I made a piece, I wished for A/B/O, and @niks-fics didn't just deliver but went right ahead into overacheiver mode.
The fic is amazing, and everything I hoped for when I made the art piece. So are you into A/B/O? Into slavefics? Into Cas being a softie and giving the middle fingers to his brothers and their ways?
Then go read it on Ao3 right now!
I highly, highly recommand.
Niksfics have also been an amazing partner all throughout, so thank you for making this experience wonderful!
Originally I made the piece black and white, but honestly the way Niksfics wrote their first meeting I just had to change it up and colour it instead. Bruises ain't reading so well in black and white, it turns out.
And because this version of Dean and Cas got to live rent-free in my head, I made an additional piece of one of the scenes I found most emotionally impactful.
Thank you to the mods for arranging such a great bang, and to Niks for making it such a great experience!
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
(see Part 1 for summary & warnings)
Words: 3,300
—
Castiel’s cheeks ached. He shoved the heavy door closed, threw the latch, and leaned against it with all the relief of having escaped certain death. He had to fight off another bout of giddiness in the wake of their success making it back to his chambers. Surely a number of attendants had heard the commotion of their prolonged escape, but no one of import had spotted them.
By the time he steadied himself enough to turn around into the room, Dean had already taken the sofa, with arms thrown over his face in belated reprieve from the giggle fits that had jeopardized their entire flight.
“Oh, now you can quiet down,” Castiel chided, still huffing for breath. “Not while we were audible to every last lord and lady between here and the outer walls.” He stalked over on weakened legs and dumped himself on the edge of the cushion. His elbows and knees supported the cradle of his hands around his face while Dean snickered again.
The tremor in his joints felt like more than just the buzz of extrication. He hadn’t experienced that kind of skittish thrill since… he didn’t know when. Having Dean at his side had made it… well. Fun.
Few things with Dean weren’t, if he thought about it.
As if he hadn’t already decided, Castiel determined that Dean’s birthday would be a yearly celebration worthy of lies.
“I’m sorry that we missed most of the music. We’ll try again, another time when I haven’t positioned myself so foolishly.”
Dean sighed with an audible smile. A moment passed as they sat and quietly recuperated.
Breaking the silence, Dean hesitantly said, “Cas? Why did you do that? Make up some elaborate excuse? I mean.” He sat up, running a thumb over the edge of one gold cuff. “I don’t really understand why you’re doing any of this to begin with.”
There should have been a simple, easy answer on Castiel’s tongue.
There wasn’t.
“I–” Castiel cleared his throat, winning himself a moment to think. “I regret the neglect of past years. I imagine you haven’t had a pleasant birthday in quite some time. It seemed unjust to let it pass again without acknowledgement.”
Dean’s eyes flicked minutely between points of unseen interest on the floor. For a moment, Castiel was certain he’d say something more, but time slipped by until Dean nodded slightly and only said, “Thank you.”
Something still floated in the space between them, though Castiel felt hopeless to identify it. Deciding to press onward rather than let it linger, Castiel sighed and pushed himself to standing.
“I think some repose is due after that furor. I’ll have a hot bath drawn.”
Dean stood as well. “I’ll allow you some rest alone. Thanks again, Cas. This has been… really great.”
“Oh – no. No, I meant a bath for you,” Castiel corrected. “It hasn’t ceased being your birthday just because of my folly.” An idea struck. “Have you ever had foaming powder in a bath before? I suppose you haven’t. I’ll call for some; I think you’ll like it.” He began shuffling Dean toward the bath chamber, making a mental note to drop some of the lavender oil into the bathwater. It wasn’t every day he got to customize Dean’s bathing experience, and the opportunity to scent him all the more strongly was something like a gift to himself on this special occasion.
Another thought came to him. But… no, he couldn’t. That was too far a step, wasn’t it? Invasive, even. Though, his own memories of the practice were sweet and sentimental. He could ask. Dean was, of course, welcome to decline.
“Would you allow me to wash your hair?”
—
Everything about this had been an excellent decision.
The room was warm and steamy, the air was fragrant, and Dean was once again wonderfully pliant under Castiel’s hands.
Mounds of white foam undulated with the water’s gently rippling surface, hiding everything underneath their luxurious bubbles. Castiel sat on a stool behind the head of the copper tub and scrubbed his fingers through Dean’s hair, making sure to scratch at his scalp so Dean would hum his pleasure. His hair was in need of a trim, Castiel had discovered; however, the extra length allowed for a delightful effect, where Castiel would bury his hand in the thickest strands and slowly squeeze a fist, catching the hair between his knuckles and pulling it taut for a steady moment before releasing it again; Dean keened lowly each time. He was sinking lower in the tub, too, which bade well for his state of leisure, but would soon make it difficult for Castiel to reach him – apart from making it difficult for him to breathe, if he slipped under the water.
“If you sit up,” Castiel prompted, “I can get behind your ears.”
Dean mumbled an assent and struggled momentarily for purchase. A resonant squeaking sound echoed from the bottom of the tub where his feet pushed and slipped on the smooth surface. The foam sloshed as he righted himself, bringing his shoulders above the water and sending trickles of bubbles trailing down his back. A small line of foam remained caught on the top edge of his golden collar, where it slowly fizzed and popped away to nothing but drips that streaked the metal.
