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Light in the Dark

Chapter Text

The place Dean wakes up in is freezing and dark. The kind of darkness that can swallow you whole if you’re not careful. He tries to fight through the fog of his mind, putting pieces together. He’s naked. His temple is throbbing and sticky with blood. The surface he’s sitting on is cold and hard, with little divots that dig into his hands and knees as he tries to stand up.


“Stay down!” someone orders. At the same time, a boot lands on the center of his back, forcing him back to the ground. The air in his lungs comes out in a gasp when his chest hits the floor.


“Wha-” Dean stumbles on his words.


Adrenaline thrums through his body. The realization that he can’t speak is what does it for him. They’ve drugged him. He’s been in too many fights to know that he wouldn’t be sluggish and confused like this from a simple knock out.  This isn’t a bar brawl or hook up gone wrong. This isn’t getting wasted and passing out in an alley. This is wrong. Something is wrong.


Dean smacks his lips and tries to speak again. “Wha’s goin’ on?”


“Shut up. Slaves don’t speak unless spoken to.”


Slaves? His slight anxiety escalates into a full-blown panic, reaching a catastrophic crescendo when Dean is hauled to his feet by two men. He tries to fight them, but they’re too strong, dragging him along like a ragdoll, his toes barely touching what feels like a cement floor. As his brain focuses and the light around him illuminates things, he realizes he’s in some sort of prison or dungeon. Like a perfect mixture of the two.


He’s brought to a cement room with floors that slant toward drains in the center. Though slight, the incline is enough to make Dean’s heavy legs stumble. One of the men grabs the back of his neck like you would a kitten, shoving him toward the wall. He starts to shake as they grab his wrists and close metal restraints around them.


“Stop! Jus’ stop. Someone tell me wha’ the fucks happenin’?” Dean asks, the lingering effects of the drugs causing his tongue to feel heavy and awkward in his mouth.


The men ignore him. They attach his wrists to a metal hoop on the wall, giving him less than a foot of slack. He starts tugging at the chain. There might be a weak spot. His dad taught him that metal chains like this sometimes have a weak spot.


“Shouldn’t have talked without permission, slave,” the same voice from earlier taunts. “Bad boys get the cold.”


He doesn’t have to wait to figure out what the man means. A second later, he’s being hosed down from different directions as the two men stand close by, spraying him with high powered hoses. The water is frigid. It feels as if they’re raining needles down on him. He falls to his knees, gritting his teeth to fight against making any noise. His hands are stuck, so his arms are raised above his head, and he regrets the new position because he’s more exposed now. They take advantage.


It lasts long enough for Dean to finally give in and scream. The men chuckle and stop the water, scrubbing him with soap on scratchy loofahs that he hopes are fucking clean. Especially since they start roughly moving them between his legs. The hands are quick and clinical, at least. Then the water returns to rinse him off. By the time they’re finished, he’s dangling by his hands, broken sobs falling uncontrollably from his mouth.


He’s relieved when the water stops but then the bone-aching chill sets in and he begins to violently shiver. His teeth clack together, and he caves in on himself, attempting to retain any sliver of body heat he has left. The two men remove his restraints and carry him down the hall like before, letting him drag between them, naked and dripping. They pass people, and he’s coming out of his drug-induced state enough to be embarrassed. He wants to call for help, but he’s not an idiot. He knows everyone here is either trapped like him, or in on the operation.


They pass a man in a sharp black suit. He’s running a hand through his hair, eyebrows pulled in as he frowns at a man standing in front of him. The men carrying Dean come to a stop and Dean holds his breath, wondering what happens now. The man flicks his eyes up to look at Dean and they’re so bright, especially in a place so dark, that his breath catches. Then he looks at the man to Dean’s left and says, “14.”


“Yes, sir.” Then they’re moving again, leaving the handsome man with the kind eyes behind. He makes a mental note that he must have a power position if they called him sir. That could come in handy at some point.


The next room they enter is painted a deep red and has what looks like some sort of modified dentist chair in the center of it. Dean’s stomach curls at the sight of the instruments and equipment that lay on the surgical steel table next to it. He’s thankful at least that it’s warm in here. He tries to let the small miracle soak in. He’ll have to hold on to them to survive this place.


“This is the testing room.”


“Testing?” Dean rasps, his voice embarrassingly raw.


A sharp pain flares across his backside as a man reminds him. “No. Talking.”


Dean bites his lip, biding his time. Now isn’t the time to push buttons. He needs to sit back. Relax. Learn everything he can. When the man decides he’s going to behave, he nods once and then explains. “We’ll test what kind of slave you will be. Strengths, weaknesses; likes and dislikes. So we can advertise you properly at the auction.”


Despite knowing he needs to stay quiet, he can’t help but explode at the words coming from the man. “This is wrong. You can’t fucking do this. This is illegal.”


No one says a word. The man that’s been talking smirks. Dean turns his head wildly, trying to find a way out. There’s a handful of men in here, one of them wearing a doctor’s coat. They’re either amused or unimpressed. None are sympathetic.


“Please,” Dean pleads, voice cracking. “Let me go, and I won’t tell anyone. I swear. I won’t say a word.”


“You sure about that, slave?” the man asks as he stalks toward Dean. He grabs his chin hard enough to bruise, his smirk grows. “Because it seems you can’t learn how to fucking shut your mouth, despite our instructions.”


Dean chokes on a sob, trying to pull away from the grip. The man is worse up close. Greasy and large and clearly turned on, since he’s pressing his dick into Dean’s thigh.


“P – p – please. Oh, god, please,” Dean whispers in between watery breaths. He closes his eyes, knowing his dad would be disappointed in him for not being strong. But this? This is worse than dad’s ever trained him for. Worse than his wildest nightmares.


Someone hands the man something. Dean has no idea what it is at first, but as it gets closer to his face, he recognizes it. A bright red ball gag. He’s only seen them used on pornstars before. He’s jacked off watching them.


He feels sick.


“Open.” Stubbornly resisting, Dean clenches his teeth and shakes his head. The man sneers. “Oh, you’re going to be a hard one to break. I like that.”


Dean stays quiet, glaring at the man. He won’t submit. Not ever. He may have cried, but he’s not weak. He knows what these men want. Submission. Useless little fucktoys. Someone to own.


Dean will not be owned. They’ll have to kill him first.


Something lashes at his back, white-hot and sharp.  Dean’s body locks up, and he releases a surprised shriek of pain. The ball is stuffed into his mouth and hands are everywhere, holding him steady as the gag is secured. They do it so tight he can feel the leather digging into the skin of his face. Panic rises in his chest. No. No, he has to talk. He’s Dean Winchester. The infamous sweet talker. He needs his voice. If he’s going to get out of this, he has to be able to talk.


The doctor attaches a dildo to the strange looking device on the seat of the dentist chair. He starts to pour lube on it. Dean’s knees start to give out, the men the only thing holding him up. What if he never escapes? What if it’s just years and years of torture and rape? He won’t break. He won’t. He can’t. He –


His thoughts are muted when they drag him toward the chair. He takes one look at the too big dildo and starts up his struggle. He screams into the gag and kicks and scratches and swings his fists. All three men have to hold him from how hard he fights. If he weren’t so distracted, he’d think about how proud his dad would be at that.


Eventually, they win. The men secure him to the chair, wrists, and ankles. The restraint system is set up in a way where he can stay off his ass. For now.


“Sit,” the man that’s been speaking the whole time orders.


Dean continues to refuse, even though his thighs start to burn from holding himself up in the awkward position. His body starts to shake. He hasn’t eaten in who knows how long. The drugs are still lingering in his body. He’s drained and weak and terrified. His effort and discomfort grow.


Tears start to steadily fall down his face as he realizes he won’t be able to do this forever. No matter how hard he tries. As if his body agrees with him, his thighs cramp up, and he slips. He sobs into the ball gag as he’s impaled on the dildo, his ass screaming in protest. He’s dizzy with the pain, blinking hard and fast as he tries to adjust. Tries to breathe.


He focuses on the man talking, trying to concentrate on something other than pain. As the man speaks, wires are being stuck to different parts of Dean’s body. His chest. Stomach. Neck. Cock. Balls. Perineum.


“You will be shown a series of pictures and videos for the next day or so. The dildo in your ass can measure muscle contractions, and the electrodes can assess your heart rate, blood pressure, arousal, blood flow to your cock, the reactions in your balls. All of it. Your body will react to certain stimuli in a good way, and other stimuli in a bad way. Those results will help us know what kind of slave you’ll be. This will help you achieve your goal of being matched with the best master for you.” The man grins. “Any questions?”


Dean closes his eyes, not finding the joke funny since he obviously can’t talk. Seconds after the man is out of the room, he’s being slapped across the face by the doctor. “Eyes open. Pay attention.”


The large screen on the wall in front of him whirs to life. Speakers seem to surround him like he’s inside it. He watches as a man approaches a slave that’s secured to a large X, arms and legs spread. His nipples are clamped, and a blindfold is over his eyes. He’s gagged like Dean, and Dean feels himself clenching around the dildo without meaning to. Dean doesn’t want that. He knows he doesn’t. So why the fuck is he getting so hard so fast as he watches the slave’s master approach him?

Chapter Text

“Again!” his trainer, Crowley, barks at him. He kicks Dean hard in the ribs, making him cough and sputter as he tries to get back into the position. It’s day nine now, and none of his trainers find his defiance cute or amusing anymore. They’re pissed today. Impatient. They’re giving him the worst beating he’s gotten so far. They haven’t fed him in god knows how long. They’ve used his mouth so often he can’t remember what saliva tastes like anymore. All he can taste is cum.


When Dean finally manages to get into the right position, his knees slightly spread, ass on his feet, head tilted down, palms up against his thighs, Crowley says in a barely restrained voice. “For the final time. Present for your master, slave. Now.”


Dean grits his teeth and stays in place. They have yet to rape him. He doesn’t know why. They’ve used his mouth, they’ve toyed with his cock, they’ve shoved countless toys up his ass, but a person’s dick hasn’t been up there yet, and it certainly won’t be happening for the first time by Dean offering it up willingly. He will not get on his hands and knees for these sick fucks. They’ll have to hold him down when they do it. They can take whatever they want, but he’ll never give. He’ll never submit. He doesn’t care what those stupid tests said – or, at least, what these men claim his tests said.


“Fuck,” Michael, the other trainer, growls. He just heads to the door, shaking his head. “I’m fucking over him. We’ll try tomorrow.”


Crowley pauses, and Dean watches him from the corner of his eye. “He hasn’t eaten in four days.”


“I don’t care,” Michael says over his shoulder before disappearing. There’s a moment when Crowley and Dean make eye contact, something Dean isn’t supposed to be allowed to do. The man looks very unsure about this and Dean’s surprised they’ve never starved someone for four days. Are the other slaves really that weak? Then he realizes what the problem probably is. He hasn’t had water in almost two days. Food you can live without. Water? He won’t last much longer without water.


“Fuck it.” Crowley leaves the room, slamming the door shut and locking it. Dean sits back on his haunches and tries to assess his injuries, gently prodding his ribs and stomach. Checking out his knee that’s starting to bruise and swell. He nearly jumps out of his skin when the door opens again. Crowley enters with a small cup of what Dean knows will be water. He takes it with shaking hands, thankful Crowley didn’t make him earn it. When the cup is empty, he’s yanked to the corner of his cell and hooked up to the restraint system, both wrists, and ankles attached to the metal rings. He can do nothing but lie there flat on the cold cement floor, barely able to wiggle.


Crowley glares down at him, all the anger back now that he’s not worried about Dean’s health. “You can piss and shit all over yourself while you starve. Stay in that position for days. See if I fucking care.”


Dean would say something sarcastic, but he’s been beaten enough for one day, so he bites his tongue. When the door closes again, the loneliness sinks in. It’s always harder to stay strong when he’s alone. He made a personal vow his first night, after being dragged and exhausted and broken from that testing room and into his new cell that’s number 14, the cell the blue-eyed boss man had picked for him. He promised himself he won’t cry in front of the men anymore. He’ll yell and scream and probably beg once or twice, but he won’t cry. He’s been able to stick to it so far, and he’s proud of that, but whenever he’s alone, all the emotions build and explode. The cool and collected Dean Winchester with the sarcastic comments and taunting grin slips away, and he’s left with Dean. 21 years old. Scared out of his mind. Lonely. Sad. Hurting.


He turns his face toward the cement wall, feeling better with something close to him, even if it’s not a person. Then he lets himself cry until he falls asleep.







A new trainer named Gabriel appears on day twelve. He was the good cop at first. Cracking jokes. Laughing at Dean’s sarcastic remarks. Letting him get away with little misbehaviors. Then he flipped a switch when he realized it wasn’t working, and good cop became terrifyingly bad. Still cracking jokes. Still laughing. Smiling. But as he does all of it, he’s busy making Dean wish he were dead.


Dean is currently chained to the ceiling, hanging, so his shoulders feel ready to snap off his body. His tiptoes dance on an electric plate. Gabriel has been torturing him for what must be hours now. His hole is gaping and on fire. His cock is nearly raw, throbbing unpleasantly because of the vibrating ring closed around it. He doesn’t care if he’s hard, though. He won’t let his cock affect him.


Gabriel turns the electric plate on once again, watching with a smile as Dean screams and dances, his eyes rolling back in his head. He doesn’t know how long it is but when the plate is turned off, his head rolls to the side and he throws up. Gabriel looks at him in disgust. “You understand that you don’t have to do this, right? You aren’t a masochist – not to an extreme. Not like this. We’ll match you with an owner who will like what you like. Who will take care of you. Why not give into that? Why fight so hard?”


“Fuck. You.” Dean spits at his face, smiling when he realizes it probably has some bile mixed in it.


A fuse blows and Gabriel grabs a whip, bringing it through the air. With each strike, he barks a word. “You. Are. A. Slave. Submit. Give. Up. You. Are. A. Fucking. Slave.”


“No, I’m not!” Dean screams through the pain.


“God dammit, fucking do it!” Gabriel grabs his hips harshly and shoves a studded vibrator into his hole that’s too big, even with him gaping like he is. He turns the vibrator on, then the electric plate, and begins to whip Dean again. He keeps yelling and demanding things ,but Dean just slips into his mind and escapes this godforsaken place. When he closes his eyes, he’s with Sammy. They’re watching the fireworks. Lying on a blanket in an open field. Laughing.


Sammy always loved the Fourth of July.

Chapter Text

“Walk and talk with me,” Castiel orders his right-hand man, Gabriel, before he can even enter his office. He buttons his suit jacket and smooths the front down, starting to move through the halls of his compound. A scream followed by desperate pleas and sobs comes from a door they pass. Castiel glances at it, chuckling. Then he looks at Gabriel in expectation. “You said you wanted to talk?”


“Yes, Sir.” Gabriel puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder and guides him closer to the wall as a naked slave is carried past them, unconscious in their trainer’s arms. “The showcase tonight. Have you decided if you’re coming?”


Once or twice a month, Castiel’s staff puts together a ‘sneak peek’ showcase for their close friends, associates, and regulars. Those attending can interact with the slaves that are going to be put up for auction. They can ask questions, and even start conversations on prices if a slave catches their eye. As the head of Novak Slave Trade, Castiel tries to attend each one. He’s missed the last two. He hasn’t mentioned why, and no one has dared to ask, even Gabriel. A man like Castiel Novak can do as he pleases. The world is literally in the palm of his hand. From politicians to presidents to mob bosses to gang leaders to cartel kingpins. They all go to Castiel. They all get their pleasure from NST. It’s power in its dirtiest form, and Castiel wears it well. In fact, he embodies it.




“Huh?” Castiel looks back at Gabriel, tearing his attention away from a slave getting fucked hard over a spanking bench. He rolls his eyes when Gabriel smirks at him. “Shut up. It’s been a while. What was the question?”


“The showcase. Tonight. You coming?”


“Not sure,” Castiel says with a wave of his hand, his signal that he doesn’t want to discuss it at the moment. He’s meeting with a Russian KGB member in a half hour, and he needs to make sure the slaves needed are prepared.


Knowing Castiel well, Gabriel moves on. “We have an open spot for the showcase. What would you like to do with it?”


“Excuse me?” Castiel nearly stumbles from how quickly he stops short, making eye contact with Gabriel. “What the fuck do you mean, an open spot?”


“One of the new slaves. We’ve been – well – struggling.” Gabriel clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “He’s not ready for tonight.”


Castiel tries to wave it off, “We’ve had slaves sob the entire time they’re on stage. I doubt anyone will pay him attention.”


This time, Gabriel doesn’t accept the brush off. “Sir, you don’t understand.”


His eyebrow shoots up. “Oh?”


“This one is,” Gabriel trails off. There isn’t a word for Dean Winchester. Other than, “Impossible.”


Castiel cocks his head at Gabriel, frowning. “You’ve worked this as long as me.”


“I know.”


“You’ve never had an issue with a slave before. Not once. Are you telling me this slave is something you can’t handle, Gabriel?”


Gabriel looks away in shame. They’re best friends, always have been since their fathers ran this organization together before them, but he’s always worked hard. Always tried to call Castiel ‘Sir’ and do his job well, wanting to prove himself. He has become the best trainer in the compound, the go-to when things get tough. He hates the idea of disappointing Castiel. He has never done it before.




“I’m sorry, Sir.” He lifts his chin, looking his best friend in the eyes.


Castiel is stunned. “You’ve never had an issue with slaves before. Not once in all these years. Are you telling me this slave is something you can’t handle?”


“I – yes.”


“I don’t train them anymore. You know that! I don’t have the fucking time, Gabe. Or the energy.” He runs his hand through his hair, yanking when he reaches the ends. They both know what he doesn’t say out loud. Castiel is bored with breaking slaves.


