Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean doesn’t know why he hurts Castiel the way he does.

Actually, he does. Ever since he accepted the Mark of Cain he’s been different. It's not the kind of difference that you wouldn’t tend to notice unless you looked closely. He is different. He lashes out when he doesn’t mean to—not like he has never lashed out before, but now, having accepted the Mark, he’s become so much more violent, rougher, crueller. Sam can take it, because if Dean lashes out, Sam gives him a taste of his own medicine, and then Dean goes around feeling guilty for the rest of the day. Yet with Castiel— the (former) almighty Angel of the Lord— Dean finds it so much easier, so much easier to hurt him, but that’s because Castiel fucking takes it, he never fights back, he never counteracts Dean’s punches, hits or slaps. Never. Sometimes Dean wants to shake him so hard he passes out and screams at him to fight back, hit him back, but Castiel never does, he doesn’t lay a single finger on him. Then, there’s the smaller part that Dean thoroughly enjoys, because sometimes, on the other hand, it pleases him. It gives him pleasure to see Castiel like that; so weak, so vulnerable and so fucking pathetic. A part of Dean often wonders if Castiel likes it. Does the Angel like being thrown around the place like a ragdoll, completely helpless to the casual abuse hurled at him whenever the fuck Dean feels like it. Does Castiel like waking up with a black eye and a busted, swollen lip? Does he like waking up to find bruises in the shape of Dean’s hands and fingernail-shaped cuts on his thighs and his hips from a night of borderline painful fucking? Does he like to watch Dean’s teeth sink into his inner thigh so hard that a faint trickle of blood runs down his leg afterwards? The sane part of Dean hopes he hates it; hopes that Castiel hates Dean for it and that someday, when he grows some sense, he’ll take what little things he owns and run for the hills. Yet, there’s just something about seeing the newly-turned-human ‘Angel’ cry. His electrifying, bright blue eyes welled up with tears that ran down his porcelain cheeks, staining the collar of his white shirt a light grey. His crying couldn’t compare to a Renaissance painting, so Dean thought. There was something cinematic in the way Castiel cried. Not for mercy, or out of pain. He just did it. Dean likes to think that he does it because Castiel knows how attractive it is to him. Dean wants to shove him, kick him around some more treat him like filth and call him pathetic, but he also wants to run his tongue along Castiel’s face; his eyelids, waterline, his cheeks as he licks up all of the salty tears as they stream from his pretty, sad eyes. After playing around with Castiel, Dean liked to do one of two things: he would either leave him on the floor after using him any way he desired or when he was feeling generous, he liked to run his fingers through Castiel’s raven hair, kissing and licking along the cuts and bruises he had given him prior as he fucked into the ‘Angel’ slow and sweet.

Today is no different, Dean is mad —he always is nowadays— and Castiel is sitting in the map room, the faint bruise of the rope that Dean had used during a session of what he deemed ‘erotic asphyxiation’ from two nights ago still lingers around his neck. This is the primary thing Dean has loved since Castiel became human. He couldn’t heal after a nasty injury, now he’s left with scabs, scars and open wounds for days. (Sometimes Dean liked to run his fingers over the cuts and scars —made by him— when he would have Castiel lay on his chest at night. Other times, he sometimes dug his blunt fingernails into the scars, watching the frail skin give way, breaking easily at the pressure. But Castiel never complained. He never spoke a word. Was he scared? Was sometimes a thought that Dean had, lying in bed with Castiel, who would give a slight twitch or jerk whenever Dean ran his fingers along his bare skin.) Dean walks into the map room and places his beer down on the table with a thud, which brings Castiel back to the present. He closes the book and looks over his shoulder, seeing a small smirk playing on the hunter’s lips and from one look alone, he knows what he’s in for.

“Hello, Dean,” he says calmly because he figured that’s the best way around it. If Castiel is calm and relaxed, perhaps Dean will go easier on him, seeing as there’s no reason to want to scare him. Dean runs a firm hand up Castiel’s back, coming to rest on his shoulder, the shoulder he had bitten into so hard the other night he will probably forever have a scar. Dean squeezes his shoulder, making Castiel wince involuntarily. When he takes his hand away, he pulls out a chair next to Castiel and sits. He looks at Castiel and speaks.

“Why do you never fight back?” His voice is gruff, unkind. Castiel jolts his head to the side to face the man, his eyes widening slightly in surprise having not expected such a question. Dean repeats the question in the same low, curt tone and Castiel answers the only way he can. If he’s being honest, he hadn’t prepared for such a question, seeing as Dean had never asked it before, he presumed that he never would. “I don’t know,” he says. Dean’s lips curve upward into a wicked smirk, and he lets out a soft scoff, drumming his fingers against the wooden table in an unrhythmic pattern. He shakes his head a little and lets out a small sigh. “Bullshit,” he states and Castiel’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Why do you do it, Cas? Why do you let me fuck you around like a piece of fuckin’ trash? You never fight back, you never ever say ‘stop’ or ‘no’ or beg for mercy,” Dean says, his tone suddenly rougher, Castiel can tell he’s growing angrier by the second. Anybody could if they heard him. He swallows, unsure of what to say. “Why, Cas? What kind of stupid, fucking idiot just takes it? Do you like it or something? Does it get you off to have me hurt you? Are you just as messed up as me?”

