, the tension humming between them.

Castiel’s hand cradles the back of Dean’s head, fingers sliding through his hair in a slow, absentminded rhythm. He holds Dean there, not pushing deeper, letting Dean feel every inch, every pulse of arousal.

Finally, Castiel shifts his hips, starts to fuck into Dean’s mouth. They’re slow, measured thrusts, nothing like the rough, hungry rhythm from before. It isn’t gentle, but it isn’t punishing either. More of a steady claiming, the kind that says this is mine.

Dean breathes through his nose, lets his jaw go slack, lets himself be used. He focuses on the feeling: Castiel’s weight on his tongue, the stretch of his jaw, the hand in his hair guiding him but never forcing. There’s nothing to do but submit and that’s a relief, a permission to let go.

With every slow thrust, every possessive touch, Dean feels himself drop deeper. His thoughts slow and the world narrows. The tension from before is still there, but it’s softened now, wrapped in something like trust. Castiel’s in control. Dean doesn’t have to be. He can just be, kneeling, open, used, cared for.

Castiel’s grip tightens at the back of Dean’s head, and suddenly the rhythm shifts. His hips snap forward, rougher, fucking into Dean’s mouth with intent. He pulls Dean forward to meet each thrust, using him, pushing deeper, letting Dean feel every ounce of power.

Dean’s eyes water, throat straining. He just lets it happen. No fight, no hesitation. The world narrows to the press of Castiel’s hands, the stretch of his jaw, the dizzy, relentless invasion.

For a moment, it feels like Castiel might cum. Dean can taste him, feel the telltale tension but instead, Castiel pulls out, leaving Dean gasping, spit and slick stringing between them. Castiel wipes the head of his cock across Dean’s cheek, a mark, a warning, then steps back, still holding himself.

“I’m not ready for this to be over,” Castiel says, voice rough. “Get up. Go to the bedroom.”

Dean’s voice is a thread. “Yes, Master.” He pushes himself up, legs trembling, and turns, padding down the hall. He can feel Castiel’s gaze on him the whole way.

In the bedroom, Castiel tells him, “Strip.” Dean peels his clothes off and watches Castiel do the same.

“On the bed,” Castiel orders. “Hands above your head.”

Dean climbs onto the bed, stretching out, arms raised, heart pounding. Castiel drags the box out from under the bed, and lifts out a coil of rope. He climbs on, straddling Dean’s chest, the heat of his skin pressing close, and knots the rope around Dean’s wrists, tying them to the headboard.

It’s firm, but not punishing. Dean can move a little, enough to feel the rope bite and slide, enough to remind him he’s caught. He does wonder about the wisdom in letting Castiel tie him up, knowing everything he does. It’s stupid, but even now, he trusts the man.

Castiel settles above him, looking down and Dean meets his gaze. Every other time, there’s been a blindfold. Now, it’s just Castiel’s face, serious and intent.

Castiel leans in, kissing along Dean’s jaw, the curve of his neck, taking his time. When he finally reaches Dean’s mouth, the kiss is so gentle it’s almost chaste, just the soft brush of lips. Dean’s mouth parts and Castiel traces his tongue along Dean’s lower lip, then pulls it into his own mouth and sucks, sweet and careful. The kisses grow deeper, until Dean feels Castiel’s hand in his hair, guiding his head, taking control of the kiss. He slides his tongue deep, letting it build until Dean is breathless, dizzy with it.

When Castiel finally pulls back, Dean is left blinking up at him, lips swollen, chest tight. They never really kiss during scenes.

Castiel must be thinking the same thing because as his thumb traces Dean’s bottom lip, he says. “You really do have beautiful lips. I’ve been neglecting them.”

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t have a praise kink. Most of the time, compliments just bounce off, or make him uncomfortable. He just stares, silent, cheeks flushed.

Castiel sweeps his fingers over Dean’s cheekbones, smiling softly. “Your freckles are adorable, too.”

Dean can’t help the tiny scowl that pulls at his mouth. Before he can hide it, Castiel notices.

“What, you don’t like me saying your freckles are cute?”

Dean says nothing, jaw clenched. Castiel pinches his nipple, sharp enough to sting.

“Ow!”

“I asked you a question, pet.”

Dean huffs. “Don’t really like being called cute, Master.”

Castiel beams, pleased, cat-with-the-canary. “But I like calling you cute, pet. I think you should thank me every time I pay you a compliment.”

He raises one eyebrow, and Dean swears his heart skips. God, he’s been missing out on that dom brow.

“Thank you, Master.”

