By destimushi
Kink: Caning
The cane sits snug in his palm, leather grip warm and smooth. Cas rolls his shoulders and takes a few deep breaths, and the fresh drags of air is enough to still the tremors in his hands.
The inside of his thighs are purple and blue, and Cas and knows intimately how this feels even if heâs never done it before. Heâs never stayed with one person long enough to build the trust, and quite frankly, never wanted to. Everything changed when a green-eyed mechanic laid hands on his truck and walked away with Casâ heart in his pocket. The world spun off its axis the day Deanâs knees struck the floor for him, head bent and arms tucked neatly behind his back.
So perfect. So perfect for him.
That perfection is laying face down on their bed now, miles of golden skin bathed in gentle sunlight, and every muscle buttery soft. Cas knows this, the fatigue in his shoulders a testament of his fingers tirelessly kneading until not a single pebble of tension remained in Deanâs body.
âWhatâs your colour?â Cas asks and ignores the tiny nagging voice in his head. He checks the thermostat for the hundredth time, inspects the cane from tip to handle and back to the tip again, runs his free hand along Deanâs flank and giving the muscles a tender squeeze. Heâs stalling, he knows that, but the incessant flutter of butterfly wings in his gut is so goddamn loud, and he canât seem to bring himself to just do it.
âStill green, sir.â Deanâs voice is muffled, but Cas still detects that hint of amusement heâs going to have to beat out of his mouthy sub sooner rather than later. The roaring in his ears stop, and Cas shakes his head, humbled. Heâs the dominant, but itâs always Dean that grounds him. Â
Cas trails one hand up Deanâs left calf, and smiles when Dean sighs into the pillow. His fingers travel higher, tracing along the dip behind Deanâs knee and lingers at the crease where muscular thigh meets round, firm cheek. The skin is supple here, thin and tender, and Cas has left many stinging bruises here.
This feels different somehow, and the weight of the cane drags him down, returns those pesky little shakes to his fingers until he shudders, full-bodied. Dean wiggles his butt, his hips lifting off the silk sheets and presses back against Casâ hand.
âShh, no more talking,â Cas says and squeezes Deanâs thigh before tapping his fingers against the meat of his ass, âexcept to safeword.â
Dean relaxes and nods, and the ease of his obedience rushes through Cas like a tidal wave. Dean trusts him, lays himself bare for Cas, vulnerable and needy and so fucking gorgeous when heâs in pieces, trusting that Cas will put him back together.
Cas taps his fingers along the round of Deanâs ass, up the left side of his spine and down the right. Dean melts into the mattress, his body going more fluid with every touch. When the tip of the cane touches the top of Deanâs ass, he doesnât flinch, just sighs as if the weight of the world has evaporated from his shoulders.
âIâm going to go slow, start with something I know you can take.â Cas drags the tip of the cane down the curve of Deanâs ass and bounces it just above the crease. âLet me know if you want it harder, or safeword whenever itâs too much. You may answer.â
âYes, sir,â Dean sighs, âgreen, sir, green.â Not a demand, but not quite begging either, and Cas canât help the burst of affection blossoming from his chest. Always the eager brat, like heâs made for Cas.
The cane stills and takes on a life of its own as Cas flicks his wrist. Crack, and a hiss. Cas freezes, rattan pressing into supply flesh. Dean shifts as a visible tremor rolls through him. Cas waits until he settles, and the bloom of pink around varnished wood takes his breath away.
He peels the cane away to reveal a straight thin line, red center fading into a gradient of flushed pink; itâs beautiful on its own, but breathtaking marring Deanâs perfect skin.
The room is warmâto keep Dean comfortableâbut he canât help the shiver running down his spine and the sudden chill rolling along his clammy skin. Cas drags the cane along the welt, and circles to the other side of the bed before snapping his wrist a little harder. Dean flinches under the impact, but the breathless little moan and the way his legs spread just a touch wider chases away Casâ sudden insecurity. Dean loves it, is falling under faster than heâs ever done before, and Cas is the one dragging him further beneath the waves even as Cas soars higher and higher above the clouds.
He doesnât wait as long this time, tracing the top an inch or so higher and the cane lands on the meat of Deanâs ass with a reverberating crack. He presses the wood into the welt gently, rolling the cool surface against flaming hot skin. Deanâs breath comes a little harsher, and his headâs rolled to the side. His lips are parted, glistening, and his eyes flutter open and close as if he canât decide which he wants more.
Cas will decide for him, like he always does.
