Chapter Text
“It hasn’t come up yet.”
“ Dean! ”
In the hallway, Castiel wasn’t exactly trying to eavesdrop, but the office door is closed, it stops him in his tracks to actually hear Sam on the other end of the line all the way through the wood.
“I know man!”
Castiel glances down the hall, conflicted, unable to move even though this felt very wrong. He could only make out the cadence of Sam’s voice now, the frustrated whuff and whine that Dean did his best to quell.
“I’m not….I know! I- You- Sammy that wasn’t the plan, I wouldn’t do that to you…….Well tell him he’s not my boss so he can cool his jets for a few more days. I said I’d take care of it and I will…..I will! But- ……….. Shit… ..Yeah. Yeah I got it.”
Castiel knows for certain the lowering tone of Dean’s voice means they’re talking about him now. He shouldn't hear this. He should trust Dean to tell him whatever there is to tell.
Turning on his heel, Castiel pads softly back into the living room and sinks into his spot on the couch. The movie screen is paused and he’d promised Dean he would wait for him to take the call from his brother, but the silence is just too much to take so he clicks the play button and tries to stop himself from actively waiting for Dean to rejoin him. It’s over an hour later when he does and the movie has ended, the screen now occupied with the season finale of a show he used to watch religiously but now annoys him with all the unnecessary plot twists and yet more repetitious angst than can possibly be resolved in the remaining twenty minutes. Dean doesn’t even comment on the fact that Castiel didn’t wait for him. He stares at the black screen of his phone as if expecting it to ring any second.
“You’re leaving.” Castiel was never any good with playing it cool.
“I was always going to have to leave eventually.” Dean tries to look him in the eye but doesn’t make it past Castiel’s chin.
“When?”
“Thursday.”
It’s Tuesday.
This bare fact is yanked through Castiel by a jet of anger so fierce it cleans out his mind completely and he tries logic as a reboot but it’s not taking. He’s not even sure exactly who or what he’s supposed to be angry with.
“We can work something out you know, this doesn’t have to be the end of things.” Dean’s wanders over to the window as he speaks and Castiel’s anger tells him that it will be the end because they’ve been given too much borrowed time as it is and life won’t be put off so easily anymore.
They’ve only had three days together in Castiel’s beige plaster block of an apartment in a late blooming neighborhood of Winston-Salem. The super never fixes anything if he can get away with it but the lawn is always groomed and the sidewalk clear. There’s a painting of dune grass and the sea at sunset in the living room that was here when he moved in and never took down because there was nothing to replace it with. No photos of family or friends that made it out of his phone. No art, no plants, not even a set of curtains to replace the dingy vertical blinds over every window. He hadn’t even understood how suffocatingly dull everything was until Dean.
Well, no, it’s probable he had understood. It was why he’d traveled halfway around the world in the first place. Why he’d risked the wrath of his boss requesting a one month sabbatical on top of his recent vacation. He’d hinted at a family hardship, something vague but pressing that couldn’t be put off and the man had relented because Castiel had never taken a single vacation day the length and breadth of his employment and the last thing he wanted was for him to complain to someone higher up with the power to herd everyone into a mandatory HR training on employee rights. And Castiel was going to face payback for that, he knew it, probably in the form of a dozen extra students sent his way for thesis advisement. But he hadn’t even gotten through half a week. He thought about sitting out the remaining time, finding ways to kill minutes and then hours. Such a waste. Classes would start again, paperwork, laundry, errands.The things he’d wanted to experience with Dean would be shelved, the memories of the island softened until there would be no difference between this Castiel and the one living in the past, before New Sybaris.
Castiel becomes acutely conscious of his own breath in his lungs, oddly parasitic, and in that moment, it happened --though he didn’t recognize it yet--the beginning of an understanding, a shape of something that hadn’t been given a temperament or name. It was almost visible on the edges of sight, moving slowly, circling. Aware. The exact dimensions of its wants were imperceivable. It shouldn’t be trusted. Standing alone within the confines of his life Castiel would never trust it, had never trusted it, since it would ultimately become clear this thing had been stalking his borders for a very long time.
But now there was Dean. He trusted Dean.