Castiel is positively delighted, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest. “I know you don’t like praise, but knowing that makes me want to do it even more.”

Dean scowls, this time on purpose. Castiel just laughs, eyes bright. “You’re such a masochist, Dean. I thought you’d appreciate it when I do things you don’t like.”

Castiel’s hands drift over Dean’s chest, thumbs brushing idly over his nipples. He leans in a little, voice gone thoughtful. “I wonder what else I can get you to thank me for.”

Dean braces, waiting for another round of compliments, and steels himself not to flinch or scowl. He knows that would only encourage Castiel, but instead, the man’s tone shifts, teasing and dark.

“You don’t like thanking me when I praise you,” he muses, “but you do like thanking me when I hurt you.”

The words slide under Dean’s skin. He can’t help the way his body reacts. He shivers and his cock twitches u[, brushing against the curve of Castiel’s ass where he’s straddling Dean’s waist.

Castiel glances down, smirking as he reaches back to grab Dean’s cock, giving it a rough, punishing squeeze. “I’ll take that as a yes. Isn’t that right, pet?”

Dean grits out, “Yes, Master.”

Castiel lets go, slides off Dean, standing beside the bed to look him over. His gaze lingers, hungry, then he drags a hand up Dean’s torso, pinching one nipple between his fingers, twisting until Dean hisses, biting down a gasp.

Castiel’s eyes glitter, all cruel intent. “Do you know the difference between my toy and my pet?”

Dean shakes his head, chest heaving. “No, Master.”

Castiel leans in, rolling Dean’s other nipple hard between his fingers, pinching, tugging, making him squirm. “I use toys,” he murmurs, “but I play with my pets.”

He twists harder, drawing a sharp noise from Dean, and then leans down, lips at Dean’s ear, voice velvet and mean: “Sometimes you’ll be my pet and sometimes my toy.”

He moves to the other nipple, pulling and pinching, making Dean arch, every nerve raw and exposed. Dean tries to keep still, tries to take it, but the pain zings right through him, sharp as pleasure.

Castiel leans back, surveying the damage, a satisfied glint in his eyes. “That’s better. I think I like you like this, marked, aching, grateful. Say thank you, pet.”

Dean shudders, every inch burning, every instinct humming. “Thank you, Master.”

Castiel moves away, digging in the toy box, and Dean’s breath shortens. When he sees the glint of metal, a rush of relief washes through him, finally, something more.

Castiel kneels by the bed, clamps in hand. He doesn’t say anything as he presses one icy bite of metal to Dean’s nipple. The clamp snaps shut, and Dean gasps, the pain sudden, bright, immediate. It’s a sharp, pinching burn, the ache radiating out, making every breath electric.

Castiel’s mouth quirks at the sound Dean makes. “That’s it, pet. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”

Dean can’t answer, not really, but the truth is there in the way his back arches, his cock jumps.

The second clamp goes on, and the pain is even worse, nerves raw from anticipation. Dean hisses, squeezing his eyes shut, fighting the urge to beg for more or less, he doesn’t even know which. He needs it, needs Castiel to find this fun, to want to do this to him.

Castiel sits back, admiring his work, fingers grazing the chain that links the clamps. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost affectionate, but his eyes are bright with something hungry. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Dean nods, biting his lip, savoring the sting, the throb, the ache.

Castiel pulls his lip out from between his teeth. “You don’t get to bite that,” he says and then takes Dean’s lip into his own mouth and bites it. Castiel likes to hurt Dean. This is what was always missing before… with Benny, with anyone else who ever wanted him, the pain always stopped too soon, got filtered through too much care, too much gentleness. Nobody ever wanted to really hurt him, not once feelings got involved.

But Castiel’s different. He enjoys this, enjoys making Dean twist in agony, enjoys the little sounds Dean can’t help making. It’s not just tolerance; it’s pleasure, amusement, pride.

Dean lets his head drop back, breath coming fast, feeling the clamps bite, the sharp pain sending sparks down his spine, straight to his cock. He doesn’t want it easy. He wants it to hurt, wants to earn every touch, every word.

Castiel gives the chain a sharp tug, and Dean jolts, pain radiating out in white, shuddering waves. Castiel watches, clearly delighted, and starts toying with the clamps. Yanking at them, letting them shift and twist, dragging fire through Dean’s chest. Every tug bites deeper, and Dean’s vision blurs, eyes watering as he tries to ride it out.

Without warning, Castiel rips the clamps away with a single vicious pull. Dean’s scream catches in his throat, raw and broken, the pain blooming wild and bright. Castiel doesn’t give him a second to recover, he’s already pinching Dean’s nipples, cruel and thorough, rolling the abused skin between his fingers, squeezing until Dean can’t help but cry out.