With a deep breath, Gabriel looks at him, a dead serious expression on his face. “I understand this. I do. But… he might be a loss then.” He grimaces, then adds, “Sir.”


“A loss?” Castiel rears back, pissed now. “Fuck that! When have we ever had a fucking loss? Not once. Not with my father, and certainly not with me. No. I will handle this.”


Shocking the hell out of him, Gabriel remains silent. It makes him laugh. He never thought a slave would come along that would make the funny, outgoing, talented as hell Gabriel back down. But he has. Now it’s on Castiel’s shoulders. He’s furious. Irritated. He was supposed to drink thousand-dollar scotch tonight with a friend in the KGB to talk about how he’s going to make a shit ton of money off of Russia’s need for sex slaves. No, instead he’s fucking spending his night dealing with a bratty little slave no one can handle. A slave that has his staff, his right-hand man – his fucking best friend – knotted up and distraught.


How is that even possible? Has he just not given his staff enough time off? Perhaps the young man has someone on the inside helping him? Giving him intel? No. Castiel refuses to believe someone in his compound would help a slave. They’d have to be idiotic to cross a man like Castiel.


Trying to keep a good attitude, Castiel waves a hand in the direction of the cells, trying to stay calm. “Well fuck me sideways, Gabe. I have to see this magic slave for myself. Lead the way.”


Gabriel pauses. “What about your meeting?”


“Postpone it. Give him a free slave to play with while he waits.”


Nodding, Gabriel starts to walk, leading Castiel to the farthest cell of the compound, where the screams can’t be heard quite so well. He knows he won’t be punished, Gabriel knows Castiel will forgive him, but he still feels like such a fucking disappointment. He can’t comprehend how this slave is doing it. How he’s fighting so hard. He’s made it six days past any other slave in the history of the compound. That’s – it’s incredible. It’s fucking frustrating.


When the heavy metal door clinks open, Dean doesn’t even jump. Doesn’t even blink. He just continues to stare at the spot on the wall a few inches from his face. Castiel begins to assess immediately. He was raised by a slaver. His father taught him from a young age how to capture and conquer a human being. He’s highly skilled at it. So skilled, in fact, he stopped training years ago. He got bored with it. There was no challenge anymore. No unexpected moments. He was so good at breaking them. He could spend ten minutes with a man and be able to map out nearly the exact route they would take before reaching complete submission.


He thought about taking a slave for himself. Someone fascinating. Someone that he wouldn’t break, not completely. Someone that has a bit of attitude in them. A little fight.


Then he immediately shot it down. His dad is an example of why men like Castiel don’t get their own slave. He’ll never forget that lesson.


Castiel pauses, cocking his head as he continues to look over Dean’s body. He’s caught off guard, his stomach twisting. He can’t assess him. The boy clearly hasn’t left his cell in days, but he’s not covered in shit or piss either. Just daily grime. No puddles of vomit or cum. His body is riddled in bruises and lacerations, but he isn’t shaking or whimpering in pain. He’s chained to the wall, but there’s no sign of him trying to escape. Usually, there are chips in the wall from when slaves try to break the chains or claw their way out.


All of this would usually lead to a broken slave. An empty shell. But Dean isn’t empty or blank. When Castiel approaches him, Dean’s eyes lock with his. The slave observes him, assessing Castiel right back. It nearly makes Castiel smile. He probably would, if he wasn’t so fucking thrown off. How is it possible that he’s present, instead of escaping somewhere inside his mind, but he’s also not showing any signs of pain? How does he look perfectly fine, if not pissed off? How is he staying Dean and not breaking?


Gabriel begins to fill the silence, knowing that something’s wrong. He can see it all over Castiel’s face as his best friend stands above Dean’s body, hands shoved in the pockets of his suit pants as he studies the slave. “He hasn’t eaten in three days. We had to force feed him. He threw up most of it, but it seems like some stayed down. He wouldn’t drink water so we waterboarded him. Should have gotten enough from that. He’s barely excreting waste, for obvious reasons.”


The smile pulling at Castiel finally breaks through. It’s small, but it’s there. He looks at Gabriel in amusement. “You waterboarded him? To get him to drink water?”


“We’ve had to be very creative with him.”


“I can damn well see that.” Castiel looks down at Dean again, impressed but refusing to show it. This young man is something else, that’s for sure. He doesn’t look weak. Doesn’t look like the kind to give up. There’s too much fire in his eyes. He’s a survivor. Refusing food and water doesn’t make sense for a survivor. It may take Castiel some time to figure out the thought process behind the move, but he has no doubt there’s one there. This kid is smart.


The slave just stares back at him in boredom as Castiel searches his face for emotion.


“Does he cry?”


“No, Sir.”


Castiel nods. He should have expected that.


“Has he achieved orgasm?”


There’s a reaction. Castiel smirks at Dean, pleased at how flushed his face has gotten.


“No, Sir. No orgasms.”


Castiel looks at Gabriel in amazement. “Surely you’ve been able to force an orgasm from him?”


“We probably could if we tried hard enough, but we didn’t believe he had earned it. We kept offering it. Trying to make deals.”


“And he refuses?”


“Every time. Without hesitation.”


“Hmm.” Castiel rocks on his heels, calculating. A human reaches a point when they’ve experienced so much pain that they’d do absolutely anything for some pleasure. It’s a matter of sanity. It’s psychology. Human nature. Even Castiel would probably be desperate for pleasure after what he’s sure Dean has endured the past two weeks.


He looks back at Gabriel. “Have you been edging him?”




“And still nothing?”


“No, Sir. He’s,” Gabriel stops before he says impossible again because he doesn’t want the slave to hear that.


Castiel grins down at the young man. “Well, aren’t you entertaining.”


Green eyes just glare at him. Castiel processes. Then he decides. He saw his father do this once, and it had worked beautifully. He can almost hear his voice in his mind. It’s a game of patience, as much as strength, Castiel. Usually, strength will suffice but never forget your patience. Castiel stands up and looks away from Dean as if the young man is nothing more than a spec of dirt he wants Gabriel to remove.


Without a word, he gestures for Gabriel to leave the room with him. Gabriel opens his mouth, but Castiel silences him with a jerk of his head, leading him down the hall far enough to be certain the slave can’t overhear them through the door.


“He isn’t locked up, Sir,” Gabriel says in a rush.


“I know. You’ll go back in a moment and lock him up. Just one ankle. Give him enough slack to pace. He’s going to need to pace,” Castiel says, not even fighting his smile. “You won’t say a word to him, Gabe. Don’t even look at him more than absolutely necessary. You secure his chain, you turn the light out, and you leave.”


“Turn the light out?” Gabriel asks in confusion. They almost always keep the lights on for the slaves. It’s just another tactic.


“Yes. And it will stay that way. Everyone needs to stay away from his door, too. You’ll tell everyone to do the same. We’ll shuffle some slaves around to seclude his cell. No one comes down this hall. And shut the hall light off.”


Gabriel looks at him in shock. “But – but, Sir. With all due respect, he’ll die.”


“No, he won’t. I’ll be handling him from now on. Me and only me. Understood?”




“Alright.” Castiel winks at his friend, trying to get him to loosen up. He’s in a surprisingly good mood suddenly. This is going to be a challenge. It’s going to be fun. He has all sorts of ideas swarming in his mind already. “Do me a favor? Get Alek to a private room for our meeting. He can keep his slave with him if he’s enjoying the boy. And for that open spot, do a group expo. If my meeting wraps up, I’m sure Alek will want to come and watch.”


Nodding, Gabriel hurries off to do as told. Castiel stands a moment longer with his hands back in his pants pockets, staring at the door down the hall, already planning the next few days. He hasn’t been this excited about anything in years.

Chapter Text


Castiel watches the young man in his cell through the security camera’s night vision. He’s been in total darkness for sixteen hours now. Since they aren’t at full occupancy, Castiel managed to isolate his entire hall. There are no slaves near him to even provide some noises here and there. It’s all just silent black air.


He hasn’t been down to the cell yet. It’s been sixteen hours of pure nothing for Dean. He hasn’t offered him food or water. He hasn’t explained anything. He hasn’t even given him a chance to submit. He went to the meeting with Alek, secured a fantastic deal, watched the showcase a bit, then came up to his office to watch Dean pace nervously in the dark. After a nap, he had watched Dean curl up into a ball and sob himself to sleep. Once Dean finally passed out, Castiel had done some paperwork and gotten some food. When he returned, Dean was on hour fourteen and unmoving. Awake… but unmoving. Unnaturally still.


Now, on hour sixteen, Dean was curled into his ball again, rocking back and forth. Castiel can hear the crackling of his breath through the speakers as Dean tries desperately to suck in oxygen through his panic. The sound of his office door opening snags his attention for a second, and he nods at his best friend to acknowledge him.


“Hey, man,” Gabriel says with a yawn, too tired to try for the formalities. He’s not there on official business, anyway. He’s always given the day off after a showcase. He was worried about Castiel though, still unsure how his friend will handle his return to training. Sure, it’s nice to finally see his friend show an interest in a slave again. To be happy. Castiel even smiled and cracked jokes last night at the showcase. But Gabriel is worried about this slave. He’s fucking strong.


Dean Winchester will either be the best thing to happen to Castiel Novak… or the worst.


Gabriel sits down on the corner of Castiel’s unnecessarily large desk, turning so he can watch what Castiel is watching. He hands Castiel a travel coffee without looking away from the screen. “How’s he doing?”


“Freaking out,” Castiel says with a grin. He looks down at the coffee and chuckles to himself. He stays in the compound for weeks on end sometimes, not caring enough to leave since he has a huge suite upstairs. It makes it easy to forget the real world is out there. Then Gabriel brings him a coffee with a green logo, and he remembers that a Starbucks is only a few miles east of the slave compound. There’s something oddly satisfying about that.


“He needs to drink some water, soon,” Gabriel says as he glances at his watch. “He’s pushing it.”


“Yeah, I know. He knows too. He’s a smart one. A survivalist. He knows exactly how to push his body.” Castiel can’t help but smile fondly as he speaks of the young man. He’s impressed. Dean is strong and intelligent. Stubborn as all hell. He’s watched some of his old footage since he wasn’t on his radar before now so Castiel hadn’t been watching his live feed. He’s got a mouth on him. A sassy, sarcastic, very kissable mouth. If Castiel weren’t so determined to break him in order to sell him, Castiel wouldn’t want to break him at all. He’s like a fucking wet dream. He never understood why all the men in this business like their slaves to be a broken shell. He wants a Dean.


“Why would he starve himself on purpose? Is he trying to kill himself?”


“Not at all.” Castiel tilts his head, watching Dean as the boy gets to his feet and begins to pace. “This one’s a survivor. Kid’s been through a lot. He knows what his body can handle before it weakens. He wanted to trick you guys into thinking he’s weak, losing strength from not eating. Then, when his chance came, he would strike.”


Gabriel raises his eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Smart one. I told you, he’s somethin’ else. I’ve never seen someone like him.”


“Me either,” Castiel whispers, watching the man on the screen in amazement.


“Are you going to give him any water, then?”


“Obviously, Gabe,” Castiel says with a roll of his eyes. He gestures to the clock. “He has seven more minutes.”


Gabe cracks a smile. “Why?”


“Because I’ve been itching to go down there for hours now, so I set a time, and I’m making myself stick to it.”


This makes Gabriel laugh, the warm sound filling the room and making Castiel smile. “Someone’s missed training, huh?”


“Maybe a little.” Castiel shrugs. “Sue me.”


“Once you handle him, you should go home for a while. Get some real sleep.” By home, he knows Gabriel means the suite upstairs. Castiel is only at his penthouse apartment once or twice a month. He doesn’t even know why he keeps it.


He waves his friend off. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t you have something better to do with your day off?”


Rolling his eyes, Gabriel gets off the desk and heads toward the door. “Yeah, I do. I’m not a boring loser like you.”


“Fuck off, asshole.”


Castiel flips him off, and Gabriel grins. He won’t say so, because Castiel would probably punch him, but Castiel hasn’t been this happy in years, and Gabriel likes it.


“Have fun today, buddy.”


Castiel winks at him. “Oh, I will.”







Dean starts to claw at the walls at some point. He’s desperate. There has to be a crack somewhere. Some way to get to the light. He needs light. Or sounds. Or something. Anything. There’s no light coming through the cracks of his door like there should be from the hallway. The room smells like shit, and no one has come to clean. There are no more sounds of slaves crying out in pain or pleasure or for help. There are no heavy footsteps as food and trainers travel up and down the hall. There’s just nothing, nothing at all.  


It’s terrifying.


He’s so thirsty his throat is bleeding when he swallows, and Dean’s hungry to the point where he can’t stand on his feet any longer. All he can do is crawl on his hands and knees, all four of which are raw and bleeding.


He starts to worry that he’s in hell. That sometime during the night, he had died, and now he’s trapped in his own personal hell.


Crying softly, he continues to crawl the perimeter, looking for another possible spot for light to break through. A soft thud catches his ear, and he perks up, trying to listen better. His heart thunders in his chest. It echoes in his ears and makes it impossible to hear anything else. At least, until the noises come closer.


Yes. Yes. That’s definitely the distinct sound of shoes on the cement flooring.


“Please!” he tries to scream, crawling as fast as he can across the floor of his cell, only stopping when his ankle chain stops him. He tries reaching for the door. “Please!”


He can’t hear his own voice, it’s all just crackles and raspy breaths, so he’s sure whoever is in the hall can’t hear him either. The taste of blood fills his mouth, and he gags.


The heavy metal latch on his door creaks, and he sucks in a breath of relief. Someone orders, “Back against the opposite wall. Now!”


He scrambles in desperation to follow the order, wanting to behave. He shakes in anticipation. Maybe this person will have water. Food. Maybe this person will talk to him. Maybe they’ll turn the lights on. God, he’d do anything for someone to turn the lights on.


The footsteps from earlier are closer now, echoing inside the silent cell. A tray is set on the ground and slid into the middle of the floor, halfway between the man and Dean. The light from the hallway is off, so he can’t see a single thing. He only knows it’s a tray because he recognized the sound, and he knows it’s halfway because his dad trained him well, so he can figure out the distance from noise alone.


“P – please,” Dean rasps. Then the door is closing, and he’s sobbing at the loss of whoever it was. He can smell the person. The scent is lingering in the air. A warm, masculine smell that’s partially the heady musk of a clean man that’s been sweating, mixed with some sort of cologne or deodorant. Something smells homey. That’s the only way Dean can describe the scent. It smells like home. Comforting. Warm. Safe.


Fuck, he really needs someone to turn the lights on or talk to him, because this is worse than death. He can’t do this anymore. He’ll do anything.


Part of him thinks it’d be better to finish off the hunger and water strike, getting this over with, but any time he considers this he thinks of Sammy. There’s still hope he’ll get back to him somehow. He has to survive.


He crawls to the tray and feels around in the dark. He nearly spills the water cup, and his heart lurches until he has it clasped firmly between his shaking hands. Before he can risk it again, he chugs half of it down in one go. It’s warm and gritty, but it still tastes like heaven. He keeps the cup in one hand while continuing his search with the other. He finds something that feels spongy, like bread, maybe. He starts to shovel whatever it is into his mouth, washing it down with the water he has left. Once the cup is empty and he realizes his one slice of bread was all they gave him, he lays down on the cold floor and curls into a ball. He cries softly, waiting for sleep to claim him. He wraps his arms as tight as he can around himself and pretends someone is holding him. Anyone.


Maybe the man who brought him food. The man he can still smell in the air.


He’d even be willing to call him Master.







By hour fifty-nine, Castiel is ready to give in. He watches Dean in the room as the boy screams for someone, anyone, to come to him. Now that he’s been getting water three times a day and bread twice, he has enough energy to sob and beg. He pleads with the darkness around him. Promising to be a good boy. Promising to do whatever it takes. He doesn’t care if it’s sex or pain. He’ll do anything.


Castiel closes his eyes, his chest aching as he listens to Dean’s broken pleas filling his office. “I’m so lonely – p – please, I – I need someone!”


“Don’t give in.”


“Jesus Christ, Gabe.” Castiel nearly falls out of his chair from how hard he jumps, his eyes snapping open to glare at his friend as he walks into his office.


With a sly smile, Gabriel puts his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”


“It’s fine. I’m just,” Castiel pauses and looks down at the screen where Dean is visibly falling apart. “On edge.”


“I can see that,” Gabriel says with a tilt of his head toward the monitor.


“He’s ready. He’s broken.”


Gabriel shakes his head, locking eyes with him. “No. We both know he isn’t. He needs the full seventy-two hours, Cas.”


“He’s clearly desperate.”


“Come on. What’d your dad teach us? Teach you?” Gabriel raises an eyebrow in accusation, not waiting for Castiel to answer. “Patience. It won’t matter if you’re back here in a week, right? Be patient.”


Sighing, Castiel scrubs a hand down his face. “I know.”


With a look of concern in the direction of the monitor showing Dean, Gabriel asks, “Have you slept?”


“Here and there.”


“Cas, I get that you’re having fun with the challenge and all, but he isn’t your slave. Don’t get so worked up over him.”



Castiel stays quiet. He knows this. He has been telling himself this on repeat. Yet, he can’t distance his brain like every other slave he’s trained. Instead of going in there and telling Dean in a cold, distant voice that he did well and will be rewarded for finally submitting, Castiel wants to scoop the young man up and rock him, whispering that he’s okay now, that he’s not alone.


Dramatically sighing, Gabriel flops on the couch and says, “If you’re struggling this much, give him something. One thing. To help get him through the last leg.”


“Like what?”


“I don’t know. Something revolved around you. You want him dependent on you.”


Castiel nods. He knew this. It’s why he’s been the only one going to Dean. Even though it was subconscious, Dean has only heard his voice and smelled his scent since this started. He will automatically feel inclined to trust Castiel. He will equate him with safety and care.


