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Shake this Hell From Everything I Touch

Chapter Text

He needed it. He felt it. A pull behind his eyes, down his neck, into the crevice between his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes, breathing in deep through his nose, tilting his face upward, pushing his shoulders together behind him and feeling the power there.

They were on the outskirts of Chicago for a job. It was so rare to be near a big city, and Dean was grateful. It meant he could let the labyrinth of streets numb him. No hick bars with regular patrons who commented he “wasn’t from around these here parts, are ya?” Cities meant anonymity. Cities meant bar fights that didn’t conclude in a call to the local Sheriff. Cities were a shot of adrenaline and another of tequila. He needed to stop this buzzing at the base of his neck, the twitching in his wrists, the need to hurt. Ever since he’d returned from Hell it was always there, under the surface. Sometimes he would wake up at night and he couldn’t breathe the need was so strong, to cut, to pick up Alastair’s knife again, to hear the screams, to feel that power.

Dean didn’t miss it, exactly. It was like an addiction. His rational brain wanted to sober up, but the Id wouldn’t let him go a day without thinking about it. Some days were better than others. It came in waves. This was a big one. He waited until Sammy was asleep in the motel before getting in the car and driving into the city. He pulled into a damp alley and illegally parked next to an overflowing dumpster. Then he wandered. He covered miles. Stopping into bar after bar. Drinking, picking fights that never amounted to more than insults spat into his cheekbones. He vomited quietly on a street corner. The bars were closing. It was 1am and the silence of the city was starting to gnaw at him. He needed more. He needed a fight. He needed.

Stumbling heavily, he turned down a dead-end alley steeped in darkness. Baby wasn’t there. Must have been in the next one down that he had parked. His footsteps echoed and it was so quiet he could hear his hands rustling in this pockets, the blood whooshing in his ears. He put a hand against the brick wall, clammy with damp, to steady himself. Just under his right palm was a spray painted image. Blink and he’d have missed it, it was that small, but he recognized it vaguely. Blue and black stripes, looking almost the same shade in the dark ran horizontal to each other with a heart tucked into the left side. A leather pride flag. A small arrow was drawn next to it, pointing to the forrest-green door on Dean’s right.

Dean had never considered kink, bondage, the BDSM scene before he’d went to Hell. It had all seemed too - serious. Too intense. He did pain and fighting for a living, when he wanted to get laid he wanted a beautiful girl and feather mattress and massage oil. Of course he’d had the occasional girl ask him to pin her down, go rough, use fake plastic handcuffs, but it was never serious. He liked it because they liked it. But after Hell was a different story. The first month was a relief. The second month, it started to come back. Images plagued him, memories sifting back into his consciousness gradually in flashes of red light and screams and dungeons, implements arrayed on walls. But they were always followed by that sense that he’d won. He was guilty, sure, but he’d won. He was out. He was done. Never again would he do something so vile. Month three and the cravings came in his sleep. Dean would dream of Alastair and the loving way his snide voice praised “Good boy,” every time he learned a new torture technique. He lived for that praise. It became the only thing keeping him alive. Learn and Alastair was happy. Learn and grow and be ever more ruthless and Alastair praised him, fed him, clothed him, treated him well. He woke every day those 40 years trying to please Alastair. First in his pleading and in the cadence of his screams. Then, after 30 years, in his technique and the pain he caused. How loud the screams of his victims were mattered. They were the difference between bedding and a hard floor, regular meals and starvation, praise and cold, dark emptiness. His whole world narrowed to what more he could do to make Alastair say, “good boy” those last 10 years and the nightmares reflected it and he woke with the voice of Alistair whispering in his ear, “you’ll never be good enough, boy.”

But soon he began to feel it creep into his waking days. He started to itch. To yearn. To feel that need between his shoulder blades again. The need to cut. To whip. To punch. And scrape. And stretch. Rip. Tear. The need to cause pain was so intense some days that it blinded him, like a migraine. Other days it was manageable. But it never went away. No matter how many monsters he killed. It never went away. They never screamed just right.

Dean got desperate. He stole Sammy’s laptop one night and typed “I want to cause pain” into Google. Arrayed before him was a barrage of links talking about Sadism and Sadomasocism and how S&M could be normal and healthy if done right. There was an entire subculture out there, he learned, of people who did this for fun. He’d considered it, briefly, before clearing the browser history and going to bed. There was no good way to get into it while he was on the road with Sammy. Most of the redneck villages they stopped in hardly had a gas station let alone a local BDSM club. He’d let it fade to the back of his mind and then slip away slowly. He focused his efforts instead on reformation and repression. If you give in, you’ll be just like him. You got out. You’re here. Castiel pulled you out. You have to do more with your life. You can’t go back. Don’t to back. He thought it so hard so often that sometimes his eyes ached.

Dean traced his fingers over the flag on the wall. Could it be? He tried the door. Locked. Of course it’s locked, stupid. It’s probably just goddamn graffiti. He noticed a chipped buzzer beneath the flag. He pressed on the buzzer, for no other reason than it was in front of him. He realized once he had that it was stupid. He couldn’t go in there. He was about to turn away when the door opened. A scrawny, average-looking guy answered. He wasn’t who he expected. Weren’t you supposed to have big hulking dudes covered in leather as the bouncers for these things? The man looked him over in a flick.

“Cover’s twenty.”

Dean fished out a rumbled 20 from his pocket almost automatically. Only after he handed it to the guy did his gut churn. The man stepped aside to let him in. It was a dark, non-descript hallway, nicely painted a dark grey. A door was only several yards away at the end and on it in red letters it said, ‘HELL.’ Dean nearly laughed out loud. How motherfucking appropriate.

“First time in Hell?”