Castiel looks so damn pleased. “You know,” he says, tone lazy, “these will look even better once I have them pierced.”

Dean blinks up at him, mind catching on the I. “You’re not… you’re not going to—?”

Castiel smiles, all teeth, all promise. “Not myself, no. But they are going to get pierced, pet. And I think we’ll both enjoy that quite a bit.” He leans in, eyebrow raised. “Though it’s a shame I’ll have to be gentle with them while they heal. But that’s what you want, isn’t it? To have them pierced for me? Because it makes me happy?”

Dean’s whole body is still humming, hurting, his cock hard and leaking. “Yes, Master.”

Castiel’s thumb brushes over the head, collecting pre-cum, then presses it to Dean’s mouth. Dean opens, obedient, and Castiel wipes the slick along his tongue, then smears the rest on Dean’s cheek, marking him.

He tilts his head, considering. “We haven’t really talked about the sounding, have we?” Castiel muses. “I was more interested in my fist up your ass. But I’d love to know: how was sounding for you?”

Dean hesitates, but before he can answer, Castiel slaps him hard against his cheek. “I don’t like repeating myself. You answer when I ask, or I’ll keep slapping you. Understood?”

Dean’s voice is shaky. “It… it was a lot, Master.”

Castiel’s eyes glint. “Tell me more.”

“It was uncomfortable,” Dean admits, cheeks burning. “The sound you used… it was too big. It hurt, and I kept thinking I had to piss. It was just… it ached. Burned almost.”

Castiel nods, thoughtful, but clearly pleased. “How did it feel when you came?”

Dean’s face twists. “It didn’t feel good. I’ve never wanted an orgasm less. It was too much. Uncomfortable and not… not good.”

He gives Dean a dark, sadistic, smile. “That was the point, pet. I’m delighted it ruined your orgasm.” He brushes a finger down Dean’s face, almost gentle. “You know, you can stretch your urethra with even larger sounds. Keep working your way up, stretch yourself open.”

Dean feels sick at the idea, but his cock betrays him, still hard, still leaking, the humiliation and the memory tangled up with need.

Castiel leans in, voice a low purr. “I liked playing with you. Now, tell me, how did it feel when I flicked the end while it was buried in your cock?”

Dean shudders, unable to hide it. “It hurt. A lot. It was… I don’t even know how to describe it. It was just pain, but not the kind I’m used to. It felt… violating. Worse than anything in my ass.”

Castiel’s smile sharpens, almost reverent in its cruelty. “Good. I want you to remember that, every time you see those toys. You’ll take whatever I give you, won’t you, pet?”

Dean nods, throat tight, pain and pleasure and submission all twisted together inside him.

“Perhaps it is time for us to put that to the test,” Castiel says, sounding a little bloodthirsty. He rummages through the toy bin and comes back, the crop in one hand, a ball gag in the other. He stands over Dean, eyes hungry and intent. “Open up, pet,” he orders, and Dean obeys, jaw aching already at the prospect.

The gag slips between his lips, big and rubbery, and Castiel buckles it tight behind his head. The intrusion is instant, stretching Dean’s mouth wide, tongue pressed down and drool already threatening at the corners. The humiliation feels like static under his skin.

Castiel flexes the crop, slicing it through the air, a promise that Dean can feel in his teeth. “Can’t have you waking the neighbors,” he says, almost gently. “I know how loud you can get.”

Dean shivers, eyes wide above the gag. Castiel’s smile is wicked as he drags the crop down Dean’s chest, pausing above one abused, aching nipple. Then, without warning, he brings the crop down—hard.

Pain explodes through Dean’s chest, so sharp it feels like his whole world narrows to that single, white-hot point. He tries to arch away, but the ropes bite at his wrists and all he can do is writhe, helpless. Castiel is already moving to the other nipple, and the second strike is even worse layered over the throbbing ache left by the clamps, the burn of old hurts made new.

Dean jerks on the bed, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. He’s not quite sobbing, but blinking furiously, trying to hang on. It hurts. More than he’d thought it would. More than he wants but not enough to make him use his safeword.

Castiel is watching him, attentive, and there’s something in his eyes, pride or hunger, that makes the pain worth it. “You’re a mess, pet,” he murmurs. “Look at you. Crying for me already. And you like this.”

He trails the crop down Dean’s belly, slow and taunting, letting the anticipation coil tight in Dean’s gut. Then he taps it against Dean’s cock still flushed, still leaking in spite of everything.