When Castiel rubbed soapy fingertips up behind his ears, Dean hummed anew and tipped his head forward. Castiel put both hands to work, using all his fingers to scrub lines from the back of Dean’s neck up to his crown, across the whole back of his head from one ear to the other. That made Dean groan; adding the pleasantly sharp press of fingernails made him groan louder.
Castiel’s limited list of devices that elicited Dean’s pleasured sounds was growing by bounds today. He wondered which ones he might layer together successfully. Perhaps he could knead Dean’s shoulders during another bath, or while he ate something delicious. Or he could hold Dean’s hair, careful yet firm, while nibbling and kissing the sensitive spots on his ribs. Maybe kissing there on his neck…
He blinked into awareness. Dean’s head was tilted to one side, with long, low hums responding to the soft stroking of Castiel’s spellbound fingertips below one ear. He should stop. Now, before those thoughts galloped further from his control.
But Dean seemed to like his neck being touched. Castiel had never explored there before.
Would Dean like it being kissed?
Would Castiel like kissing it?
His lips were dry. He pulled them into his mouth, under his teeth, to correct that; nibbled down on them to quell their desire for pressure.
Surely Dean would be appalled if he knew this wanton preoccupation.
Castiel was nothing if not self-controlled. He would remain focused on providing Dean a good birthday. And Dean really did seem to like that spot on his neck.
A slow, ghosting flutter of fingertips there on the side made Dean inhale. His breath held for a tense moment before rushing back out in a half-chuckle as his shoulder pushed up toward the sensation. Castiel withdrew, intending to ask whether Dean wanted more, but just as quickly, Dean’s shoulder dropped back down and he tilted his head again in wordless solicitation.
Smiling, Castiel gently touched the pads of his middle fingers to either side of Dean’s neck and began brushing small circles. Another intake of breath, another roll of his shoulders, another airy chuckle puffed through the aromatic steam. The addition of another finger on each side had Dean hunching over the way he often did when battling his willpower. Castiel fastidiously traced and tickled the tense lines of muscle and tendon between the corner of Dean’s jaw and his collar. The tub sloshed as Dean squirmed and huffed out breathy laughter. A louder splash of water sent foam spilling over the rim when Dean’s arms suddenly breached the surface in order to grab at the sides of the tub. The tight cords of his forearms, cuffless where the bubbles dripped away, were studded with goosebumps.
Encouraged, Castiel slid his left hand forward to cup under Dean’s jaw. He drew Dean’s head back against his own belly, heedless of the wet hair pressing into his clothes, and spidered his right hand over the exposed length of Dean’s throat.
Dean’s knees jumped up out of the foam as a choked gasp of laughter cut through the steam. The tub squeaked with the slipping of his heels. His hands clutched all the more desperately at the rim of the tub, knuckles straining to remain anchored. A bright, gritting grin was cradled in Castiel’s palm, lighting the whole room with its brilliance.
A brief moment longer was all Dean could apparently take before his hands lurched from the tub’s edge and grabbed convulsively at Castiel’s hands to still them. Flagging giggles tumbled from his mouth as the water and his body both calmed. He grinned up at Castiel, panting and still holding onto the hands around his face and neck.
Something overwhelming flooded Castiel’s chest.
How easy it would be to pull Dean’s face closer, to lean down and–
He swallowed.
“I believe it’s time for the tart,” he said, instead of anything else unwise.
Dean’s throat bobbed beneath his fingers before he, too, nodded in agreement.
—
Castiel knew Dean appreciated sweets, but the audacious quarter of the apple tart that sat on the Accessory’s plate seemed overmuch.
Dean had eyed him shamelessly while levering it out for himself, as if daring Castiel to go back on the pledge that he could have as much as he wanted. Castiel would never, though he silently questioned whether Dean was truly the same enchanting marvel he so often seemed. No one could be flawless throughout their entire existence, he supposed. Foolishness was bound to have its moments.
But perhaps “foolishness” wasn’t the right term. After all, the excessive portion provided that much more opportunity to hear Dean vocalize his pleasure.
Dean was still warm and malleable from his bath, so his sounds came even more easily this second round of tasting. All the more enthusiastic were they for the whipped sweet cream piled atop the spiced apples. Castiel couldn’t be quite so jealous as before; his own hands had made Dean moan just as provocatively on multiple occasions today. He spent a distracted moment adding them all up and musing over an intricate scenario that placed Dean in a hot, foaming bath while desserting on tart as Castiel massaged, tugged, kissed, and caressed him with far more hands than he normally had available.
“You gonna eat that?”
Castiel blinked. “Hmm?”
Dean gestured with his full fork at the reasonably-sized tart slice on Castiel’s plate, as yet untouched.
“Ah. Yes. I was just… thinking.” Castiel picked up his own fork to spear a bite.
“What about?”
Castiel paused mid-chew with an unintelligent noise in his throat. It must have sounded questioning, as Dean repeated,
“What were you thinking about?” Then, “I mean, you don’t need to tell me, I just thought… it looked like you had something on your mind.”
He coughed a little, working to swallow. “Just. Um. Your birthday gift. I’m hoping you’ll like it.”
Dean’s brow furrowed. “Gift? After everything else today, you still got a gift?”
Castiel smiled at him and took another bite.
“You weren’t joking about making up for past years,” Dean mumbled. The peaks of his features were tinging pink.
“No, I wasn’t. And next year, I’ll have the advantage of actually planning.”
Dean ducked his head, a naked, embarrassed smile besetting his face.