“Huh? Uhhh, yeah. I mean - I mean, no. I’ve been to Hell… Just not this one.”

The guy nodded. Maybe there was a chain of these places. “House safeword is ‘red.’ No guns. No fireplay without consent of the DM. Have fun.” He gestured toward the door, pocketing the 20, perching himself on a small stool, and reaching for a book.

Dean hesitated only a second before turning and walking confidently towards the door. He was here, right? What other choice did he have? He’d just look around, then he’d go find his car. He didn’t feel confident, but it was pretty much the only thing he could think of to make it less obvious that he had no idea what he’d just gotten himself into. Could this truly be this much of a coincidence? Maybe he was still in Actual Hell and Alastair had just played an elaborate mind trick on him about being rescued. His head spun a little and he took a deep breath, letting it out all at once. He’d reached the door. Behind it he could hear thumping, some cries, soft music, and the noise of a chattering crowd. He rolled his shoulders back, fixed his gaze straight ahead, and opened the door.

The place was much smaller than he would have imagined from the outside, about the size of a basement or a small gym. A red rug stretched from end to end of the room, it was thick and soft. Dean noticed many people weren’t wearing shoes. In fact, many people weren’t wearing much at all. Thick, velvet curtains hung from suspended wooden rafters on either side of a central aisle giving the illusion of elegance, but also the practicality of dividing off small play areas of about 8 by 8 feet. Most of the side curtains were only pulled up a third or halfway, allowing Dean to see most of the way down the aisle on either side. Each space centered around a piece of furniture. A spanking bench in this one. Foam mats over there. A metal tripod that someone was dangling from in a web of rope. People milled around, in all states of undress. Some wore leather gear, but others just jeans and a T-shirt. One man passed him, buck naked a guy in glittery booty shorts leading him on a silver chain that was attached to a piercing in his scrotum. Dean winced. Then he realized: there were no women. Not one. Nowhere. This is a gay club. Fuck.

A feeling of panic welled into Dean’s lower chest, pooling at the base of his rib cage. He didn’t do that. He didn’t think he did that. He felt numb, frozen, except for the pulsing at the back of his neck. It was warm and strong at the base of his skull. It told him he belonged here. He didn’t want to listen to it. A man was sobbing over to his left and Dean turned to watch as another zipper line of clothespins was ripped from his torso. The accompanying scream went straight to Dean’s dick. He flushed in embarrassment, quickly scanning the room for anything else to distract him.

Every station seemed just about full and everywhere groups of people were laughing and talking, watching, enjoying each other’s company like old friends. Dean walked further down the aisle to get a peek at the last few stalls. Then I can just say I had a look around and it wasn’t for me and leave, he thought. His vision was clear and whatever buzz he’d had from the alcohol had long worn off. I just have to make it look like I checked it out then I can leave. He peeked into the last stall and the image hit him full in the chest.

The side curtain was pulled up farther than the others, creating a bit more privacy, but the opening of the stall still connected with the aisle, putting one of the 4 sides of the “room”-like area into full view. In the middle of the space was a St. Andrew’s Cross, wooden, beautifully crafted and shackled to it was a lithe and fair-skinned man. The light was dim back at the end of the hall and the curtains blocked the rays of the closest bare bulb from fully penetrating the area, casting the man’s face into shadow. He wore a blindfold though, a simple blue tie around his eyes and cinched at the back of his head. With his arms and legs spread in X formation he was beautiful, completely naked and Dean couldn’t understand why his breath caught as he looked at his skin in the soft light. It looked so pale it almost glowed. He had dark brown hair, almost black and delicate fingers that clung to leather cuffs. And on his back in large, crisp Sharpie lines it said, “HURT ME.” Beside the man was a small table arrayed with a variety of instruments. A fine leather flogger, a riding crop, a bullwhip, and, Dean noticed with a tingle in his lower spine, a small knife.

Dean stood there, mesmerized. Clearly he had done this to himself. How, Dean wasn’t quite sure. Maybe with the help of a friend? It didn’t matter. What mattered is that no one was there. No one had touched him yet. The Sharpie lines were still crisp and clear and his back pale and unmarred. No one had hurt him yet. He was brand new. Alastair had never let him have anyone brand new. Just old souls, beaten and bloodied and torn and tired. Never anyone new, pure, never.

Dean stepped forward. He felt that familiar tug between his shoulder blades. His heart beat increased. He was a few feet from the man now. There was something familiar about him that Dean couldn’t place. He reached out, running a hand reverently down the man’s perfect back, so smooth. Dean was lost, honed in on just this, just this flesh in front of him, just the need behind his eyes.

He leaned forward, mouth next to the man’s ear, Dean’s lips tickled from the brush of the man’s messy hair.

“I don’t care if you scream. In fact, I want it,” he whispered in a low guttural voice dripping with desire. The man gasped just slightly, tilting his head forward and obscuring his face more.

Dean stepped back, surveyed the instruments on the table and picked up the flogger. He tested the weight in his hand, mocking a throw to land in the air a few feet above the man’s back, letting him hear the crack and rush of air with no contact. When he was satisfied with his grip and the heft and range, he threw the flogger, 30 leather tails colliding heavily with the words “HURT ME.” Another gasp. He lashed again, letting the tips whip over the man’s hip this time slightly. He was rewarded with a sharp hiss. He picked up a figure eight, wrist turning and rotating smoothly like he’d done this for years. You have done this for years, just not years on Earth. He continued to beat the man, working up a sweat and tinting the man’s back an even shade of red. The words began to smear and fade with every stroke, sweat pooling at the small of the man’s back and he groaned and his chest heaved.