“I can’t believe you enjoy this,” Castiel says, almost amused. “How hard would I have to hurt you for you to realize you’re not supposed to like it?”

Before Dean can even brace himself, Castiel brings the crop down hard on his cock. The pain is blinding, shocking, a bolt of agony that has Dean howling behind the gag, legs jerking up in reflex to protect him from any further pain

Castiel wastes no time; he cracks the crop down on Dean’s thighs, the sting burning deep. “Legs down, slut. Open up. Wide.”

Dean obeys, trembling, every muscle screaming with pain. The tears come harder now.

Castiel leans in, crooking a finger beneath Dean’s chin, thumb brushing a tear from his cheek. “Good toy,” he murmurs, cruel and proud. “Let’s see how much more you can handle for me.”

Castiel lets the silence drag, the only sound Dean’s breath coming in ragged, wet bursts around the gag. Then the crop cracks down again, marking Dean’s thigh, his belly, his cock. Each strike is a question, a demand, a dare.

“You tried so hard to get my attention as Imp,” Castiel says, his tone conversational, almost bored, but his eyes are mean. “And I wouldn’t give it to you. So you found a way to make me chase you instead.”

Another sharp blow, this time to Dean’s inner thigh, so close to his balls Dean can feel the ache in his stomach.

“You manipulated me, toy. Tricked me. You dressed yourself up as some tasty, naive, innocent morsel and left just enough breadcrumbs for the Big Bad Wolf to follow.” The crop flicks down, this time landing across Dean’s cock, a bright line of pain that makes him choke on a scream. “You strutted right past me in your little red cloak, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist.”

Castiel leans in, voice low and deadly soft. “Are you happy now that I chased you?” The crop comes down again, and Dean can’t help the tears that stream down his face, can’t help the way his hips jerk up, begging for more or for mercy, he doesn’t know which.

“This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” Castiel murmurs, dragging the crop up Dean’s cock, letting it linger there. “You offered yourself up, made yourself irresistible, because you needed to be ruined. Needed to be hunted. Needed someone to hurt you the way you deserve.”

He smacks the crop across Dean’s balls, hard enough to make stars burst behind his eyes. “Well, toy, here you are. Chased, caught, ruined. My perfect, filthy, desperate little masochist.”

He cups Dean’s jaw, thumb pressing at the corners of the gag, forcing Dean to look up at him, eyes red and shining with tears. “Is this what you wanted, toy? Are you happy you found your wolf?”

Dean’s body is nothing but heat and pain. He feels mindless with need, but still, somewhere under it all, yes, this is what he wanted. What he wants.

Castiel fists Dean’s hair, wrenching his head back. His eyes are wild and his hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions.

“I’ve been trying very hard to restrain myself with you,” Castiel says, voice dangerous. “I don’t think you fully comprehended what I was capable of. Last week—I hurt you, I made you cry, and you begged for more. But I still held back, toy. I didn’t want to damage you. I wanted you to enjoy it. But now—” his grip tightens, “now I realize you like it when I’m cruel. You want to see what I’m really capable of. I wonder, how far can I take you before you break?”

Dean’s heart is hammering. He’s not sure if he’s scared or desperate or both.

Castiel lets go of his hair and grabs the lube, slicking his fingers with no preamble, then shoving Dean’s legs so wide the stretch burns in his hips. His dick and ball still fucking hurt from getting hit with the fucking crop too.

“Hold them open,” Castiel orders, his voice rough with command.

Dean obeys, knees drawn back, thighs spread. His body exposed and trembling.

Castiel is rough, fingers driving in with no gentleness, no warning. He’s not careful; he’s fast and relentless, working Dean open by brute force, not care. Dean gasps, pain spiking through him.

“Try not to come,” Castiel growls. “If you come, I’ll punish you.”

Dean whimpers behind the gag, body shaking. He’s not ready, not prepared for how rough this is, but he holds himself open anyway because he asked for this, because he wants to see what Castiel can do.

Castiel doesn’t wait. He slicks himself quickly, then pushes inside, all the way in, in one fast, bruising thrust. Dean chokes on the intrusion, body forced to take it, no build-up, no warning, just the relentless stretch and burn and pressure.

Castiel’s hands clamp down on Dean’s thighs, fingers digging deep, leaving perfect marks. He fucks him hard, no tenderness, no patience. He fucks with the brutal rhythm of taking what he wants. Every thrust is pain and surrender. Dean’s whole world narrows to it: the ache, the stretch, the bruises forming under Castiel’s grip, the threat of orgasm always hovering.