Castiel swallows again, speaking calmly, “Dean, you are not messed up, you can’t help how you feel, it’s the Mark of Cain that’s causing you to lash out with such vigour, you-” Dean slams his hand on the table, the vibrations echoing through the room. He stands, his eyes shallow and cruel. “Shut the fuck up Castiel and answer the question. Why don’t you fucking fight back,” he says, taking his time with each word, enunciating each syllable as he speaks through gritted teeth, towering over Castiel, who is still sitting calmly. Dean leans in, his face inches away from Castiel’s. “Answer me!” He’s yelling now, his voice a low, yet loud roar. Castiel stands, “because I don’t want to,” he says, which makes Dean furrow his eyebrows and bark out a scoff, gripping Castiel by the collar of that stupid tan trench coat of his, pulling him closer. “I- I want it. I’d much prefer for you to take all of your anger out on me, and not Sam or some other innocent being,” Castiel explains honestly, and it’s the most honest he’s ever been in a long time. Dean, slightly surprised by Castiel’s honesty, lets him go, yet doesn’t let the distance between them grow. “You’re crazy,” Dean says. “I may be crazy, Dean, but I can’t help it,” Castiel says honestly, his voice slightly shaky, but he tries to hide it as best he can. “Because I know that you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself if- if you hurt Sam the way you hurt me, and- and I can’t have you more upset than you already are.” Dean crosses his arms over his chest, and scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. He runs a hand over the five o’clock shadow on his jaw, “so what? You just let yourself be beaten up and fucked around like that just because you don’t want me to hurt Sam. Sam can handle more than you think, don’t try to protect him, or my feelings. You don’t know me the way Sam does, Castiel. What you’ve just said means nothing to me it makes me think even less of you. You’re stupid, Castiel, and an absolute idiot.” Castiel doesn’t disagree, he just nods. “I know, Dean. I just- It feels right, after all I’ve done, I’ve made so many mistakes that can’t be reversed,” Castiel says, Dean wants to question him, but not yet, he wants to hear him out first before he ridicules him. “And… call me crazy. Call me whatever you want, but it just feels right.” Dean scoffs at the Angel’s words. “You’re pathetic, Cas,” he grumbles. Castiel hangs his head, he knows, it’s not like he’s never been told. Dean watches as Castiel hangs his head in shame and reaches out to grip his chin, lifting his head back up. Castiel’s eyes are already shimmering up with unshed tears, which brings a disgusting, yet pleasurable smirk to Dean’s lips. “Cry,” he says, his breath ghosting over Castiel’s ear. “Cry for me Cas. C’mon, let me see those pretty tears.” It’s sick, the sane part still left in Dean knows it is, but just like Castiel’s need to be hurt, it just feels right. Castiel shakes his head and goes to wipe his eyes, but Dean stops him, grabbing Castiel’s wrist, and holding it tightly. “Don’t do that. Cry for me, baby. Or do you need me to help you?” He asks with a small, wicked grin. “I’m not in a very good mood today, as you know. Damn stupid vampires got away. The fuckers,” he says bitterly. “I gotta lot of pent-up frustration, baby, and well if I’m being honest with ya… Sam was the one who fucked up the hunt in the first place.” He hadn’t, they both had but Dean knew all too well how to warp Castiel’s words to suit himself, to manipulate the Angel. Castiel tenses and Dean can visibly see the man clench his jaw and his breathing come to a halt at the implication. Dean takes Castiel’s silence as a sign to speak again, the same small, yet crooked grin still plastered on his lips. “I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes’,” he says, and grabs Castiel by the trench coat again with both of his hands. “I ask you a fucking question and you make it all about yourself,” he just about growls into Castiel’s ear. “With your ‘I’ve made so many mistakes. Oh, woe is me, feel bad for me’ crap. I didn’t ask you if you deserved it. I asked why you don’t fight back, but of course, I highly doubt you’re going to answer me right now, look at you,” he says and releases his hold on Castiel’s clothes to take a step back, looking the man up and down in a predatory style, like Castiel is nothing but a piece of meat— a damn juicy piece of meat if Dean says so himself— and Dean is the lion. “You gonna cry for me?” He questions again. “Soak those pretty cheeks? Maybe if you do a good enough job I’ll fuck your mouth, would you like that baby? I’ll make you choke on my cock?” Dean practically coos at Castiel shoves him down onto the wooden chair again, and kneels on the floor before him, looking up at him with newly turned black, empty eyes. “I know you would,” he says, his voice suddenly dropping to a lower, harsher tone almost impossibly so. “Your mouth is heaven. Imagine how good you’d look with tears streaming down your pretty face while I fuck your mouth.” Castiel clenches his jaw, attempting to keep his breathing somewhat steady. “You’re perverted, Dean,” he mutters. Dean raises an eyebrow, slightly surprised by Castiel’s sudden burst of courage but he doesn’t get the chance to butt in, because Castiel is speaking again, “Are you trying to get me to break? Break me down bit by bit just to build me back up again? Lick my wounds like an animal and call it a night?” Castiel’s eyes are still watery, and by the looks of it, he’s just about to break. Dean gently cups Castiel’s jaw, his eyes a deep green once again, and he looks right at the other, both sets of eyes locked on each other. “When you put it like that,” Dean says in a low, husky breath that makes Castiel visibly shiver. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do. But you’re tough, Cas. Damnit you’re a warrior that’s for sure, you ain’t gonna break that easily, huh?” Castiel tries to look away and break free from Dean’s hold, but he doesn’t let him. Seeing those deep green eyes on the hunter makes it even more difficult for Castiel to hold in the tears that are threatening to flow at any second now because this is Dean. Not whatever the hell is possessing him. It’s him, Castiel knows it. He’s fought and been around enough demons by now to differentiate demons from humans. It’s only temporary, though and the demon within the hunter will resurface just as quickly as it left, but Castiel knows from both observation and first-hand experience that Dean, during a situation like this, will—and this has happened—realise what he has done, pull Castiel into an embrace until the demon shines forth, pushing Castiel to the ground. He’s used to it. It took a while and a lot of trained dissociation, but now Castiel can comfortably watch Dean switch back and forth between his normal and demon self.

Castiel doesn’t even realise it now, but he’s crying. Hot, salty tears run down his cheeks in such a way that makes Dean smirk, and Castiel catches a glimpse of Dean palming his crotch through his jeans. Disgusting. Perverted. Castiel is quick to wipe his eyes, which displeases Dean greatly, but this is granted. Dean lets out a ‘tsk’ sound and shakes his head disapprovingly at Castiel’s actions which is shortly followed by an eerily tender ‘no, baby’. It’s still Dean speaking, Castiel can hear it, so, he can’t hold back any more than he already has. He cries into his hands, half expecting Dean to have yanked his hands away so he could see, but he doesn’t, Castiel can just about see Dean—through the gaps between his fingers—continuing to palm the outside of his jeans, getting off to the soft sobs from the Angel-now-human.

Perhaps it’s both the fact that Castiel has lost all of his Angelic abilities and is now a vulnerable, shell of the powerful being he once was combined with Dean's new, sadistic power that makes their relationship so much more attractive to Dean. Castiel once was a powerful Angel and Dean a mere mortal, but now Dean has all the power, he can warp the Angel however he desires and he knows that Castiel will do nothing but sit there and take it. Castiel continues to sob quietly into his hands, unable to stop, even if he tried. He doesn’t mind crying in front of Dean, but not like this. Not when Dean is watching him like prey touching himself to Castiel’s misery.

“Dean, please,” Castiel suddenly says, sinking off of the chair, onto his knees. Once Castiel’s knees hit the floor Dean practically jumps into a standing position. He looks down at Castiel, trying to see him, and makes some sort of eye contact with his lover but Castiel won’t look at him. “’Please’. Please what?” Dean asks. His tone is soft, oh so gentle that Castiel wants to scream and thrash around the place like a madman. Dean doesn’t get a reply out of Castiel, so (not so) reasonably, he grabs a fistful of Castiel’s dark locks, pulling his head up so he can see his debauched state with his red eyes, wet cheeks and quivering lip. “You want me?” Dean asks, looking down at the man, he instinctively reaches for his belt buckle, but Castiel stops him. “No,” he says, and Dean raises an eyebrow, “no?” “No,” Castiel says again, but what he says next almost has Dean shooting his load into his jeans like a teenager. His small smirk turns to a wicked grin and he grips Castiel’s hair tighter, tugging him up, so they can be face to face.

“You sure Angel?” He asks, and Castiel nods. It’s not like he wants it anymore, if anything he needs it. He has no idea how his sudden craving came about, but all he knows is that he needs it. He needs to be hurt.