“Alright. I need to bring him some water, anyway.” Castiel pushes to his feet. If Gabriel knows this isn’t the time Castiel set for himself, he doesn’t say. He just nods and follows Castiel out of the office, saying he’s going to do rounds and check on all the slaves. They go their separate ways. Castiel spends every step promising himself he won’t give in to Dean. No matter how sad and needy the boy is. He will not give in.







As always, Dean keeps his back to the opposite wall while his man brings him his water. He calls him “his man” because that’s how it feels. The entire world has zeroed in on his man. The one person keeping Dean alive. The one person providing him with noise. The only warm presence. The only smell other than shit and piss and sweat.


Unlike every other time, though, the man doesn’t put the water cup on the floor and leave. He walks forward. Dean holds his breath as his man kneels in front of him, close enough for Dean to feel the heat coming off him in waves. Dean can’t fight his need for human contact anymore, even if it means getting punished. He leans forward, his forehead sliding along his man’s muscular bicep. Dean latches one of his hands onto the arm, keeping it in place so he can continue to burrow into it. He starts crying in relief.


His man doesn’t pull away, and he takes advantage. Dean drags the tip of his nose along the soft fabric covering his arm, shoulder, chest, stomach. He collapses and wraps his arms around his man’s waist, burying his face near his belly button, resting the upper half of his body in his man’s lap. His man’s cock is hard, and Dean smiles softly to himself. He’s making his man happy. He’d offer to service his cock in gratitude for this moment, but he’s too afraid if he moves, his man will stand up and leave.


Dean shudders, a tiny gasp escaping through his lips when his man touches him. The feel of his fingertips against Dean’s bare back is possibly the best sensation that’s ever existed. At least, until he feels the other hand cart through his hair. He melts completely, his eyes fluttering closed as he tries to soak every second in.


Dean has no idea how long they sit there like that, but he knows it’ll end soon. He needs to convince his man to turn the lights on again. To come visit him more. He needs to make his man believe he’s earned freedom from this hellhole.


“I’ll be good,” Dean finally manages to croak out, his voice broken and raw. “I’ll be so good now. I learned my lesson. I promise.”


“Hush now,” his man whispers as he takes his hands away from Dean’s body. Dean whines in the back of his throat and shivers. “Remove yourself from me and return to the wall. I’ll leave the water here on the floor.”


“No! Please. Please – don’t go!” Dean pleads, gripping his man tighter.


“Apparently you haven’t learned your lesson,” his man muses in disappointment.


Dean launches to his feet, scrambling away from the man in a hurry to obey. He panics and says, “No, no! Promise. ‘M good. Promise. So good now. I promise.”


“Drink your water,” his man orders before closing the door and locking him inside again. Dean’s knees give out and he crumbles to the floor, groaning when his kneecaps hit the unforgiving concrete. The water cup spills, but he doesn’t care. He just grabs the plastic cup and holds it tight to his chest, still able to feel the warmth from his man’s hands.


That’s the position Castiel finds the young man in when he returns to his office. Naked and curled into the fetal position, clutching the water cup like a comfort item. He steadily whispers between breaths, just loud enough for the hidden microphones to pick up on it, “Good boy. Good boy. I can be a good boy. A good boy. Good boy. I swear. Master. I swear, I can be a good boy.”


The word Master sends all the blood in Castiel’s body to his cock and makes his chest constrict with a need to go back to Dean and comfort him. He can hear the desperation in the boy’s voice. He wants to be a good boy. He needs to be one.


Castiel wants to go back down there. Scoop him up. Shower him in praise. He wants to hold him tight and tell him how good he’s being.


Good? You call that good, boy? The voice of Castiel’s father scoffs in the back of his mind, disgusted. The slave touched you without permission then didn’t let go when told to the first time! You’ve gone soft. You’re a fucking disgrace. Good? He should have to start the seventy-two hours over. You know that, Castiel.


Slamming his hand against the monitor button to shut it off, Castiel releases a heavy sigh. He can’t think about this anymore. About Dean – no, the slave. He’s just a slave. Nothing more.


Launching to his feet, he goes on a hunt. He finds Gabriel around the corner, doing something on his phone. He grabs his best friend by the arm and drags him toward the main playroom. “I need a slave. A masochist. Now.”


Gabriel skids to a halt, looking at him in shock. “Cas – I – are you sure?”


Castiel knows what the problem is. The confusion. Castiel never asks for a masochist, because he’s not a sadist. But tonight? Tonight he needs to be one. He needs to dig inside and grab his most sadistic molecules, and fucking focus on them. Channel them.


“I’m sure.”




Castiel looks his friend dead in the eyes, hoping his need is evident in his expression as he growls, “Gabe, I need to fucking hurt and fuck someone. Get me a fucking masochist, so I don’t feel so fucking bad about it in the morning.”


Gabriel sighs, then nods. “I’ll have him in the black room in ten.”


“Thank you.”


His friend pauses a second longer, but then he walks away. Castiel takes a deep breath, heading back to his office where he keeps his personal supplies. This will fix everything. The problem is that he’s horny. Pent up. Frustrated. That’s all this is. Once it’s out of his system, he’ll have no problem focusing on the training of the slave again.


He’ll beat a slave. He’ll fuck a slave. He’ll start Dean’s – NO, the slave’s - time over. He’ll train him like his dad taught him to. He won’t make any more mistakes.


He has this all perfectly under control.

Chapter Text

When the door to his room opens, Dean scrambles to his knees, blinking away the sleep he had finally managed to achieve. His man walks in, the hall and his cell still too dark to see anything but his outline. It’s better than nothing, though. He’s thankful his eyes have adjusted now. Enough to appreciate the little things like outlines and movements in the dark.


Dean sits perfectly still, hands behind his back, and waits as his man closes the door and locks it. It feels like an eternity before he takes a step toward Dean. “Present for your master, slave.”


Remembering the position his earlier trainers tried to teach him, the one he refused to get into, Dean hurries to get into place. Pressing his hands, knees, and face to the floor, he puts his ass nice and high for his master, silently hoping he’ll touch him. Dean is desperate to feel warm skin against his. He doesn’t even care if the touch is laced with pain.


Liquid is poured over his hole and crack, then rough fingers are rubbing it in. Dean gasps, tensing as he tries to stay in place. He wants to beg for more. For hands all over his body. To be touched. Held. Kissed. Hugged. He grits his teeth and tells himself over and over to behave.


He nearly falls over when a finger is shoved inside him. Dean takes a deep breath, reminding himself that he needs to focus. He needs to take what he can get. He’s being touched. His man – his master – is touching him.


He smiles wide as a second finger enters him. A shiver runs up his spine, and he swallows a moan. It feels good. So fucking good.


A third is added, and fingertips are pressing right against his prostate. Dean chokes and arches his back, a whine escaping his lips. He hears his master softly chuckle. Then he removes the fingers, and Dean is left empty and aching. Tears start to rush to his eyes, and he bites his tongue to keep from speaking. From begging.


Before he can get too upset, something thick and wide is being pushed inside his stretched hole. It’s too big compared to the fingers, and it’s not his master’s cock, which is what he was hoping for, but it’ll do. His master slides it slowly inside him until Dean’s full. He moans as it settles, the heavy weight resting right against his prostate. He wants to come so bad.




Dean follows the order the best he can with shaking legs and arms. In the new position, the plug is pressed harder into him. He whimpers but otherwise stays quiet.


The sound of a zipper is Dean’s only warning. He can tell it’s right in front of him, feeling the heat coming off his master. Something wet touches his cheek, and he gasps, recognizing the feel and smell of a cock immediately. Without a word, his master slips a thumb between his lips and pulls down until his mouth is open wide. Then the heavy press of a cock is sliding against his tongue. Slow. Deliberate. Fucking amazing.


Dean closes his eyes, fighting back another moan. His master tastes damn good. He could do this all day if his master wanted him to. His entire life could boil down to this, and he’d be totally fine.


“That’s it, slave,” his master says, his rich, deep voice sending shivers through Dean. “Your mouth is mine. I decide when you put food in it. Water. Gags. Cocks. This sassy little mouth belongs to me. Doesn’t it, slave?”


Dean can’t speak around the cock working its way down his throat, so he just makes a noise of affirmation and nods vigorously. His master makes a pleased sound, his pace starting to pick up. “Yeah. Good boy, knowing who your mouth belongs to. Knowing who you belong to. You only exist for your master to use. Isn’t that right, slave?”


Humming in agreement again, Dean nods. He tries not to choke as his master speeds up, the head of his long and thick cock sliding down Dean’s throat. He gags and sputters, nearly throwing up. Two hands grab his hair, yanking until his eyes burn.


“If you throw up, I’m not stopping. You’ll have to suck my cock while it’s coated in your vomit.” He fucks into Dean’s throat harder, faster. Dean’s body keeps heaving, wanting to throw up, but he’s fighting it with everything he has.


Just as he thinks he might break, his master is sliding out of his mouth. He can hear his hand moving against the cock slick with Dean’s spit. Dean nearly whines, wanting to be able to touch or taste, but he knows he’d get in trouble. He clenches his fists in his lap and waits for whatever Master wants to do next.


The first stream of cum hits his eye and cheek, warm and sticky. He flinches in surprise but then relaxes. As his master paints his face with cum, he says in a surprisingly steady voice for someone mid-orgasm, “There you go, slave. All marked up by your master. Now you won’t forget who you belong to, will you?”


“No, Master,” Dean croaks, his throat raw from being fucked.


“What do you say to Master for letting you wear his cum on your face?”


Old Dean would’ve made a comment, something along the lines of isn’t it you that should be thanking me for letting you come on my face, but new Dean thinks his master makes perfect sense. He was given something just now. Something like the small hug he got before. A gift from Master. And he didn’t even have to take it without permission this time.


“Thank you, Master.”


“Good slave. Don’t clean yourself. Go back to sleep.”


“Yes, Master,” Dean whispers, crawling on his hands and knees toward the spot he usually curls up in. He can feel the plug still inside his hole, and he almost asks if Master forgot about it. Then he shakes his head. Master is smart. Master takes care of him. Master knows what’s best. If Master left the plug in, it’s because he wants it left in.


Dean rests his head on his arms and balls his body up to try and keep warm. The cum feels wrong and gross as it cools on his face, but he refuses to wipe it off. That would make Master upset, and his master doesn’t deserve to be upset. Master is so nice to him. He brings food and water. He lets Dean hug him. He gives Dean his cock and his cum. Master deserves a good slave.


Dean is determined to be one.

Chapter Text

Dean sits ramrod straight on the floor, his back to the wall, staring at where he knows the door must be. It’s been almost a week in darkness. He’s discovered a way to keep track. His master comes in smelling freshly showered with water and food, then smelling normal with water, then smelling like scotch with water and food again. Then the longest gap between the visits comes, presumably when his master is asleep. If his calculations are right, he’s been in this new hell for six days.


Breakfast should be coming soon. Breakfast and his master, who will smell like woodsy soap that Dean has decided has a hint of rum in it. By the end of the night, that smell with be faded beneath his master’s natural musk, and it’ll be the best smell he’s ever experienced. His favorite.


The door clicks open, and Dean sucks in a breath when light filters in. He turned the hall light on. Finally.


The excitement is short-lived when two men enter his cell. It’s hard to see their faces with them blocking the light, but he knows neither are his master. Dean can’t smell him, and they don’t look tall enough. He could sense his master was tall and wide. Strong. Sturdy.


Oh, no. What if his master only handled punishments? What if some other naughty slave gets him now? Dean had been fantasizing about his master truly being his master this entire week. He’s fantasized about him showing up at the end of all this and taking care of him. Holding him. Telling him he’s a good boy.


Like an answered prayer, a third man enters the room, and the dim, yellow light above Dean’s head is turned on. Dean blinks rapidly to rid his eyes of the spots dancing in his vision, then gasps. It’s his master. He just knows. And Dean recognizes him. He was the man in the hallway on his first day, in the expensive suit, with the bright blue eyes. The man that said, “14.” The man who came in moments before Gabriel turned the lights off for good. The second to last person Dean saw before the darkness.


Shit. This guy is the boss. He’s in charge. Dean’s not important enough to be his slave. There’s no way the boss would want someone like him.


The thoughts swirl him into a panic, but he tries his best to shove them down and focus on being good. All he wants to do is launch himself at his master and beg for forgiveness. Make promises. Offer himself up. He wants contact and warmth and affection.

He wants to be held.


God dammit, he just wants to be fucking held.


He tangles his fingers together in a desperate attempt to comfort himself. Dean isn’t sure if he’s allowed to look at his master, but he hasn’t been told he can’t, so he takes the opportunity to soak every detail in.


He’s gorgeous. Crazy slave trader thing aside – he’s beautiful. Probably the best-looking man Dean has ever seen, including from movies. His black hair is messy and curly, pushed off his forehead. His blues eyes are vibrant and probing like they want to see into Dean’s soul. His lips are pink and look soft, but Dean bets they’re demanding. He’s strong and powerful and carries himself with grace in his impeccable dark blue suit and silver tie. He screams dominance and control.


It shouldn’t make Dean hard. None of this should. But it does, and he can’t find it in himself to feel guilty about it. Not after the week he’s had.


His master nods at the two others, a silent order, and they disappear. They close and lock the door, leaving Dean in here with his master. All alone. With the lights on. The room fills with the sweet scent of his master now that the door is closed. The only noise is his master’s deep, steady breaths as he stares at Dean.


This is perhaps the best day in the history of days, if you ask Dean’s opinion.


“Kneel,” his master orders, pointing at the floor in front of his dress shoes. Dean practically launches toward the spot, plopping himself down and swallowing a grunt when his knees scrape against the floor. He needs to be fast and quiet. He needs to be good for Master.


A soft chuckle has him peeking up at his master. He leans down and grabs Dean’s biceps, holding tight enough to bruise him as he heaves him up to his feet and back a few steps.


“Try that again, slave. Slow and graceful. Make it pretty for me.” He points to the spot and raises an eyebrow. “Kneel.”


This time, Dean forces himself to breathe. He takes careful steps and keeps his chin tucked. When he reaches his spot, he makes sure he’s balanced before slowly lowering himself onto his knees. Dean’s hands naturally go behind his back, and he clasps them together.


A heavy hand rests on his head and starts to pet his hair. “Good boy.”


Dean accidentally lets a tear slip, overwhelmed with happiness, and he hopes the man doesn’t notice. He doesn’t want to ruin this. He’s trying so hard to be good.


Still petting him, Dean’s master whispers, “I am to be your master now. You will obey me in every aspect of your life. You are my slave, and I own you. Mind, body, and soul. Understood?”


“Y-” Dean clamps down on his tongue, unsure if he can speak or not.


“You may say ‘Yes, Master’ or ‘No, Master’ when asked questions. You may also say ‘Please, Master’ and ‘Thank you, Master’ when necessary.”


“Yes, Master,” Dean whispers, eyes trained on his master’s shiny dress shoes. “Thank you, Master.”


“Very good.” His master removes his hand, and Dean takes a chance, tilting his chin so he can look up at him. His master is distracted, looking around the room. His nose wrinkles in disgust. “First order of business, you and this room need to be cleaned. Come.”


He puts a hand out for Dean to take. The young man carefully places his smaller hand in his master’s and stands on wobbly legs. The plug shifts inside him, and he groans softly. It’s been there for almost a day now, and it’s driving him insane.


At the door, his master turns to him with a slight smile. Dean notices he’s holding something. A thick leather collar. After removing the steel one Dean’s been wearing, his master lifts the leather to Dean’s neck and secures it around his throat, tightening it just enough for it to catch every time Dean swallows, but not enough to choke him. The simple strip is interrupted in the center by a metal ring. His master clips a leash onto the ring, and Dean feels his cheeks heat up in humiliation. He stays quiet, though, reminding himself of the darkness and loneliness. Telling himself that this is his master and he will do anything for him.


He pads softly down the hall behind his master, staring at the leather leash between them. The plug makes him have to sort of waddle, and he’s distinctly aware of the fact that he still has dried cum all over his face. He keeps his hands cupped in front of his rock-hard cock, both because he’s embarrassed to be naked, and because he’s embarrassed that the embarrassment is turning him on so much.


A psychologist would have a damn field day with Dean.


His mind elsewhere, Dean nearly runs into his master when they stop. They’re in front of an elevator, and Dean looks at his master in slight confusion. His master turns to him with a strip of fabric in his hand, this time a black silk blindfold.


Dean’s knees start to give, and he has to hold onto the wall beside him to keep from crumbling. “Please. No. No more darkness. Please, not the dark.”


His master shakes his head, frowning. “That was an awful lot of speaking out of turn. You didn’t even address me properly while being naughty.”


“I’m sorry, Master! Just – please – please, don’t-” a hard slap lands on Dean’s cheek, shoving his head to the side and sending him reeling. If he hadn’t had his hand on the wall, he would have fallen over from the power behind it.


Hands grab Dean, holding him tight, and he realizes the men from his room earlier are restraining him. He’s cuffed with his hands behind his back while his master approaches with the blindfold. Dean stares at him in pure terror, his body trembling so hard his teeth clatter. Any chance of being turned on is now diminished.


“I thought you had learned your lesson. Apparently not. You can go hungry this morning, slave. And if you continue this behavior, you’ll be back alone in the dark.”


The threat settles heavy in Dean’s gut, but he needs to ignore it. The problem right now needs to be dealt with. He can’t be in the dark. He just… he can’t. He can’t do it. Not again.


“Please, Master.” Dean tilts his head back as his master’s hands get closer, trying to buy as much time as possible. “Please. Anything – anything but the dark.”


“One. More. Word.” His master leans down to look at him, eyes narrowing to what can only be described as deadly. “I dare you.”