It’s too much. It’s not enough. Dean sobs around the gag, loving it, hating it, desperate for more, terrified of how much more there might be.

Castiel sets a relentless, punishing rhythm, every thrust a bruising demand. His grip on Dean’s thighs is cruel, forcing him wide, no escape, no reprieve. Dean’s entire world shrinks to pain, to pressure, to the wild rush of being taken, used, ruined.

“God, you’re so fucking loose already,” Castiel sneers. “I barely even prepped you. What’s the point, after last week? After you let me fist you, I don’t think you’ll ever be tight for me again.”

He leans forward, one hand sliding up Dean’s thigh to grip his hip, fingers biting deep. “Is this what you wanted, slut? To be stretched out, used up? To be nothing but a hole for me to fuck?”

Dean whimpers, body arching into it, shame burning hot in his cheeks and chest. He loves reduced to nothing but a fucktoy.

Castiel snaps his hips harder, brutal. “Squeeze me tighter, whore. If I can’t feel you, what fucking good are you? You want to be my cumdump, you’d better make it worth it.”

He spits on Dean’s cheek, wiping it in with his thumb, smearing him, marking him. “Look at you, desperate for it. You don’t care if it hurts, you just want to be filled up, don’t you? Want me to use you, ruin you, fuck you open until there’s nothing left.”

Dean’s eyes are shining with tears from the pain and humiliation.

Castiel bares his teeth in a vicious grin, rutting into him, punishing. “You want to be left loose and gaping for anyone. You want to be my mess, my hole, my worthless fucking toy.”

He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, making Dean cry out. “Maybe next time I’ll just fuck you with my fist again, that might be all you’re good for.”

Dean’s world is nothing but ache and heat and the sound of Castiel’s voice, brutal and beloved, tearing him down, remaking him as exactly what he’s always wanted to be.

Castiel’s hand fists in Dean’s hair, forcing him to look up, eyes swimming. “You’re mine. You’re my ruined hole, my cumdump, my worthless fucktoy.”

Cock buried deep, chest still heaving, Castiel looks down at Dean, face dark with intent.

“You looked surprised to see me so soon after your little check-in with your friend,” he murmurs, voice deceptively soft. “Every morning at 9AM, like clockwork.”

Dean blinks up at him, confused, heart thudding a little faster.

Castiel smiles—a slow, cruel thing. “I waited until you hung up. Because I know you don’t have another check-in until tomorrow morning. No one’s going to notice if you’re missing, not for a whole day.”

He leans in, breath hot against Dean’s ear. “That means you’re mine, completely, until then. All night, all day. No interruptions. No rescue.”

A shiver runs through Dean. Fear and want are all tangled together, the uncertainty almost intoxicating.

Castiel’s hand fists in his hair, pulling his head back, making him meet those wild blue eyes. “Do you understand? No one’s coming for you. You’re not going anywhere until I decide you’re ready. You’re mine to ruin. Mine to keep.”

He thrusts in hard, punctuating the promise, watching for fear and excitement on Dean’s face, feeding off it.

“Let’s see if you’re still so eager for it by tomorrow, pet,” Castiel growls, and then he starts to move again.

He pulls out abruptly, leaving Dean aching and empty, then rummages through the box of toys. Dean hears the slick snap of a lube cap, the whir of a vibrator being tested. His pulse skitters, anxiety and anticipation tangling together.

A moment later, Castiel is back, crowding between Dean’s legs, slicking the toy with efficient, careless hands. “Hold your legs open,” he orders.

Dean obeys, thighs trembling.

Castiel lines himself up again and pushes inside, barely giving Dean a second to breathe before the cold tip of the vibrator nudges at his hole, too. Castiel works both in at once, stretching him wide, relentless and impatient.

Dean can’t help the cry that escapes him, the burn bright and raw. He tries to clench, tries to hold on, but Castiel is merciless.

“Shut up,” Castiel snaps. “You took my whole fucking fist last week. This? This is nothing. If you can’t handle this, maybe you’re not as good a toy as I thought.”

He pushes the vibrator in deeper, grinding it in alongside his cock, making Dean sob and squirm, muscles trembling with the strain.

Castiel leans over him, breath hot at Dean’s ear. “Come on, slut. Show me how much you can take. Show me you’re worth using. You begged for this, didn’t you? You wanted to see how much you could take. So take it. Take all of it.”

The burn is sharp, white-hot, and Dean can’t stop the tears leaking from his eyes. His body strains, muscles locking, nerves firing on every pulse of pain and stretch. And Dean, wrecked, overwhelmed, and hungry for every word, holds himself open and takes it, because that’s what he’s for.