There was the enchanting marvel, once again. Castiel stood, momentarily abandoning his tart in order to retrieve the bundle he’d hidden in his bedchamber. He couldn't very well wait any longer to give it, now.
It didn’t look like much, all folded up as it was. But Castiel presented it as he would any token of favor to an honored conferree, be they sovereign or baron or commander – with open hands, courtly eye contact, and a gentle bow of accord.
Dean seemed to be taken aback, bewildered by the show of formality. But he took the bundle in his hands with halting reverence. The deep green fabric was tucked into a neat, plush square that he turned over with curiosity. He pressed his fingers into the lofty give, squishing it and watching it rise back into shape.
It was clear he was trying his best to appreciate it while having no concept of what it was, and Castiel would forever be enamored with these moments of confusion.
“Allow me,” Castiel said kindly. He plucked out the end that had been tucked almost invisibly into the enfolded layers, unwound a fold or two, and shook the fabric out with a satisfying rumple of heavy, well-made cloth.
A wide, oblong swath of rich green wool unfurled between his outstretched arms.
“Winter wraps made from goats’ wool like this will keep one warm even on the coldest journeys,” he said. “It’s meant to be worn over other clothes, but it should be pleasingly soft even on bare skin. May I?”
Dean nodded, seemingly for lack of any other sensible response.
Castiel laid the body of the wrap behind Dean’s neck and wound it with care around his bare shoulders, looping it a number of times with attentive arrangement of the drapes and folds, until Dean was wreathed in soft green wool. He tucked the ends neatly away among the swaths of supple fabric and wished, not for the first time, that there were some sort of adornment to set the wrap apart; perhaps an edging of embroidery in gold thread to match Dean’s cuffs. Still, not bad for less than two days’ notice. Castiel could always have modifications done in a few weeks.
In fact –
With a brief gesture indicating Dean shouldn’t move, Castiel made another brisk departure to his bedchamber. The small compartment at the top corner of his dressing chest had what he needed.
He returned with quick steps and gathered a few of the layers together at Dean’s left shoulder. Keeping his fingers as a barrier to the vulnerable skin beneath, he slid the sharp end of the cloak pin through the fabric, weaving it under and over so it would hold without falling askew. He smoothed the wrinkles away from obscuring the brooch’s form: a sleek golden wing, whose shape Castiel had admired for some years. Perhaps now was the right time to use it as a basis for a personal sigil. He had some other applications already in mind.
Castiel stepped back to admire how the completed ensemble lay on Dean’s body. Those folds would look better pushed slightly off to one side – there. Even royalty hardly carried such a thing so well.
Dean’s fingers came up to timidly pet the fabric draping his chest. A few strokes, and he buried his hands in the plush folds to squeeze and drag it up to his face for a nuzzle.
“Gods, this is soft,” Dean murmured into it. He drew a long inhale and rubbed his cheek with a fistful of fabric. “Mmm. It’s really for me? Like, actually mine?”
“Actually yours,” Castiel confirmed with a gentle smile.
Dean hugged himself, petting at his own shoulders. “This is the nicest thing I’ve ever had. Cas… thank you.”
Castiel smiled wider. “Happy birthday, Dean.”
He sat back down to finish his tart and watch Dean wriggle around in the softness, sliding the folds this way and that across his shoulders. Castiel congratulated himself on the color choice – it brought out the depth of Dean’s eyes, and it truly would look magnificent with the addition of gold threadwork to coordinate with the brooch. Dean didn’t have much reason for fine clothes, but he’d be more presentable to accompany Castiel on any future, non-secretive ventures in or out of the castle. Perhaps a refined open-front robe, with a low collar that wouldn’t obscure the gold around his neck, would be appropriate for warmer months. Castiel would start to keep watch for just the right one. He could always have one made, too, if nothing suitable was found by early spring.
After another moment, Dean reluctantly unsnuggled himself from amongst the wrap. He folded it carefully across his arms and laid it on the corner of the table, placing the wing brooch gingerly on top. He gave a parting pet to the pile before sitting back down to his remaining tart. The cream was starting to melt. His next forkful he pushed around in the runoff and brought, dripping, to his mouth.
“You’ve, um.” Castiel gestured toward him an instant too late. It was a good thing the wrap was safely off to the side. “Got some, on your hand.” Wrist, actually. Swiftly heading for the cuff’s edge.
Dean hummingly cleaned his fork before turning his attention to the heel of his hand. Lips followed tongue in an unabashed quest to not lose a single drop.
The image came unbidden: Dean’s hands again secured with fingers spread, while Castiel’s tongue explored whether it was just as effective between fingers as it was between toes. An investigation for another day, perhaps.
But despite Dean’s efforts, there was still a streak of cream clinging to his little finger. If he reached to pet the wrap again–
“There’s still,” Castiel began, not wanting to point impolitely. “Still a bit… no, higher… it’s just there…”
The elusive spot drew Castiel to lean forward and take Dean’s cuffed wrist in one hand while reaching for a napkin with the other. It was only a small daub, there by the tip of his little finger. A brief swipe with the napkin would take care of it.
Dean had been so loathe to waste any, though. And it was rare to enjoy such an indulgence.
Castiel pulled in and pressed-swiped his lips against Dean’s fingertip. The touch parted again with the light click of a kiss that Castiel hadn’t quite intended.
It was only an instant, begun and finished in a span between blinks. The instant after, though, seemed to tarry longer than it should have. Dean was very still. Castiel instinctively licked the stray sweetness from the inner edge of his lips. He realized he still held Dean’s wrist.