Power pulsed through Dean’s shoulder blades, down his arms, up his neck. His vision whittled down to just this flesh in front of him, just the blows, just the feeling that he was one with the flogger. But he wasn’t getting the reactions he wanted. He hit harder, gasps and the occasional soft moan, but not a cry, not a scream, not even anything above a whimper. Dean dropped the flogger to the floor in frustration and slammed the flat of his fist into the meat of the man’s shoulder blade.

“Ah!” The cry was sharp as the man canted his hips and shoulders back, bending backward at the force of the blow.

Dean did it again.

“Uoh!” The man twisted forward as far as he could, tucking his head down protectively to his chest.

And again, this time where hips met ass.

“Nnnghha!” He tried to muffle the cry by biting down on his lip, but it didn’t work.

And again.

“Aaaaah!” The first small wisp of a scream tumbled out of the man’s lungs.

And again and again and again until he was swinging both fists over and over, without rhythm or cause.

The man writhed as he tried to curl away from the blows. And Dean’s insides practically purred at that. That pure reaction of escape. Old souls didn’t escape. They didn’t beg. They just screamed and took it. He felt his cock harden in his jeans ever so slightly. He kept going, backhanding him solidly, jabbing his knuckles into the tender places, pummeling him into the sturdy wood of the cross. The cries came more steadily now, sharp and high and stinging the air as the man shouted and tilted with each strike. Every 7 punches or so there was a strangled “please” that never made it all the way out of the man’s mouth. The tension between Dean’s shoulder blades was loosening, but the need was still so blinding.

Dean grabbed a fist full of the man’s hair, twisting sharply and slamming his face against the wood.

“I want to hear you goddamn scream,” Dean growled in the man’s ear. He needed it. “I need to,” he whispered more softly. He hoped the man wouldn’t hear it over the sound of his labored breath.

Dean snatched the knife off the table, sliding it out of it’s leather sheath. The blade was silver, small, only a few inches, but shaped like a spear or a stake of some sort, wider at the bottom, whittled to a fine point at the end, with four hollows along the sides, running the length vertically. The tip was sharp though and that’s all that mattered to Dean.

He tested it on the back of his hand and with only a small amount of pressure a trail of blood followed. Dean smiled, his mind practically sighing in relief.

He stepped closer to the man, nearly touching him. His back was covered in red splotchy marks, soon to be bruises and welts. Dean raised his hand and lined the knife up with the curve of the left shoulder blade where it met the spine.


It was so soft that Dean didn't think he heard it.

“What did you say?”

“Please.” The man’s voice cracked.

“Please, what?”

“Make me scream.”

A heat blossomed behind Dean’s eyes in a way that made him momentarily dizzy before it sank slowly towards the back of his skull and down his shoulders and arms. He wants this. He needs this as much as I need this. Dean gasped softly and touched the blade to the skin, gradually applying pressure until he felt the skin break with a smooth pop. The man breathed deeply when the blade cut into his flesh, Dean doing the same, their breaths mirroring each other. Dean drew the knife along the shoulder blade and towards the armpit, drawing a loud, long moan from the man, whose thighs, he noticed, were trembling. When he reached the armpit he paused, catching his breath. Dean felt like he was flying. It had never been like this with Alastair. Power, yes, intensity and endorphins and the feeling of control, but never this euphoria. Victims in Hell didn’t ask to be tortured. They didn’t want it. The begged and pleaded with Dean for mercy, to stop, anything.

But this man, this man under his hand wanted this. He craved pain as Dean craved creating pain. He needed to be hurt as Dean needed to hurt. It was mesmerizing.

He placed the blade against the skin and cut quickly this time, a sharp semi-circle around the edge of the man’s exposed armpit.

He screamed.

It came flying out of the man, hard and gravely and it pierced Dean’s bones the way the body before him tensed and collapsed, hanging limply from the shackles. Dean repeated the process on the other side, a line across and then a sharp semi-circle at the armpit, with the same results. The cuts weren’t deep but they were dripping blood smoothly down the man’s back.

Dean placed his hand on the small of the man’s back and leaned in, breath hot against the man’s limp neck. Both of them were trembling.

“Just take a little more for me, okay?”

A boneless nod, ever so subtle, was the only response Dean got. It felt like his heart would swell right out of his chest when it happened though. Pride, Dean thought. I’m proud of him, he’s doing such a good job. He’s a good boy. Dean was stunned by the realization.

He lined the blade up once more and swept it in one fluid motion from the bottom of the armpit cut, up under the shoulder blade to connect back to the original line. Making a shape that looked like a crude wing. This time the scream started as soon as he began to cut and lasted all the way to the end, the man’s voice was beginning to crack. He was still limp against his restraints.

“One more,” Dean declared. He repeated the gesture on the other side and when he had finished he carefully sheathed the blade and placed it aside only to notice a white stain on the floor beneath the cross and the man’s cock dribbling and twitching.

Dean breathed in awe. Tears pricked his eyes. He realized he too was hard. That didn’t happen in The Real Hell. Never. Not once in 40 years had he had an orgasm or an erection.

“Good boy,” the words came out of Dean’s mouth before he could even stop them, but they felt right. He stepped up behind the man and pressed their body lengths together, eliciting a muffled sob as Dean’s sweat-soaked T-shirt pressed into the open gashes. “Good boy. I’m proud of you.” Dean hesitantly reached up and stroked the man’s hair. It felt right. The man melted back against Dean and Dean reached up to undo his wrist cuffs and then down to the free his ankles too. Dean walked the man backward a few steps, letting him limply sag against Dean’s strong frame. He canted his hips up into the man’s upper thighs. “You feel that, boy? You did that to me.” He whispered, his voice cracking slightly. “No one - I mean, no man, no one I’ve cut, has ever done that to me…”

The man nodded against Dean’s chest, still crying and the motion offset the blindfold slightly. Dean reached down and peeled the wet fabric away from the man’s eyes and then slowly lowered him to the floor, wrapping his arms around the shaking, bloody frame.