Castiel stood up and the painting caught his eye. He realizes why he’d always hated it. Dune grass was sharp and gleaming, a sleek whip of hammered steel that knew how to meet the trials of the sea. Not gracefully soft, not finespun billows stood politely aside as it was imagined here. He waits until Dean can meet his eyes before he speaks, and behind him a ways he could feel the thing at his borders take a few steps closer.
| | |
“It would be different.”
“What do you mean different?”
“Well,” a hand trails up Castiel’s bare ankle, they would both need to shower if they had any intention of going outside today and Castiel starts weighing his odds that there’d been enough shampoo left. “I came out here as your Dom, but we haven’t really been doing that, you know. Guess I thought we’d have more time and I’ve just been having too much fun playing house with you.” He winks from his end of the bed and begins to playfully squeeze the pads of each toe in turn. “But if you came to New York, well it’s different there. I’d have you in my lair, so to speak.” Dean gave a flash of predatory smile, but it wasn’t really a joke.
Castiel knew it wasn’t a joke.
“You’d train me.”
“Yes.”
“How long does that take?”
Dean shrugs and moves his fingers up to massage the fleshy curve of Cas’ calf and Castiel splays himself open at the touch. “Takes as long as it takes, as long as you want. There isn’t really an end until one of us says there is. You could come up for a week if you like, just to try. I can’t do much in a week, but it would give you a better sense of the whole thing. And then if you wanted to keep going…..you could stay as long as you like.”
Castiel considers it.
He pretends to consider it.
Dean was right, they had both succumb to a honeymoon phase these past three days. Not that he was complaining, but it was impossible to label any of Dean’s short time here training, not when it seemed much more important to spend as many waking hours as their bodies could handle making each other come. They hadn’t scened once. Like Dean, Castiel assumed they’d get to that later, once they’d burned off some of the urgency. He didn’t actually notice the difference at first, how could he when every time he turned a corner Dean was there, falling to his knees, spinning him against a wall, bending him over a counter or the dryer or the hallway runner table, fucking into him and sucking the come and the sweat from his body and making him feel out of touch with reality from the constant pleasure and demand. It went on hour after hour, and there were ropes once, but nothing elaborate, they didn’t have the supplies for that. He was never gagged or spanked or made to beg, only a panted promise of such things tacked on as an afterthought, it was much too important for them just to glut themselves on one another and Castiel was perfectly happy to do so. He was sore all the time and the house was bare of every kind of supply. He was having trouble keeping up with the laundry. There was nothing like a routine, unless you counted the unconscious domesticity they’d fallen into, but sharing stories over take out, or curling up on the couch for a movie they would never get around to finishing wasn’t really the same thing.
Perhaps that was why he’d felt so angry yesterday. He hadn’t been prepared for Dean to leave so soon, part of him felt a little cheated, had assumed he’d be collared and kneeling by now but in all fairness he’d never said anything either. He’d just given over and assumed Dean would bring them to that point eventually. He had been passive, and maybe now he was realizing that was not the same thing as submissive.
Castiel drags himself away from the bed, sitting himself down naked at the desk. He waits until he hears Dean turn on the shower. The email isn't long, but then again, there isn't much to state other than facts. He checks it for errors once before blindly clicking send. If he’d thought about it for even a second longer his rationality would have jumped on the opportunity to talk him out of it.
| | |
Sitting at the kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal, Dean scrutinizes Castiel as he tries for the third time to get the coffee pot situated correctly in the machine. He's leaving this afternoon, but yet here they are in the kitchen having breakfast, both in boxers and tshirts like this sort of normal behavior wasn’t about to end.
It's infuriating to Castiel, the way his hands shake, how he can feel every fiber of clothing against his skin. His cock hung heavy between his legs, alive and screaming at him all because of the way Dean just watches him, laser-hot but housed in that practiced nonchalance of his. The muscles of his wrist flex unfairly beneath the wide leather band of his watch, he holds the mug of coffee from the bottom with his whole hand, palming it easily, and the sight makes Castiel squirm.
In three hours when he stands in this kitchen, it will be alone.
“Sit down.”
Castiel drops into the chair, grateful for the direction. Dean’s expression betrays nothing, he stares at him in silence for a bit, taking in the flush of his cheeks, the marked difficulty holding eye contact. Rising, he takes a sheet of paper from the counter and places it in front of Castiel. A simple document, more outline than contract, he was to read it, read it again and be prepared to ask questions.