Dean doesn’t go gentle either, no teasing slaps or rough bites, just straight to the face, Dean’s fist comes into contact with Castiel’s jaw which sends him falling onto the floor, his bones too weak to try to stand his ground. Dean yanks him back up by the coat and slams him into the nearest wall. “Beg for it,” Dean says digging his fingernails into Castiel’s arm. “Please,” Castiel whispers. “Hurt me.” Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, because, without a warning, Castiel is been thrown onto the floor, Dean straddling his legs as Castiel’s face is littered with punches and slaps before Dean stands up again, his boot digging into Castiel’s side as he lets Dean kick him around like a doll. Castiel’s jaw is aching, his nose is streaming so much blood he wonders if it’s broken, his side hurts so bad he wonders if Dean broke a rib and his lip is busted; swollen and cut. There’s blood in his mouth too, but no missing teeth he notices as he runs his tongue along his teeth. “Look at you baby,” Dean says, yanking Castiel up by the collar of his coat again which is now stained crimson. Castiel feels sick like he’s about to throw up. He doubles over in pain and holds onto the table to prevent himself from falling. Dean grabs a fistful of his hair again, pulls him off and shoves him onto his knees. “You’re fine,” he tells him. “Is that what you wanted, Cas? You wanted to feel all busted and broken again? Do you like it, baby? Do you ever touch yourself when you think of it?” Dean teases and Castiel can’t do anything. He feels numb and dizzy. Dean swipes his tongue along Castiel’s lip, making him wince, as he gathers the blood from his cut. He watches as Castiel idly sways back and forth on his knees, looking up at Dean, half dissociated. Dean brings his thumb to his lips and licks up the blood, which makes Castiel grimace, and gag. His eyes are still watering, silent tears trickling down his cheeks. Dean kneels too, face to face with the Angel again, and brings his hands up to cradle his face, Castiel is on the verge of passing out, his eyes flutter closed now and then, and he can’t keep his balance. Dean wipes a couple of tears away from his face with his thumbs which has Castiel leaning in, closer. Dean accepts it. Castiel is still crying, but Dean doesn’t think that Castiel even knows it. The tears are falling softly, coating his cheeks in the salty tears. Dean is sure his face is going to be raw the next morning. He leans in, planting a soft kiss on Castiel’s’ forehead and then, his tongue is licking up his tears, idly lapping over his cheeks. Castiel doesn’t react anymore, so Dean scoops him up into his arms, carries him to his bedroom and lays him down on his bed. He slides his trench coat off of his shoulders and down his arms, leaving it on a chair next to his bed. He then takes off Castiel’s suit jacket, places it on the same chair and opens up a couple of buttons of his shirt, loosening the tie around his neck.

Dean leaves the room and comes back with a damp, cold washcloth, wipes the blood from his face and throws the cloth onto the floor next to them. He traces the bruise around Castiel’s neck with his fingertips and runs his fingers lightly over his clothed torso and back up to his neck. His touch hasn’t been this delicate in a long time. Not before he got possessed by that demon anyway. He knows he’s doing something right for once because Castiel doesn’t jerk or shiver under his feather-light touch. He’s still knocked out, but Dean isn’t going to take advantage of that. He can be cruel, but not evil. He continues to trace over the marks and bruises on Castiel’s neck, face and jaw, all where Dean had either punched, bitten or scratched. When he wakes up Dean wants to fuck him. Not hard or rough, but rather slowly and sweetly. He wants to show Castiel just how much he cares, even if afterwards he’s more than likely going to hurt Castiel all over again. He sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for his Angel to wake up. Gently touching him, trailing his fingertips any parts of exposed skin he can find. He turns off the main light, the only light in the room left is the soft, warm glow from the bedside lamp. At one point, Dean takes Castiel’s hand in his own.

When Castiel wakes up he shoots up, breathing heavily and coughing, Dean is quick to react, taking hold of his shoulders and gently giving him a small shake. “Cas?” He says, looking at the man. “Dean,” Castiel says, his voice is low and gravelly, normal. A wave of relief washes over Dean when Castiel speaks, knowing that he’s alert and awake. Castiel looks around momentarily and sees his coat and jacket lying discarded on the chair next to them. His face isn’t dry or sticky with blood, he looks down and sees the bloody washcloth on the floor. Dean cleaned him up. He helped him; he cares. Castiel looks back at Dean, his eyebrows furrowed slightly, almost in confusion. Confused as to why Dean didn’t leave him passed out on the floor in the map room to bleed and stain the wooden floorboards. “It’s okay,” Dean assures. “You’re okay, Cas.” Castiel reaches up to touch his lip, then his nose. He winces at the pain. A small smile spreads across Dean’s face at that and he reaches up to cup the man’s face in his hands. “I busted you up pretty bad, huh?” He says, with a soft chuckle. “Yeah,” Castiel murmurs, nodding a little in agreement. “Maybe I shouldn’t be shoving your face into the mattress for a few days,” Dean says with another soft chuckle. Castiel nods in agreement.

Dean wipes his thumb across Castiel’s cheek. “What are you doing?” He asks, he’s tired, his voice is gravely, or maybe, he’s just weary. Weary of everything at this point. “You’re crying again,” Dean states and Castiel brings a slightly trembling hand up and swipes a finger under his eyes. Wet. He’s crying again. He didn’t even know he was, but apparently, he is. “Oh,” he says, “I didn’t- I didn’t know.” “Why are you crying again?” Dean asks. Castiel doesn’t know. “I- I don’t know.” Dean sighs and momentarily shuts his eyes closed, before opening them and looking directly at Castiel. “You do know why, Cas, you’re just not telling me.”

Castiel sighs again, there are so many reasons as to why he’s upset again, but the problem is that he cannot pinpoint just one. It’s like every single one of his thoughts is netted together in a continuous spider web in his mind.

“I love you, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, and Dean can’t even smirk at that, he just sits there silently. “But,” Castiel says, and Dean’s breath hitches in his chest. “I don’t think you love me.” Castiel couldn’t be more wrong. Dean almost wants to slap him for thinking such a thing. “Why do you say that?” Dean asks, trying to keep cool about the whole situation even though his fists are clenched tightly, his blunt fingernails digging into the calloused flesh of his palms. “I- Dean, you- I’ve tried to convince myself so many times that you care about me, and I try so hard to try and convince myself that- that you don’t mean what you do.” His voice is breaking, and the hot tears begin to stream again. Dean can feel himself perk up a little at the sight in front of him, usually, this would be a positive, but right now, the last thing he wants is to pop a boner, not when Castiel is genuinely upset. “I don’t know why you still want me,” he says and swipes the back of his hands quickly over his eyes. Dean looks at him and lets out a soft sigh. “C’mon baby, you know I love you,” he says, running a hand through Castiel’s hair. “I hate what that mark did to you, I wish- I wish I could have stopped you,” Castiel mutters. “Shh, shh, I know,” Dean soothes, taking a seat on the bed, and scoops the man up onto his lap. “You say that now, baby, but only a while ago you were begging me to hit you,” Dean says softly, his fingers tightening their grip in Castiel’s hair, and forces his heap up a little, so he can see Castiel’s wet, glassy eyes. “And that’s very confusing for me, Cas,” Dean goes on to say, “I don’t know if you want to be cuddled and kissed or bruised and hurt, because you’re not very good at communicating that with me sweetheart.” Dean swipes his thumb across Castiel’s cheek, ridding his face of the tears. “If you keep crying Cas you’re gonna make your face all red and raw,” he says, “and your poor eyes are going to be all red and puffy, just like your lip,” he says, and leans down, pressing a gentle, chaste kiss to Castiel’s damaged lip, and darts his tongue out, swiping along the cut. Castiel can’t believe this. He wishes he had the willpower to pull himself away from Dean and leave, but he can’t. He can’t physically move from Dean’s lap, not when he’s so comfortable, allowing Castiel to sit in his lap like a kitten as he runs his fingers through his hair, speaking in that low, soothing voice he loves oh so much. “I don’t know why I do this to myself,” Castiel mutters quietly, laying his head on Dean’s chest, his cheek brushing against his grey Henley. Dean hums, and momentarily stops running his fingers through Castiel’s locks, “what’s that, sweetheart?” Castiel shakes his head and gives a small shrug, “This. I don’t know why I keep allowing myself to run back to you every time. After you beat me up and shove me around like a doll, I always seem to find myself crawling back to you, Dean. Every time you put your arms out to me I always do the same thing every time, I always let you hold me, comfort me, love me.” Dean hums again, and resumes his previous action, “And why do you say that baby? Do you not believe you deserve to be loved and held?” He asks quietly. Castiel huffs a little, Dean is obviously playing coy, manipulating Castiel’s words to suit himself, trying to turn his words back on him. “No, Dean,” he mutters, and pulls away, but Dean just grabs him and pulls him back onto his lap again, his grip tightening around his waist as he holds him close to him. “I don’t know why I do it because you are the one who hurts me, I don’t know why I keep seeking comfort in you, I should be hating you, screaming at you and hurting you the way you hurt me, but I don’t. I can’t. I can’t seem to hate you, I can’t seem to not want it,” Castiel says, and crosses his arms, sighing and then he feels a sharp pain go through him, and his head is forced up to look at Dean. “It’s just how you are, Cas,” Dean assures, his voice less soft, and slightly exasperated. His fingers rake through Castiel’s hair again, softly massaging his scalp where he had tugged his hair. “It’s difficult, you used to be a powerful Angel of the Lord and now look at you: reduced to a mere mortal,” he explains. It isn’t the case, but Castiel believes him, because Dean is right, without his powers, he is nothing. He is the lowest of the low, without a single dollar to his name, and no real purpose on Earth now that he’s stripped of his grace; useless. Perhaps that’s why Castiel always goes back to Dean because Dean is the only person he knows enough to trust. He knows things, he knows more than Castiel about the way of life and how humans work. His fellow Angels in Heaven probably don’t even realise he’s gone, and they probably don’t give a fuck either. Castiel is quiet, and Dean lets him rest his head against his chest, his fingers continuing to card through his hair. “Hmm?” Dean hums softly, “Isn’t that right, Angel? You don’t know anything about humans, all you have is me? You wouldn’t know how to cope without me, you wouldn’t know a thing, you’d go out onto the streets and get yourself killed, huh, baby, isn’t that right? No more powers, no more grace, nothing, no way of communicating to your little friends upstairs.” Castiel sighs again and lets out a pitiful whine that makes Dean’s dick twitch in his jeans. “Yes, that’s right, isn’t it? You would be helpless without me Angel and you know it. I’m sorry you feel this way, sweetheart, but being human with human emotions does that to you,” Dean continues to coo at the Angel, and places a few kisses on his head and temple as he speaks, his voice a low rumble in Cas’ ear. “But you’ll be okay, as long as you have me, because you know that, Cas, I’m all you have. I’m the only one who can make you feel good, who can give you pleasure that would make God roll in his grave, I can give you anything your heart desires, baby. You do the right thing, Cas,” he says, “you always come back to me, always coming back to your safe space, hmm? Yes, you do, you feel bad about it, but you know that’s where you belong, isn’t it?”