All Dean does is whimper. He shuts his eyes a second before the blindfold is secured around his head. It’s yanked tight, giving him an instant headache. His master needs to grab him by both biceps to keep him standing as the panic attack hits him.


You’re not alone, Dean. You’re not alone. He’s here too. You’re not alone. Just breathe.


“I can be kind, slave,” his master murmurs low in his ear as he presses Dean’s back to his chest. “Don’t you want me to be kind? You must be so tired. So lonely. Wouldn’t it be nice to be taken care of, instead of punished?”


Dean whimpers again, nodding his head since he’s not sure he’s allowed to speak. That would be nice. Kind would be nice. Being taken care of would be nice.


He just really wishes it didn’t mean he had to be in the dark.


“There you go, pet,” his master coos. Dean doesn’t understand why until he realizes his shaking is slowing, and his breathing is evening out.


Dean’s shorter than his master, and he smiles softly when he feels his head get tucked beneath his master’s chin. One arm wraps around him, holding him safe and steady, while the other reaches for a button. Then he’s being guided into the elevator. There’s a series of buttons and movements, followed by a soft hello and a rumbled hello back that Dean feels vibrating in his master’s chest. More buttons. A door shutting. More buttons. A beeping sound. Then the blindfold is removed.


Dean can’t stop the tiny gasp that escapes him when he looks at where he is. It’s gorgeous. He must have left the compound because there’s no possible way the two places can coexist.


He’s led past a sitting area with soft gray couches and chairs, the throw pillows yellow and gray. There’s a fireplace in the center of the main wall, a bookshelf beside it. His master brings him past a full-sized kitchen area and down a hall with closed doors. At the end is a door left slightly open. When Master pushes inside and guides Dean in, Dean pauses. It’s a bedroom. A homey, well-decorated bedroom. There’s a massive TV mounted on one wall, a bed that has to be at least king sized but probably even larger against the other. A piece of art hangs above the head, and it looks like an original, not a print. The sheets are satin and deep blue. The fluffy comforter on top is lighter blue, like the ocean on a sunny day. A tear slips down Dean’s cheek as he wonders if he’ll ever see the ocean again.


He’s still crying when his master leads him into the master bathroom of the suite. His master seats him on top of the closed toilet seat. He looks determined, about to reach for something, when he pauses and does a double take on Dean. His eyes flare in surprise before pinching in what seems to be sincere worry.


“What’s wrong, baby?”


Dean’s heart leaps at the pet name, but he shakes his head in confusion. Is he a slave or a loved one? He’s pretty sure they can’t coincide. Then again, he’s not very educated on either subject.


It could just be part of master being nice, and taking care of him, like he said he would if Dean was good. But the look in his eyes as he studies Dean… there’s something there that makes Dean wonder.


God, this man has him so confused Dean no longer knows which way is up.


“Tell me what is wrong,” his master orders. He doesn’t look angry, though. In fact, he almost looks desperate. Like he needs to know so he can fix it. So he can make Dean happy. That just confuses Dean more.


“The – the,” Dean squeezes his eyes shut, knowing this is ridiculous. After all the abuse and torture and mental manipulation, and he’s crying over the sight of the fucking bedding? “The ocean.”


His master cocks his head to the side. “The ocean?”


“Yeah. I like it. Love it, actually. The ocean, I mean.” Dean closes his eyes again, his face turning red. “My favorite memory of my mom is at the ocean. And I – I always bring,” he stops himself, not wanting to mention Sam. “I go to the ocean every summer.”


He realizes he’s panicking once again and jolts when he feels his master’s hands settle firmly on his shoulders. Their eyes lock and his master orders, “Breathe. Now.”


Nodding, Dean sucks in air. It’s waterlogged and makes him choke, but he keeps trying until he’s breathing again. Then his master wipes his face clean from tears and dried cum, smiling at him fondly. “I’m glad you like the ocean. Thank you for sharing that with me.”


Upset that his master isn’t understanding, Dean whispers, “I’ll miss it.”


Realization floods his master’s eyes, and for some crazy reason, Dean thinks it’s as if the man has never considered this. He’s never thought about these kinds of things that he takes away when he does this to people. It’s not just freedom and dignity they lose. It’s the possibility of new memories and traditions. It’s friends and family. It’s things like the ocean.


The thought clearly bothers his master because he straightens up and steps away from Dean, his voice cold as he orders, “Don’t speak out of turn again.”


Hurt beyond words, Dean just nods.


“Put your hands on the edge of the tub and bend over.”


Dean follows the instructions, a new wave of hope blooming as he waits to see if his plug will be removed. He sighs in relief as his master tugs at the toy. He takes his time, of course. He fucks it in and out of Dean, sometimes spinning it, so that it stretches the rim or presses harder into his prostate. He does this until Dean is trembling with need. Then he pulls it out entirely and tosses it in the sink to be cleaned later.


Dean is humping the air and panting, unable to stop himself despite the shame he feels. His master chuckles behind him, and he almost begs to be fucked. To come. Then he’s distracted by his master asking, “Do you need to use the toilet, slave?”


It takes Dean a surprising amount of time to get his arousal calm enough to figure out what else his body needs. Then he realizes he has to piss. And take a shit.


Keeping his position in case he doesn’t have permission to move, Dean says, “Yes, Master.”


“Alright. Go ahead and sit then.” His master lifts the toilet lid and gestures for him to sit on the seat. Dean looks at his master, then the toilet, then his master. His master laughs. “You can go, or you can hold it. Running out of time to decide, though.”


On shaking legs, Dean walks to the toilet and sits down. His dick is still semi-hard but he’s able to push it down and pee. After that, though, he can’t do it. There’s no way. Not with his master leaning against the counter so casually, arms crossed on his chest as he smiles knowingly and watches.


“All done?” His tone is mocking, and Dean immediately knows his master is aware he needs to poop. His face gets hot, turning bright red.


Staring at the floor, he asks, “Can I please have privacy, Master?”


“Privacy? There is no privacy, slave. You belong to me, remember? Your holes belong to me. I decide when you eat, drink, fuck, piss, and shit. Go to the bathroom, slave. Now.”


Dean squeezes his eyes shut. The poop is right there. He can feel it, desperately trying to get out. His hole is too stretched from the plug, and he’s afraid it’s going to slide out without permission. A tear rolls down his cheek as he clenches down. “I’ll hold it, Master.”


His eyes snap open when a hand grabs his throat, squeezing until he can no longer breathe. The edges of his vision blur and his ears buzz. “I decide, not you. I control everything. Your life. Even your fucking air. You better learn that real fucking quick.”


Tears continue to flow from Dean’s eyes as he weakly nods, unable to speak to let his master know he understands now. The grip on his throat loosens, and he’s shoved hard, his back hitting the toilet behind him. His master stares, eyebrow raised in expectation.


Dean closes his eyes again, thankful that he doesn’t get yelled at for it. He focuses on breathing, slowly forcing each muscle to relax. It takes a while for him to stop shaking, but he eventually calms down enough. When it starts to come out, he’s pretty sure he wants to die on the spot. It’s loud when it hits the water, and Dean’s so embarrassed he starts to cry, tears pouring over his bright red cheeks. He keeps his eyes closed because he can’t stand the thought of knowing what his master looks like watching him. He’s probably disgusted.


When Dean is done, he peeks through his lashes just enough to grab some toilet paper. He cleans himself and stands up on weak legs, hurrying to flush the toilet. When he reaches for the faucet to wash his hands, his eyes meet his master’s in the vast mirror on the wall. His master looks pleased. More pleased than Dean anticipated. It makes him relax instantly.


Master comes forward, pressing his front to Dean’s back as he washes up. He wraps an arm around Dean’s waist and just watches as he finishes rinsing, then drying his hands. Then they both stand there in silence, staring at each other in the mirror. The longer they do this, the redder Dean’s face gets until he can’t look at himself anymore and has to look down at the sink.


“Why are you embarrassed to look in the mirror, pet?” Master whispers in his ear.


Dean nibbles on his bottom lip and shrugs. “I dunno, Master.”


“Don’t you think you’re beautiful?”


Now Dean’s whole face and chest are a deep red. “No, Master. Especially compared to you.”


“Thank you for the compliment, pet.” His master rests his chin on Dean’s shoulder, and Dean looks up, feeling a little better when he sees the sleepy kind of smile on his master’s lips. “Master thinks you’re beautiful.”


“I’m not.”


His master raises an eyebrow. “Are you calling your master a liar?”


The look his master gives him in the mirror is surprisingly gentle, despite the clipped tone. Dean focuses on his face. His soft smile and kind eyes. “No, Master. I just – we just don’t see the same things, I think.”


“Hmmm.” His master starts to stroke Dean’s happy trail, smiling when the slave’s cock starts to fill from the slight attention nearby. “What do you see, pet?”


“Uh – I dunno. Us. You holding me. Touching my stomach.”


“No. What do you see when you look at yourself, pet. Just you. Describe it.”


Dean immediately looks away from his reflection and down at the sink. “Um, I dunno. Fit. Muscular. Well, I was. Not anymore.”


“Look at yourself, pet.”


After a slight hesitation that his master thankfully ignores, he tips his chin up to look at the mirror again. His eyes skate over his body. It’s the first time he’s seen his reflection since getting kidnapped. He’s definitely seen better days. He used to have cut muscles from working out with Sammy. Abs. Biceps. Broad shoulders. Large chest. Now he’s like a ghost of himself. He furrows his eyebrows and touches his sternum as if he’s not sure it’s really him.


Master watches him closely and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do, so he just states the obvious. “I’m skinny.”


“You’re strong,” his master says as if to correct him.


“I’m not strong. If I was strong, I wouldn’t have ended up here.” Dean stares at his master’s hand on his stomach. “I wouldn’t be giving into this. I’d keep fighting.”



“And what would that accomplish? Do you think if you fought hard enough, resisted hard enough, we’d just give up and let you go home?”


The way his master looks at him makes him feel bad for even bringing it up. “No, Master. I – I know there’s no going home.” Without meaning to, his eyes burn, and his throat clogs at the admission.


“Don’t think about home, pet. Think about this. Right now. Right here.” The hand on his stomach tightens, and his other hand comes up to touch Dean’s cheek, catching the tears and wiping them away. “Describe yourself, pet. Five good things. They can be looks or talents or traits. Anything.”


“That’s too many, Master.”


“I disagree. You’re not going to argue with me, right slave?”


Dean doesn’t like being called slave. Pet was better. He knows pet is when his master is a little softer, a little kinder, and that’s where he wants to keep things. He tries to cooperate. “No, Master. I can do it.”


“Good boy.”


“Um,” Dean scans his body. There’s nothing there. “I’m good with cars.”




Master sounds genuinely interested, and Dean feels himself stepping onto solid ground. “Yeah. My uncle owns a shop. Been workin’ there since I was eight. I was over there a lot when dad would leave, and he just started teaching me. By the time I could legally work for him, I was a pro.”


His master chuckles softly, fingertips tickling his stomach with slow circles. Dean melts into the touch, hating himself. “I bet you’re excellent, pet. Where did your dad go?”


Dean bites his lip. “Benders, mostly.”


“And your mom?”


Dean looks away from the mirror, but his master grabs his chin and brings his attention back to his reflection. Dean focuses on Master’s hand on his stomach, watching it. “She died in a fire when I was little.”


“I’m sorry for your loss.” When Dean’s eyebrows pull in in confusion, his master asks, “What’s wrong?”


“Oh, nothing,” he says before quickly adding, “Master.”


Slave.” It’s a cold warning, and Dean feels it all the way in his gut.


“I was just surprised, Master. I – you bein’ sorry about her, but not about – ya know, this.”


His master nods his understanding, and Dean thinks maybe he never considered that. He has the same face he did when he realized Dean would never see the ocean again. That had upset him, and Dean doesn’t want to upset him, so Dean hurries to list number two. “I’m also pretty funny. It’s usually sarcasm, but I’ve always got people laughing.”


His master blinks and comes back to him, a smile tugging at his lips. “I can believe that. I’ve heard you have quite a bit of bark to your bite.”


“Sorry, Master,” Dean whispers, knowing the other trainers must have told him how bad he was before.


“Hush now. No apologies. This isn’t supposed to be sad, pet.” He chuckles before prompting Dean to continue. “Number three?”


“Uh – I can sing? I’m actually pretty good. Never really told anyone or did anything about it, though. But I sing along with the radio when I’m working in the shop, and everyone’s always complimenting me.”


His master’s hand tightens on his stomach, pulling him in closer. Dean’s eyes catch his in the mirror. “Maybe I’ll get to hear you sing one day.”


Speechless, Dean can only nod.


“What kind of music do you like?” Master asks, keeping the conversation going.


“Rock. Classic and modern.”


Master’s smile grows. “Yeah, I can see that.”


“What about you, Master?” Dean asks softly.


His master looks startled, eyes widening. He opens his mouth but then closes it. He observes Dean like he’s assessing him, making a decision, and Dean wants to take the question back. It’s none of his business what music his master likes. He doesn’t get to know those things. He’s a fucking idiot. He’s going to get in trouble now. He- “I don’t listen that often, but when I do, usually it’s something mellow. Coffeehouse kind of music.”


Without meaning to, Dean laughs under his breath. When he sees his master’s questioning look, he blushes and admits, “Definitely didn’t see you as the type, Master.”


“No?” His master smirks. “Let me guess? Screamo or something violent like that?”


“Kinda, yeah.”


“I’m not a violent man, pet.” Dean bites his lips and his master grins. “You disagree, pet?”


Dean’s eyes widen. “No, Master. Not at all. You know best.”


Something shifts in his master’s expression. It’s almost as if a wall comes down. His eyes soften and his lips part, and he looks at Dean like he wants to worship him. His hand comes up to stroke Dean’s cheek, and Dean leans into the touch a little, making the man behind him smile a real, genuine smile. One that warms Dean’s entire body.


 In a low, soft voice, Master whispers into his ear, “If you were really mine, you’d see. I’d take such good care of you.”


A shiver rushes through Dean. He opens his mouth, but when he realizes he’s about to beg this man – this man who fucking kidnapped him and held him in a cell and made him sit in the dark and is probably going to rape him and then sell him – to keep him for real, he snaps his mouth closed again. Dean must be sick. Something is wrong with him. How could his mind think that way, even for a second?


The wall comes back over his master’s face, and the man demands in a cold voice, “Number four.”


Dean gulps. “I’m a hard worker. Never do things half ass.”


“Yes. I’ve definitely seen that.” His master’s voice is warm again, and he presses a kiss to his shoulder. So much confusion starts to swirl in Dean that he barely hears his master say, “Make number five something about your body, pet.”


Fighting through thoughts of gentle Master compared to violent Master, thoughts of soft kisses compared to the brutal blowjob where he didn’t care if Dean choked or threw up, Dean tries to focus. It’s hard to calm himself enough, though. It’s like two people are inside this man holding him captive, and he’s terrified of both of them.


“Pet.” It’s not a sharp warning, just encouragement.


Dean nods to let him know he’s trying. He studies his body for a long time, his master waiting patiently. The patience and kindness just add to the confusion. He wants this to be over with. The whole damn thing. He wants to be sold already. “My eyes are nice.”


“Mmmm. Yes, they are.” His hands start to travel Dean’s body, touching nearly every inch he can without needing to bend or move at all. “And you’re gorgeous now, but you do need to eat more. Get those muscles back. I saw your intake video. Stop misbehaving so I can feed you properly.”


Dean blushes as he thinks of his intake. They videotaped it? What else have they taped? How much has his master seen?


“Are you going to behave, pet?”


“Yes, Master,” Dean whispers.


“Good boy.”


Dean looks back down at the sink, shivering under the praise. “Thank you, Master.”


“Mmmm. And these freckles, pet. You’re covered in them. Like a fucking galaxy on your skin. Beautiful.” Dean’s blush deepens and his master chuckles. “That, that right there. I love that too. This beautiful blush. That’s the first reaction I was able to get from you, and probably my favorite.”


“Thank you, Master.”


“And this ass.” He grips Dean’s ass and Dean gasps, but then accidently moans. “I can’t wait to fuck this ass.”


Dean clamps down on his lip so he doesn’t admit that he can’t wait either. Thankfully, his master decides that this portion of the night is over. He spins Dean around and gives him a reassuring smile. Then, taking him by surprise, he leans in and wraps his lips around Dean’s. It’s a slow kiss. Gentle. Warm. Soft. It makes Dean dizzy.


Master pulls away, and Dean can’t keep himself from staring up at the man in a wondered daze. “That was for going to the bathroom and listing five things. Such a good boy for me, pet. So good.”


Shivering from the praise, Dean whispers, “Thank you, Master.”


“Do you like Master’s kisses?”


Surprisingly, it doesn’t sound like he’s teasing Dean. It seems like he genuinely wants to know. No, it’s almost like he needs to know. He stares at Dean with a hint of desperation as he waits for the answer. Dean blushes and darts his eyes away, unable to look at him as he nods.


“Good.” Dean’s chin is turned, and he’s given another kiss. It’s quick, just a brush of lips, but Dean gasps anyway. When his master pulls back, he stays close enough for his breath to fall on Dean’s mouth. “Stay a good boy for me, and you’ll get many more.”


Before Dean can recover, he’s being guided to the toilet and pushed down to sit on the closed lid. His master reaches over and turns the large jacuzzi tub faucet on. He pours something from a crystal bottle that smells like heaven before leaving the room altogether.


Dean lets his eyes roam freely around the room. He registers a razor and a lighter for all the candles. Next to them is an air freshener can. Dean’s mind slips into the survival mode his dad created in him. He could use that razor and attack the man, cutting his carotid artery. Or he could take the aerosol can and lighter to make a flamethrower. He’s not sure if he’s just that broken, or if he’s just too exhausted, but his heartbeat doesn’t even pick up at the possibility of escape. He just drags his eyes elsewhere, examining the towel rack.