Castiel thrusts deeper, the vibrator wedged alongside his cock, the fit almost impossibly tight. He ruts forward, forcing both in with slow, punishing pressure.

“That’s it,” Castiel snarls, a savage kind of satisfaction in his voice. “God, look at you. Fucked open, crying for it, and you still want more. You’re a fucking mess, Dean. Just a hole for me to fill. That’s all you are.”

He reaches down, slaps Dean’s thigh hard. “If you can’t take this, maybe I should start looking for a new toy. Maybe you’re not cut out for this after all.”

But Dean can’t answer, he’s too far gone, every nerve burning, heart pounding, want and shame spiraling together. And he loves it. Loves every filthy word, every rough thrust, every reminder that he’s being made to take more than anyone else ever could.

Castiel leans in, voice almost fond as he bites at Dean’s ear. “But I think you like being broken for me, don’t you? You like being stretched, used, ruined.”

Castiel laughs, making sure Dean feels every inch, every pulse, every goddamn second of being claimed. He fucks Dean through his own orgasm, coming deep inside of Dean, thrusts rough and final. He pulls out abruptly, leaving Dean aching and empty, and without a word, grabs the vibrator and jams it back in, pressing the head hard against Dean’s prostate. Dean yelps, body jolting, the aftershocks mingling with new, electric pain. Castiel leaves him like that, trembling and wide open, while he pads into the bathroom. Dean hears the water running, hears Castiel washing his hands, as if nothing about this is urgent.

The vibrator keeps buzzing, relentless, making it impossible for Dean to catch his breath. He can feel it grinding into that spot inside him, feels the pleasure curling up too fast and too bright. He whines, legs twitching, desperately trying to hold on.

Castiel returns, wipes his hands on a towel, and looks down at Dean with exaggerated concern. “What’s wrong, pet?” he mocks, voice syrupy sweet. “Are you overstimulated? Having a hard time holding back for me?”

Dean nods frantically. His whole body shakes with the effort of staying still, holding back, obeying.

“Well, don’t you dare come,” Castiel says, coldly. “If you do, I’ll have to punish you.” But his mouth twists into a knowing, cruel smile, he wants Dean to fail, wants an excuse.

Dean tries, but the pressure is too much, too sharp, the heat rolling up inside him until he can’t stop it. His cock jerks, and he comes with a broken, desperate sound, spilling all over himself, helpless.

Castiel sighs, tutting in disappointment. “What did I tell you?” He kneels on the bed, scoops up Dean’s cum with his fingers, and smears it across Dean’s flushed face, into his hair, marking him with his own mess.

“Nasty fucking pet,” Castiel sneers. “Can’t even follow simple instructions. What do we do with messy animals like you, hmm? Make you wear your mess so you remember not to do it again.” He wipes more cum along Dean’s jaw, across his cheek, rubbing it into his skin and scalp.

He grabs Dean’s chin, forces him to meet his eyes. “Did you learn your lesson?” he asks, voice low.

Dean nods, desperate. The vibrator is still inside, sending shockwaves through him.

“Good,” Castiel says, tone shifting back to sweet mockery. “But I don’t think you’ve really learned yet.”

He turns the vibrator up, shoves it deeper, and starts to fuck Dean with it again, rough and merciless, not giving him a second to recover. “Let’s see how many times I can wring you out, pet. That’s what you’re good for, right? Just a mess for me to use. Nothing but a hole and a filthy face.”

Dean sobs, humiliated, body shuddering under the fresh assault of sensation. Castiel grins and keeps going, fucking him with the toy, working Dean toward another painful climax.

“Good boy. That’s all you’ll ever be. Mine to ruin, mine to mark, mine to punish as much as I want.”

Castiel doesn’t let up. He keeps working the vibrator hard, grinding into Dean’s prostate again and again until Dean is gasping, shaking, not sure if he’s hard or just broken. His thighs tremble, hips trying to buck away, but Castiel only tightens his grip and laughs low in his throat.

“Look at you,” Castiel sneers, sounding gleeful. “Did you really think you’d learned your lesson? You’re disgusting. Dirty. Maybe you like being messy. Maybe you want to be used up, again and again. Or maybe you just need a better punishment.”

Dean sobs, shaking his head, tears leaking down his cheeks. His cock is leaking and red, and Castiel’s hands don’t slow.

“Maybe capsaicin oil would help you remember.” Castiel says sadistically. Dean flinches, trying to twist away, and Castiel slaps his thigh, hard. “Don’t you fucking move, unless you want your legs tied down too. Or maybe you’d like that, you filthy thing.”