Castiel can only whine softly, unable to speak, unable to find a single word. Dean notices this, of course, and continues to whisper meaningless nothings to Castiel, his other hand beginning to trail down his chest, along the bare skin visible from his half-opened shirt, then down his sides, then his back, rubbing soothing circles down his back, and stopping, his hand resting on Castiel’s lower back, tracing idle shapes through the poor-quality cotton. Then, Dean’s hand begins to travel further down south, running over the curve of his ass, down his thighs, then back up to his ass, his hand resting there. Castiel knows that Dean is trying to be subtle, trying to ease Castiel back to him, just to get what he wants, and the unfortunate result is that Castiel always, and probably will always go back to him every time. He’s been hit with the opportunity to leave Dean, to live a life outside of the Bunker, but on top of Dean’s over-the-top jealousy and over-possessive attitude towards the matter, Castiel chooses not to. How could he? He didn’t know anything, Dean was right, he couldn’t leave the only thing he knew, and besides and other woman or man who had thrown themselves at him wasn’t Dean. None of those people were Dean.

Castiel isn’t in the mood right now, not that he ever is anymore, he goes to shift a little, subtly moving out of Dean’s hold without pushing his hand away, but he doesn’t. “Dean,” he mutters softly. Dean looks down at him, humming. Castiel opens his mouth a little to speak, but he shakes his head, muttering a quiet “never mind” and retreats into silence. From the corner of his eye, he can make out a faint smirk on Dean’s lips, and he feels his hand rub and grab his ass. “You’ve had a long day,” Dean states, his hand still gripping and squeezing his ass. “Are you tired, Castiel?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. Castiel shakes his head, “No.”

“Good,” Dean says, removes Castiel from his lap, and lets him sit on the bed by himself.

“Neither am I,” he says, and stands up, reaching for the buckle of his belt, and undoing it with one hand, all while watching Castiel with a predatory glimmer in his eyes. Once stripped of his jeans, now thrown on the floor on the other side of his bedroom, Dean grabs the hem of his henley, and pulls it over his head, tossing it on the floor. Castiel has always admired his body; his strong physique, his strong arms, sculpted chest, strong thighs, long legs and the anti-possession symbol on his chest, under his collarbone, which Castiel has traced over many times before. He could draw it in his sleep by now. Crawling back onto the bed, Dean crawls over Castiel, a small smirk on his lips. He begins to unbutton the plastic buttons on Castiel’s shirt, and flings it onto the floor, now that he has the Angel shirtless, he leans down, so he’s lying on top of him, and begins to trail a line of feather-light kisses along Castiel’s collar bone, down his chest, along the soft lines of his abdomen, now to his navel, where his tongue darts out, tracing along Castiel’s navel, then down to his hips, where he nips and suck at the skin, then bites. Castiel gasps, then feels a set of strong hands on his hips, holding him down. Dean is hushing him, cooing at him, then kissing and sucking at his skin again, where he knows a beautiful dark love bite will blossom overnight. He nips and kisses his way down to Castiel’s pelvic bone, where he sucks at the skin there too. One hand comes down to squeeze Castiel’s thigh, and the other on his hip, keeping him still as he continues to plant kisses all over his skin. Castiel keeps his head back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, trying to control his breathing as Dean undoes and removes his trousers. Suddenly, his back is arching off the bed and his eyes are being squeezed shut as Dean’s hot, wet mouth sucks at his hardening dick through the thin fabric of his boxers. Dean chuckles to himself at Castiel’s reaction, hooks a finger in the waistband of Castiel’s boxers, pulls them down his hips, down his thighs and throws them onto the floor. Castiel is hard, but not hard enough for Dean, he wraps his lips around the tip, gently swirling his tongue and giving a few soft sucks here and there, knowing how to tease Castiel, knowing how to make him last. It had taken many attempts before, but now, Castiel can finally wait, he can finally hold it in. Dean runs his tongue expertly along his angel’s dick, and down to his balls, gently massaging them with his free hand, he knows when Castiel is about to come; he jerks ever so slightly, almost like a small spasm, and his breathing becomes laboured and heavy and he (sometimes) lets out a soft string of whimpers or whines, but not tonight. Dean stops his ministrations and chuckles again to himself when he hears the soft whine escaping his lover’s lips. “Shh, shh, I got you, baby,” he whispers softly and runs a soothing hand up Castiel’s hip, which makes Castiel jerk. “Stop that,” Dean commands, and lands a firm swat against Cas’ hip. “Don’t make me tie you down, Castiel.”