“And if I’m fine with all of it?” Castiel arches a brow. He really hadn’t done enough in this world to know what he would and wouldn’t like. Nothing he might consider a hard no was detailed on the sheet, Dean’s taste, or perhaps just intuition, well tailored to Castiel’s interests. But there are things on here they absolutely hadn’t done, or even talked about, but he considers himself open minded enough to at least try them.
“Then think of something to ask, anything, because even if you’re fine I need to make sure you understand.”
Castiel skims the paper again, there is really only one thing he needs clarity on, even if he can guess at what it meant.
“Sam is your proxy?”
“Yes,” Dean starts carefully. “Good. You need to understand what that means before you even consider doing this with me.”
Castiel nods.
“I am your Dom, plain as that. I set the rules. But you’ll be staying with both of us and Sam and I are…..very close.” Castiel can tell he is trying to gauge his reaction, ease him in slow to whatever it is he's trying to get across. But Castiel already knows about the brothers, Charlie had explained all about how they liked to Dom together and how not everyone was entirely comfortable with that. Hearing that Sam would somehow be involved was not as much of a shock as Dean seemed to think it would be, even if Castiel had never really given it much thought before now.
“He’d scene with us.” Careful to sound like this wasn’t a problem.
“Sometimes. But more importantly than that, if you come to New York, you’ll be given rules, and Sam will help me make sure you follow those rules if I’m not around. He’ll also have permission to punish you should you break them.”
Castiel did feel a little concerned at that, remembering full well the younger man’s reputation. Dean's quick to alleviate his fears.
“Everything we do, including punishments, will be something you agree to beforehand. We will all sit down and hammer out the details together. But Cas,” he takes Castiel’s hand in his as he levels him with a serious look. “He’s going to want to fuck you. Regularly. And I want him to.”
Castiel goes hot all over. His dick aches down to the root and he signs the paper.
| | |
The I-95 north is a hateful, everlasting stretch of highway. Hour upon hour, and before he had started out, Castiel had stupidly been enamored of the words road trip, uttered by Dean with such boyish enthusiasm that he couldn’t help imagining the whole scenario in hues of sunset gold. And when Dean had said there would be rules, had wanted to make sure that Castiel remembered every mile he crossed, why on earth would he give it a moment’s pause?
It takes exactly three hours for things to get unbearable. One measly third of the way there in good conditions.
Through Richmond, right when the desperation first starts building, onwards through the hellscape of Washington DC traffic, through the bleakness of grey weather Baltimore and up to Philly where he feels his sanity finally crack. Pulling off the freeway and into a side street, digging up his phone and grunting at the constricting tug his movements generated.
He understands now why Dean had done it. The man had explained it to him carefully and in great detail before he had left, giving him every opportunity to back out before illustrating an instruction sheet with each step for Cas to follow later. His hubris now well marked, Castiel recalls the look of fond exasperation he’d given Dean, common now among them and painful to recall each time Dean was proved right, which in matters such as this is damn near always. The rope isn't one they’d used before (he isn't even sure where Dean had gotten it), light and thin and made of a silk that warmed immediately against the skin then melted in to the point you almost couldn’t feel it.
Until you could.
It had been the last thing he’d done after packing the car and putting his home in order. The tie around his chest is a basic sort of harness, an easy frame he could wrap and twist with only the aid of a mirror, something to hide under his shirt that would make him feel bound, secure. With consideration for keeping the tension just the way Dean taught him, it didn’t bite into his skin or constrict his breathing and after a few minutes it was easy to forget it was there. The ropes around his hips and buttocks had pressed nicely against his muscles for the first few hours of the drive, massaging into him softly, giving him something to feel every time the motion of the car shifted his weight. But it was the tie around his cock that was causing the most discomfort now. Dean had told him to tie it loosely, gently, winding the silk around and around until his balls and shaft were encased. It had felt amazing at first, snug and secure, warm but without pressure that might get him too excited.
But now....just willing his hands not to shake as he dials takes all of his focus.
“Hey there angel,” He can hear the smirk coming through the line and it makes Castiel huff.
“This was a terrible idea, I don’t understand why I couldn’t just fly out there.”