Dean whimpers, forced to hold still, feeling every punishing wave as the vibrator keeps pounding his prostate, his body caught between desperate pleasure and pain.

Castiel leans in, voice low and mocking in his ear. “I think we finally found a motivator for you, pet. Maybe I should slather your cock in capsaicin oil again. Or those sore little nipples. Bet that would make you scream. Or maybe—” He pauses, wicked smile curling. “Maybe I’ll put some on a dildo and fuck you with it. Imagine the burn. You should be grateful I haven’t tried it yet.”

Dean shakes, crying openly now, breath ragged with fear and arousal all tangled together.

Castiel wipes away a tear with his thumb, not unkind, then grins. “You’re lucky I don’t go further. In fact—” He cocks his head thoughtfully. “You ever heard of figging, pet? Ever had a ginger root shoved up your ass and left to burn?” He lets the threat linger, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. “I have ginger. Maybe I’ll let you taste that. If you’re lucky. We can do a comparison, see if it hurts more to be fucked with giner or capsaicin oil.”

Dean sobs, but his cock betrays him. He’s still leaking, still hard, still aching for more even as he tries to shy away from the promise of more pain.

Castiel’s voice is a purr, almost gentle. “Maybe next time I’ll coat a sound in the oil. See if that gets your attention.”

Dean shakes his head, tears streaking his flushed cheeks, but Castiel just laughs, delighted and cruel. “Oh, pet. I have so many ways to hurt you. You’ve read my stories, you know how creative I can be. You want to reenact your favorites?”

Dean’s whole world is pain and pleasure stretched thin and strung out. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He’s not even sure if this is pain or just something else, something burning and necessary, aching and inevitable. The overstimulation has him half-delirious, body trembling, and vision swimming with tears.

Castiel watches him closely, hungry for every flinch. “You’ll take whatever I give you. You’ll beg for it, and you’ll thank me.”

And then Dean comes. It’s barely a climax, just a handful of ragged spasms wrung out of him by force, pleasure twisted into something involuntary. A few pathetic spurts, barely enough to matter. Castiel shakes his head, mock disappointment written all over his face even as his lips curl into a dark, satisfied smile. He thankfully, finally, pulls the vibrator out of Dean and he could cry from relief at that alone.

“Is that all you have left?” he taunts, scooping up Dean’s cum with his fingers. “Pathetic. But you’ll wear it for me.” He wipes the mess across Dean’s face, dragging it over his lips, his cheeks, marking him with every stroke. “Look at you, ruined, filthy, and still begging for more. That’s my good boy.”

Dean can’t move. He’s shaking, streaked with sweat, tears, and his own come. Castiel wipes his hands off on Dean’s skin, leaving streaks like paint. The cold air stings everywhere he’s been marked.

Castiel reaches for his phone, a glint in his eyes. “I’m going to take a photo of you.”

Dean’s head jerks, panic flaring through the exhaustion, but his arms are still bound. He tries to protest, but the ball gag muffles it, leaving only a broken, pleading sound.

Castiel tilts his head, considering. “What’s wrong, pet? I thought you wanted to be ruined. I thought you wanted to show off what a filthy, used-up toy you are.” He snaps a photo. The shutter is loud in the silence.

He leans in, voice velvet and venom. “You’re lucky I want you. No one else would want you like this. No one would keep a toy so dirty, so used. You belong to me. You’re my mess to make, my secret to keep or to share. Isn’t that right?”

Dean nods, a whimper escaping as Castiel strokes his hair almost gently. “That’s my good boy. Don’t worry, this one’s for my eyes only. Unless you want an audience.”

He steps back, snapping one more photo. “I like having proof. Proof of what I do to you. What you let me do. How far you’ll go to make me happy. Maybe next time, I’ll send it to you after. Let you see yourself, see how fucking ruined you are.”

He puts the phone away, returns to the bed, and crouches close, fingers slipping under Dean’s chin to tilt his face up. “You’re perfect like this. Disgusting, desperate, marked by me. Mine.”

He wipes a streak of cum from Dean’s cheek with his thumb, then licks it clean. Castiel’s voice is dangerously sweet: “Maybe next time I’ll send you a list. You can pick your favorite punishment. Or maybe you’ll just beg for all of them.”

Dean is still crying, wrung out and grateful, a mess of tears and slick, every wound humming with pleasure and relief. There’s nothing left of his defenses. He wants to be seen, used, and kept.