Dean trails a couple of soft kisses down Castiel’s inner thighs, nipping and sucking at the skin, but not biting, not right now, anyway. Dean licks his way back up the Angel’s thighs, grabs his hips, flips him around onto his stomach, and holds his hands behind his back, “stay like that,” he says, his voice is deep, commanding, not to be messed with, Castiel thinks. Dean adjusts Castiel’s limp body into position, his knees on the bed, his hips angled upward and his ass on display. Dean quickly shimmies out of his boxers, tossed them on the floor and lands a firm slap to Castiel’s ass. Castiel gasps at that, and Dean runs a soft hand over the part he had just slapped. Dean adjusts himself, kneeling on the bed, and suddenly Castiel’s breath catches in his throat, and he lets out a pitiful sound. Dean scoffs a little at that, his lips kissing along the soft, plush muscle and up his tailbone, his tongue dipping into the small dimples of either side of Castiel’s back, just over his beautiful ass, that Dean cannot wait to get inside of. Castiel is beautiful, Dean knows he is, he’s mesmerising, so fucking hot. Nice body: toned, but not skinny, cute, but not feminine, and a perfectly sculpted ass that looked particularly good covered in Dean’s handprints, (if he does say so himself.) He could spend hours just worshipping Castiel’s body, not fucking him or sucking him off to completion, just admiring, kissing and biting now and then. Though, that’s not what Dean really wants right now. They have time for all that other stuff, right now, he just wants to fuck. He runs his tongue along Castiel’s lower back, down, down and along the cleft of his ass, before spreading him open with his hands, nuzzling and kissing his skin, before licking a long, firm line up from his perineum to his hole, which makes Castiel emit a soft, shaky breath. Dean loves doing this, he really does. He could eat his boy out for hours. He loves every single noise that comes out of Castiel’s sweet-for-nothing (except for blowjobs) mouth. He loves when he squirms and practically shakes on the bed when he fucks into his tight channel with only his tongue, he loves when he can make Castiel come from such an action alone. He doesn’t even need to be fucked properly, or sucked, even, sometimes Dean’s expert tongue-fucking works to bring Castiel to completion just as any normal kind of fucking would. Dean feels Castiel push his hips back against him, but he doesn’t give out to him for that, he knows it’s not Castiel’s fault. Usually, whenever Dean and Castiel got intimate like this, Castiel’s body would go on some kind of autopilot, and half the time he didn’t even realise half the things he was doing, but other than that, Dean liked it too. It’s hot, attractive, knowing that Castiel enjoys this just as much as Dean does, so much so that he’s subconsciously seeking more. Always more. Dean slaps a hand down onto his ass, and shoves his tongue in further, but Castiel doesn’t jerk at the slap, because it’s not that kind of hit. He knows, by now, what kind of hit is what, and what it means.

He lets out a soft, almost inaudible mewl, but Dean hears it, he hears everything. Once Dean has Castiel wet enough, he rips open his bedside drawer, not caring what flies out of it, or how many stray bullets are rolling around the bottom of the drawer, he grabs the bottle of (almost) empty lube and makes a mental note to buy some more, just because Castiel used to be able to heal himself in a matter of seconds doesn’t mean that Dean can’t get friction burn, also, Cas is human now, he needs the help just as much as Dean does. Dean pours a small bit on his fingertips and places a couple of idle kisses along Castiel’s lower back and down his thighs before prodding his slick, forefinger against his Angel. Castiel lets out a sharp hiss but subconsciously arches his back, burying his face in the pillow. He hears a low rumble of a chuckle escape the man’s lips, and Dean pushes his finger in all the way, lapping around Cas’ opening as he quickly slides in another finger, making Castiel whine softly, and gasp at the feeling. No matter how many times they did this, Castiel’s reaction was always different, but never bored, Dean knew Cas’ body inside and out, yet each time he managed to find a new spot, or a new rhythm or a new quirk of his fingers that made Castiel keen, begging to be filled. Dean slips in a third finger, the Angel’s tight heat enveloping his fingers and all but one of his senses; lust, he stretches and scissors the Angel open, opening him, prepping him, and perhaps, for more than just Dean’s cock. Dean knows Castiel can take it, he’s done it before, but now, being human, Castiel has a lower pain tolerance; he has a pain tolerance now. Unlike the celestial being he once was, Castiel can feel every stretch and burn; pleasant and un. Dean cares, to a certain extent, this was a new experience for Castiel, so at first, he took his time, and showed him the art of lovemaking, but now, a few months into it—maybe the mark had an effect on his bed-game, or maybe it didn’t—he can pound into Castiel like a bitch in heat, fill him up with come and go back to whatever he had been doing previously.

He knows that aftercare is an important part of post-coitus, to some, that is. Dean was never big on it, sure, he made sure they weren’t dead or passed out. Perhaps that had something to do with his inability to express emotion. He could go at it all day, but cuddling was never his thing, because that involved him not doing anything, which mean that Dean had time to think, and thinking was the last thing Dean had ever wanted to do much of, and besides, it’s not like his hookups ever cared, they would just fuck and go, no aftercare required, no aftercare wanted from either party. Other than that, being with Castiel was no different. At first, Dean would hold Castiel afterwards, clean him up and wrap him in his arms, but Dean could count the number of times he had down it on one hand, and even then, he would not need to use all fingers, because Castiel was always fine, and really, once you go long enough without something, you forget you even had it in the first place. Castiel doesn’t even think about it afterwards, he just cleans himself up, puts on a fresh pair of clothes, and goes about his day, he goes around with a limp for a day or two, but hey, that’s hardly Dean’s problem.

“Are you ready for more, Cas?” Dean questions, a smirk playing on his lips. Castiel nods, which earns him a smack on the ass, “yes,” Castiel corrects himself. Dean hums in agreement, removes his slick fingers, and grabs the lube, lathering his cock in the viscous liquid, pumping his dick a few times before aligning himself with Castiel. He pushes inside of him in one swift motion, one hand on his hip, keeping him in place, and the other trailing up and down his back, his fingertips tracing over every curve, dip and scar he could feel. “Fuck,” Dean swears, picking up his pace, his thrusts becoming relentless and harder, leaving Castiel a whimpering mess under him. Dean grabs Cas’ shoulder, pulling him so that his back is pressed against Dean’s front. Dean snakes a hand around Castiel’s waist, down, and grabs his dick, giving it a few quick jerks before stopping to cup his jaw and turn his head, kissing him. It’s wet, sloppy and everything Dean fucking loves. If Dean hadn’t been having sex practically all his life, he probably would have come in less than five minutes, feeling the Angel’s heat envelope his dick was never not wonderful, Dean doesn’t know how he does it, but each time, Castiel is so, fucking tight, virgin tight, and Dean never admits it, but a couple of times he had almost came within the first minute of being inside Castiel. Hot, tight and perfect. It’s even better upon climax when Cas would clench around Dean, the extra tightness of Cas never ceases to make him blow his load, all inside Cas, making sure not to let a single drop spill out.

Castiel is whining, moaning and gasping with every thrust of Dean’s hips. He grabs a fistful of Castiel’s hair and pushes him down onto his stomach again, then grabs his hips firmly, and slams into him, hard, before pulling out almost all the way, just to slam back into the Angel, over and over and over again. Castiel looks absolutely beautiful like this, better than any pornstar Dean has ever seen, in his opinion. The way Castiel’s back is arched like a damn cat, his tanned, smooth back glistening with sweat, his hair ruffled and his hips up in the air, letting Dean take whatever he wants, however he wants it. And the sounds he makes could send Dean to Heaven and back, such a deep, gravelly voice now needy and whiny, all for Dean, and Dean can never get enough of it. Castiel can be damn vocal too, so much so that Dean had had to kick Sam out for a few hours just so he could hear Castiel scream his name without hesitation. The only sound in Dean’s bedroom is the sound of skin against skin, Castiel’s needy whines and moans and Dean’s occasional moans or grunts of pleasure and Dean couldn’t have it any other way. Is this what Heaven feels like? The ability to find himself lost in the sensations coursing through him, with no other thought other than how fucking amazing Castiel feels while fucking into him. Dean runs a hand along Castiel’s back again, and reaches a hand under him, traveling up his chest to tweak at his nipples, which causes the man to moan, because Dean is just a fabulous boyfriend like that. He knows all of Castiel’s most sensitive spots, his most tender and reactive places, inside and out.