The car engine clicks as it cools, not a single person to be seen on the broken asphalt stump of turnoff next to the river. There are three mismatched picnic tables with benches that were likely dragged here by whoever worked the shipyard next to them. There’s shipping cranes and chain link and the utilitarian mass of a steel girder bridge rising up to the left. Everything is dingy and overworn, cement covered and blocky, but there’s something about the very absence of other people in this place that gives it an otherworldly feel, amplified by the cars above him, speeding along the bridge with a hollow, baying echo of tires against the grate.
“Because Cas, that’s not your choice to make.” He all but purrs into the phone. “The minute you stepped out your door, you’re walking into my world. The road is mine, the hours it takes you, the ropes on your skin, everything belongs to me and I want you to feel that change. Now, where are you?”
“I’m in-” He pants, trying to snatch the words from the oily swirl of need the ropes stir up in him. He is so desperately hard. “I’m in Philadelphia.”
“See, you’re almost here! One more hour sweetheart, you can stand another hour, can’t you? Just don’t touch.”
Castiel glowers at Dean’s voice, shifting in his seat, then squirming, cursing himself, cursing his bound aching cock that struggles against the ropes, which only adds to the pressure and heightens his discomfort.
“It feels like this will never end.”
| | |
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing Sammy, I’m cleaning.”
“Okaaay, but we’ve got a maid. One that wears an actual maid outfit.”
Dean didn’t look up as he kept scrubbing down the stove. “Nope, I fired her. Cas is coming.”
“Huh, so you’re really doing this. I thought for sure you’d chicken out and put him up in one of the other apartments.”
“Not a chance,” he looks up, meeting his brother’s eyes. “I never thought he’d come, I thought-- I just really want him to get here.”
It’s enough that he doesn’t have to explain. Sam knows, just like Dean knows his brother is smiling, and trusts him to ignore the shaking in his hands.
| | |
Traffic jolts to a stop, Castiel’s attention snapping back from where it’d drifted. He’s so close now.
Creeping along an overpass in early evening traffic, small streets below, crowded with identically shaped apartment buildings, branch off in spokes to the right while off to the left he could almost see something that might be Manhattan. Castiel turns up the music, When the Levee Breaks reverberating out at him, the harmonica vigilant and a little drunk. Fatigue, muddled down with persistent, low wattage arousal leaves him feeling unmoored, he’s having a hard time reconciling this moment with reality, that he’s here in this place and giving himself over to something so very far away from any other life he’d known. He wills the traffic to move faster and it spites him by grinding to a halt.
Thoughts of what will happen to him when he gets there offer a distraction.
Conceptually he understood the basics, that Dean and Sam shared an apartment together in Brooklyn, that there was a studio of some sort in the building where both brothers taught the occasional workshop. That Dean’s real income came from restoring cars while Sam crafted the custom leather interiors and an old family friend ran the front office. That he was here to act as Dean’s sub, to receive training, but they hadn’t gone over much more than that, there hadn’t been time. As he finally pulls off the freeway, picks his way through increasingly uninviting streets, Castiel began to wonder if he had perhaps watched too much television, imagined Brooklyn entirely walled in with towering brownstones and record shops filled with painfully stylish young things, sidewalks adorned with elderly neighbors greeting one another by name.
There was nothing like that here.
While most neighborhoods had the general proclivity to get nicer, more manicured the closer they got to a waterfront of any sort, this particular section of blocks had no such ambitions. It had been, or possibly still was, largely industrial. There was nobody here, no pedestrians, no shops, no cars driving along the refuse clogged streets but his own, though lines of them are parked end to end along every available inch of curb. The building Dean had directed him to is massive, running the full length of the block and capped at either end by double smoke stacks that look ready to belch smog at a moment's notice. Red brick faded to sooty grey, weeds growing in the cracks, heavy gage chain link shoring up the flanks. Castiel doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, but there is no way people could actually live in a place like this. Castiel pulls over to text Dean, nerves starting to sing as he waits in his seat another minute, gathering his wits.
A sharp knock pulls his focus to the window, where Dean stands with a grin, sliding into the passenger seat and cutting over to cup Castiel’s face in both hands and dive into his lips.