He released it and sat back, unsure if he was content or consternated with himself.
Dean held his empty fork in one hand while he gazed distractedly at the other, curling it to run his thumb back and forth across each of his fingertips.
Castiel cleared his throat and stabbed up another bite. “If your hands are sticky, it’s probably best to wash them before taking the wrap back to your quarters. The wool will manage snow and rain well, but I’m less certain about cream.”
Sparing a glance for the wrap, Dean nodded. His fork continued to hover for another moment. Finally, he huffed a breath, resettled himself in his seat, and scooped up another heaping forkful.
“Can I ask for something?” he said.
Castiel raised his brows. “Whether it’s in my power to provide will be seen. But, once again: far be it from me to deny the request of the birthed one.”
Dean smiled down at his plate. It was nearly empty, now. Castiel was almost impressed.
“After things settle,” Dean said, looking up at him again with an illustrative hand over his belly, “before nightly preparations, do you think we could have a – a gentle – session?”
Gods be good, Dean was actually perfect.
“Any way you want,” Castiel said warmly.
Something sparked in Dean’s eyes. “Anything?”
Castiel felt a bubble of eager curiosity rise from his stomach. Whatever kindled Dean’s zeal was sure to rouse Castiel’s as well. “As I live,” he promised with a smile. “Anything. Everything. It’s yours.”
T, 12348 words, historical AU, slave!Dean, hurt!Dean, enemies to friends to lovers, hurt/ comfort
Dean knows his life has ended when he heard the horns announcing the end of the battle. He isn't dead, but there are worse things than dying. When he's taken from the hands of the slavers by a rich man with striking blue eyes he feels a spark of hope. He might get an opportunity to escape, or kill himself at least. And maybe, Castiel isn't lying when he says he wants to help.
Castiel loathes the slave markets. The sickly sweet smell of incense to mask the seer of burning flesh; the barks of merchants, as cavalier as if they were selling produce instead of people. It makes his stomach turn, his hands shake.
Yet, here he is, cajoled by his eldest brother into accompanying him to the Sereville Slave Market. He’s ready to leave as soon as they set foot on the grounds. Large tents and open booths crowd the field, the smell of too many bodies is thick in the air.
“I don’t want to be here.” Castiel says.
He doesn’t see Michael roll his eyes, but he can hear the annoyance in his voice. “I know, you want to be home. That’s the only place you ever want to be.”
“I have things to do.”
“We all have things to do, but you have to leave your house every once in a while or mother starts to worry, and then the rest of us have to intervene.”
The suggestion that Castiel’s self-isolation is a burden makes it impossible for him to keep the scowl off of his face. He didn’t ask to be bothered, he didn’t ask for his family to feel the need to pressure him into social outings. He’s been this way for 27 years, they should be used to it by now.
“If it’s so much trouble, why did you agree to it?”
Michael sighs, “Mother worries.”
“Yes, you said that already.”
“And it still holds true.”
Castiel presses down the urge to snap at his brother. It won’t get them anywhere. It won’t make this trip any less unbearable.
“Why are we here?”
Michael is scanning the tents with an uninterested eye, looking over slaves as one might browse for shoes. He picks a tent seemingly at random and strides inside. Castiel hesitates a moment before following, his disdain for the whole affair warring with his fear of being left alone here. The inside is dim, a sweet smell is thick in the air. Slaves stand on pedestals, still as statues. Michael reaches out to touch one’s arm, to turn it this way and that appraisingly.
“I’m down a few of my staff. It’s time to replenish.”
Staff, he says. Castiel looks away, resisting the urge to shake his head. Michael calls them staff as though they have a choice in what they do, as if they make a wage.
“What happened to the last ones?”
Michael sighs again. He’s doing that a lot today. Maybe he just does that a lot around his youngest brother. He looks around the interior of the tent and, deciding that there is nothing he wants, steps back out into the sun.
“Well, you know elves, very breakable.”
There is no way for Castiel to answer without invoking Michael’s ire. He cannot say what he wants to: that Michael’s “preference” for elven slaves is gross fetishization, that the way he treats them is horrid, that owning slaves at all is shameful. Maybe he should say it, he almost has a million times. He’s said it to friends, even to some other siblings, but not to Michael. The cowardice of it eats at him, but he’s never been able to open his mouth and say it.
Instead, he says nothing. Thankfully, Michael rarely requires an answer, only an audience. He follows his brother for a good ten minute while Michael mutters about his being a second rate market and gets more and more agitated.
Happenstance has them near the outskirts of the market, browsing the open air showings, when a shout catches Michael’s attention. A branding pavilion stands nearby, and the source of the sound is quickly evident. A man is bent over a large stone block, bracelets of iron around his wrists and ankles marking him as a slave. He’s restrained by two men now, but it looks as if that were not the case moments ago. A third man stands close by, a red branding iron in one hand, the other hand is clasped to the side of his head. Blood trickles through his fingers, down the side of his face.
“He bit me.” The man snarls.
“Oh? What do we have here?” The light in Michael’s eyes sends a chill down Castiel’s back. One of the many things he knows, and wishes he didn’t, is that Michael likes “the challenging ones”. He likes to break them.
A host is quickly blocking their view, hands held up.
“I’m so sorry, sir. No need to look at that, why don’t we just go this way.” He tries to herd them away but Michael is steadfast.
“No, no. I’m interested. Spirited, isn’t he? Can I see him?”