Castiel finally unties Dean’s wrists, slow and careful. The ball gag slips free; Dean’s jaw aches, his mouth sticky, lips parted for air. Castiel disappears, returns a moment later with a glass of water. He helps Dean sit up, supporting his shoulders. “Drink,” he orders gently. Dean obeys, hands trembling as he downs every drop.

Castiel sets the glass on the nightstand, then leans in, pressing their foreheads together. His lips brush Dean’s, sweet and soft. Dean flinches, embarrassed, turns his head away. “I’m disgusting right now,” he manages, voice hoarse.

Castiel’s reply is a soft growl against Dean’s temple: “You’re beautiful like this. Don’t you dare hide from me.” His mouth finds Dean’s again and kisses him deeper, hungrier, tasting salt and shame, holding Dean together with the force of it.

After, Castiel pulls Dean to his feet and guides him to the bathroom. The shower is scalding and safe, steam swirling as Castiel washes Dean with steady hands. His fingers are gentle over bruises, tongue-in-cheek as he rakes a soapy palm through Dean’s hair.

“Doing okay?” Castiel murmurs, massaging shampoo into Dean’s scalp, voice finally stripped of all harshness.

Dean tips his head back, eyes closed. “Wasn’t as bad as last week,” he says, some laughter threading through his exhaustion.

Castiel’s lips curl, wicked. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”

Dean laughs. “Wasn’t a criticism, asshole.”

Castiel just smirks, presses a kiss to the corner of Dean’s mouth, and lets the hot water do the rest.

After the shower, they dress in soft clothes. Castiel in borrowed sweats that are tight on his thighs, Dean in an old tshirt, and migrate to the couch. Castiel settles in first, sprawling back against the cushions, tugging Dean down between his legs. Dean lets himself be gathered, head pillowed on Castiel’s chest, the steady thump of his heart a kind of anchor. Castiel’s fingers drift through Dean’s damp hair, soothing and slow.

For a while, there’s just quiet, the afterglow settling over them both.

Dean tilts his head, voice tentative. “Are you mad at me? For… seeking you out, the way I did?”

Castiel’s hand stills, then resumes, thumb tracing Dean’s temple. “Mad?” he echoes, and for a moment, Dean can’t read his tone. Then Castiel huffs out a low laugh, warm and strange. “I think you’re out of your mind. Completely crazy.”

Dean lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“But I must be just as crazy for liking it,” Castiel goes on, voice softer now, words threading through Dean’s hair. “You asked me weeks ago how I’d feel if the tables were turned. I guess… I always thought I’d be too much for anybody. Too fucked up. Too intense. Too much.”

He hesitates, fingers sliding behind Dean’s ear, grounding himself in the softness there.

“So maybe it’s fucked up, but I like it. I like knowing someone wanted all of me, enough to go to these lengths. Makes me feel… seen. Wanted. Like I’m not just tolerated, but chosen. Even if it’s a little insane.”

Dean turns his face into Castiel’s chest, hiding a smile. “Guess that makes two of us.”

Castiel presses a kiss to Dean’s hair. “It’s the good kind of crazy.”

“I can’t believe you really moved out here for me.” Castiel says, his voice pitched somewhere between wonder and accusation.

Dean huffs. “Yup.”

Castiel’s eyes search his face. “Even after Alfie told you what I’d done?”

Dean sighs. “Better than what I did. Alfie didn’t safeword—you didn’t do anything wrong. Not your fault he regretted it after the fact. I, on the other hand… I got pissed at my Dom when he did safeword. Should’ve handled it better. Should’ve found someone who fit me, instead of trying to force what didn’t.”

He looks up at Castiel, something steady and vulnerable in his gaze. “So I did.”

Castiel pulls Dean up and kisses him, slow and grateful. When they part, Dean’s lips are bruised, his voice a little breathless. “Can’t believe you waited a whole week to confront me.”

“I needed time,” Castiel says quietly. “Time to process.”

“So you were mad,” Dean teases, softening it with a small, crooked grin.

“I was… a lot of things,” Castiel admits. “But mostly? Now I’m just relieved. Excited, even. To finally have someone I’m not afraid of scaring away.”

Dean smiles, and lets himself be pulled in close, all the old fear washed away by the impossible, ordinary comfort of being wanted. He lets his head fall back against Castiel’s chest. “Just so you know,” he says, “I’ve got a list. A long one.”

Castiel smiles, soft and fond. “That’s good, pet. We have all the time in the world to work through it.”

Dean laughs, a little giddy. “You’re gonna regret saying that.”

Castiel leans in, brushing his lips to Dean’s temple. “Doubt it.”