Dean woke up to the tang of copper on his tongue and a cold band of steel encircling his wrist. He was back on the thin, hard cot in Bobby's safe room, and Cas was staring at him from across the room with that look that said he couldn't decide if he wanted to punch Dean in the face or fuck him until he screamed. Dean licked his lips and thought, What the hell, already done the first.
"Cas," he said, his voice creaking and unsteady. "Come here."
"You've proven untrustworthy," Cas said, and shit, his expression hadn't changed, but his voice was fucking wrathful. Apparently the alleyway hadn't proven as cathartic for Castiel as it had for Dean.
"What am I going to do?" Dean said. "I'm chained to the fucking bed."
And there, that expression said quite clearly that Castiel wouldn't put anything past Dean even with his current limited resources, but Castiel crossed to the cot anyway. He didn't take his eyes off Dean. "I won't release you, Dean."
"Kinky," Dean said, "but I can work with that."
"I don't understand," Castiel said carefully, and he tilted his head to the side like he was concerned he'd maybe hit Dean a little too hard earlier and given him a concussion.
Dean grabbed Castiel's tie with his free hand, and Cas immediately gripped his forearm, fingers digging in tight and forestalling any further movement.
"Relax," Dean said, though relaxation wasn't what he was going for here, and he leaned up and pressed his bloody mouth to Castiel's chapped lips. Castiel was stiff and unyielding for a long moment, and Dean couldn't bring himself to care, thought, Give me this right now, just this moment, as he licked at Castiel's mouth, bit at his lower lip, and ran his tongue against the grain of Castiel's stubbled jaw. When he finally sat back, Castiel's expression was nonplussed, like Dean had sprouted wings. Dean licked his lips again, tasting pennies, and said, knowing this was possibly his worst line ever, "I had a different kind of release in mind."
"You have terrible ideas," Castiel said frankly, and Dean braced himself for rejection as Castiel lightened his grip. Slowly, "But this is better than Michael."
Faster than Dean could track, his forearm was released, blood flowing painfully back in, and Castiel had pressed Dean into the cot, his mouth sudden and hard against Dean's, his hands up Dean's shirt and spanning his waist, his whole weight pressing into Dean and holding him in place. "Shit," Dean said as Castiel licked a stripe up his throat, lingering on his Adam's apple, and then, "Fuck," as Castiel's hands swiftly removed his belt and unzipped his pants, and then nothing at all, staring up at the rusting metal ceiling and unable to form words as Castiel's hands pressed inside.
"I understand," Castiel said, words a distracting rumble against Dean's neck, "that this is traditionally more reciprocal."
"You could undo the handcuffs," Dean managed, most of his ability to think concentrated on the feel of Castiel's palm pressed against his hip, on his other hand wrapped around Dean's dick and dragging slowly, slowly up, then down.
"You have two hands," Castiel returned.
Dean gave a mental shrug; it was worth a try. "You should be naked," Dean said, because it was difficult to accomplish this with one hand chained to the cot. Dean ran his fingers through the short hairs at the nape of Castiel's neck, trailed them around to rest on Castiel's tie.
"Next time," Castiel said, half offer, half promise.
"You know," Dean said, fingering the knot of Castiel's tie, the words on his lips tasting something like doubt, something like surety, because he couldn't take going into this under false pretenses, "given the chance, I'll say yes."
"You won't," Castiel said, his hands too firm, his lips coaxing as he greeted Dean's mouth once more.
"And if I do?" Dean asked defiantly when Castiel had pulled away to make swift work of his own clothes.
Castiel's hands paused in undoing the buttons of his shirt, and his stare this time was hooded, his lips pressed thin. "Then you say yes. Sam and I are accustomed to betrayal."
Dean winced, but Castiel shrugged out of his shirt like he didn't care, let it flutter to the floor as he pulled off his belt. Castiel's hands were rough when they returned to Dean's body, his kisses all teeth. He tore at Dean's shirt, and Dean couldn't tell if Castiel had thought it through, realized it would only be trapped against the handcuffs and the metal railing of the cot if he tried to work it over Dean's head, or if he really was that impatient, that eager to get at more skin. It was like he'd decided if he couldn't save Dean, he'd at least add as many marks as he could to complement his initial brand, turn over to Michael merchandise so used Michael might not want it anymore. Dean lay back and took it, groaned low in the back of his throat at every new bite and suck mark laid out on the canvas of his skin, at every new bruise Castiel added with his fingertips. Dean hooked a leg around Castiel's waist to pull him in closer, thrust up in desperate search for any spark of friction. With his free hand, Dean touched the rough stubble of Castiel's left cheek, the soft hairs at the back of his neck, the smooth skin taught over his flexing shoulders. Dean tweaked Castiel's right nipple, traced the line of his sternum, stayed his hand over Castiel's thudding heart for a moment before moving on to catch Castiel's dick in a light grip.
It wasn't enough. Dean's caged hand was a constant source of frustration, of missed opportunity. It should have been impossible to have forgotten the steel warming to his skin, but still Dean stretched and was denied, the few inches of slack enough to barely brush his fingertips against Castiel's forearm. His wrist ached, and his lip had split open again, red smeared on Castiel's mouth, smudged against his throat and chin, marking the trail of Dean's reach. Castiel inhaled sharply when Dean tightened his grip, but otherwise made no sound. He switched gears, suddenly, leaned over to kiss Dean's right palm, the scraped skin of his wrist, the red marks that heralded bruises to come. He ran his tongue between skin and metal, and Dean lost his rhythm, let go. Castiel's eyes were dark, unreadable, and Dean was left to wonder if Castiel wanted this as much, needed this as badly; to wonder if he needed more, whether Castiel could give it.