“Good boy,” he said again, not knowing what else to do. The man opened his eyes and looked up at Dean steadily.

“Thank you, Dean.” Castiel said in that gravelly voice.

Chapter Text

Dean’s eyes widened and he scrambled backwards, crab-walking across the soft, red rug. Castiel slid off his lap and to the floor with the movement and slowly righted himself. In a blink the fresh wounds on Castiel’s back were gone, healed by his Grace.

“Castiel! Shit - I - What the hell? What the fuck is this?! Why - I didn’t mean to - I…” Dean stammered, his head spinning and the noise of the room suddenly clamoring and crawling at his eardrums, too loud, too much, too fast. What have I done? He thought with utter horror.

“Dean, calm down,” Castiel’s deep voice sounded much closer to Dean’s ear than he thought possible. He noticed he was breathing heavily and his chest felt tight. “Dean, look at me. It’s allright. I’m going to take us somewhere we can talk.” Castiel reached out too fingers and tapped Dean’s forehead, instantly transporting them to a shabby motel room in god-knows-where with a  flash of blue-white light.

Dean blinked as the shabby orange bead spread replaced the red carpet beneath them. Cas was still naked, though healed, and Dean still clothed, and, he noted, disgusted with himself, still hard as fuck. The room was still spinning and the world still felt to bright and loud and big, but less so than it had before. Cas reached a hand out, placing it on Dean’s thigh.

Dean scrambled away, leaping to his feet off the bed, “Dude, what the fuck?!”

“I do not understand, Dean, what did I do incorrectly?” Castiel blinked up at him.

“Where do I even fucking start? How about - what’s an Angel of the Lord doing in a gay BDSM club in Chicago, naked, restrained, and with the words “HURT ME” written on his back? How about - you knew it was me the second you heard my voice, why didn’t you tell me? And what the fuck is wrong with you? I just CUT an ANGEL OF THE LORD. Is this some sort of fucking mind-game test where Uriel is gonna fly his feathery ass in here and smite me or some shit?”

“I understand you are surprised, Dean, but let me assure you this was carefully planned…”

“Carefully planned? CAREFULLY PLANNED?!” Dean was bellowing now, face hot and red, “WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! And why the FUCK are you still NAKED? What are you trying to PROVE? That I’m a sick fuck? Congrats, you did it. Deliver me back to Hell and let’s get this over with.”

“I will do no such thing,” Castiel stood up, suddenly looming and serious.

“And why the FUCK not?”

“Because I gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition, Dean, and I do not intend to reverse that action any time soon.”

“Well then ….I…. what the FUCK?!”

“I see you are having trouble getting around that question, Dean.” A small smile played at Castiel’s lips in spite of himself.

“You could say that.” Somehow in all the shouting, Dean had wrapped his arms tightly around his sides and tears were pricking his eyes. “I - I - I don’t understand,” he finally choked out, voice hoarse from the yelling.

“So let me explain,” Castiel stepped closer, hand held out in front of him as if he wanted to touch Dean, to soothe him, but didn’t. Dean nodded, mutely. “As you know I have been watching over you,” Dean squirmed at this, “and I have seen the amount you were suffering, I have seen your nightmares and your thoughts and know how strong the pull of violence has become for you. My goal was twofold. First, I wanted you to have an outlet for those emotions and feelings and desires and this seemed a very healthy way to have one - to allow you to participate in a known and consensual lifestyle as a way to relieve your urges and with a person that you could not seriously damage. Second, I needed to know more about your time in Hell under Alastair’s knife. We share a certain - profound bond, Dean, and I could no longer watch over you without knowing what it felt like to live what you lived.”

“So you decided to follow me around until I stumbled upon a club and then show up there, naked, and let me torture you just out of curiosity without telling me who you were?”

“I knew if I proposed it to you in person you would never have agreed to it. I felt that once you had tried it, you would like it, as I see you have,” Cas’s eyes flicked to the bulge in Dean’s jeans, “and Dean, it was not ‘torture,’ it was consensual sadism.”

Dean’s eyes glazed, cold and nearly grey in color now, “It was torture, Cas. No one wants those things. No sane creature wants to be hurt or to hurt others.”

“I do.”


“I do, Dean. I want to be hurt and I also enjoy causing pain and sensation too. It’s called sadomasochism.” Castiel dared another step forward, now less than a foot from Dean’s form, which, he noted, was trembling slightly.

“Fucking Angels, you’re all crazy.”

“I beg your pardon?” Cas was perplexed.

“I mean, like, whatever, you’re an Angel. You probably don’t even have emotions or feel pain. You’re just a Soldier - a Warrior of God. Of course you like to chop shit into tiny bits, it’s what you fucking do.”

“That’s not true, Dean.”

“Of course it is,” Dean snarled.

Castiel sighed, “Don’t you think I should be the judge of what’s true or not for me just as you are the judge of your truth for you?” He could see now that this would take some convincing.

“Well, yeah, I suppose so.”

“Then do you trust me, Dean, to tell you my truth, objectively and honestly? Since, after all I am an Angel of the Lord, and as you stated, a Righteous Warrior of God?”

“I - I suppose so, yes.” The ice in Dean’s eyes was beginning to give way to murky confusion.

“Would you allow me to tell you the truth, in it’s entirety?”

“Yes...but… Do you think you could put some clothes on?”

“Certainly, Dean.” The next time Dean blinked, Castiel was fully clothed again, trenchcoat and suit and tie and all. “It is long, would you prefer we sit on the bed?”

“I guess that’d be fine.”