“Goddamn baby I’ve been going crazy.” He groans, shoving Cas back into the door another inch, arching his tongue back into that sweet mouth, swallowing the needy, unhappy little sighs Cas feeds to him as the pressure of the damnable ropes and Dean’s urgent press brought his desperation roaring back to the fore. “Come on, let’s park in the garage.”
Pulling around to the back, sharp dip into the narrow sub basement, Castiel is rather surprised to see how many other cars are here. The Impala gleams up ahead and Dean points to the empty spot next to it, hoping out before the engine has shut off and grabbing both bags from the back, slinging them over one shoulder and taking Cas’ hand.
The lobby, at least, is an improvement. The floor scuffed marble, so old a shallow trough was worn along the center path to the bay of elevators ahead of them. Those were still the massive accordion gated freight lifts originally installed in the building, but the rest of the lobby had been renovated, spare but exquisite with a floor to ceiling painting across one wall smeared in shades of red, an enormous iron banded sphere encasing the spindled, glossy black glass chandelier suspended in the vaulted space above. Ahead of them sits a wide black desk, overly ornate considering the man sitting behind it. His suit is immaculate, but the backs of his hands up both hairy wrists were covered in muzzy tattoos, he wears an earpiece and the sandblasted look of an ex-con. Folding his copy of The Financial Times, he slaps it on the desk with an amused look at Dean. “Didn’t know you were back. Crowley’s gonna tear you a new one for taking off like that.”
Dean just smirks, pulls an envelope from his back pocket and places it on the desk.
“Crowley can blow me.” He pushes the manila rectangle closer with a single finger and a significantly raised eyebrow. “Gimme two days. Then I’m free for Crowley to have his stubby little way with me.”
The man looks at Cas then, appraising up and down against some sort of standard, turns back to Dean and shakes his head with a fond, crooked smile, his nail-bitten fingers curling over the bribe.
“You’re lucky you’re my favorite, kid. Two days.”
“You’re a good man Vince, no matter what Sammy says about you.” He wraps an arm around Cas’ waist and steers him towards the elevators.
The car jolts to life the minute Dean hit button number 10. It's a slow ascent, enough time to chew at Dean’s words and taste the sour note of insecurity bloom across his tongue.
“Two days?” Castiel watches the fourth floor button light up. The fifth.
“Huh?” Dean had been tapping his foot incessantly since they entered the car, and it didn’t seem like he was paying much attention to anything but whatever was working his nerves.
Castiel straightens up a little against the pull of his ropes, no longer arousing, now merely infuriating against overly sensitive skin.
“I didn’t realize we only had two days.”
Dean turns then, really looking at Cas, frowning. The next second, the elevator car groans, jerking to a halt, swaying slightly on its cables. He’d hit the stop button and Castiel hadn’t even seen him do it.
“What are you talking about?”
“Dean is this safe? I don’t think you’re supposed to stop elevators like this.”
Dean waves at the button panel with an exaggerated dismissal, “We’re not moving till I’m ready to move, Cas. Now why would you think I’m only keeping you two days?”
“Well you said….I...you didn’t introduce me back there and…”
“Cas,” he steps in closer, grasping both shoulders in firm hands. “Listen up, cause I don’t like to repeat myself. You’re here for as long as you want to be here. If I have limits or expectations of any kind, you can bet that I’m going to let you know about them.” He looks Castiel up and down with a determined eye. “You know what, I think we need to start your training right now.”
Both bags land with a thud to the floor, one on top of the other, Dean folds himself down to sit on top of them.
“Wait, here?” Castiel croaks. “Dean it’s fine, I believe you. I’m just a little- “
He takes in Castiel’s confusion with a hard set look.
“We need to work on getting you out of your head. If you want something, or if you want to know something, you will ask me directly. Do not assume anything about me Cas, ever. I don’t play mind games, that’s not something I’m into. Come here.”
Glancing down at the floor between Dean’s boots, the thought of kneeling in such an unusual locale wakes a smile, he’s just about to drop down when Dean stops him with a hand at his hip.
“I want you to strip.”
Castiel’s smile falters, a reflexive look to the door.
“Cas,” his voice is firm but calm. “You don’t need to think about other people. No one else is going to see you, but if you can’t do this then you need to use your word now.”