His master comes back without his suit jacket or tie, a few of the buttons on his white dress shirt undone to reveal silky skin, and the sleeves loosely rolled up to his elbows. Dean’s mouth goes dry as he watches him approach. From his master’s smirk, he knows exactly what Dean is thinking.


For the first time since the darkness, Dean finds it in himself to feel ashamed. This man is taking the ocean from him. Taking Sammy from him. Taking his entire life from him. It’s disgusting that he’s attracted to the monster. Dean’s fucked up.


To make himself feel better, Dean makes a silent vow to himself. One he will take to his grave.


He will not fall in love with this man. This monster can take everything else, but he can’t have Dean’s heart.


Chapter Text

Castiel ends up emptying and refilling the tub twice before Dean is clean enough to soak in some fresh water. As he relaxes into the bubbles and closes his eyes, Castiel watches his body give into exhaustion. Not enough to fall asleep, the young man is far too guarded for that, but enough for Castiel to see him breathe easily for the first time since he met him.


It’s a welcome sight. Castiel is not like some of his friends and associates. He gets hard when a slave struggles or gets punished, of course, but these are the moments as a master he has always enjoyed. The moments of calm and safety. Of course, he never got these moments for real. Just illusions as he trained a slave to belong to someone else. Pretend peace. Nothing more.


So why does it feel different right now? And why is it so fucking hard for Castiel to remember it’s nothing more with Dean? It can’t be more.


After washing the young man, including a gentle scalp massage while shampooing his hair, Castiel wraps him in a fluffy blue towel and brings him into the bedroom. He dries him off and lays him down so he can smooth a cream over the few marks still healing on his otherwise perfect body.


Once he has Dean relaxed and sleepy, Castiel tucks him in and places a soft kiss on his forehead.


“Get some rest, pet.”


“But-” Dean stops himself, remembering the rules. He’s a slave. He has no right to ask his master to lay down with him. To sleep with him. He worries his bottom lip with his teeth and deflates into the mattress.


It’s not hard for Castiel to understand, though. Ever since Dean emerged from the darkness, Castiel’s been craving those things too. The things that are off limits. Bringing Dean up here was bad enough. He most definitely cannot lay beside him.


Remembering his father, remembering what loving a slave does to you, Castiel shoves his desires down as deep as he can and looks down at Dean with a straight face. “I will leave the lamp on, no darkness. Go to sleep.”


“Are – are you leaving?”


He forgot to call him Master, and Castiel should yell at him for that. He’s also told him twice now to go to sleep, and he hasn’t yet. Castiel should yell at him for that too. Hell, he should probably spank him.


But Dean looks so sad, small, and lonely. So, he meets him halfway. “There’s a desk here in the corner. I’ll be doing work there. You’re not alone.”


The relief on Dean’s face makes Castiel’s chest constrict. “Now, go to sleep, pet.”


Shit. He had meant to call him slave.


Castiel’s fucking losing it.


He needs to get his shit together.


Dean closes his eyes, and Castiel hurries over to his desk, slumping down in the chair and burying his face in his hands.








After his nap, Dean’s master clips the leash back on his collar and leads him out of the suite. He doesn’t speak to Dean, not once, but he doesn’t try to blindfold him again. He just covers Dean’s eyes with his hands while they travel with a series of beeping buttons and guided movements. It isn’t until he takes his hand away for Dean to see where they are that Dean begins to panic. His master brought him back to the dungeons. He’s leading him back down the hall, straight to his cell.


He starts to drag his feet, shaking his head since he can’t complain verbally. His master just yanks him, hard, sending him stumbling forward, nearly falling to his knees. Other slaves are around, and they all stare openly at him. This is something that none of them did before when he was led around by the other trainers. He wonders if the other slaves know who his master is. If they’re aware that Dean, the naughty slave everyone hates, is being led by one of the bosses.


Maybe he can try and talk to one of the slaves if he ever gets a chance. Maybe they can help him understand who and what he’s dealing with.


The cell is at least clean, no longer smelly or sticky, but Dean still can’t get himself to step foot in it. He stands at the barrier, shaking violently. His master stands a few feet inside the room with his hands casually in his pockets, one eyebrow raised in expectation.  


“Please, Master,” Dean whispers, tucking his chin down to avoid having to look at the man.


“This is your place, slave. I have no use for you right now. None. If your master has no use for you, this is where you should be. Waiting eagerly to be used again.”


Dean interlocks his fingers, pretending it’s someone else’s hand holding his own. It’s not working very well. Even though his master is right there, he can still feel the loneliness seeping into him. Down to the bone. Down to his fucking soul.


He was willing to give in, he was prepared to do whatever it took, but he can’t do this. Dean can’t go back in this cell. Miserable. Cold. Lonely.




What if they put him in the dark again?


Panic presses down on his chest.


“Step in on your own, right now, or you’ll be punished.”


Dean tries. He really does. He orders his feet to move, but they don’t. Next thing he knows, he’s moving – but not on his own accord. His master has the hair at the nape of his neck in his fist, shoving him forward. He slams Dean’s front into the cold cement wall and grabs both his hands, opening them wide and flattening them against it. Dean stays in place, one hand on each side of his face, legs trembling so hard he’s worried he’ll fall.


The sharp sound of leather pulling through belt loops makes him jump. “I think ten lashes will suffice.”


Ten lashes? Oh, yeah, Dean can handle that. That’s nothing compared to what the other trainers did. They had used real whips and canes and hit him so many times he lost count. Ten lashes with a belt is like home. He can almost hear his dad droning on about respect and discipline.


Then the first one lands, right on the curve of his ass cheeks, and his breath is knocked from him. “That’s one. Count for me slave.”




“One, Master,” his master corrects.


“One, Master.”


“Thank you, Master,” his master adds.


Dean whispers in a broken voice, “Thank you, Master.”




The second lash is even harder, right across the center of his thighs. It stings, then burns with radiating heat. “Slave?”


Just before Dean can ask what his master wants, he remembers. “Two, Master.”




“And?” Dean rests his forehead against the cool wall, uncertain. He’s too thrown off. This isn’t supposed to hurt so much. This isn’t supposed to make him want to cry and beg his master to hold him. “And – And I don’t know, Master.”


A third lash in the exact same spot comes. “Thank you, Master – that was the correct answer, slave.”


“Yes, Master. Sorry. Thank you, Master.” Dean is crying already, and he doesn’t understand why. He’s so overwhelmed. Confused. Afraid. There’s something about his master that seems to be inside him, breaking him apart from the inside out. He remembers something and quickly adds, “Three, Master. Thank you, Master.”


The low chuckle from his master makes his gut sink. “Not three. That was punishment for not answering correctly. This next one will be your third lash. Understood?”


“Yes, Master.”




The actual third lash comes, and he grits his teeth to keep from screaming as it hits across the center of his ass cheeks. “Three, Master. Thank you, Master.”


Another comes, and he responds like he’s supposed to. A fire is crawling up his spine now, even though the belt hasn’t gone near it, and he’s feeling lightheaded. He starts to think about all the nice things Master said in the bathroom. How gentle he was. Kind. He made Dean feel worthy and beautiful and safe. He stayed in the room. Kept the lights on.


And now he’s hurting Dean.


He’s mad at Dean.


He’s disappointed in Dean.


Dean disappointed Master.


Before the next hit comes, Dean whispers, “I’m so sorry, Master. I’m sorry. I didn’t – I didn’t want to disappoint you. I’m – I’m so – I’m so sorry.”


The silence that follows is long and terrifying. Dean has a hard time breathing. It stretches to the point where Dean wishes his master would just return to hurting him.


“Pet, do you know what punishments are for?”


Dean bites his lip. “To learn a lesson, Master?”


“Partially.” He feels warmth behind him like his master is walking closer to him. He’s not sure if it’s his imagination, but he thinks he can feel his breath on the back of his neck. “A slave gets punished so that,

when the punishment is over, they can let go of the guilt and move on. They can focus on being good again. On pleasing their master.”


Dean feels his body relax. “Oh.”


“So, when these ten lashes are over, you will not be upset with yourself for disappointing me. Is that understood?”


“Yes, Master.”


“And you’re going to learn the lesson and listen to directions the first time. Is that understood?”


“Yes, Master.”


A kiss is pressed to the back of his neck. Quick. Soft. Possibly another thing from his imagination. Then his master steps back and hits him. Number five hits at an angle. He arches his back and keens, relieved that he’s another lash closer to being freed from his guilt and shame. For some reason, a wave of pleasure washes through him, surprisingly chasing away the pain.


“Five, Master. Thank you, Master.”


For the first time, he sounds thankful. He fucking feels thankful. He doesn’t understand why. Part of him is screaming for his master to stop before Dean breaks his promise to himself. The other part is cheering him on, curious where this will lead. Wanting Dean to chase the pleasure. Wanting to see how much pleasure he can wring out of all the pain. Wanting him to give in.


Another lash, and warmth begins to furl beneath his belly button. “Six, Master. Thank you, Master.”


Maybe his master will finally, after so long, let him come. Unlike the other times, Dean would not fight it. He’d beg for the opportunity to orgasm now. For his master.


He’d do anything for his master.


Another hit. Dean presses his legs together, trying to find relief from his rock-hard cock that’s dripping an embarrassing pool of precum onto the floor between his feet. “S – Seven, Master. Th – Thank you, Master.”


When he hears the hum of appreciation from his master, Dean smiles. He feels warm and content. Even as his skin burns. Even as he stands in a cold cell that is now his home. Even as his life is being ripped away. He feels safe. It’s the oddest sentiment in the world, and it catches him so off guard that he doesn’t even feel the eighth lash. The only reason he knows it came is because his brain registered the sound against his skin.


“Eight, Master. Th – Thank you, Master.”


Instead of another lash coming, the belt clinks to the floor and a warm body is pressed up behind him. Dean moans and presses back against his master, taking every single moment of comfort his master is willing to give him. He rests his head on his shoulder and looks up at him. His master is smiling.


Dean made his master smile.


“You are so good for me, pet.” His master is panting. He moves in closer, an arm wrapping around Dean’s waist to pull him in. Dean shivers when he feels his master’s hard cock poking him through his dress pants. “Mmmm, my pet likes Master’s cock, doesn’t he?”


All self-respect flies out the window as Dean whimpers and nods. “Yes, Master.”


His master drags the tip of his nose up the side of Dean’s neck, inhaling. He hums in satisfaction, pressing himself against Dean, before whispering in his ear, “Do you want it?”


“Yes,” Dean’s panting so hard, his mind numbing. He forgets to call him master. If his master notices, he doesn’t point it out.


“Tell me, pet,” Master demands, pulling his hips away to break their contact. “Tell me what you want.”


Dean rocks back against him, loving the low moan it pulls from his master’s lips. “I want your cock, Master.”


“How do you want it?”


“Any – Any – oh, fuck,” he pauses, hanging his head and peering down at where his master is wrapping a large, warm hand around his leaking cock. He’s stroking him slowly, holding Dean’s hip tight to keep him from bucking into the touch.


A low chuckle makes his skin erupt in goosebumps. “Should Master just decide for you?”


Dean sags in relief and nods. “Yes. Yes, please, Master. You – You do what you want. I’m yours. Only yours. Only what makes you happy, Master.”


“Jesus Christ.” He feels a forehead press against the back of his neck and, if he isn’t imagining it, his master’s breaths are coming in shaky shudders. Dean whimpers when his master places a kiss on the skin there.


The hand around his cock slips away, and his master steps back, leaving Dean cold and alone. Dean shivers at the loss. He waits for the belt to be picked up or for his master to say something, but he doesn’t. He just stands a few inches from Dean, one step away, and breathes heavily.


Then a hand is placed on the small of Dean’s back, pressing him firmly against the cool wall. His master starts to rub his abused ass. Slowly. Gently. “I need to finish your punishment, but then I think you’ve earned a reward for taking it so beautifully. Would you like that, pet?”


“Yes, Master.”


“Does my pet want to come, or does he want Master’s cock?”


Ice floods Dean’s veins, and he nearly collapses. “I – But – Wait.”


“Yes, pet. You’re assuming correctly. You’re only getting one.”


Closing his eyes, Dean starts crying again. His master continues to soothe his sore ass with a gentle hand. The other hand skims fingertips along the curve of his hip. Dean’s so torn up. He knows if he really had to choose, he’d pick getting to come. It’s been so long. And he’s so fucking hard it hurts. But he doesn’t want to disappoint Master again when he hasn’t even moved on from the last time he did that. And he’s positive his master would want him to choose his cock. His pleasure.


That’s when it hits Dean, and he remembers what he’s been taught. What his master told him before. Dean is only there for Master’s pleasure. “Your cock, Master.”


A sharp inhale comes from behind him, and the hands pause. They don’t go away, though, just hold him still. There’s a possibility his hands are trembling against Dean’s skin. “You won’t get to come then, pet.”


“I know, Master. But my pleasure isn’t important. I’m only here to please you.”


“God, you’re fucking perfect.” His master whispers it so quietly, Dean wonders if he thinks Dean couldn’t hear it. But he did. And his heart starts to pound at the validation and praise. His master steps closer to him, panting against Dean’s neck. “You have two more lashes. I’m going to spank you with my hand and then you are going to turn and get down on your knees. You don’t need to count for me. Just take them like a good boy.”


Dean nods frantically, ready for this to be over. Ready to be able to show his master how sorry he is. How good he can be. Dean didn’t think the swats would be too painful because of how close his master’s body is to him, but they’re fucking hard. So hard, he almost forgets the rest of the instructions. He remembers in time, though, and hurries to turn around and sink to his knees. He even manages to do it gracefully like he was taught.


His master’s crotch is right in front of his face, and he licks his lips, clenching his hands to keep from touching him. A warm hand gently grabs his chin, lifting it so Dean’s looking at his master’s face instead of his clothed boner. The smile on his master’s lips is beautiful. It takes Dean’s breath away.


“Hey there, green eyes.”


“Hi, Master.”


“Does my pet want my cock?”


Dean releases a needy sound and is too turned on and desperate to feel embarrassed about it. “Yes please, Master.”


Dean feels guilty for just a flash of a second. There’s a moment when it hits Dean that he’s begging his kidnapper, his torturer, his probably soon-to-be rapist, to feed him his cock.


But then he remembers the dark. And the fact that he hasn’t been hugged in weeks. This is the first man, first person, to touch him in days. The only one to touch him gently in this entire compound.


Of course Dean’s begging for him. Every part he can get. Dean will take anything this man is willing to offer. Anything. A cock. A kiss. A compliment.


Hell, a fucking blanket. 


He refuses to be ashamed of that.


He shivers with anticipation when his master’s long, deft fingers start to open his dress pants. As he pulls out his cock for Dean, he rains praise onto him. “So beautiful. So good for me. Fucking perfect. Sweet. Your pale skin flushes so pretty for me. And your ass pinks up like a fucking dream.”


Tears leak from the corners of Dean’s eyes at how happy he is to hear all this. He gives him a wobbly smile and whispers, “Thank you, Master.”


“Mmmmm.” His master looks down at him, holding his cock in his hand. Dean’s eyes lock back onto it. Watching it gently pulse. Pre cum dripping onto one of his master’s fingers. It’s bright red and long and thick, and Dean wants it. He wants it bad. “Fuck. Look at you. Even now. Such a good boy for me. Waiting for permission. Waiting for Master to give you his cock.”


Dean moans and shifts, so his hand is on his own cock. He hears his master’s chuckle. “Hands behind your back, pet.”


Deflating, Dean does as told. His master pulls out the blindfold from earlier, and Dean’s heart catches in his throat. But then his master is kneeling and reaching behind him, using the fabric to tie Dean’s hands at the small of his back. When his master is back on his feet, cock once again in his hand, he simply tells Dean, “Go ahead pet.”


Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He hurries forward, almost falling from being off balanced and restrained. He takes his master’s cock in his mouth and sucks gently. Then he pulls back and covers it in sweet kisses. Then dirty, sloppy kisses. Then he’s sucking it back into his mouth and trying to push him as deep as he can without gagging. His eyes burn, but it feels good. He feels safe.


This is where he belongs.


Dean is being rewarded for being a good boy. Dean is getting his master’s cock as a gift.


He has no idea how he got so lucky.


Master’s hands tangle in his hair and hold his head steady, starting to move his hips so he can pump into Dean’s mouth himself. Dean works his tongue the best he can to help out and his master groans, his head falling back on his shoulders as his eyes slide closed. Dean takes that as a good sign and licks him faster. Sucks him harder.


Master speeds up, and the sound his cock makes as it fucks into Dean’s mouth is loud and obscene and has Dean melting. He starts to choke and gag, but his master doesn’t slow down. He doesn’t even bother to warn Dean about vomiting this time. Dean knows what will happen if he throws up, he doesn’t need to be told twice, so he breathes through his nose and blinks away tears while trying to keep his stomach under control.


With a grip that shoots pain down his spine, his master holds him still and bucks in deep one final time, releasing a shaky breath as he starts to spill down Dean’s throat. Dean sputters and chokes on the cum, a little dribbling down his chin, but he greedily swallows the rest. Master’s cock slips from his mouth, spent and glistening beautifully. “Clean my cock off, pet.”


“Yes, Master.” Dean leans forward and laps at his master’s cock, noticing how it starts to harden again already. When it’s clean, he sits back on his heels and looks up at his master for his next instructions. He can feel tears and snot drying on his face. He can feel his master’s cum still dripping from his chin into his lap.


His master looks at him like he might eat him alive.


“Does my pet want to come?” Dean’s entire body tenses in shock, and he opens his mouth without being able to say a word. His master brushes a hand through his hair, massaging his scalp. Petting him. It calms Dean, and he starts to close his eyes. Relax. “Just answer honestly, pet. Don’t over think it. Do you want to come?”