Dean leans down, sinking his teeth into Castiel’s shoulder, spilling into him, Castiel buries his face in the pillow and screams when Dean’s teeth sink into his skin, (maybe tearing through the skin, maybe not) which seems to be the catalyst for his own orgasm that had been bubbling inside of him for the past while. Castiel flops onto the bed, his stomach now covered in his own release, which had been emptied out onto the sheets below him. Dean follows moments after, flopping on top of Castiel, his chest pressed flush against Castiel’s back.

They lay like that for a couple of moments, just reeling in the post-sex feeling, before Dean gets up off of Cas, and stands up, but not before running a finger along the cleft of the Angel’s ass and idly runs the pad of his finger over his wet, fucked-out hole and slides a finger in without resistance, pushing any come back into him that may have leaked out. Dean grabs a pair of pyjama pants from the dresser and pulls them on before leaving the bedroom to shower. Castiel makes no sign of moving, or speaking, he just lays there, breathing softly, still on his stomach. “Cas?” Dean says, raising an eyebrow at Castiel’s behaviour. Castiel hums and looks up at Dean through weary eyes. Dean would have asked if he was okay, but he didn’t. It’s unlike Castiel, he’s usually the first one up, getting dressed and going about his business, acting as if they weren’t even dating. It’s the comedown, he knows it is. He watches Castiel for a moment, he watches Castiel make no attempt to move from Dean’s bed, instead, he grabs the covers and wraps himself up, he’s still awake, though, Dean can see his eyes open. In an ideal world, Dean would have climbed in next to him, held him close to him, kissed him and whispered endless amounts of praise; telling him how good he was, how much he loved him, and whatever else couples said after sex. He doesn’t, though, instead, he pushes his door open and closes it softly behind him. He knows that there’s something going on with Castiel, he’s never this quiet, he’s never that static afterwards. He can’t just leave, so he opens the door again, and asks, “Are you going to get up?” Castiel shakes his head, no, so Dean leaves again. He’s still in the same position, curled up in a ball in Dean’s bed, it’s honestly quite endearing, which would have made Dean smile.

Castiel isn’t quite sure what’s going on with him either, usually, he would bounce back almost immediately after sex, but he can’t seem to get up, he can’t bring himself to get out of bed, or to move, for that matter. Sometimes he wished that Dean held him after sex, sometimes he wished they could live their lives normally, he wouldn’t care how sappy he is, or how overly romantic it is, not what he’s with Dean. Is it so bad to want to be loved? He subconsciously takes a deep breath, inhaling Dean’s scent from the blanket, he buries himself further in Dean’s bed, pulling the blanket up around his nose, as he lays on his side in a foetal position. It’s cold, he’s cold. The blanket isn’t enough. He’s uncomfortable too, he can actively feel some of Dean’s release run down his thigh, pooling on the sheets under him. It’s wet and cold. Since becoming human, he has endured so much, so many new sensations. New tastes, feelings; both emotional and physical. He hates it, why the fuck would anybody want to feel? Is it not so much easier to not feel at all? To live an ordinary life without the active feeling of isolation and somewhat desperation? Or perhaps, that’s not a particularly normal emotion to feel every day, neither is it normal to want to have your boyfriend beat the living daylight out of you just to scoop you up in his arms like a child then fuck you like an animal. Maybe Castiel is the weird one here, perhaps all humans display their anger in violent mannerisms like Dean, perhaps they all act out and in reality, Castiel is the weird one, the freak for liking it—for needing it. It’s not that he likes it, actually, it’s completely contrary, Castiel fucking hates it, but Dean is his safe haven, he has nowhere else to go, Dean is the only one he has, which isn’t ideal, of course, since Dean is simultaneously his safe place and his abuser. He’s tried so hard, he’s tried to act like it doesn’t matter to him, like it doesn’t matter, and that Dean doesn’t mean anything he does, in that he doesn’t mean to hurt Castiel. He’s delusional, but isn’t that what comes with being human? Castiel still doesn’t know, it’s damn fucking difficult and he fucking hates it. He’s spent millions of years being strong, stoic and totally apathetic, and suddenly, everything hits him all at once; all of these different feelings and sensations, now he is capable of sadness, regret, hurt, sorrow and most importantly; love. He wishes he couldn’t love the way he does; he’s loved before he became human, but this is different, now whenever Dean hits him, or hurts him or the like, Castiel has no other choice but to process it. Dean can bottle up his emotions like it’s nothing, why can’t Castiel? Why must he be like this? He wraps the blanket around him tighter, and he feels his breath catch in his chest. Why would Dean want somebody like him anyway? Castiel has often contemplated calling things off with Dean because he doesn’t think that he can keep doing this. Life or Dean? He asks himself, both. What does Dean see in him other than a ragdoll or a cumdump? He doesn’t fucking know.

He wants to cry, he wants to cry like a fucking baby, he wants Dean. He wants to be held, soothed, he doesn’t need to be kissed, and he most certainly doesn’t need to be fucked. As nice as it is to have Dean buried deep inside him, Castiel doesn’t want that right now, because he can get that whenever he wants, all he has to do is give Dean the look and in less than ten minutes (usually) Dean is ramming into him mercilessly. He lays stiff in bed, weighing out the options, he wants to get up and find Dean, even if he does nothing about his presence, at least he can confirm to himself that he is still there, because sometimes that’s a thought that Castiel has lying in bed at night; what if Dean leaves him? What if he gets sick and tired of him and just ups and leaves? What if he goes out one night and never comes back? Perhaps he may have bagged himself a pretty brunette or a perky blonde. Anything is better than Castiel at this stage, yet the thought of Dean with somebody else makes his gut churn, and he feels physically ill. What if Dean would treat those women the same way he treats Castiel? Castiel wouldn’t have that, he couldn’t let the lives of other innocent beings be destroyed by Dean’s cruelty. They didn’t deserve that. But did Castiel? He doesn’t think about what he deserves and what he doesn’t, because he doesn’t matter. At least, Dean never made him feel like he did. What if Dean becomes bored with him, bored of his personality, or more specifically, his ‘lack of’? What if Dean gets bored of fucking him; he’s become boring, nothing new, and decides he’s finished with him and leaves for good. Castiel wouldn’t blame him, though, because he’s thought about doing the same, especially since the fucking mark of Cain, perhaps Castiel would be better off without Dean, and maybe, Dean would be better off without Castiel. Yeah, he would be, why the hell is Castiel still with him? Why the hell is he still here? Perhaps it’s because he’s simply addicted to Dean. He rolls over onto his back and once adjusted to his new position, he is met with the (un) welcoming feeling of hardening semen under him, rubbing against his skin, which makes him jerk, and he decides to get up. He walks over to Dean’s dresser and finds a towel, goes back to the bed, lays the towel down, and lays back down onto his back, he doesn’t bother with the blanket, he’s warm enough now. He lays there, still, for a moment, he tries to listen out for any noise coming from outside of Dean’s bedroom, but there’s nothing, and he’s met with silence. He could touch himself, jerk off, maybe finger himself a little, but he doesn’t want that, instead, he rubs his eyes and is met with glistening knuckles. He’s crying, again. Dean likes it when he cries, he likes it when Castiel is merciless, upset, broken, and hurt. He likes to watch him cry. He wonders what Dean is doing right now. Is he still in the shower? Hardly, it’s been too long, or perhaps he’s gone out, Castiel knows that he goes out sometimes to clear his head, but he can’t be gone out, because Dean left his bedroom in only a pair of pyjama pants and as far as Castiel is concerned, all of Dean’s clothes are in his dresser in his bedroom, which Cas is in right now. He wipes his eyes again and is met with a sharp sting as his fingernail snags at a cut on his face, which Dean had given him, well, Dean’s ring. He gently reaches up, tracing over the cut, wincing at the sting. He’s opened the cut, so he wipes the blood away with the back of his hand. His cheekbone hurts too, where Dean had punched him and Castiel is almost certain that a bruise has already begun to form, or, if not now, then definitely tomorrow. He will wake up in the morning and see a purple bruise under his eye and an ugly scab across his cheek, but that’s not something new, he’s seen similar, if not the same, things before, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t hurt just as bad each time. Physically: yes, that too, but emotionally. Knowing that Dean is capable of this kind of continuous abuse makes Castiel sick, but not of disgust, but with sadness.