Castiel reached out his hand towards Dean more deliberately this time, fingers loose and open. Dean looked at it, then at Castiel, then back at the hand, then the floor before finally, very gingerly, placing the tips of his fingers into Castiel’s open palm. Castiel bit back a smile and walked backward, carefully leading Dean to the bed, settling him down on the edge of the lumpy mattress and sitting down beside him.

“Dean, would it surprise you to learn that Angels copulate?”

Dean nearly choked, “what?!”

“I suppose you have never given much thought to the sexual desires or lives of Angels, nor is there much lore on them. We have no need to reproduce, of course, but Our Father did instill within us a basic sense of pleasure and sensation.” Castiel watched Dean’s face carefully as he began his tale, noting that despite Dean’s explosive reaction, the human appeared quite calm now. “In fact, while in human society the practice of sadomasochism is rare, it is actually quite common in Angelic circles. You see, Dean, we were built to be Warriors of God, to endure great pain during battle while also experiencing the blinding joy of creation. These sensations are stitched intricately into the very nature of our Grace.”

Dean’s eyes widened as he sat, listening intently. Castiel continued, “As you can imagine, in the millenia of this Universe, work is not constant. And while our strength is great, we are not omniscient; we cannot simply exist indefinitely without reprieve. And yet, our needs to experience the great pain and pleasure that Our Father instilled in our very beings does not wane when we are absent from battle or Earth.” Castiel paused, letting it all sink in.

“’re saying that angel vacation basically consists of a big kinky orgy in heaven?”

“I would not put it quite like that, but essentially you are correct. Angels on leave quite often copulate with -”

Dean cut him off suddenly, “Dude, you’ve GOT to stop using that word.”

“I apologize. Angels on leave often have sex with their brethren and it is quite common and indeed expected that those - er, encounters involve either sadism, masochism, or both. Of course, it is wholly different from what humans do and enacted while we are in True Form, but the basic principles remain.”

“So like, what, you basically beat each other up in Heaven and that gets you off?”

Castiel sighed, “It is… impossible to explain accurately to a mortal, but in essence, yes. Like humans, Angels have preferences, though they don’t generally vary as widely as they do in humans. There are usually only a few accepted forms of stimulation - preening, psychological warfare, power displays, Grace tethering and the like - and most Angels fall strictly into sadist and masochist categories quite strictly, never straying. Angels like myself are rare.”

“Whoa, whoa wait slow down there. Preening? Grace tethering?”

“Those details are unimportant right now, Dean. The comparison to human experience is impossible to make. In True Form, Angels do not have genitalia. They are sexless, genderless, and do not orgasm, mate, or cop - er- have sex, the way humans do. It is an entirely different realm of existence and experience. Once which we may decide to discuss further, but not tonight. The point is that these things which are marginalized and barely-tolerated on Earth are normal in Heaven.”

“Well, that’s great, Cas, I’m glad you and your angel buddies can get your rocks off, but this IS Earth and I AM human and what I did wasn’t acceptable here.”


Dean blinked and stuttered, “because...well...because I HURT you, Cas. I CUT you.”

“Because I wanted you to and because you wanted to do it.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Dean, if you were to ask me to kiss you right now and I were to agree that I wanted to do so, would it be wrong simply because my vessel is male and you are male?”

“Well, I mean, no, not to me. Maybe to some people, but not to me.”

“So, to SOME people, two male-bodied people kissing is wrong but to you it’s okay because you and I have agreed that it’s acceptable, is that correct?”

Dean blushed, hard, “yeah, I guess…”

“Then what’s the difference?”

“Well...I can’t consent to being HURT, Cas, and besides kissing is, like, a good thing, It feels good. Flogging and punching and,” Dean shivered, remembering, “CUTTING you is not good, it’s bad. It’s torture-level bad.”

Castiel was beginning to get exasperated, “Dean, pain is nothing more than a sensation, the same as kissing. How can a sensation, freely accepted and given, be wrong?”

“Be-because,” Dean faltered, looking down, his eyes shifting rapidly across the puce carpet, “because … it just is, okay?” he snapped, suddenly. “Because I shouldn’t have enjoyed what Alastair made me do. Because I’m not in the Pit anymore, I’m here, on Earth. You saved me and I should be better. I never wanted this before Hell.”

“Dean, desire is not static. Your desires as a child are not the same as they are now. Your desires before Hell and after are different too. Certainly, your actions in Hell were not consensual, but you spent 40 years, half a lifetime, immersed in that world. To think that that would all just disappear meer weeks after escaping is not practical. You desire this now. You need this. Tomorrow or in a month or in a year you may not, but right now this is what you need and I am here to give it to you. You are not hurting me. I am an Angel of the Lord. I can heal myself and have experienced far worse than this, but beyond that, I want this. I like this. It is not HURT to me, Dean, it is SENSATION and for my vessel it appears, that it is...uhm, very… pleasurable.”

Dean flushed, remembering the pool of cum on the floor of the dungeon. “Yeah, I suppose…”

“Dean, will you let me try something?”

“What?” Dean was wary.