“Yes, Master.”


“How bad?”


“So bad, Master.” Dean nearly chokes on a sob at the end of the sentence, his need and desperation clawing its way back to the surface. “It’s been so long, Master. I – I want to come so bad.”


“Keep begging,” his master orders in a tone that borders on taunting.


Dean’s breath hitches and then he’s pouring out words. “Please. God, please, Master. Please let me come. Let me come. I’ll be so good. I’ll be the best pet for you. I’ll be a good boy and make you happy. Please. Master. Please. Let me – let me come. Let me come. Please. Master. Please. I’ll be good. So good. You can – fuck – oh, god – please!” Dean sobs, his entire body violently shaking.


His master gets on the ground in front of him, squatting instead of sitting. He cups Dean’s face and makes him look him in the eye. His cock is already put away, pants zipped back up. His hair is perfectly in place. His face calm and happy.


All Dean can think is: This man is magnificent.


“Keep. Going.”


Dean releases choked sobs. He can’t fight them anymore. They quake inside his chest, and he’s so desperate and – “Oh, please. Master. I – I need – I need so bad. I – please. Oh, please. Please. Please. Please. I’ll be so good. So good for you. Your good boy.”


“Won’t you be that anyway, though?”


Dean cries harder, nodding. “Yes. Yes, Master. Always good. No matter what. Always be a good boy for you.”


“Mmmmm.” His master takes his face in his hands and lifts it so he can kiss him. Dean’s breathing stops altogether. He opens his mouth and accepts the kiss, moaning when his master’s tongue slides against his. When he finally takes a breath, it’s his master’s oxygen.


If he wasn’t so out of his mind, he’d see how symbolic that is.


Master doesn’t pull away. He kisses Dean for a long time until Dean’s body is relaxing, and Dean’s crying has stopped. Then his fingers wrap gently around Dean’s throbbing cock, and he swallows Dean’s gasps. Dean bucks into his touch, but Master uses his other hand to press down on his hip. Against Dean’s lips, he whispers, “Don’t take your pleasure, pet. Let your master give it to you.”


“Yes, Master. Sorry, M-” his apology is cut off by his master’s mouth again. The hand increases its pace, a warm and steady pressure wrapped around him. Every few strokes, a thumb is pressed hard against the sensitive spot on the underside of his cock. He whimpers and jolts every time. It’s not long before he’s frantically whispering against his master’s lips, “Please – Gonna – So close – Mas – Fuck – Please – Can I – Can I-”


“Go ahead, pet.”


The words open a gate inside Dean, and he’s falling apart. He leans his face against his Master, tucking it into the spot between his shoulder and neck. His master rubs soft circles on his back to soothe him while his other hand continues to stroke him until he’s completely empty. He even holds Dean for a minute or two afterward, as Dean’s body comes down. As he comes back to himself.


With a soft sigh, his master gently places him on the floor and stands up again. There’s a spot of cum on his knee and another on the front of his dress shirt. Dean feels guilty about it, about to apologize, when his master interrupts his thoughts.


“You’re dirty,” his master says with a frown. “And your cell is dirty now too. You will make sure to clean everything including yourself before you go to sleep.”


“But-” Dean looks around the cell, searching for water or rags. “Master, I need – uh, I need supplies. Please.”


“For what?” his master asks, looking at him with amusement. He knows his master is aware of what he needs the supplies for. Judging by his smirk, though, Dean’s certain he won’t be getting them.


Dean’s heart races as he realizes what his master wants him to do. He can’t. Surely, he can’t do that. It’d be – no. No way. Not even for Master.


“Better hurry. Cold cum isn’t appetizing.”


Dean blushes fiercely, and it makes his master grin. He looks away, down at the mess on the floor and his thighs. Even after he hears the loud click of the door being locked, he just continues to stare.


He can’t do it. He can’t. He –


He will.


He will because his master wants him to.


Starting to cry, Dean leans down and begins.

Chapter Text

Castiel takes the quickest shower possible, pulling on a new suit and not even bothering with a tie, so he can get back to his desk and watch. He grins when he sees Dean in the middle of cleaning the cum. He’s sticking his tongue out like it’s stuck there. Gagging.


“What are we watching?” Gabriel asks in a sing-song voice as he walks in the door. He shuts and locks it, then comes around Castiel’s desk to see what’s on the monitor. Instead of answering, Castiel just lets his friend watch. He’s zoomed in now. A perfect, high-definition play by play of Dean sobbing as he forces himself to lick at the floor.


Gabriel chuckles at the spectacle before grabbing a seat on the edge of the desk. His legs dangle as he continues to watch the slave. Not taking his eyes off the show, he begins to speak. “Since the showcase, we’ve had five men commit to a purchase. Another two have shown strong interest. All but one will be attending the auction.”


“Good.” Castiel tilts his head and smiles as he watches Dean move on from the floor, now scooping cum off his own body and eating it. “We’ll need more slaves, though. That’s a large load we’ll be losing.”


“Yeah, I figured,” Gabriel says with a sigh. “Where do you want the next hunt to be?”


“The south. Southwest, if possible.” Castiel finally tears his eyes from the screen to look at Gabriel, giving this his full attention. He can’t be distracted when talking about hunts. Hunts are their number one risk. “I want Chuck to head this one. He did well with the previous two. Shoot for 10, no less than 8.”


Gabriel nods, writing all of this down on a large sticky note attached to the front of his file. As he writes, Castiel continues. “I need to take a trip in the next few weeks to check in on our other compound. Have you heard from my brother?”


The sour look on Gabriel’s face matches the way Castiel feels about the topic of his brother. He nearly laughs as he watches his friend try to hide it. “He checked in after their showcase last night.”


“Do you have his numbers?”


“Right here, Sir.”


Gabriel hands Castiel the packet of paper full of information regarding his brother’s compound out west. He flips through it, nodding to himself. “He can have the full brood from the hunt after next. He shouldn’t need to be supplemented right now unless his auction is an out of the blue success. Let him know.”


“Yes, Sir.”


“Let me guess?” Castiel asks with a wry smile, seeing his answer already in his friend’s face. “He wants to do his own hunt.”


“As usual, yes.”


“And you told him no?”


“As usual, yes.”


Castiel chuckles. “Let him know I’ll be willing to negotiate when I come to visit. That should hold him over in the meantime. Don’t want him throwing any hissy fits.”


Smirking, Gabriel nods. “Will do.”


“And Gabe?”


“Yeah, boss?”


“Tell Jimmy to stop calling me. I’ll talk to him about personal matters when I’m ready to.”


From the way Gabriel hangs his head and how red his face gets, Castiel knows he may have been encouraging Jimmy. He knows the both of them think it’s time he gets himself a slave. They both know Castiel’s reasons why he won’t, though. He never will. Castiel wishes they’d respect that.


After a second, Castiel realizes Gabriel is watching Dean again. He takes a breath, preparing himself. Knowing what his friend is thinking. It’s written all over his face.


Sure enough, “He’s pretty fond of you, then?”


“Stop,” Castiel orders, his voice cold and authoritative.


Gabriel smirks. “I’m not doing anything.”


Wanting to change the subject, Castiel turns to business again. “While I’m gone on my visit, I’ll need you to run things back here for me. When I return, you can have a few days off. Take a break.”


“Like a vacation?” Gabriel asks, eyebrows raised in fake shock.


“Yeah. You can even bring a slave if ya want to keep yourself occupied.”


“Well, well,” Gabriel says on a breathy laugh. “Careful, Cassie. I might think you’re fond of the slave, too.”


Castiel levels a glare. “Don’t.”


“You’re just in a very good mood. Can’t help but notice it correlates with a certain green-eyed boy.”


“I am. I haven’t felt this good in years, Gabe. But it has nothing to do with him.” Castiel shakes his head, avoiding the screen showing Dean. “You were right. I have missed it.”


“So, it’s the training, not the slave?”




“So, you’re going to keep training once this one is gone?”


Castiel locks his jaw. He can’t meet his best friend’s eyes. “No.”


“Oh, okay. Sure. So, you’re not fond of him, just happy to be training. But once he’s gone, you’ll magically no longer want to be training?”




“I see the way you watch him on your monitor. The way you light up when you talk about him. You’re getting attached.”


“I’m not.”


“Cas,” Gabriel pauses, making sure his friend is looking him in the eye. “You brought him to your suite.”


Castiel looks at Dean. He can’t help it. That was too long to go without him. The slave is shivering violently, hugging his arms around himself, trying to warm up. “He needed a bath.”


“We have a community shower room, 3 private showers, and 1 tub in the compound.”


“I just felt like bringing him up there. It’s not newsworthy, Gabe.”                   


“Not newsworthy? Jesus, Cas, you haven’t trained in years. But you’re training him. You’ve been a crabbass, miserable bastard, now you’re a fucking ray of sunshine. And you brought a slave to your suite, Cas. Your fucking suite. The place you don’t let anyone but me into. You’ve never brought a slave into your personal space. You’ve never even thought about it. All to give him a fucking bath?”


When Castiel says nothing, Gabriel pushes harder. “And, by the way, I know that’s not true for a fact. It wasn’t just for a bath. He slept in your bed.”


“Gabe,” Castiel warns, closing his eyes to calm himself down.


“Your bed, Cas. You’ve never had a man in your bed. Not once in your life.”


“It’s not like I slept with him.”


“But you wanted to.”


The words hang in the air, threatening to hang Castiel like a noose. He glares at Gabriel, pulling all his fury and fear and confusion and pushing it toward him. Gabriel immediately puts his hands up in surrender. The asshole is hiding a smirk, though. “I’m just saying, if you’re falling for him, keep him. He could be yours. But if that’s not your plan, then don’t get attached. It’ll just make a mess when it’s time to sell him.”


Castiel tries not to think about the reason why it makes his chest ache when thinking about selling Dean. “You and my fucking brother. Why can’t you leave it alone? You know why I can’t keep him, Gabe. You know.”


“Do I? Because you were already unhappy before him, so what’s there to lose?”


“Stop, Gabe. I’m warning you.”


“Would it be so bad, Cas? To open up? To let yourself be happy?”


“You don’t have a slave, and you’re the definition of happy, Gabe.”


His friend smiles, but it’s sad and distant. “I’m happy. You’re right. Single life works for me. You aren’t happy. Maybe the single life isn’t working for you.”


“Maybe my single life has absolutely nothing to do with my happiness!” Castiel stands up and starts to pace. He rarely loses his cool, especially with Gabriel. He’s rattled, and he fucking hates it, and it’s Dean’s fault.




“Gabe.” He turns, drawing in breaths that shake his chest to the point of pain. “Please. Please. I need you to stop.”


That tells Gabriel all he needs to know, and Castiel knows that, and he hates himself. He hates Dean even more.


This is all Dean’s fault.


Gabriel leaves without a word, leaving the door cracked open behind him. Castiel walks over to it and slams it shut. It’s not satisfying in the least. He grits his teeth, clenches his fists, and starts to pace again. Gabriel is wrong. Jimmy is wrong. He isn’t falling for this kid. He isn’t.


He doesn’t fucking do that.


He can’t fucking do that.


He had a slight soft spot and made a mistake.


That’s it.


Just a mistake.


Mistakes can be fixed.


Easily corrected.


He stops pacing and turns to look at the monitor showing Dean. The slave is crying again. He’s always fucking crying.


Castiel will fucking show him something to cry about.

Chapter Text

Dean’s door opens sooner than he expected it would. He prepares himself for water or food, probably from some other trainer now that he’s not in the darkness, but instead, his master storms in. The happiness he feels is short lived once he takes in the man’s features. He’s angry. Furious, actually. Dean doesn’t understand why.


Scrambling backward on shaky legs, he looks at the floor to make sure it’s clean. There’s nothing he missed. He looks at his body, and it’s the same.


A hand grabs his throat and yanks him up and forward until only his tiptoes touch the floor. His ears start to buzz, but he hears his master clearly when he says, “Time for another lesson, slut,” in a terrifying cold voice.


Dean’s eyes burn. From the pain, the insult, and his master’s anger. When his master left him earlier, he was happy and praising Dean. There’s nothing Dean could have done to ruin that. Unless it was the fact that he hesitated before cleaning up? But it was only for a moment, and his master hadn’t seemed upset. After cleaning, he curled up and sat still, thinking.


Can he get in trouble for thinking?


He can tell now is not time to ask questions, so he keeps his mouth clamped shut as he’s put down on his feet. The leash is attached to his collar, and his hands are tied behind his back, each one secured to the opposite arm’s elbow. His master leads him down the hall so fast Dean is panting by the time they reach the open area with the elevators. He finds himself hoping they’re headed back up to the suite, but then they turn a corner and Dean is shoved into the first room on their right. It’s nearly all black. The walls. The floor. The equipment. So. Much. Equipment. There’s a full wall dedicated to pain implementing instruments, all hanging ominously on hooks. There isn’t much in the room that looks dedicated to pleasure.


The second he processes his surroundings, he’s trying to back away. He just ends up bumping into his master, who forces him inside enough to lock the door.


“Do you know how many days you’ve been here, slave?”


“N-no, Master.”


His master scoffs as if being in the dark for days on end and in a place with no clocks or windows isn’t an excuse for losing track. “You’ve been here Eighteen days. Eighteen days. Most slaves are nearly trained by now. At least the basics. They’ve certainly been fucked. Have you been fucked yet, slave?”


“No, Master,” he whispers, looking at the floor as his cheeks turn red.


“No. Your mouth has been stuffed with cocks, but not that greedy little hole of yours. Now, tell me, slut, doesn’t that sound a bit backward to you? A sex slave who hasn’t had sex yet?”


Dean starts to tremble. The man in front of him is not the man he was with a few hours ago. “Y – yes, Master.”


“Stop. Stuttering. It’s fucking pissing me off!” His master backhands him, making his vision blur and his head swim. Dean stares at the wall to his left, since his head snapped in that direction from the force of the hit, and tells himself not to cry. Whoever he thought this man could be, he was wrong.


Part of him is devastated.


Part of him is relieved.


Dean swallows a whimper when iron-like hands grab his biceps and hall him toward a leather bench with stirrups. He’s picked up like he weighs nothing and pushed onto it, his stomach flat against the cushion, his knees settling in the crooks of the stirrups. He trembles but stays silent as his master secures him with six different leather straps, tightening them until he’s nearly losing circulation in all four limbs. If he fights the restraints at all, he’ll hurt himself. He has a feeling his master doesn’t care either way.


With his body like this, his ass is out and slightly raised upward. Vulnerable. He hangs his head in shame and closes his eyes as he waits for the man to do something other than just stand there, staring at him. A hand touches his back, and he flinches from the unexpected gentle contact. When he glances over his shoulder, his eyes lock with his masters, and he sees confusion in them. Like his master is fighting himself on something.


“You’re beautiful like this,” he finally whispers, still stroking Dean’s skin.


“Thank you, Master.”


The word master seems to snap the man out of wherever his mind had traveled to. He takes his hand off Dean like Dean had burned him and hurries off to one of the cabinets on the wall.


“I’m going to fuck you, slave. Then maybe you’ll stop crying all the fucking time. Maybe you’ll finally accept your new place in the world.”


Dean curls his hands on the edges of the bench, the movement making the leather around his wrists stretch the skin unbearably tight. He needs to hold something, though. It feels like he may float away otherwise. “How do you know I cry?”


“I’m your master. I know everything, slave.” A sharp thwack of a riding crop against his bare ass makes Dean yell out in surprise and pain, his feet trying to kick but unable to. “Don’t speak out of turn again, and remember how to address me.”


The apology hangs on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but he bites it off. There’s too much in his head to play the obedient slave right now. Especially since he’s not sure he’ll let himself slip into that mindset again. He allowed himself to be submissive out of survival. The guy wasn’t that bad. He even seemed to show moments where Dean believed maybe he genuinely cared. There was something soft beneath the surface of the man’s blue eyes. Something that made Dean trust him; as much as you can trust a slaver ruining your life.


And he had said all those things about Dean. Complimented him. Made him feel like he’s not useless. Dean believed him.


No more.


If he’s going to be treated like shit, treated like this, after doing everything the man asked – even eating cold cum off the fucking floor – then he’d prefer to fight again. He’ll take the dark if he has to.


“Has your hole ever been used, slave? By a man, not a toy?”


Dean glares at the empty wall in front of him, deciding he doesn’t want to talk to this man anymore. This man is not his master.


He never will be.


“I asked you a question, slut!”


Growling, Dean asks, “How can you call me a slut when you don’t even know if I’m a fucking virgin?”


A sharp intake of breath is his only warning before he has two hands grabbing his ass cheeks, fingernails digging into them so hard he knows he must be bleeding. He swallows the scream and thinks of Sammy. That’s how he survived all the other times. That’s how he’ll survive this rape.


He has to get back to Sammy.


He feels his entire body flush with embarrassment as the man spreads him open wide, exposing his hole to the air. He feels it pucker without his permission.


“You can answer my question now, properly, politely, or I’ll fuck you like this. Right here, right now. In this tight little unprepared hole. I won’t even spit on it.”


Tears leak out of the corners of Dean’s eyes. “No, I’m not a virgin.”


“Excuse me?”


“I. Am. Not. A. Virgin.” Dean looks over his shoulder as much as he possibly can with the restraints keeping him tightly in place. “Do you want me to say it in a different language? I know Spanish.”


A smirk tilts the man’s lips before he quickly schools his expression. Dean saw it, though. He saw the crack. Once again, he’s confused as all hell. How can the man find him amusing but still want to beat and rape him? How can he be gentle like earlier in the day, or let him crawl into his lap like that day in the dark when Dean was so terrified and lonely, and then get angry and hurt him for no reason?