The alley floor had been cold and hard under Dean's hands, and until that moment, Castiel's eyes had been open, lost and wild and angry as he'd thrown Dean against the chain link fence. This gentleness was killing Dean, the way Castiel slid his fingers softly against Dean's skin, tracing every bruise with a tenderness Dean couldn't take, wasn't ready for.
"Please," Dean choked out, and Castiel pressed another kiss to Dean's wrist.
"What do you need?" Castiel asked slowly, like it wasn't obvious, like Dean hadn't begged before Castiel's hand had loosened from a fist and he'd pressed two fingers lightly against Dean's shoulder.
"Don't--" Dean closed his eyes, and he couldn't ask. Castiel traced his fingers along the vein running down Dean's forearm to the crease of his elbow, then back again, resting against the marks from the handcuffs. Dean opened his eyes to Castiel regarding him thoughtfully, and Dean wasn't expecting it when Castiel dug his fingers in.
"You don't want me to release you," Castiel said, and it hurt--
"I--" Dean's hips twitched up of their own accord, his eyes rolled back, and there was no denying his reaction here, throat bared and trying--unable--to say yes.
"You don't want me to release you," Castiel repeated, more certain this time.
--It hurt, but it was perfect, and Dean wasn't the only one working with one hand now, Castiel's left hand pushing the metal further up Dean's wrist to make room for his own tight grip.
"Say it." Castiel's commanding gravel voice did things to Dean that he didn't want to examine too closely. Castiel didn't loosen his grip, but--
"Yes," Dean finally managed, and Castiel kissed Dean, all teeth again. "Don't," Dean managed between kisses, swallowing shallow mouthfuls of blood, "don't let go."
With his right hand, he touched Dean's jaw, the back of his neck. Castiel rolled them onto their sides so he could reach the skin between Dean's shoulder blades, and it occurred to Dean that Castiel was copying him, trying to see if what Dean had given was what he actually wanted. When Castiel twisted Dean's nipple, Dean said, "Harder, please--"
Castiel shoved Dean on his back again, stared at him for a long, intense moment, then returned to Dean's nipple, used his teeth this time. A noise scraped out of Dean's throat, and Castiel's right hand wrapped gently around his dick; his left pressed harder into the bruises and abrasions ringing Dean's wrist. A raw strip of skin crossed Dean's left shoulder where he'd fallen wrong, and Castiel licked it once before digging his teeth in. Castiel's right hand kept a steady rhythm, took Dean cleanly and methodically apart.
There were--there were so many things Dean wanted--needed--that he never thought he'd have. Homemade apple pie, a freshly mowed lawn, hands to hold him down and let him know it was safe to let go. A distant part of himself worried about the consequences, about whether he could use his right wrist tomorrow, if the bruises would show, if he could look Castiel in the eye when it was all over. A distant part of himself worried what it would be like to have this--Castiel's hands rough and tender at once, trying to meet Dean's every desire--and have it taken away. Altogether too much of himself worried whether he was asking too much, what it would take to irretrievably push Castiel over the edge.
"I," Castiel said, his emphasis odd, his voice rough against Dean's shoulder, "won't let go."
"I can't--" Dean said, choking on the words.
"I know," Castiel said, all grim acceptance, and he muffled with his mouth the sounds Dean made as he came.
Dean reached for Castiel, and he could feel how hard Castiel was, but Cas brushed off Dean's hand, his grip on Dean's wrist loosening as he pulled away. Dean hated how wrecked his voice came out as he asked, "Where are you going?"
"Your brother will want to talk to you," Castiel said. "Soon."
He pressed a kiss to Dean's bloody mouth, then disappeared. He was gone just long enough for Dean to think he'd been left like this for Sam to find--bruises and bite marks littering his body, come drying in a stripe across his stomach, shirt in tatters and jeans undone--before Castiel reappared with a washcloth, a large plastic mixing bowl filled with steaming water, and Bobby's first aid kit. He was dressed again, the blood on his face and neck gone, and Dean envied him that ability to wipe clean the slate and start anew. Castiel sat on the cot next to Dean and cleaned him slowly, dragging the washcloth softly over his lips, his chin, his cheekbones, and tendrils of blood extended through the water each time Castiel returned the cloth to the bowl. The water was always warm, and when he moved to washing Dean's chest, Dean licked his lower lip and asked, "What about you?"
"If we survive this," and it was clear that this was a complete improbability to Castiel, "and if you say no to Michael," and it was clear this was pretty much an impossibility, "then--"
Castiel cut himself off. He finished washing Dean, let him zip up one-handed as Castiel pulled out alcohol wipes and bandages to sterilize and dress Dean's wounds. When Castiel was done, he fingered the ruin of Dean's shirt and said, "I can--" Dean shut his eyes at the sudden whisper of sensation, cotton brushing over and against his skin.
"Can you do anything about--"
"No," Castiel said. He touched his mouth one final time to Dean's wrist like a promise, and when Dean opened his eyes, Castiel was gone. He didn't come back this time.
Sam wandered in later, took off the handcuffs with barely a raised eyebrow at Dean's abused wrist, and told Dean his plan--his stupid suicide run of a plan that both Bobby and Cas disapproved of.
"Well they're right," Dean said. "Because either it's a trap to get me there to make me say yes, or it's not a trap, and I'm going to say yes anyway. And I will. I'll do it, fair warning."
"No, you won't," Sam said, his faith in Dean worse than anything Castiel had thrown at him. "When push shoves, you'll make the right call."
In that moment, Dean could almost want to believe it.