“I want you to experience some of what I experienced tonight. I want you to feel what the mingling of pleasure and pain can feel like.” Cas felt Dean tense beside him, “I will not harm you. I will heal your immediately afterwards and I will not do anything that you do not fully consent to doing. If at any time you are uncomfortable, you can stop me, either with a simple ‘no’ or we can pick a safeword. I think if you experience it for yourself you will see what I am talking about…”

Dean’s head felt - odd, like too much information had been put into it and was slowly backing up into his throat. He swallowed, trying to force his shoulders down and away from his ears. The prospect of Castiel hurting him was terrifying, yet, somehow, he wasn’t saying no. What Cas had said to him seemed to make sense, though Dean still could not fathom the difference between evil and torture and what was apparently good or acceptable sensation. How did one know when they’d crossed a line? When was it too much? At what point did a sadist become a monster? Yet still, a small throbbing in his chest and between his eyes urged him to try it. Reminded him of the time he had gotten the anti-possession tattoo. It had hurt like a motherfucker, but afterwards it felt strangely...euphoric too. His nightly jack off in the shower that night was better than usual. Was there truth to what Cas said? And beyond that, was Dean anyone to back down from a little pain? What kind of wuss would he be if he said no? Was this all some sort of big test from God to see if Dean was good enough to withstand pain? If so, he was damn sure he would grit his teeth and just do it, but then… Cas had said pain AND pleasure… did that mean…. was Dean about to have sex with an Angel?

He couldn’t deny that he’d thought about Cas that way. His vessel, after all, was gorgeous and Dean was, shall we say, flexible with the anatomy of his partners. While he generally slept with women, it was more because they were easier to come by and snag. After all, eye a guy the wrong way in some hill-billie towns and you’d get yourself killed, never mind if you flirted with them at a bar. Girls were just...easier, but Dean certainly wasn’t opposed to cock when he could get it. Part of him desperately wanted to know what Cas’s tongue would taste like in Dean’s mouth and how tight his ass would be. He nearly got a hard on just contemplating it.

There was something just too intriguing about Cas’s offer and despite the small voice screaming in his head that this was a very bad idea, Dean couldn’t help but step up to the challenge.

“I...suppose I could try...what did you have in mind?”

Chapter Text

Castiel leaned forward and kissed Dean, his chapped lips pressing lightly into Dean’s while Dean scrambled mentally to adjust to the sensation, his mind blurring around the edges in a frenzied way. Castiel parted his lips over Dean’s, creating some heat, some suction and Dean felt his jaw unhinge of it’s own accord and open for Cas’ gentle tongue. The moment he felt Cas’ tongue slip behind his teeth and graze the roof of his mouth, Dean’s eyes slipped closed and his torso sagged just slightly. A spot somewhere in the dead center of his brain was doing cartwheels and in that moment he couldn’t have focused on anything else except the wet heat of Cas’ lips against his. Castiel reached up to cradle Dean’s head, running his fingers through Dean’s hair to the roots and Dean gasped, letting a small moan escape, surrendering to that pleasure.

Castiel’s lips twitched upward just slightly at that, not enough for Dean to notice, though and he continued to push into Dean, nudging a knee inwards to touch Dean’s own outer thigh where he sat on the motel bed. Dean hardly noticed the secondary touch of Castiel’s knee on his; his whole mind was centered on the kiss. It had been so long since he’d kissed like this, so deep and intense that he was getting a buzz off just lip-to-lip contact. He continued to make small noises of pleasure even though it was clear he was trying not to do it. Suddenly, Dean felt Cas’ hand snake up his ribcage under his loose flannel shirt and he gasped then shivered. His mouth formed a soft “oh” as he pulled away from the kiss, his face still close to the Angel’s as Cas’ hand slid slowly up Dean’s side. Dean was gone. He was so lost. When had touch ever felt this good? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember what it felt like to not be touched like this. This was, well, this is what Heaven might be like, the thought dimly. And as slowly as Castiel had begun, he worked his slim fingers all the way up to just below Dean’s left armpit. His fingers hovered there a second, blue eyes locked onto Dean’s half-lidded gaze and drooping head, before he tucked his fingernails in and scratched down Dean’s sensitive side hard, leaving red marks as he went.

The sound that came out of Dean was somewhere between a grunt and a growl and a mewing cry. Pain zinged through his nervous system, starting as a rough sort of tickle and ending in a burning that lingered in trails down his left side, leaving him panting, leaning into Cas’ right shoulder. Castiel let his hand come to rest on Dean’s hip, thumb making soft circles,

“Dean? How was that?”

A soft, high-pitched whine emptied itself out of the back of Dean’s throat as he sagged against Cas.


“What..?” he said, almost sleepily.

“How was that?”

“Wha’d’ya mean?”

“I need you to tell me how that felt; did you like it; are you okay?”

“Yeah…” Dean said softly, after a moment, opening his eyes and catching Cas’ worried, azure gaze. “No, Cas, I’m fine,” he sat upright. “That….that was….I….” Castiel waited patiently for Dean to drag some of his thoughts out of the goop his brain matter was currently in and continued to rub small circles on Dean’s hip. Dean chewed his lip, “It was...good...I think. That kiss was amazing and your touch,” Dean blushed a very deep shade of red and tucked his chin, “well, let’s just say your Angel mojo is out of this world, okay?” Castiel smirked at that. His Grace had nothing to do with this interaction, but he needn’t mention that to Dean just now.

“And the scratching?” Cas prompted.

“It hurts.” Cas waited for Dean to continue, “but… not like a bad hurt. Like….it…. echos. It’s like it’s bouncing around off my ribs and eye sockets and it...doesn’t feel anything like what pain should feel like it feels… like… a memory of really good pie. I dunno...that’s stupid. I’m feels so familiar. You know how many trillions of times I’ve been scratched in that very place? But this time it’s different… it’s new but it’s not and it hurts but it doesn’t and it feels …. good.”

“Yes.” Castiel whispered, admiration shining in the backs of his pupils. He squeezed Dean’s hip softly and let them lapse into silence, just looking at Dean for a few moments.



“Will you… will you do it again?” Dean looked down, tangling his knuckles together, ashamed at his request. Castiel placed two fingers under Dean’s chin, providing just enough pressure to tilt it upright again.

“Yes, Dean. I will do that as often as you like.”

“Why?” Dean hadn’t meant to even ask, just better to leave it be, but the word rushed out anyway, trampling caution in its haste.