“For answering the question, I won’t fuck you yet. For the attitude?” The man laughs under his breath, the sound so chilling and sinister that Dean’s blood runs cold. “For the attitude, my slave will be punished.”


“Fuck you and your fucking punishments!” Dean spits out. “And I’m not your fucking slave.”


The man doesn’t smirk this time. When he looks at Dean, his eyes are vacant of humanity. Cold. Deadly. Haunted.


The man takes a breath as if he’s trying to steady himself, to restrain his response, and Dean starts to mentally prepare. He isn’t great at tracking time, but he knows he spent at least a week if not two with all those trainers at first. He never broke for them. Not once. He can survive an hour or two of pain from this asshole.


Strolling to the cabinet again, his master stands with his back to Dean for a few minutes before coming back with a ball gag in his hand. “This is for that attitude of yours. I guarantee you that when I remove this later, I’ll have you back to the nice little obedient slave from earlier.”




“Should we make a bet?” The man tilts his head with a playful smile.


“Fuck. You.”


The man laughs. “No, pet. It will be me, fucking you.”


Dean tries to fight the gag, but all the man needs to do is pinch his nose, and his survival instincts kick in. The gag is shoved in too hard, and his teeth zing from the pain. He desperately tries to push it out with his tongue, but the man is too fast, securing it before Dean can fight it.


“There we go,” the man says with a patronizing pat on Dean’s ass. “Now, let’s get to the punishment part of the night, shall we?”






This man on his spanking bench is fucking beautiful. There are no other words to describe him. He has Castiel mesmerized. It’s not just his physical beauty, either. Sure, his sandy blond hair soft as silk and pale skin covered in freckles and green eyes wide and bright all have their allure, but it’s his strength that really draws Castiel in. Even when he cries, which he started to do a few minutes ago after his ass and upper thighs had been caned, he does so in stubborn silence. It’s how Castiel knows he lost Dean’s trust. Before, when he cried with Castiel, he did so openly. He let himself be vulnerable in front of him; as a slave should with their master.


He’s not really your slave, Castiel. You’re not really his master.


Castiel already hates himself for breaking that bond between them. He wants to stop this right now and apologize, but that’s exactly what makes him continue. He needs to hurt Dean until he breaks his own bond that’s been forming. He needs to beat it into both of them that this is temporary and meaningless.


Castiel isn’t a huge fan of pointless pain. He’s a mild sadist, he enjoys hurting the slave when the slave has earned it or when it’s going to heighten the slave’s pleasure, but he doesn’t enjoy hurting the slave just for fun. That’s why he needs to do this. He needs to treat this young man like someone else’s slave because that’s what he will be soon. Someone else’s.


God, he hates that idea so fucking much.


He forces the thoughts out of his mind and focuses on Dean. He grabs a handful of black clothespins and starts to attach them to the soft sides of Dean’s torso. The young man grunts under his breath each time a new one is placed but other than that, he stays quiet and still. It’s impressive.


It won’t last.


Once five are on each side, he grabs the flogger. At first, he just drags the leather strands back and forth, making Dean twitch as they irritate his marks from the cane. When Castiel begins to hit him, he starts slowly, soft and teasing, before allowing the intensity to build. With each stroke comes increasing pain. Then he adjusts, making sure the tendrils of his weapon hit the sensitive skin from the pins, and he finally earns the howls of agony he was searching for. Dean shrieks so loud into his gag he starts to choke. His body can only move a matter of inches, so he’s staying in place, violently shaking instead. Castiel continues raining blows, but he’s distracted by something Dean’s doing with his hands that are resting against each side of the bench. He’s trying to tangle his fingers in on each other. Trying to weave them.


Castiel wants to ask why more than anything else.


Instead, he puts the flogger down and reaches over, dragging his fingers along the ends of the clothespins, making them wobble and bounce. Dean screams into the gag again and thrashes his head from side to side. He’s speaking words, but they’re garbled and unable to be understood. They don’t need to be. Castiel knows the gist from their tone. Dean isn’t pleading yet. He hasn’t been broken. He’s telling Castiel – in what he’s sure is very colorful language – to fuck off again.


“Does that feel good, slave?” He drags his fingers up each side again twice before leaving the clothespins. His hands itch to remove them already, he doesn’t want to do any real damage, he doesn’t even want to make Dean bleed. That’s why he keeps them where they are.


“You seem tired. Perhaps you need something to wake you up,” Castiel muses, reaching over to grab the electro wand. He starts on his ass cheeks, dragging along the curves, dipping between them to zap at his ball sack, smiling when Dean chokes on the pain. He drags it along his spine and watches the young man convulse beneath the wand. Once Dean is hyperventilating, he uses the wand on the bright red skin stretched by the clothespins. He can clearly hear the word please being sobbed, and he grits his teeth, continuing.


Dean turns desperate when Castiel rips the clothespins off. He ignores him, touching the tip of the wand to each deep red mark. It doesn’t matter that Dean’s attitude has changed. He hasn’t been pushed far enough. Even as the boy sobs and wails. Even as his entire body vibrates with pain and desperation. Even as he sobs the words please and master and be good through the gag. It’s not enough.


When the wand has touched every injured part of Dean, he switches back to the flogger.


Castiel is aware that he is no longer doing this for Dean. He’s doing it for himself. To hurt himself. To separate himself. To teach himself a lesson.


He brings down the flogger on Dean’s body, covering him with two harsh layers from neck to feet. The slave is limp by the time Castiel is finished. His breathing has slowed to normal, his eyes glazed over. His fingers are uncomfortably wound together.


He doesn’t make noise when Castiel slips two lubed fingers into his hole, but a single tear rolls down his cheek when he blinks. There’s a slight twitch when a third finger is added. When he skims across Dean’s prostate, the slave squeezes his eyes shut. Castiel doesn’t think he means to, but he’s gently shaking his head no.


Castiel has no idea how his cock is hard because the sight of Dean like this is fucking tearing him apart. Even though Dean’s not protesting, Castiel strokes his hip to soothe him with one hand while lubing his cock with the other. “Shhh, almost done. Master’s almost done.”


A tiny whimper escapes from Dean’s gagged mouth, and he watches as the boy unwinds his fingers, then rewinds them. It must be a comfort thing, because he starts doing it faster, gripping his own fingers harder, as Castiel slides into him. When he’s fully seated, he accidentally makes eye contact with Dean. The green there is dull. Lifeless. Broken.


He went too far.


Castiel closes his eyes and fucks into Dean hard, trying to get it over with. Needing to be done. He imagines himself kissing Dean. Whispering compliments to him. Making him smile and moan and beg for pleasure. He forgets about what he’s done to him in this room and thinks about what he wishes he’d done instead. That’s how he gets himself to finish, filling Dean’s hole with a few deep thrusts.


Out of breath, Castiel opens his eyes and slides out of Dean. When he looks at the slave’s face, he sees he’s crying again. Silent, slow tears rolling down his cheeks. Some tears are caught in his long lashes, and the light from above makes them shine.


The first thing Castiel removes is the gag. Dean’s with it enough to focus his eyes on Castiel, but there’s still no emotion. They don’t even show pain. “I’m going to take you off of here. Don’t try and move or help me. You’ll hurt yourself. Understood?”


In a crackling, broken-hearted whisper, Dean answers, “Yes, Master.”


“Good boy.” Castiel gives in on accident when he sees Dean’s eyebrows jump slightly at the praise. The slave needs it so much. That validation. That feeling of security. Especially now. Castiel can’t keep himself from providing it. He strokes Dean’s hair softly and whispers to him, “You did very good. Very good for me. You were brave and beautiful and strong.”


Any tension left in Dean’s body leaves it, and his eyes flutter shut. “Thank you, Master.”


Castiel smiles. Then he begins to free his bindings.


He tells himself that it’s okay he praised him. He always praised those that he trained. Always.


He should leave it at that, though. Dean is broken now. Possibly, hopefully, for good. Or maybe not hopefully, because Castiel loves the man’s personality. His sassy mouth. His strength and stubbornness. His beauty.


Those things he loves about the boy is why he wants to finish this session how he would if Dean was truly his slave. If he kept him. Something Castiel has never done before after training a slave in the compound. Not making him come. Not tossing him to the side. Not bringing him to the cell and leaving him behind. No.


Castiel wants to hold him. God, he wants more than anything to hold him.


He wants to take Dean up to his suite. He wants to wash him and tend to his wounds. He wants to hold him close for the night, keeping him safe and comforted as he sleeps.


Fuck. This didn’t fix anything.


Castiel wants to keep him.


Before he can make any sort of decision, Dean is passed out cold.

Chapter Text

Dean stirs awake and immediately winces. The pain comes from all directions, stealing his breath and immobilizing him. It takes an embarrassing amount of time before he can reach full consciousness. That’s when he realizes two things; he’s not restrained in any way, and he has a blanket over his body.


He sits up slowly, a stray tear slipping down his cheek when a new wave of pain hits. If he could crawl out of his skin to escape it, he’d do so gladly. Even the soft blanket hurts. Though, he’s not complaining. He thinks this blanket is perhaps the most amazing thing he’s ever been given. Not only is it incredibly soft and thick enough to keep him warm, but the color is beautiful. He can’t help but notice that the blue matches that of the man’s – his master’s – bedding. That of the ocean. It makes him smile.


Dean’s happiness is short-lived as he considers the whole “the man/his master” issue. What happened last night, or today, or whenever the hell that was, it wasn’t fair. He hadn’t done anything to earn punishment. He had been good. He had behaved. Sure, he cried, he cries often, but he has no idea how the man/his master even knows that. Even with that mystery put aside, he doesn’t understand how that can be something he’s punished for when he was never told it was against the rules.


He doesn’t know what to do. He’s damned either way. When he played the game before, things went well for a few hours. Then he was being beaten and tortured and raped until he passed out, all for no reason at all. But when he wouldn’t play the game, before the darkness, he was also beaten and tortured.


They didn’t rape him, though.


It wasn’t until he behaved, until he handed over his power to the man/his master, that he was raped.


The door to his cell opens, and the man/his master walks in. He’s in a different suit than last time, which leads Dean to believe that at least a day has passed.


“Good,” the man/his master says in a gruff voice, not looking at Dean. “You’re awake.”


Dean hasn’t made a decision on rebelling or not, so, for now, he stays quiet. He wraps the new blanket around himself like a shield and curls in on himself. The man/his master watches him with a sad smile before his face slips back to being distant and cold. He sets a tray down in front of Dean. Dean’s eyes nearly bug out of his head when he looks at it.


The tray has more than the usual gritty water cup and bread. It has a sandwich. A full sandwich. It looks like turkey and cheese and lettuce. Beside it is a banana. Then in a different section, baby carrots. A bottle of water is laying down on the edge. It’s cold. Dean can see the condensation.


There are four pills on the tray as well. The excitement ebbs at the pills, and Dean makes himself a promise. He will not take them. No matter what. He won’t take those pills.


“I need you to eat and drink as much of this as you can. Your body has been through a lot, pet.”


Oh, so he’s pet again? What bullshit.


Dean stays quiet so he doesn’t say anything stupid. With every passing moment, though, he leans further toward rebellion. He won’t admit to himself that part of the reason for this is because he’s already feeling his heart trying to fall back for this man/master, and rebellion is a great defense mechanism.


The man/his master kneels, surprising Dean when he actually rests the knee of what must be a very expensive suit on the dirty cement floor. “Can you acknowledge my words, pet?”


Dean nods. His eyes are still focused on the pills. His body is still torn between rebelling and giving in.


“With that pretty mouth of yours, please.” A thumb touches his bottom lip, and he rears back, staring at the man/his master in fear. If Dean’s reaction bothers him, he doesn’t show it.


That’s when Dean realizes his man/master said please. He just said please. To Dean. He stares at him in a near trance, his heartbeat slowing down as he starts to trust him again. The logical side of his brain rolls its eyes and sits back, huffing about how he’ll regret it.




Dean blinks hard, remembering he was asked to do something. Asked with a please. “Yes, Master. I’ll try to eat all of it. Thank you, Master.”


The man/his master looks at him with searching blue eyes. “The pills too, pet.”


Knowing what will happen if he says no, but still refusing to say yes, Dean reverts to silence. After another moment, the man/his master releases a soft sigh. “The pills are necessary, pet. You will take them.”


“No thank you, Master.”


“Hmmm,” the man/his master lifts one corner of his mouth in a smile. “Well, at least we’re being polite now.”


Dean swallows a laugh. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s felt any sort of desire to laugh. Even smiling has always been an accident, something he catches and pushes away as quickly as possible.


The man/his master smiles fully, adjusting so he can continue to kneel in a more comfortable position. “One day maybe I’ll hear that laugh. I bet it’s beautiful.”


Dean just shrugs a shoulder, unable to look at him. He wants to tell him that maybe he’d hear his laugh if he didn’t beat and rape him. Maybe he’d hear his laugh if he wasn’t holding him fucking captive. Dean’s fingers curl into fists.


“The pills, pet. You will take them.”


“No, thank you, Master,” Dean repeats in a monotone voice, trying to stuff his anger down. As he does so, though, his fear and vulnerability bubble up to the surface. The sadness. The loneliness. He wants a hug, and he wants to punch him in the fucking face, and he wants to cry because so many things are happening in his body and he can’t understand any of it.


He just wants to go home.


“Two of them are for the pain. The other two are vitamins. You haven’t eaten well in weeks, and, as I’ve said, your body has been through a lot recently. You need all four.”


Dean looks at the pills, eyes narrowing. What if they really are to help? He could use them. His body is screaming with the need for them. What if they are meant to drug him, though? To sedate him? Make things easier for these men to rape and beat him? Make things easier while selling him and transporting him? What if they are meant to kill him?


The man/his master says softly, “Something is on your mind, pet. Go ahead. Talk to me. Nothing you say will be punished as long as it’s said with respect.”


“I-” Dean pauses, rethinking. His heart is racing, and he’s confused, and he’s – “I’m scared, Master.”


“I would be worried if you weren’t.”


Tightening his grip on his blanket, Dean asks, “What did I do wrong?”


The man/his master’s face falls. “When?”


“Before. When you – when we – you brought me to that room.” Dean peeks up at him through his eyelashes. Don’t cry, Dean. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “I know I had an attitude on the bench and that’s why I was punished, but what did I do before that? Why were you so mad at me?”


The man/his master closes his eyes for a moment, taking a breath to steady himself. “I was not angry with you, pet. I was angry with myself. I was having a bad day. I took it out on you.”


“You can’t do that!” Dean accidentally blurts. The man/his master looks unimpressed.


“Oh, but I can. I am your master.” The man/his master shakes his head. “Whoever purchases you, slave, will be able to do with you as they please. Perhaps you’ll be lucky and have a fair master. One with rules and punishments, and nothing unexpected. Perhaps you will not. You may have a master who wakes up in the morning and beats you bloody for no reason. You may have a master who enjoys passing you around like his favorite fuck toy he wants to share. You may have a master who loves you. You may have a master who kills you within a month. My only job is to prepare you for as much of that as possible.”


Bile rises up Dean’s throat. “And you’re – you’re just okay with that? With training me so some – some sick fuck can sell me off to the highest bidder, even if they kill me?”


The man/his master pushes to his feet and breaks eye contact, looking off to the side as he stuffs his hands in his dress pants. His jaw pops, and for a moment Dean isn’t sure if he’ll speak or just leave.


He picks option number three. In a flash, he has Dean’s hair in his hand, using it to yank him to his feet. Dean’s body protests and begs him to sit back down, to take the pills, to let it recover. His body can’t handle more.


His mind can’t.


The man/his master doesn’t give a fuck. He pulls Dean forward before slamming him into the wall. The injuries on his back set fire. His head swims. He’d collapse if he weren’t being pinned by the man/his master’s hands.


In a low, icy voice, the man/his master informs him, “I am the sick fuck who will be selling you to the highest bidder.”


“What?” Dean’s voice breaks, but he can’t get himself to care. His entire world has already been shattered once. It can’t happen again. “Wait – you – you run this place?”


The man – no, the fucking monster – grins wide. His blue eyes are murky with lust and rage and something stained in death. “I own this place, slave. And others as well. A whole system. And I ran it all quite peacefully until they brought you here. Then I had to deal with the little slut who no one could handle.”


“What makes me a slut? Not wanting to be raped? Beaten? Sold for someone to use my body as their own sex toy?” He’s right on the edge of crying, and he refuses to cry in front of this man. Dean reaches into himself and pulls forward as much rage and hatred as he can muster, focusing it all on this piece of shit pinning him to the wall. “Wow, yeah. You’re right boss. That totally makes me a slut. A total whore. How did I ever think I could be anything else, right?”


“You were a fucking borderline alcoholic, single, depressed, angry little boy before this. You spent your time fighting, fucking, or falling apart. You were worthless,” he growls into Dean’s ear. Then he pulls back, sneering at Dean. “You should be thanking me for giving you a purpose. For making you worth something.”


Dean’s body starts to tremble. “How do you know all that?”


“I already told you. I’m your master. I know everything.” His eyes narrow on Dean. “Enough questions, slave. In fact, don’t open your mouth again. I want to explain to you how powerless you truly are here. You will not be found here, this place will not be dismantled one day so you can be rescued. I’ve sold three of you little sluts to the President. He’s a valued customer. I’ve sold you to senators, congressmen, judges. I’ve sold to celebrities. Members of the biggest mob families in the country. Biker gangs. Bored lawyers and doctors who want a side piece. One of the members of the royal fucking family has one of you right now. Prime ministers.  Special forces soldiers. Mafia. Terrorists. I don’t fucking discriminate, because the more I sell to, the more protection I have. And let me tell you, little slave, I am very fucking protected.”


Each word slices through Dean until he’s ready to crawl in a hole and die. Soft lips settle against the shell of his ear. “You’re even microchipped. You escape this place by some miracle? We’ll have you back within minutes.”