The host hesitates, looks back at the block. The slave has stopped struggling now and is breathing heavily, not as though from exertion, but like he’s hyperventilating. His eyes are shut tight.
“Alright, I suppose. Stand him up.”
The two men holding the slave down move to pull him upright. He has a handsome face, dark blond hair, and long, pointed ears. Castiel feels a chill of fear before he even hears his brother hum approvingly.
“Ah, Elvish. Beautiful thing, isn’t he? Does he have a buyer?”
The host purses his lips. He looks to be choosing his words carefully. “Well, no. He’s being moved to one of our permanent facilities.”
“This one? You mean to tell me that he’s just going to be doing manual for the rest of his life? With that body? What’s wrong with him.”
“No one will keep him.” The host explains. “In the beginning it was fighting, running away, talking back. Now…” He looks over his shoulder at where the young man is standing like a statue but for the quickness of his breath, “He won’t speak, he won’t eat. He’s becoming useless.”
Michael puts a thumb to his bottom lip, a smile widens his mouth. “A challenge.”
Castiel knows what Michael is going to say, to do. He knows how this is going to go and he can’t stand it. He can’t let it happen. Afterward, he’ll wonder if he wasn’t possessed for a moment by the spirit of someone braver than himself.
He takes a step forward before Michael can say anything else. “I want him.” He declares.
The host and Michael both stare at him.
“You what?” Says Michael.
“I, uh, I would like to… purchase him.”
Michael narrows his eyes. He takes a step back and plants his hands on his hips. Then, to Castiel’s surprise, he smiles. “I always knew you’d come around.” He says. “All your holier than thou bullshit, you just hadn’t seen the right one. He’s special, I’ll give you that.”
“I- I still don’t agree with-”
“Yeah, save it. I know how you really feel, now. You really want this one, then?” Michael shakes his head. “Damn. Well, that’s a loss for me, but at least you’re down off your high horse.” He claps Castiel on the back so hard that he stumbles forward a step.
“Uh,”
“Alright, let's get this sorted out before you change your mind.”
- this is one i’m writing currently, and I’m wondering if anyone will be interested in reading it. If you have any thoughts, let me know!
Oh my God oh my God oh my God. Please please continue that pagan!God ask you last answered!! Please! Dean's reaction seeing Cas for the first time. Cas's reaction seeing Dean for the first time. I will take literally anything you have to offer for this au it's too good!!
❤︎ It wasn’t anything new for Castiel, to be offered a human servant. He was a god for a long, long time; people have given him gold, countless coins and statues and pretty stones, hoping it will be enough to buy his favor.They gave him food; fruits and meat and bread. They killed with his name on their lips, every drop of spilled blood an offering for him. And then they started to bring servants to his temples. They wasn’t supposed to be priests or priestess - this title was reserved for those of royal blood, for kings and queens and no one else; after all they were believed to be descendants of the gods, and who else would be more suited to speak in the god’s name? Castiel didn’t interact with most of them. He made sure they were healthy and had luck, of course, but he never felt the need to actually talk with any of them - he didn’t even speak to the priests most of the time, after all. It goes like this, year after year, for centuries. And then people seem to forget about the tradition, his temple standing without someone to take care of it for decades.And then the doors are opening, and he sees someone he mistakes for a new priest for a second; a true child of gods, bright eyed and golden and absolutely breathtaking.Everything a priest should be, everything the current one is not.It’s only when he notices the unmistakable fear on the young man’s face, he understands who is he looking at. Simple white robes and chains on the wrists, he’s a servant- no, not a servant, a slave. Scared and lost, looking so small in the darkness of Castiel’s temple.And for the first time the god feels the need to speak, to touch - offer any kind of reassurance, just do something to make the look on the man’s face disappear. So he takes an unneeded breath, the fabric of time-space shifting around him as he takes a corporeal form, the world adjusting to welcome a god on earth. Castiel knows his name, as he knows everything and everyone that have ever been offered to him. It feels oddly familiar when he says it for the first time, tasting sweet on his tongue as it leaves his lips.
An AU where angels are the ruling class and humans are secondary; slaves, servants, the lowest of the low. In this world, angels’ wings change and darken as the individual sins. Most angels wings are varying degrees of gray.
Castiel is a part of a large family, well known for the religion/pious acts/charity/general goodness. He is asked by his relation to to a job of some kind for the family/business. Castiel’s wings suddenly darken from pure white to grey as he makes his decision to do as asked over what he knows is right.
On his return, his relations share their secret. For years, generations, the family have been casting glamours over their wings to hide the complete and utter blackness each member has. Castiel suddenly discovers his family are among the worst people out there.
It doesn’t take long after that for Dean, one of the many slaves/servants kept by the family to be found out/caught/beaten for calling out to Cas and his newly hidden grey wings under a glamour of white, that it isn’t too late for him.
Dean is one of the few humans that can see through the glamour. Castiel takes a chance/begins to believe and he and Dean come together to bring down the family from within.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
(see Part 1 for summary & warnings)
Words: 3,200
—
Castiel whispered, “Dean.”
The bedcovers didn’t move.
He edged further into the small space of Dean’s sleeping quarters. Early light filtered weakly through the partly open door, casting the room in monochromatic shapes. A small chest, an even smaller table, and the rumpled mound atop the low cot were the only definitions of space.