âClose your eyes, Dean.â Another tap of solid rattan, a tickling scrape. âYou donât need to think, just feel.â
Green eyes disappear from sight, and Cas loses himself in the fan of thick eyelashes against a galaxy of faint freckles. He waits until Deanâs breathing evens out again and pulls the cane back just far enough to tap down Deanâs thigh, tip dragging along sensitive skin. He stops at the ball of Deanâs foot and snaps his wrist.
A twitch, a soft hiss of breath. Cas doesnât wait, slaps the cane against the other foot, and draws the tip up the opposite leg until itâs resting like a promise on Deanâs ass again.
Somethings comes over him then, and suddenly he canât wait to see crimson bloom across tanned skin. Wants to mark Dean up, every strike of wood a brandâhis brandâupon Deanâs skin, on his soul.
Cas pulls his arm back, takes careful aim at the meatiest part of Deanâs perky ass, and brings the cane down with a whistle. Dean gasps, breathy and soft.
He smiles. Cas hasnât even really gotten started yet. He knows how much Dean can take, knows how far to push until his submissive is delirious with sensation.
And he wants to push Dean now, wants to drag him so far down he forgets his own name. Cas breathes in, rolls the cane off abused flesh, and aims just a little lower.
Dean squeaks and his toes curl into the sheets. Cas grins, and strikes the same spot again with a little less force. This time Dean sobs, makes a garbled noise in the back of his throat. The sound music to Casâ ears. The strip of rattan is a blur now, and each measured strike is more sure and more grounded than the next.
Cas is flying. Soaring even, and each snap of his wrist is a wing flap taking him higher. Dean has stopped twitching, his fists twisting wrinkled knots into the sheets. And his ass, oh god, the glorious rounds of supple flesh striped with straight, wine dark bruises.
Heat rushes through Cas, a fire burning so hot he canât help but be consumed by it. The cane is still flying, biting and kissing, punishing and tender, and for a second Cas is entranced by all that red.
âSir,â Dean says with a quiver, âgreen. Please, green, sir.â
Sweet fucking jesus, he wants more, begging for it in the only way heâs allowed to. Cas hefts the smooth handle and the crack of wood against skin reverberates up his arm. Dean sighs, and thereâs contentment in that small puff of air.
A swell of pride overwhelms him. His chest aches, trying to contain something so much bigger than him, doing a piss poor job of it when heâs bursting at the seams anyway. Cas is a little dizzy, and heâs trembling with the weight of that feather soft sigh. So much faith, so much vulnerability, and Dean doesnât even bat an eye as he spreads himself out for Cas, trusting that Cas will hurt him to take care of him.
Deanâs ass shifts, and his hips jump up to meet each strike. Cas doesnât need to see to know just how hard Dean must be, how good the sheets must feel sliding against the soft underside of his cock.
âThink you can come from this?â Cas isnât ready for this kind of submissionâitâs too muchâbut he asks anyway because itâs Dean. Dean doesnât answer right away, only manages a blissed out grunt when Cas asked a second time. âYou may, come that is, if you get there.â
âWill sir fuck me after if I do?â Deanâs words slur a little.
âNo, youâll be too sore.â Cas taps the cane against Deanâs ass. âIâll get off though, however you want me to. Youâve earned it.â
âOn my ass, please, sir.â The note of wishful desperation shoots straight to Casâ dick.
âFuck, Dean, whatever you want.â
They donât talk after that, just the sound of wood striking skin, and the occasional whimper when Cas hits that sweet spot deliciously hard. Dean is trembling, his hips canting up to meet every stroke, unflinching, earnest.
And when the cane lands one last time, Deanâs hips grind into the mattress and his broken sob echoes, the wrecked sound wrapping around Casâ dick like a tangible thing. The cane falls from his fingers, and Cas crawls onto the bed, straddling the back of Deanâs thighs. He strokes once, twice, and his orgasm punches through him and his vision goes blinding white.
His release paints pearls on lines of pink and red and purple, the canvas now complete with Casâ signature.
Heâs panting, unsure of who and where he is for a moment, until the universe shrinks back down into their sunny bedroom. He runs trembling fingers along Deanâs ass, marvels at the heat radiating from Deanâs skin.
âThank you, sir.â Deanâs voice is barely a whisper as he murmurs into the sheets, but itâs never rang more clearly than that very moment. Cas collapses next to Dean and pulls his sub into his arms.
Dean snuggles into him, and Cas isnât sure whoâs the anchor anymore. He breathes deeply and holds on tightly, lest he floats away in thick, fluffy clouds, and mumbles into sweat soaked hair as a fresh wave of contentment washes over him, âI love you, Dean.â