They’d kept the green light system. Castiel had found it very logical and simple to remember and Dean hadn’t objected. But he’d never once said red and he wasn’t about to start now. He shook his head then set about removing his clothing, folding each article neatly and placing it on the ground. In the cool air, the ropes against his body come alive against his skin and it feels as if he’s expanding out against them, their bright red color lit up and glowing stark against the drabness of steel walls. He’s half hard and heavy feeling between his legs and he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do so he stands there, watching as Dean looks him over, then crooks his finger at Cas, gripping the rope looped around his thigh once he’s in reach and pulling him closer till he is standing in front of Dean’s splayed open legs. Dean holds him in place with the rope while his other hand cups Castiel’s balls, kneading them, running his fingers around the cage he’d taught Cas to build around his cock, checking to make sure it was fit well. Castiel groans at the touch, flesh tender and pulsing and now fully hard.
“You look real good like this, you know.” He leans in and nuzzles the trail of hair below Cas’ navel, placing a long sweet kiss at the soft skin there before looking up with too much affection and mischief and heat for Castiel to resist. And the bastard knows it. “Thought I could at least make it all the way upstairs without having a little taste of you but I can’t. Last few hours all I could think about was how I should have driven you here myself, strapped you in the back seat with your hands tied behind your back so I could fuck you open on the side of the rode whenever I wanted. Pull over, shove you face down, grab onto my ropes,” he slipped both hands under the ties around his hips and tugged for emphasis, “and drive you back on my dick.”
Castiel sways at the thought, a petal of sound, soft and needy, sliding from his lips. He wants, god he fucking wants this man to take him and make him scream and he doesn’t care anymore if anyone sees him getting used or hears him beg. A long trail of fluid leaks from his slit and Dean just stares at it, considering and calm and Castiel’s going to tear his hair out or grab onto his cock for relief but he can’t. He can’t. He can’t. So he clasps his hands behind his back and holds onto his wrists till his knuckles turn white because it’s the only way he can trust himself to keep standing still.
Dean eyes him with mild surprise and Castiel starts to fret that he wasn’t supposed to do that, he hadn’t been told to do anything other than stand here.
“Do you remember what I promised you before I left?” He leans back against the wall and pops the button on his jeans. Castiel’s zeros in on the movement, licking his lips unconsciously.
“Promise…” He murmurs, unsure of the word, enthralled with the way he can hear each tooth of Dean’s zipper as it splits open.
“Yup, gotta keep my promises, don’t I? And I have a feeling you just wouldn’t be able to help yourself if I gave you this.” He grunts a little when he pulls his cock free, holding it firmly and watching as Cas devours the sight with his eyes. “And I’m a man of my word, you’re not gonna come until you’re in my apartment. In fact, I think that’s the only place I’ll let you come anymore. No clubs, no quickie bathroom stalls, not even in your own home Cas, what do you think about that?”
Dean reaches forward to rub a finger against the slick, bulbous head of Castiel’s erection, smiles wicked at the way he arches and moans at this little contact.
“Yeah, I think that’ll be best for you. Teach you boundaries. Can’t have you expecting to get off wherever, whenever.”
“But I could,” Castiel clears his throat, his voice splintered. “I could help you out, couldn’t I?”
“Hmmm, are you asking to suck me down Cas? Want to let your Dom use that pretty mouth so I can feel good?”
Castiel nods, “Mmhmm, yes. Let me-- I mean, may I?”
Dean laughs, delighted. God Cas was cute like this, trussed up and turned on and unsure. He swipes his finger one more time over the head of Castiel’s cock then sucks the fluid clean, humming and sighing.
“You taste desperate Cas, I don’t even think I can give you my dick without getting you too worked up. I know how much you love to have your mouth filled, it might be too risky. You wouldn’t want to waste yourself here, would you? Not when we’re almost home.”
He doesn’t give Castiel a chance to answer, just starts jacking himself as fast as he can.
“So I want you to just stand there and watch me baby, just keep your eyes on this and don’t move. Just gotta take the edge off, you got me so fucking hard.” He groans and twists his wrist, working on getting off as fast as he can. Cas looks lost, whimpering and shifting a little, fighting to stand still as his own desire rockets through him.