Gingerly, Castiel sat on the edge of the cot and lifted an edge of the bedding. His Accessory’s face was half hidden in the pillow beneath. He gently touched Dean’s temple, ran his fingertips through his hair.
“Dean?”
On the second stroking pass, Dean snuffled and turned his head slightly, pushing into the touch. His limbs shifted beneath the bedcovers.
“Mm, Casss…”
A small, sleepy smile pulled at the corner of Dean’s mouth as he breathed. His eyes worked their way sluggishly open to slits, his cheek tilting up to press against the warmth of Castiel’s palm. Then the slits widened with sudden clarity.
“Cas? I mean, m–muh l’rd?” Dean drew a deeper breath and pulled a hand from beneath the covers to rub at his eyes. “What–?”
Castiel shushed him. “No need to rouse quickly. I wanted to let you know that breakfast is available when you’re ready for it. Happy birthday.”
There were a few more confused blinks before Dean’s mind seemed to catch up. “Thank you?”
“I’ll let you wake at your pace. You may join me whenever you like.”
By the time Dean appeared in the outer chamber, Castiel had arranged all the delivered platters and assembled a sampler plate. He glanced up at the blanket draped around Dean’s bare shoulders to ward off the morning chill and smiled. The doubt that had plagued him all night about his choice of gift dissipated at once. It would now be a struggle to wait until evening to give it. He stirred in one last dollop of honey and presented a steaming mug as Dean sat and took in the spread with wondering eyes.
“Grilled cakes with warm berries, sausages, a selection of cheeses…” Castiel listed off each item as he set the plate in front of Dean, and pointed around the table to indicate the remaining options. “...And hot mint tea with honey. If there’s anything else you desire, I can pass word to the kitchens.”
“No, this is… more than enough.” Dean looked up from the food, and while there was still confusion on the edges of his expression, something warm and pleased was rising in his cheeks. “Thanks, C–ah… my lord.”
This was one of many phenomena about Dean that Castiel found intriguing: the way he’d address his master appropriately when level, but slip into using Castiel’s name – and a shortened familiar form, no less – when fatigued or off balance. Castiel had assumed this peculiarity would resolve itself in time, but if anything, it had increased, particularly over the past year. Whenever Dean stumbled over his words to correct himself, all it did was draw attention to the blunder and press upon Castiel the awkwardness or even anxiety of the misstep.
He recalled a conversation they’d had not long after Dean came into Castiel’s care, when it became clear that the title of “Master” provoked a certain distress. Dean had been more hesitant back then. They’d barely known each other, but were able to discuss it and come to the solution of allowing Dean to address him as any attendant would. It put an end to the unease, and the world hadn’t collapsed as a result.
Another concession in this area wouldn’t collapse it, either.
“You needn’t do that,” Castiel said. “Revising yourself in regards to honorifics. If referring to me by name comes more naturally to you, you have my permission to do so. In private, of course.”
Dean blinked. “My lo– uh. Are… are you sure?”
No. But he would grow comfortable in time, just as he had with the prior shift. “Yes, I’m sure.”
A halting smile tugged at Dean’s face. “...Okay, Cas.” His brows furrowed suddenly with doubt. “‘Castiel?’ Or ‘Cas?’”
After a moment of consideration, Castiel said, “I have been ‘Castiel’ to everyone I’ve known since coming of age. I can’t recall the last time I was called ‘Cas,’ if ever.” He absently fingered the utensils laid by his place setting. Perhaps it would be nice to have that symbolic sense of familiarity within the confines of his own quarters. And if he never grew comfortable with it, he could change his mind. “Given the differing nature of our relationship, it would make sense for the way you address me to be different, as well. ‘Cas’ will do. Now,” he gestured to Dean’s plate, “have your breakfast before everything cools.”
Castiel happily spent the next half hour paying more attention to Dean’s eating than his own. He commented on each food item, making note of its origin or preparation as he knew about it, and watched Dean closely for signs of enjoyment or displeasure with each new bite. Most dishes were met with satisfaction, if not relish, though none brought the height of pleasure the tart sample had. All well – the tart would come later.
Once Dean set his utensils down and leaned back in his seat, humming in contentment and the glow of being well-fed, Castiel decided it was time for the next itinerary item. He stood and motioned toward the bedchamber door.
“If you’re finished, make yourself comfortable on the bed. On your front. I need to get something, but I’ll be there shortly.”
Dean suddenly looked somewhat unsure. He placed a hand on his stomach. “I, um. Should probably relieve myself first, my lord.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I mean, Cas.”
That would indeed take some getting used to. Castiel nodded and sent him off. Dean’s fullness wouldn’t be a concern in the way he was probably thinking. Castiel was hopeful that the alternative he’d planned would find itself agreeable with both of them.
He called in an attendant to clear the meal, and took a moment to point out the dishes Dean had seemed to like the most, instructing that the remainders should be kept for later. Castiel wasn’t feeling as full as Dean likely was, but the walk he needed to take for his brief errand would further soothe his tensing stomach.
When he arrived back at his quarters, he found Dean on the bed as requested. The room was warm enough now that Dean’s blanket had been discarded, leaving his back bare as usual. That was certainly for the best.
Castiel removed the stopper from the newly-acquired bottle he held and smelled the contents. The subtle scent of lavender infused in the oil made him smile.
“Just lay still,” Castiel instructed as he knelt over Dean’s rear, balancing himself on the bedding. “And let me know if anything I do hurts. I’m… inexperienced.”
Dean’s shoulders stiffened slightly.