Castiel blinked, surprise showing briefly on his features before he realized what Dean was really asking for: reassurance. In response, Cas slid his hand over Dean’s and guided it down to rest on Cas’ crotch and feel the bulge there. Dean met Cas’ eyes for the first time since they’d flown to the motel room and Castiel marveled at the intimacy of just that act and how it made his vessel’s entirely-unnecessary heart beat faster. Dean squeezed gently and rubbed slightly upward and Castiel couldn’t hold back the moan that shot through him. While the sensations were wholly different that those in True Form, he couldn’t deny that the pleasure his human vessel felt when Dean touched him like that was dizzying. Dean continued to rub slowly as Cas hardened even more and breathed heavily, soft “uoh” sounds ghosting out after every few breaths.

Suddenly Cas caught Dean’s wrist and pushed his arm away and back, toppling Dean to the bed with his right wrist pinned to his side. “Woah, hey!”

“This is about you,” Castiel breathed next to his ear and then devoured Dean’s mouth with his own before he could protest.

Chapter Text

Dean opened to Cas’ tongue immediately, letting it lick the roof of his mouth behind his teeth and curl around his own tongue in undulating waves. Cas pressed Dean’s right wrist into the bed firmly, but Dean’s left was free and it cupped the back of Cas’ head automatically, Dean’s fingers curling behind Cas’ ear and feeling the soft prickle of the short hairs there. Cas lowered his body onto Dean, left hand braced next to Dean’s head, and when the bulge in Cas’ pants pressed into Dean’s crotch, Dean let out a gasping moan as little sparks fizzled darkly in his pelvis. Dean’s hand tightened in Cas’ hair automatically as he panted, eyes slipping closed, when Cas continued to tongue fuck him and grind their rapidly-stiffening cocks together.

Suddenly, Dean’s right wrist was moving. Cas grasped it firmly and placed it none too gently above Dean’s head. Taking his weight on his right hand, he reached up with his left to snatch Dean’s left hand away from his head and guide it back down on top of Dean’s other wrist so they were crossed above Dean’s head. Cas then pinned them there with his left hand, squeezing more tightly than was strictly necessary, since Dean wasn’t fighting him. Cas pulled back from the kiss, smiling a little as Dean’s head bobbed upwards, trying to follow Cas’ lips. He ground down with his hips again and relished the whimper it pulled from Dean’s chest. He held Dean like this, breathing heavily and watching Dean’s face as he panted beneath him. Then, Cas closed his eyes just slightly, concentrating, and in a second both Dean and Cas were naked, their clothes discarded on the floor thanks to Cas’ magic Angle mojo. Dean’s green eyes popped open suddenly as his skin was laid bare and his brow creased. Cas rolled his hips down into Dean’s again and their semi-hard cocks slipped together and Dean gasped, thrusting his hips up into Cas without thought and feeling once again that dark spark between his hipbones at the base of his spine.

“Oh, fuck, Cas…” he whispered, his eyelids drooping.

Cas leaned forward once more and mouthed at Dean’s jaw and down his stubbled cheek and neck. He kissed along the line of Dean’s collarbone until he reached the spot where Dean’s arm met shoulder. Cas sucked some of Dean’s skin into his mouth there and Dean bucked gently against him, cock hardening a little bit more each time it brushed against Cas’ now fully erect cock. Then, slowly, reverently, Cas bit down on the skin beneath his teeth, worrying a pinch of it between his front teeth and rolling it against his tongue firmly in an alternating rhythm. Dean shuddered, sucked in breath, rolled his head back, and let a guttural moan slip through his parted lips. Cas pulled back, licking gently over the reddened mark on Dean’s armpit. Dean panted beneath him, faint waves of pain swimming behind his closed eyelids.

Cas waited, still holding Dean’s wrists, watching Dean’s naked chest heave beneath him and his eyelids flutter slightly. Dean tensed his arms, rolling his shoulders back, but didn’t fight against Castiel’s grip. Instead, he opened his eyes, stared directly into Castiel’s waiting gaze, and purposefully rolled his hips, demonstrating that he was now fully erect.

“Again, Cas….. please?” Dean whispered.

Cas’ head ducked immediately back to the faint bruise and he bit down harder this time, grinding his eye teeth into the sensitive skin and gnawing on a larger chunk. Dean bucked beneath Cas, pushing his chest up and spreading it as wide as he could in his pinned position, offering his flesh to Castiel’s mouth. Dean whimpered, his eyes squeezing shut as the pain burst behind his eyes. It didn’t feel like anything Dean had ever experienced before. More intense than a hickey, but certainly not as painful as a wound. The pain tasted different in Dean’s mind, refreshing, almost, like it chased away all other rational thought. It didn’t feel good exactly, not like Castiel’s mouth on his or the roll of their hips together. It was not pleasure, but it was adjacent to it, a kind of spasm of bright nothingness in his temples. It didn’t feel bad either though, far from it. And whatever it was, this pain-pleasure, it spiked suddenly whenever Cas stopped, like an extinction burst, sensation rippled outward from where Cas’ mouth had been whenever Cas pulled back and disengaged his mouth.

“More?” Cas asked as he waited for Dean to meet his gaze again.

“God, yes, please.” Dean was limp under him, yet his muscles felt taught and shimmering underneath his skin. He was breathing heavily, yet he felt as if it was only ghosting past his lips instead of being pulled from his lungs like after a long run. Dean shuddered against Cas as Castiel bent down again, this time skimming his lips along the curve of Dean’s breast and stopping at his right nipple. Castiel hovered there for a second before gently sucking Dean’s nipple into his mouth. The soft heat made Dean’s back arch suddenly as he cried out.