“Spread your legs wider,” Dean pants, hips juddering up into his speeding hand. “Get your hands behind your head, fingers laced.”
Castiel does as he’s told and Dean reaches down between his legs, sliding one long finger up his crack to press the pad against the soft furl there. He starts to jack harder.
“Yeah, just want to play with your hole a little. Like to watch you twitch.”
That’s exactly what he does, drawing everything in tight and almost loosing balance for the effort. Dean doesn’t push in, doesn’t give him any other pressure but the light, explorative spirals around and around, tapping playfully, as if fingers could smirk.
“When do you get to come Cas?” The leash on his words betrays how close he really is, the rush and snap of his hand efficient.
“In your apartment,” Castiel husks, eyes burning lest he miss one flexed stroke by blinking. “Only at your apartment.”
“S’right, baby. Gonna have rules. Show you how to be so good for me, is that what you want? Is that what you came here for?”
“Yes,” he hisses just as Dean comes, cupping his hand to capture the spray, the copious fluid quickly leaking between his fingers. Castiel feels both light headed and drilled into the ground. Floating. Unable to move.
Rising, Dean scoops up Castiel’s shirt and wipes off his hand, stuffing all of his discarded clothes into one of the bags. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but the directive is clear. He is to remain like this, naked, rope bound. Coming around to his back, Dean guides each of Cas’ hands gently behind him, tucking his wrists into the rope. Not something he couldn’t escape with little more than a firm tug, but Dean’s desires hold far more power to bind Castiel than twists of silk and cotton.
Pushing the button to start them moving again, Dean shoulders both bags easily, his back to Castiel. “No one will see you Cas, okay? We own the floor and nobody’s allowed up without our say so, which today is not a fucking soul.”
“Okay.”
He can’t fully see it, but Dean’s smile is there all the same.
The door slides opens to a dimly lit hall. To the right is nothing but a dead end, to the left there is a single door a few yards from the elevator. As Dean had said, there’s not a soul in sight. Stepping into the cool air feels like passing through into another reality. There’s a particular scent, not unpleasant, machine oil, decayed wood, dust. It’s not completely silent, not with the city living outside, but this place feels entirely removed, unaccountable somehow to whatever physics dictate the world beyond this hall. They move past the door, Castiel following on bare, skin tack feet, the wood so old and worn it curls up to meet his arches, urging him along. There’s a single, towering window at the far end, the light soft yet total, spilling down the black painted walls and snagging on the brass plate.
WINCHESTER it reads, as if that was all anyone needed to know.
Dean turns right, as the hall leaves no other option, and Cas follows. Here too is empty and black and leads to another single door mid way down the right wall. This one however is huge, a heavy sliding panel on a wheeled track. In lieu of a key, Dean punches in a code on the digital panel that is clearly a new addition to the building. A fortified clunk follows suit and the door sways minutely, released. Shoving hard, Dean looks over his shoulder and jerks his head for Cas to follow, which he is able to do for exactly five steps inside before he’s stopped dead.
The exterior of the building had clearly pegged this as the sort of reclaimed industrial space that brokered in cavernous lofts, and it was that, in it’s bones. But Castiel’s initial impression, that the nature of the brothers’ activities meant he’d be walking into a stark, hyper masculine set piece filled with black leather and pitted metal, was so far off he wonders briefly if they’d not walked into the wrong apartment.
Dean’s home isn’t anything like what Castiel had imagined, large, yes, but warm and thoughtfully designed. Instead of metal girders on the ceiling, there is wood, the same color as the smooth, wide planks inlayed on the floor. Instead of steel reinforced windows spanning every wall, there are elegant, high-set ones with arched frames, spilling forth torrents of pink evening light but hiding the broken toothed waterfront from view. Tall potted ferns stretch nearly as high as the windows everywhere he looks, and it gives the whole place a sunken, hidden sort of feeling, a secret oasis on a forgotten street.
Dean tosses the bags to the floor and hauls the door shut, muscling a heavy lever that very definitively slots the bolt into place.
“Casa Winchester. Gimme a sec and I’ll give you the nickel tour.”
Plopping down on a side bench, Dean unlaces his boots and peels off his socks, and Castiel notes with some amusement the row of pegs by the door, all of them layered with more flannel than he was sure any two people should own. The floor, too, was a litter of nearly identical boots, discarded socks, and Castiel tries to picture the brothers repeatedly shopping for more of the exact same clothing but finally just comes to the assumption they bought in bulk.