Castiel hoped that would reverse itself rather quickly. If not, this would end up being quite the awkward event.
—
Dean’s stomach turned as he felt Cas’ weight settle over his hips. His eyes locked sightlessly on the headboard as he tried to decipher what was about to happen. All the warmth he’d felt from the settling of the delicious (and much too generous, birthday or not) breakfast foods, and the small flame of hope kindled by this new permission to call Cas by name, was seeping out of him.
At first, he’d been sure Cas was about to initiate a session. He’d wished he had been told the plan before stuffing himself full, as it was never so comfortable to laugh on a straining stomach. But now, Cas was taking a commanding position at his hips, and oil was being prepared, and there was talk of hurting and inexperience and Dean was suddenly sure he’d been horrifyingly wrong about where this was heading.
His throat was too tight to speak. If all the trust he thought Cas had built with him was about to crumble, he’d vomit right here, right now, spilling that cloying breakfast back up over Castiel’s pillows. Too much saliva was already gathering in his mouth. He shakily swallowed it down.
Cas’ hands touched his lower back. Dean squeezed his eyes shut.
Oil-slicked palms slid slowly up his spine. At the top of his shoulders, they lifted, retreated back to his lumbar, and slid upward again, repeating the path with slightly more pressure. Cas’ thumbs pressed circles as they went.
Now Dean was thoroughly confused.
“I’ve been considering your suggestion for quite some time,” said Cas.
The pressure moved up just shy of Dean’s collar and began rubbing from there out to the ends of his shoulders.
“When I helped with your sunburn, you told me I’d benefit from an apprenticeship with a masseur. I couldn’t do that, of course, but the underlying idea had merit. Yesterday morning, I sought out a short lesson. I doubt my hands will ever be so skilled, but I hope they can provide at least some small measure of relaxation, in meager return for the refreshment you’ve been giving me all this time.”
Oh, sweet gods of the heavens. A massage.
Dean could nearly have cried in relief. The pieces of their relationship, as he pictured it in his mind, began resealing the jagged cracks that had threatened to shatter them apart. As absurd as it seemed, Cas giving him a massage fit so much better into that picture than… the alternative Dean refused to think about.
The scent of the oil was blooming between the heat of hands and back. Lavender. Dean nearly laughed. If Cas had been reminiscing about the past summer, of course he would choose lavender. Dean inhaled it contentedly and felt the tension in his body being replaced once again by warmth.
Over the course of his time under Castiel, Dean had become quite familiar with a good massage. But there was a significant difference between the practical massages of the castle’s trained masseurs that served to relieve strain, and the massage given now by his caring master. Aside from the obvious imbalance in skill (which Dean had to admit was incredibly endearing), there were no aches to be soothed, no pulled muscles to be attended. It was being given purely for pleasure’s sake. While masseurs knew the body, Cas knew Dean’s body, and Dean’s body hadn’t been treated with singularly selfless pleasure in a very long time.
He hummed at the touch on his shoulder blades. Thumbs digging along his spine pressed him deeper into a groan. Offering Cas his physical and verbal responses was ingrained habit, so there was no embarrassment in how his groaning wavered and pulsed with the rhythmic pressure of Cas’ hands. Just as his laughter tutored Cas in his sensitivities, his sounds now taught gratification.
Cas learned well and quickly, as he always did. It wasn’t long before what he lacked in skill was made up in bespoke touch that melted Dean from the outside in. Where masseurs used elbows and stones, Cas used deft fingertips. Where they kneaded relentlessly until the muscle surrendered, Cas pressed broad, soothing strokes. Dean’s thoughts muddled under the touches like flour and water became dough, losing their individual qualities and snuggling together into a soft, pliable mass.
Just as he tottered on the far edge of conscious thought, Cas huffed a quiet sound of bemusement.
“I didn't expect it to be so difficult not to tickle you right now,” he said.
There was suddenly a small thrill under Dean’s skin, running just ahead of Cas’ hands as though baiting to get caught.
“It seems,” Cas continued, “my fingers are keen on their habits, and I must keep them under strict attention to curtail the impulse. I never predicted this depth of struggle.”
Dean chewed his lip, face hiding in the bedcovers as he weighed his response. “You could... stop struggling, a little. If you wanted.”
“But it’s your birthday,” said Cas, sounding confused.
Dean smiled and, daring a minuscule tease, said, “I gathered that.”
He grinned to himself when he was rewarded with an unseen huff above his back. Perhaps for most, exercising an Accessory’s usual role could hardly be seen as a birthday favor. But Dean’s body reveled in Castiel’s hands, and the prospect of Cas’ novice strokes being supplemented with his masterful ones was tantalizing.
“Would you?” he asked quietly.
Cas hummed. “Far be it from me to deny the request of the birthed one.”
—
As Dean’s groans cracked apart into giggles and condensed again into moaning, Castiel decided that it might be worthwhile to entreat the masseur for another lesson. He quite liked being able to draw sounds of pleasure out from his Accessory. And, of course, pulling laughter alongside was delectable. Perhaps there were other techniques of bodily healing that Castiel could learn and adapt into this enticing mix.
His fingers delighted in crawling the smooth, familiar skin parallel to the deep presses of the heels of his hands. That Dean had asked for such treatment was the sweetest nectar of all. Nothing Castiel had plotted for today could be considered excessive in light of that. Dean deserved all of it.
That still left the problem of the next outlined event, however. He still wasn’t sure how they’d manage it.