“Fuck….fuck….oh…” Dean pressed himself up into Cas, suddenly hyper aware of Cas’ hand holding down Dean’s wrists and Cas’ thighs straddling Dean’s hips. Pleasure burst through him and he cried out beneath Cas, eyes wide and locked on Castiel’s.

Then Castiel bit down, hard.

And Dean’s jaw dropped open in a breathless howl. He bucked under Cas, pressing up into him despite the pain pulsing through his veins. And this, this was much more like pain, it was still not quite the same, definitely not like torture or fighting, but more like stubbing one’s toe, unexpected and intense and like nothing else mattered, like a buzz of sensation rolling behind his eyes, whiting out the rest of the universe. Dean lost track of Cas’ mouth briefly as he transferred to the other nipple. The light licks along Dean’s heaving chest felt non-existent in comparison to the fire slowly leaking from Dean’s brain down his veins to his chest. Dean didn’t even register that Cas was sucking on his left nipple until Cas bit down again, just as hard and Dean cried out under him, head slamming back against the mattress and eyes squeezing shut. Cas rolled the sensitive nub from one side of this mouth to the other, pinching it harshly between his teeth as Dean spasmed beneath him.

By the time Cas detached from Dean’s nipple and sat back, Dean was writhing and keening beneath him, hips stuttering up rhythmically into Castiel’s groin and precome leaking from Dean’s cock. Cas let go of Dean’s wrists, and soothed his hands through Dean’s hair as Dean curled towards him, delirious with sensation. Cas guided Dean onto his side and held him, stroking his hands down Dean’s shoulders, back, and sides, occasionally scratching lightly over Dean’s ass and thighs in a way that made Dean shiver. Gradually Dean’s cries quieted, his breathing slowed, and the fire ebbed enough for him to open his eyes and look up at Cas. Cas’ pupils were blown wide with desire, but he looked down at Dean with such tenderness.

“Cas…” Dean’s voice cracked.

“Yes, Dean?”

“Why - why’d you stop? I could have taken more.” Dean glanced meaningfully down at his throbbing dick and then at Cas’ cock, which was in a similar state.

“I know you could have, but this is your first time. We shouldn’t go any further without establishing some boundaries and safety precautions.”

“Oh.” Dean looked down. Stupid. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Dean, look at me.” Cas placed a hand gently against Dean’s cheek, urging him to look up and smiled when he did. “You did well, Dean. You are so responsive and it seems that my vessel finds that quite….. Pleasing. I often forget how fragile humans are, but in this case it makes this all the sweeter. That I can make you writhe with just my mouth and teeth is beautiful, Dean” Dean flushed a violent shade of pink. “Did you enjoy that?”

“God, yes, Cas. That was...that was...I can’ was...I -” There weren’t words.

“I know, Dean. It’s okay.”


“Yes, Dean?”

“Can I - you know - could I….?” Dean glanced at Cas’s leaking cock where it lay inches from Dean’s head and licked his lips then looked back at Cas pleadingly. Dean was curled around Cas, head resting on Cas’ right thigh and Castiel had his legs tucked beneath him. Dean’s torso curled around his knees and Dean’s thighs pressed up against Cas’ left leg.

Cas looked at him a long moment until Dean blushed and turned his eyes away. “Yes, Dean. I believe I would like your mouth on me very much.” Dean blushed harder at that, but pressed himself upward a few inches, picking his head up off Castiel’s thigh and lining his mouth up with the jutting line of Castiel’s erect cock. Dean licked his lips, then tentatively, his eyes flicking up to Castiel’s first briefly, he parted his lips and sucked gently at the head of Cas’ cock.

Cas released the breath he’d been holding in a rush, his jaw slackening as he closed his eyes. Dean grinned ear to ear before he remembered what he was supposed to be doing and opened his jaw wider, slowly sliding his mouth down the length of Cas’ cock. He tongued experimentally at the head and sucked it gently, feeling Cas pulse in his mouth and a dribble of precome escape again. Dean sucked again, this time more firmly, pressing forward shallowly and hollowing out his cheeks so Cas was sliding over the length of Dean’s tongue, which swirled at Cas’ slit each time it passed.

Cas began to pant, obviously trying to hold back his moans, so Dean sucked harder, took him deeper, swallowed around him when Cas’ dick hit the back of Dean’s throat. Cas whimpered. Dean swallowed again. Cas nearly choked on the groan that bubbled within his sternum. Dean swallowed again and Cas threw back his head and moaned, deep and gravely. Dean couldn’t grin but he swallowed again and hoped Cas would take that as encouragement to keep being loud.

“Oh, Dean...oh, oh Dean...oh yes…” Dean practically purred his delight as Cas continued to moan above him, hips thrusting shallowly into Dean’s eager mouth. Suddenly, Cas became aware that Dean’s hips were rocking ever so slightly, pushing the tip of Dean’s cock into Cas’ thigh and smearing it with precome. Cas reached down and wrapped a hand around Dean’s dick and slid it slowly from base to tip. Dean’s hips pressed into Cas’ hand and Dean couldn’t help the groan that escaped him around Cas’ cock, still sliding into Dean’s throat. Cas cried out at the vibrations and the their hips began to move in tandem, Dean thrusting into Cas’ hand as he stroked him firmly and quickly, twisting at the top, and Cas pushing into Dean’s throat with more and more abandon.

“Dean, Dean, I think, Dean I think I’m going to….” Dean hummed low in his throat and began swallowing rhythmically around Cas as Cas pumped him harder. They came simultaneously, which Dean’s brain briefly had time to register with awe at the rarity before he lost himself in the sensation that crashed through every cell in his body. Cas babbled above him, trembling and thrusting slowly as he emptied himself down Dean’s throat.