Over to their left is an open kitchen with beautiful copper accents and a stove he’s sure cost more than his car. Beyond that, a dramatically long, tastefully rustic dining table in dark wood with simple, curved backed chairs wrapped skillfully in soft blonde leather.
Under the windows of the far wall, a living space has been denoted with a few deep seated leather sofas and layers of tan and black rugs. Against the left wall, a staircase climbs the brick to disappear somewhere overhead Castiel can’t see. To the right, though, is the most intriguing feature of the apartment, a built-in box, a room within the room. Pale wood walls with one large panel of thickly frosted glass. It’s here that Dean leads him with a crooked finger and a slanted smile.
“Come on baby, in you go,” It’s only a glimpse, an impression of a bedroom in soft greys and white that Castiel see before Dean is on him, mouth feverish, hands hard. Dean maneuvers him further into the room while his teeth sink into Castiel’s bottom lip, the soft angle of a mattress hitting the backs of his thighs as his mouth is forced open by a greedy wet tongue.
“Hold still.” Dean commands, pulling back. Castiel snaps his open mouth closed and does as he’s told, heart racing, palms tacky. Sliding open the drawer of a nightstand, Dean removes strip of black leather, which he places in Castiel’s hand, then pulls out a sturdy pair of medical shears.
Tracing fingers around, underneath the lines, Dean sought out the specific lead he’s looking for, snipping once, twice, and tugging before everything around Castiel’s waist and hips unspools and he ‘s left with an odd phantom throbbing along the grooves in his skin. Dean chucks the shears aside, takes the leather from Cas’ hand and kneels on the carpet, tonguing the spiral furrows impressed on Castiel’s skin before looking up.
“This is a cock ring. Do you consent to wearing it right now?”
Castiel wonders how he does it, can be so commanding and assured of his own place while kneeling at someone’s feet. Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever felt in command like that in his life.
“Yes.”
Dean nods once then tucks the band under Castiel’s balls and draws it up snug around the base of his shaft, snapping it into place.
“Up on the bed, on your back.”
Easily following Dean’s guidance, Castiel lays himself out along the edge of the bed, ribs shivering at the possessive touch Dean smooths down his flanks. His dick has been aching so long he’s almost afraid to come, it was sure to be painful, he thought, because he needs it so damn badly. The sheets against him are soft and smell of Dean, the pillows soft, room warm. His body wars between the sudden need to sink, to fall hard into the comfort he’s been denied for such a long, trying day and sleep, and the ignoble will of his sex, burning dark against the leather band.
“No touching, no words. Got it? Sounds are ok.” Dean pulls out a bottle of lube, pooling the liquid in his palm before practically coating his hands, and Cas can’t stop himself from shifting desperately at the sight.
“You want to submit, Cas.” A wet finger, cool, direct, finds the rim of his hole and traces it methodically. “I can tell how happy it would make you to give yourself over, you’ve been your own master for so long.”
He pushes in a single finger down to the webbing, holding it there. Castiel whimpers, arching. After so many endless, frustrating hours behind the wheel, fighting the nag and chaf of simmering arousal, this one slender intrusion was easily enough to push him to the mean edge, the band around him serving it’s purpose as he swells.
“You don’t have to worry about anything anymore, just let me help you.” He sooths, finally - fuck finally - wrapping a slick hand around Castiel and milking the shaft in a slow pull. Eyes shut, tears scorching the insides of his lids, Castiel sobs from deep in his chest.
Clutch the sheets as Dean’s hand twisted. Fuck fuck.
Seal tongue against teeth so that he won’t beg with words. Faster- Jesus please go faster...
Buck slowly blind into the slick knowing hand that never moves faster but knows just how to wring pleasure from him in the most proficient way.
“There we go. Feels good, right? I know it’s been hard angel, but you’re here now. I want you to try to come for me, nice and easy, ok?”
He doesn't take off the ring, so that when his finger finds and massages the swollen nub of Castiel's prostate, his orgasm hits long and slow, drawn out in an excruciating thread while Castiel sobs, stutters his way through the severity of his relief.