Somehow, by the help (or curse) of the gods, Castiel would get better at improvising.
—
“This way.” Castiel glanced once more down the wide hall to ensure nobody of note was passing by before turning into the narrow attendant’s passage.
Dean followed, clearly suspicious and much too loud. “Where are we–”
Castiel hushed him with a flapping hand as they slipped along in the cramped space.
At a more appropriate volume, Dean whispered, “Where are we going?”
“To the central assembly.” Castiel paused at the next cross-hall, hesitant. He was half-certain they should go left. Of course, that meant half his certainty was still unaccounted for. A good portion of it was distracted by the massage-oil scent that clung to Dean in their close quarters. Aside from that, navigating without the usual cues of windows and tapestries was more difficult than he anticipated. “Assuming I can actually find it,” he muttered under his breath. How attendants managed this daily was beyond him.
“Left,” said Dean.
Nodding assertively, Castiel continued leading the way.
A few moments more, and a faint murmur of sound began growing into musical strains deadened by walls of stone. Each turn and narrow staircase up, and up, and up, brought it more clarity until they approached the rectangle of light marking the end of the passage. Stringed instruments sang a refrain Castiel vaguely recognized as he peeked out. Seeing no one, he gestured Dean along behind him and stepped out into the song.
The central assembly lay three stories below, its music echoing up into the great domed ceiling just above their heads. The narrow balcony rail Castiel stepped up to curved around the perimeter of the open space. The decorative patterns painted up on the arched stonework were larger and much more grand close-up than they appeared from ground level, where Castiel was accustomed to experiencing this space. He tilted cautiously over the rail to look down at the gathering below. Musicians were clustered on the center dais, playing some stately song that seeped upward with slightly distorted echoes that gave it an ethereal quality within the high dome.
Dean appeared next to him with an awestruck expression as he took in the dome and the massive space it capped.
“I didn’t know if you liked music,” Castiel admitted quietly. “But I thought it might be nice to hear something other than the turning of pages in my chambers.”
Dean’s grip on the railing was tight as he looked down. The scene below swirled with the gentle motion of people moving through the space, circling the floor to greet one another or flow past groups on their way to further destinations beyond the assembly. A new song began, something more lilting than the last.
Nodding down at the dais, Castiel said, “This group is from near the western border. I thought there was a chance they might play something you’d find familiar.”
A smile was growing on Dean’s face, which was worth every moment of the journey’s trepidation.
“This is…” Dean began, then shook his head. “Thanks, Cas.” He glanced over. “Or is it ‘my lord,’ out here?”
Castiel opened his mouth – then grabbed Dean by the shoulder and yanked him down. They dropped messily to the floor, Dean yipping as Castiel flipped their backs to the wide stone rail supports. He tightened his grip in a warning for silence before leaning slowly to one side to peer around the support.
“What…?” Dean whispered harshly, blinking away his startlement.
Castiel pulled back out of sight. “Crowley,” he growled in annoyance. “With others, on the balcony one level below.”
“He’s on the Council, right? Why are you afraid of–”
“I’m not afraid.” Castiel peeked again. “I just… I can’t be seen. Out here. With you. With anyone. I, ah…” He sat back and rubbed a hand over his face. “I may have lied, to some people, about today.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean hissed.
With a hand partly over his mouth and one eye, Castiel turned sheepishly to his Accessory. “I said I was hosting a sensitive meeting with a Consul – an important one – from… from I don’t even remember where.”
Dean stared blankly.
“I didn’t want us to be bothered today,” Castiel explained, feeling the desperation tightening his words. “It was the only way I could think of to keep anyone from asking questions, about the meal, and… and anything else.”
Another beat of staring, then Dean’s face contorted. He brought a fist to his mouth.
“You– what?” Dean appeared to be fighting back laughter. Then, voice cracking, “Why?”
“Shh!” Castiel reprimanded, but Dean was crumbling. Castiel lunged sideways in an attempt to clap a hand over his mouth. “Quiet, they’ll hear us! It made sense at the time!”
Dean curled, sniggering helplessly at his indignation. Castiel followed and arched over him as if his body could shield the sound. He tried hushing Dean again, but the perspective on his own choices was showing an edge of absurdity. Maybe it was a little amusing. Plus, Dean was giggling all the more for trying not to, and a sudden snort echoed through the dome, acoustically enhanced over the far-below sound of strings. Castiel abruptly switched tactics to cover his own mouth instead to muffle the chuckles amplified by Dean’s mirth. They grasped at each other, choking down laughter in a desperate, failing attempt to avoid attention.
“Who’s up there?”
“Crowley,” Castiel gasped, and flailed forward. He grabbed at Dean, ducking and dragging them both away from the balcony’s edge as he stumbled with panic and laughter. “Come on, hurry!”
They staggered into the narrow passage and fled, wheezing, hands clasped to hold each other up.
He keeps his eyes firmly shut, but he can still hear the cries of animals and humans alike, the shouts of the handlers and the haggling.
Dean wishes he at least wouldn´t understand the language of the slavers.
"If I may offer advice, my lord, you can´t run a household with just women and children. You need slaves fit for hard work. I assure you you´ll find the best here. All strong men, former warriors."
"Why is he bound like that? And what about the muzzle?" a deep voice says so close to Dean that it makes him open his eyes.
There´s a man standing right in front of him, closer than anyone has dared in days. The first thing Dean notices are his eyes, blue and intense.