He slides a hand down his torso, slowly, almost like he’s tracing his own abdomen. His hand travels down further, and gently, his fingertips rub against his thigh, he can feel the scar tissue where Dean had bitten him once, and another bumpy scar after a bad hunt he had attended with the Winchester brothers not too long ago. That night, Dean had helped him heal it, he had wiped the cut with alcohol, which made Castiel almost scream, he had then wrapped the wound in gauze, kissed him, and held him in his arms all night, because, according to him it isn’t easy being human. Castiel had felt so cared for, so loved. His fingertips traced back along his thigh, and up: grazing over his crotch, it’s not sexual, though, because Castiel isn’t turned on by it, it’s not the same kind of touch he would perform on himself during masturbation, it’s different. His fingertips travel down and lightly brush against his slick, used hole. He’s never really had the chance to properly explore his body like this, he’s had his body explored, by numerous people before, and especially by Dean. As an Angel, he had toyed around with sex toys in secret, but now human, and capable of so many more sensations, he has never had the opportunity to touch himself, not sexually, either. Dean does that, but Castiel doesn’t even know how most of his body parts work, he doesn’t even know the function of his external organs, never mind his internal organs. He gently, and slowly pushes his middle finger into his own, tight heat, the slickness of Dean’s come and previously used lubricant still evident within him as he eases his finger in further, up to the first knuckle. It’s strange, he’s never felt this as a human before—apart from Dean’s touch, of course. He presses in a little deeper. It’s not that he couldn’t feel it before, but now he can react. He retracts his middle finger, just to add his ring finger to the mix, gently prodding at the muscle before slowly sinking in. He’s still loose from having Dean fuck him earlier, but he’s still tight, his two fingers push past with some resistance, but nothing like how he would be had he not already been stretched by Dean. He slides his fingers in a little more, and then, retracts. His fingers are glistening with come, of course they are, Dean is very fertile. Who knows how much spunk Dean is able to fill Cas up with? And besides, Castiel hadn’t tried to clean up, he quickly wipes his fingers on the towel under him. It’s not that he doesn’t like being filled, he does, to a certain extent. He finds comfort in knowing that he still has a part of Dean with him. He had brought it up in conversation one time, or, the practical term Castiel has learnt was ‘pillow talk’, in which he stated his desire and liking to be filled with his lover’s release.

Dean isn’t back, Castiel remarks this aloud, speaking into the silent room, his voice echoing, returning to his ears, still lying in the same position as before. Of course, he isn’t. Why should he care about Castiel anyway? He pulls the blanket up around him again and closes his eyes.

Dean should, technically, have gone to check on Castiel. Since he went for a shower, he hasn’t heard any movement around the bunker. He had momentarily wondered if Castiel was still alive. Right now, though, he isn’t concerned anymore. He sits in the kitchen, wearing clothes he remembered were in Castiel’s room, having not wanted to go into his own bedroom in case of disturbing Castiel. It isn’t the truth of course, because really, if he’s being honest, Dean hadn’t wanted to see Castiel, he didn’t even want to look at him, he didn’t have it in him too. He didn’t want to see him wrapped up in his bed like a small, sad child—which isn’t quite the analogy he was going for—he would have felt (a small part of him would have) obliged to ask him if he was feeling okay; to perhaps climb in beside him and hold him close but he didn’t. He didn’t actually care. He knew Castiel was strong enough to have been able to deal with whatever he was dealing with by himself, why should he need Dean? He stands up from the table and walks towards the sink places his empty coffee mug into the basin, turns around, leaning against the sink and runs a hand through his damp hair. There’s a vase on the table, standing upright; proud, yet cracked, ugly lines running through where the pieces had been glued back together.

It had been Dean’s fault, of course, he had gotten angry; angry with Castiel for something. Perhaps it had been something concerning the mark of Cain—where it had all begun—they had argued about it, Dean got mad, roaring at Castiel for something he hadn’t done, and flung the vase to the floor, the porcelain shattering instantly upon impact. The vase had been of sentimental value—a family thing, which had been of importance long ago, to those long gone, and Dean had broken it, along with destroying all of the memories that had come with it all because he was angry. He had been angry afterwards too, though less at Castiel and more at himself. He had taken it upon himself to retreat to his bedroom and lock himself in there all night. The vase being broken was one thing, but he had been more concerned at having been so rough with Castiel, but he didn’t apologise. He had hit him too. They had of course been violent with each other before, but this was different because Dean hadn’t just hit some cocky warrior Angel, he had hit his boyfriend, his baby. He had grabbed him by the collar, slammed him into the wall and hit him. Castiel had been shocked too, yet, somehow, less shocked than Dean, because that was when Dean broke the vase. He had hurt Castiel, felt guilty and fucked the vase onto the floor, then watched with a stone-cold glare as Castiel left the kitchen and walked, which soon turned into a run, towards his bedroom. 

The next morning the vase stood in its previous position, as if Dean had never laid a finger on it, there were some unattractive cracks through it, but the vase served its purpose, and a couple of wilted flowers stood inside, dry, without water. A bottle of glue was on the kitchen counter, but there was no indication as to what had fixed the vase, Dean knew, even if Castiel had never mentioned it since.

Perhaps the vase and Castiel have more in common than Dean thought. Initially, before the whole incident, when they were normal. (Though normal is an understatement for what their odd relationship may be perceived as). Dean had commented on Castiel being just as frail as the white porcelain, and Castiel had laughed. Perhaps Dean had shattered Castiel the same way he had done so to the vase, but there was nobody to put Castiel’s pieces back together, apart from himself, which is what he had done—what he is doing. There are only so many times a piece of porcelain can be broken until it becomes completely unfixable and therefore utterly useless, and perhaps that same analogy applies to Castiel. Someday, Dean used to think, someday he will break Castiel down so much that he will be nothing but a bag of bones, and maybe that day will come sooner than he had originally anticipated. He sighs again and rubs a hand over his face, there’s still no sound coming from down the hall, no indication as to whether or not Castiel is even alive, the only sound present is the obnoxious ticking of the clock, which is five minutes behind, it irks Sam, but Dean had never noticed.

Walking into his bedroom, the floorboards creak beneath his feet and he closes the door behind him. Castiel is sleeping softly, yet his body jerks every so often, presumably dreaming. He has the covers pulled up to his chin and he’s curled up in such a way that makes Dean want to scoop him up into his arms, but he doesn’t. He stands by the end of the bed and watches with a tender gaze—something he didn’t know he was able to do. His hands are in his pockets, though he wants to reach an arm out and touch. He doesn’t. That’s self-control, Castiel would be proud of him for such an act of basic human decency.

But it’s hard, and he has to. He walks over towards Castiel sits on the chair next to the bed and pulls it closer to Cas. He watches his face for a moment, he has never seen Castiel so at ease, not since the whole Cain-ruined-his-relationship-with-Castiel thing. He notices the cut on his face, still raw and red. He reaches his hand out and traces over the injury. The action makes Castiel flinch, but Dean doesn’t move. He runs his fingertips along Castiel’s face to where the blanket stops him from going further, perhaps protecting Castiel subconsciously, maybe from the world, or, maybe from Dean.

The prospect of Castiel having to protect himself from Dean is not something he’s contemplated often, though, sitting here next to Castiel, a sombre feeling comes and goes, and perhaps a flash of guilt, which is quickly overpowered by the demon inside of him, and any moral thoughts are replaced by lust and animalistic thoughts, and the need to claim, but he pushes those thoughts down, he can’t hurt Castiel, not anymore. He gets up from the chair and rummages in his dresser and pulls out a flannel. Perhaps it would be better for the both of them if he wasn’t there, and with that, he walks out of his bedroom, and into the night air.

✫✫✶✶✫✫

He doesn’t go anywhere, he had contemplated, whilst walking, if he should go to a bar, have a few drinks and go home with a nice, pretty girl, but firstly, he had come out without money, or a phone. He didn’t feel like going to a bar to pick up a woman without getting a drink into him first, so he ditched that idea. He had walked for longer than expected, alone with his thoughts—which is not something particularly pleasant for Dean Winchester to do. He walked through the town, came across a sketchy alley, and momentarily debated, since apparently he had no self-respect left, if he should say ‘fuck it’ and find a hooker, just to talk his mind of everything for a while, even if it was only for thirty minutes, but his lack of money seemed to be his saviour, because, on the way back, he has never been more grateful to not have had any money, because how could he face Castiel knowing he stank of alcohol and cigarettes and motel-room-sex. Upon reaching the bunker, the sun is beginning to rise and without any indication of an exact time, Dean reckons he’s been out for hours. He could have spent his time wisely and thought about all of the times he had hurt his lover, and perhaps, thought of ways to make it up to him, but he didn’t, he couldn’t, which is—sadly—the most human he has been in a long time and he had momentarily thought that he may have a grip on this demon, maybe he can be tamed, though that had soon turned out not to be the case, for reasons he cannot share, because sharing involves communication, and communication is not Dean Winchester’s strong point. He wonders what Castiel is doing, had he woken? Did he breathe a sigh of relief when he woke to find Dean gone? Was he finally at peace now that he no longer had to worry about Dean?

Dean couldn’t be more wrong. Walking down the hall of the eerily silent bunker, he stops outside his bedroom door and puts his ear up to the wooden door, listening.

He opens the door quietly, and stops in his tracks, standing in the doorway as he watches silently, Castiel sits on the edge of his bed, dressed now, in… Dean’s clothes. A pair of blue jeans and a red plaid flannel. He walks over to the bed and stands in front of Castiel, who has his face in his hands. Dean’s jaw clenches at the sight, and he bites back his question.

“I thought you left,” Castiel mutters, yet does not attempt to reveal his face. “I did,” Dean replies. Castiel winces at his tone of voice, “but you’re back. I thought you left for good,” there’s a pause, then Castiel speaks again, “I got up when I heard you leave. I overreacted, apparently,” he mutters, Dean doesn’t know what he’s talking about, “I thought that you had gotten bored of me and finally left. I was upset, I contemplated following you, begging you to stay,” he looks up at Dean. The cut on his face has dried up, and his eyes are no longer red from crying. “But, then I thought about it,” he continues, looking up at Dean, “I realised, Dean, that if you were to have left for- for forever, I would understand that. I would, you see, I know that you no longer feel the same way as you did many months ago, and it’s not your fault, but it got me thinking that perhaps you would be better off without me-”

Dean clenches his jaw so tightly he feels he could shatter a tooth, and the next thing he sees is Castiel clutching the side of his face for a moment. He had slapped Castiel, yet, he hadn’t even realised. Castiel stands up abruptly, “this is what I mean,” he says, glaring at Dean, before grabbing the doorknob, about to leave, but Dean grips Castiel’s shoulder and spins him around. “Dean-” Castiel says, clearly unhappy by Dean’s abrupt, rough gesture, but Dean doesn’t give him the chance to say anymore, because he’s kissing him, it’s rough and lustful and not necessarily what Castiel wants, but it’s what Dean needs.

Dean grabs Castiel’s shoulders, walks him back towards the bed, and pushes him down gently. “I know I’ve never been good at showing it,” he begins, beginning to pull his flannel off of Castiel’s shoulders, revealing one of Dean’s t-shirts Castiel had also decided to wear. “And damn, I know that you’re angry at me, I would be too, I should have listened to you, that damn mark has made both our lives Hell, and I’ve already been there, literally,” he slides his t-shirt off of Castiel’s body and throws it onto the floor. I’m gonna show you how much I love you,” he says, and Castiel’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t speak. “While I still can, of course. I haven’t been in control of my own body this long for quite some time,” he says, and now that he mentions it, Castiel can see the softness that was once in his eyes, back again and he almost wants to cry because he knows that it’s temporary, he knows that Dean, more than likely will have gone back to his old ways come morning, but he tries not to think about it too much, he wants to live in the moment, with Dean.

Dean sits on the bed; his feet planted onto the cold floor and pulls Castiel into his lap. His hands are all over him; caressing, touching, feeling, loving. He slides a hand down the back of Cas’ jeans, and down his boxers, gently prodding his finger against Castiel’s opening, which gets a soft gasp out of him, the sound sending a jolt of lust down Dean’s spine, to his cock. The slight jerks and soft sounds coming from Castiel make Dean want to fuck him into mattress for hours, but, this is about Castiel because truly, Dean wants to show Castiel that he means the sun, moon and stars to him and he knows too, that come morning, he’ll be a whole different person, he’ll lash out, he’ll get angry at his friends for no reason, blame Sam for something irrelevant, and hurt Castiel, only to take him to bed that same night.

But tonight, tonight, Dean lays Castiel down on his bed, kisses him, caresses his sweet, scarred skin and makes love to him; no hard, rough fucking, no biting, no pain, nothing of the sort, just soft, sweet kisses and slow, tender sex. Castiel comes first, untouched, which wasn’t something that Dean had particularly required of him, but Dean came twice as fast after Cas’ little stunt.

They lay like that for a bit, intertwined in every way possible, Dean peppering soft kisses along Castiel’s face, over his cuts and bruises, he kissed the mark on Castiel’s neck and kissed the scar on his shoulder. Dean would and could have lay there all night—but it isn’t nighttime anymore, it’s more like 8 AM— but he doesn’t, he gets up at some point to clean Castiel up, gently, running a washcloth between his thighs, over the scar tissue, along his fucked-out hole and throws it carelessly onto the floor along with their clothes. He climbs back into bed, wraps his arms around Castiel and they sleep ‘till noon, more like 3 PM, but who’s counting?

Then Dean wakes up, slips out of bed and makes his morning coffee because everything is back to normal.