“You’re sick. All of you.” Dean’s voice is watery. He hears his father in his head. Get your shit together, boy. Chin up. Chest out. They can’t break you. You’re a fucking Winchester. Dean lifts his face and glares straight into this man’s eyes. “You’re a fucking piece of shit. And whoever you sell me to, I’m going to make them fucking miserable. I’m going to ruin your reputation. I’m going to destroy you. And when I do get free, which I will, I’m coming for you.”


The most unexpected thing happens.


The man laughs. Not breathy or soft. Not a chuckle. He’s belly laughing like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard. When he settles his eyes back on Dean, wiping actual tears from his eyes from how hard he laughed, he gives him a sick kind of amused smile. “You want that, slut? You want to be bad? Perfect.”


Dean opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is closed by the man’s hand, cutting his oxygen off completely. Through the dizzy vision, he sees the smile grow. Through buzzing ears, he hears, “There’s a man in New York. A CEO. Total psychopath. Sadist to the extreme. His slaves die within weeks because he doesn’t give two shits about pushing them over the edge. He can always buy more. I think you’ll be perfect for him. He’ll love your defiance. He’ll love watching you break. He’ll love fucking you bloody. And I know for a fact he’ll love killing you.”


All the anger seeps out of Dean, leaving him a broken shell of a man. The first sob is choked off from the grip on his throat, but then the man is letting go and stumbling back. Dean falls to his knees, sobbing. He places his forehead against the cold floor and just lets loose against the concrete. He wails and slams his fists and screams and sobs.


He’s tired.


So fucking tired.


He just wants it to be over.


“Just kill me. Please,” Dean starts to plead, his voice watery and broken. “Please. Just kill me. Kill me now. God, please. Make it stop. I want it to stop. Please. Master. Master, just kill me. Just kill me. Just kill me. Just kill-”







Castiel stands in shock, watching Dean fall apart at the seams. It was so unexpected, so sudden, that he’s having a hard time flipping the switch in his brain. Instinct tells Castiel to collect the boy and hold him close. Comfort him. Fix this. The master in Castiel tells him to leave Dean there. To just walk away and lock the door.


Torn between the two, all he can do is listen to the wrecked sobs and pleas that seem to echo every single word Castiel just said to the poor man. Every terrible, ruthless, monstrous word. Angry or not, he’d never let any of those things happen to Dean. Whoever gets Dean will be carefully picked. They will worship the beautiful slave. Praise him often. Reward him with sweet kisses.


“Just kill me, just kill me, just kill-”


“Shhh,” Castiel finds himself whispering. He continues making the noise as he kneels beside the boy. He grabs the blanket, the one he picked out himself. Way more expensive than the thin sheets they give the other slaves. And colored like the ocean. Pushing away the guilt and sadness, he wraps the blanket around the sobbing slave. Then he picks him up, making a mental note to definitely make him eat more because he’s far too thin, and starts to carry him.


Dean tucks his face into his neck and just cries harder. He grips his suit jacket in a shaking fist as he tries desperately to breathe. Castiel listens to him choke on each gasp. How could he have said those things?




It’s not this boy’s fault that Castiel wants him in a way he shouldn’t. It’s not his fault Castiel is pissed that he’s getting attached to him. It’s not his fault that Castiel needed to push him away.


“Woah, what the fuck?” Gabriel whirls around when Castiel walks past him in the hall. He corners him, looking at the sobbing man in Castiel’s arms, then back up at his best friend. “What happened?”


“I’m heading upstairs for the night. Handle this place for me, will you?”


“Yeah, of course, but,” Gabriel flicks his eyes at Dean, eyebrows pinching. “But what happened?”


“I-” Castiel swallows, looking at his friend, then looking down at Dean. He hurries to look away from them both. The boy is so broken. And he’s broken because of Castiel.


Please don’t be broken permanently.


Fuck, what did Castiel do?


“What. Happened?”


He looks at Gabriel. Part of him hopes Gabriel can see the fear in his eyes. Part of him prays he can’t. “I crossed a line.”


Gabriel shakes his head. “What line? You don’t have lines.”


“Is that how you see me?” Castiel peers down at Dean again, realizing that the man has quieted. He’s now heaving wet breaths into Castiel’s neck, the sobs giving way to soft whimpers and hiccups. He’s still clinging to Castiel’s jacket like he’s afraid he’ll leave him. Castiel’s heart tears open. When he looks back up at Gabriel, his eyes are burning. “Is that how I am?”


The look on Gabriel’s face is an answer in itself. “We’ve always known we’re fucked up, man. Are you really going to dwell on it now?”


Castiel looks at Dean again, softly gasping when their eyes meet. He feels Dean’s grip tighten on him. It’s incredible that this man is holding him close when they were just screaming at each other. Hell, Castiel just told him point blank he plans to give him away to a sadistic murderer.


Dean is so fucking strong.


And Castiel is fucking weak.


“Come on, man. We don’t touch minors. We don’t-”


“Stop,” Castiel says with a sharp jerk of his head. “Just – stop. Don’t try to justify any of this.”


Gabriel’s gaze shifts from Dean, then back to Castiel. He realizes how big this is. How dangerous. “Why don’t you let me take care of him for a few hours, hey? I think you should get some rest. Go sleep. When was the last time you slept?”


Castiel can’t answer, because he doesn’t know. He sat in Dean’s cell most of last night just watching him breathe. Part of him was terrified that if he looked away, if he left, he’d lose him. Even though Dean’s not his to lose.


When Gabriel steps forward to take Dean, Castiel steps back. “No.”


“Buddy, give me the slave. You need a break. Your head isn’t on right.”


“I’ll sleep, Gabe. I’ll – I’ll sleep. With him. He and I will sleep.”


He can see the conflict on his friend’s face, battling between wanting Castiel to give in to his feelings and keep the slave so he can finally be happy, and wanting Castiel to get as far away from the slave as possible so his head doesn’t get fucked up any more than it already is.


Unsure of what to do, Gabriel steps away from Castiel, so he doesn’t feel threatened by the possibility of Dean getting taken from him. “Just be careful.”


“Don’t worry, I’m under control. I won’t hurt him. I-” Castiel looks down at Dean, staring into those big green eyes as the boy blinks up at him. “I won’t hurt him.”


Gabriel frowns. “He’s not the only one I’m worried about getting hurt, bud.”


When Castiel can’t come up with something to say, Gabriel squeezes his shoulder and starts to walk away. “Just be careful,” is his final warning, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Chapter Text

Dean feels empty when he’s placed on the counter of the man’s bathroom. His feet dangle and he stares down at them, feeling like a child. It doesn’t help that his face is covered in tears and snot. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s suddenly gone mute like the trauma has finally stolen his tongue, as well as his will to live. If he could talk, he’d still be asking this man to just kill him.


He watches in a trance as the man fills the bathtub with salts and bubbles, then turns the knob for the water. The man’s hands shake as he performs the tasks, and Dean wonders why he’s shaking. What does this man have to be upset about? The man stands with his back to Dean and watches as the water rises. They both stay still and quiet until the bath is ready. When the water is turned off, the silence in the bathroom is enough to suffocate the both of them.


Slowly, the man turns back to Dean. His blue eyes search his face, concerned. Dean wonders what he’s looking for. He wants to know so he can offer it up. Anything to make this man bring him back to his cell and leave him alone. The sooner, the better.


“The man,” he pauses, looking pained. Dean wonders what he could possibly be in pain about. “The man I sell you to will not kill you. I promise.”


Dean just stares at him, trying to find the words to tell him that this isn’t comforting. Was he not listening earlier? Dean wants to die.


“Those things I said – they, well – they weren’t true.” He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. “Well, some of them are true. But – I – I promise you’ll be safe when I sell you. You’ll be taken care of.”


Dean waits for that to piss him off. He waits for a sarcastic comment. He waits to fucking care. Nothing


The blank expression on Dean’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t speak. His eyes drift toward the tub as if to ask if they can get the show on the road. The man sighs and places his hands on the counter either side of Dean. It makes Dean cower, squeezing his eyes shut. The man immediately backs away. Dean stays curled up.


“Do you need to use the toilet before your bath?” the man asks in a hoarse whisper.


Dean remembers the last time he used the bathroom with this man. He stares at the toilet in a trance. He feels one tear slip down his cheek but can’t find it in himself to care enough to wipe it away. The man wipes it for him, and Dean flinches.


“I’ll leave you. I’ll – I’ll give you privacy. To go to the bathroom. I – Uh – I’ll just stand in the other room.” He waits as if Dean’s going to talk. Dean doesn’t look at him, so he doesn’t know his expression when he finally leaves the room. For a long time, Dean just stares at the toilet. There’s a large gap between where he’s sitting and where the toilet is. Too far. Dean’s body is begging him not to do it, but he can feel that his bladder is full, and he knows he should take this opportunity of privacy because he doubts it’ll come again.


With small, careful movements, Dean gets himself off the counter. He stumbles, his legs giving out, and falls to his knees. He hears the man come in, but he leaves Dean alone, just hovering nearby in case he needs help. Dean starts to crawl, too empty to be embarrassed. When he gets to his feet again, he uses the wall for support. His legs eventually gain strength, and he’s able to place one hand on the wall above the toilet, using the other to direct his piss into the bowl.


The entire time he goes to the bathroom, he can see the man out of the corner of his eye. If he were the real Dean instead of this broken shell, he’d point out that the man promised him privacy. Then again, why did he believe that in the first place? He’s already learned he can’t trust this man.


When Dean is finished, he stares at the tub. He can feel the man coming up behind him, his warmth making Dean’s raw back hurt worse.


“I need you to take a bath. Do you need help, or can you get in yourself?”


Dean continues to look at the tub. It’s not that far away, but climbing sounds painful and exhausting. The man says something low under his breath, something that sounds angry but strangely not pointed at Dean. He wishes he could have made out the words.


The man gets closer, ignoring him when he starts to curl in on himself again. “I’m going to pick you up and help you into the tub. If you don’t want that, you better speak.”   


Dean just closes his eyes. The man waits for another beat and then scoops him up like he weighs nothing at all. When the water touches his body, Dean hisses and tries to escape, clinging to the man so hard the man nearly falls in with him.


“Shhhh. It’s okay. Just relax. I know it hurts but just relax. The pain with subside.”


Shaking his head, Dean continues to cling to him. He’s not being removed from the water though, and the man is right, the pain is fading. Slowly, he sinks the rest of the way into the tub and releases the man’s coat. When he peeks through his lashes at the man, Dean sees he’s smiling even though his jacket is half soaked. Even though Dean is misbehaving. It’s too confusing for his brain to even process right now. He just turns his head to rest his cheek against the cool edge of the tub. The man slowly reaches over and starts petting his head. It feels good enough for Dean to let his eyes flutter closed.


For a while, they both just sit. Dean doesn’t know how long. It feels peaceful, though. Safe. He’s too exhausted to remind himself that the instinct is incorrect.


The man clears his throat, fingers still raking through Dean’s hair. “I called you worthless earlier. It was a lie.”


If he was talking, Dean would tell him it’s fine. He’s heard it from his father all his life. But he’s not talking, so he keeps his eyes closed. Maybe the man will think he fell asleep.


“You know, I think you might be the strongest man to ever go through this compound. Including trainers.”


That almost gets him. Almost.


“You have to stay strong. Please. You can’t-” the man stops, and it actually sounds like he could be at a loss for words. Dean cracks his eyes open, accidentally meeting his gaze. He looks wrecked. Almost as wrecked as Dean feels. What does he have to be wrecked about? “I don’t want to hear you ever say that again. Asking someone to kill you. Wanting to die. Don’t you ever. You can’t give up. You just – you can’t. Please.”


Dean looks away from him and down at the bubbles. The hand in his hair has stopped, but it’s still resting there. Like he’s reassuring Dean he’s still here. Or maybe reassuring himself that Dean’s still here.


Dean wants to ask him why the fuck he cares. Instead, he says very quietly, in a perfectly steady voice that shows no emotion, “I have survived much worse than you. I’ll be just fine.”


He can practically hear the man smile. “That’s my boy.”


Ignoring the comment, Dean rests his head back against the tub and sinks into the water again. He closes his eyes and pictures Sammy. Wondering what he’s doing. If he’s okay.


“What day is it?” Dean asks without meaning to. He tenses, keeping his eyes shut.


“It’s a Thursday.”


Surprised he got an answer, he pushes further. “What time?”


There’s a rustling noise, and Dean looks at him, seeing that he’s pulling a smartphone from his pants pocket to check the time. Now Dean is positive that he’s broken because he doesn’t even consider trying to steal that for an escape. “It’s 5:47 PM.”


Nodding, Dean lays back again and closes his eyes. Nearly six. Dinner time. Sam will be getting home from basketball practice. He’ll throw his bag on the floor and kick off his smelly shoes – and since Dean isn’t there, and John is usually working late, the little brat won’t get yelled at for doing so. He’ll shower. Eat something. Unless their dad is home, in which case they’ll eat first, then he’ll shower. Dean wonders if his dad would cook. It’s been years since he’s done more than hot dogs on the grill and mac n’ cheese. John can’t handle anything else. He always let Dean cook. He’s much better at it.


If Dean were home, he’d make his homemade spaghetti and meatballs – Sam’s favorite. He’d ask him about his day at school. About practice. About his girlfriend Jess.


“You’re smiling,” the man whispers, taking a seat across from Dean at the imaginary dinner table.


Frantic, Dean snaps his eyes open. The man can’t be there, at the dining table, near Sammy. The man has to stay in the bathroom. In Dean’s new prison. Where he belongs.


The man looks at him with a soft smile, his eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Why are you smiling?”


“I’m not,” Dean says.


“Okay. Well, why were you smiling?”


Dean starts pushing around the bubbles in the water, shifting them back and forth. Creating shapes with them. “Do I have to tell you?”


“I would like you to tell me.”


“Will I be punished if I don’t?”


The man clears his throat and sits fully down on the floor beside the bath, leaning against the side of the toilet for support. Then he meets Dean’s eye. “No, Dean. Right now, while you’re in this bath, you are not a slave with rules.”


Dean chokes on a breath. He hadn’t heard his name spoken out loud in weeks. Part of him started to worry it was something he made up. Increasing the emotions inside of him, the man leans over and removes Dean’s collar, setting it on the bathroom floor. Freeing him. Even if just for a few minutes.


Tears in his eyes, Dean whispers, “I don’t want to tell you then.”




“Will you,” Dean stops himself, shaking his head. He releases a bubbly kind of laugh that’s full of self-hatred and embarrassment.


“Will I what?”


Dean peeks over at him, feeling his cheeks heat. He hates that it makes the man smile. “Will you say it again?”


The man tilts his head, squinting in confusion. “Say what again?”


“My name.”


“Oh.” The man’s features smooth out as he smiles in understanding. “Dean.”




The man laughs softly, looking at Dean with so much fondness in his eyes that Dean has to look away. “Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean-”


For the first time, Dean laughs for real. It’s loud and echoes off the walls, and when he meets the man’s eyes, the man is staring at him in wonder. “That was more beautiful than I imagined it to be.”


Blushing, Dean looks away and does a little shoulder shrug. “It’s not anythin’ special. I’m sure it’s just ‘cuz you don’t hear it from me ever.”


“No, Dean. That was – I have to hear that more often.”


This time, Dean’s laugh is an incredulous huff of anger. “Doubt you’ll hear it often with the way you treat me here.”


When he’s met with a heavy silence, his gut turns. He sits up in the bath, wincing, and looks at the man in fear. “I’m sorry, Mas-”


“Don’t.” The man tries to force a smile, but he can’t manage. “I told you to be Dean right now. I have a feeling, for Dean Winchester, that was pretty mild.”


“Yeah.” Dean smiles a little, feeling the weight start to lift off his chest. “Yeah, real Dean would have verbally kicked your ass. Maybe physically too.”


“Good thing he can’t leave the bathtub then, hey?” Dean laughs again, and the man perks up. “God, that’s – I’m in big trouble with that laugh.”


“Oh, really?”




“How’s that?”


The man’s eyes darken a little. “Because the little sounds you made when I whipped you with my belt and fucked your mouth and made you come? Those have nothing on your laugh.”


Dean opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but he’s speechless. Taking advantage of the stunned silence, the man shrugs out of his suit jacket and loosens his tie, then rolls his sleeves up and grabs a washrag from the shelf nearby. He leans over and dips it into the warm water, soaking it. Dean jumps when he starts to stroke the rag softly over his shoulder but seems to relax after a few seconds. He’s avoiding the spots that are the most injured, and everywhere else he’s still as gentle as possible.


In the middle of cleaning Dean’s neck, he begins to speak, “I will not do this to you anymore, Dean. I promise. I lied before. I am planning to sell you to someone fair, someone I trust. Not someone who will hurt you unnecessarily. Therefore, you don’t need to be trained for those kinds of men. I – I will be fair to you from now on.”


“Fair would be setting me free.”


“Yes, well,” the man dips the rag in the water again, then continues cleaning him. “That won’t be happening. So, take the compromise.”


Dean watches the man closely, amazed at how gentle and kind he is being once again. It’s like two people live inside him. Dean likes this side an awful lot. He despises the other.


He trusts neither.


Dean sinks down further in the water. The man dips his hand in, feeling that it’s cooling off, and starts to drain some. Then he turns the faucet on to add some hot water. As it mixes through the cooler water in the tub, Dean sighs in appreciation. Then the faucet is turned off, and the man is sighing, and before he can prepare himself, the man is saying, “You can’t hate this that much. I saw your test results. I saw how your cock leaked when I hit you with my belt. I saw how needy you got. I saw the way you looked at me. The way you panted and called me master. The way you begged for my cock in your mouth. You’re a slut for this shit, you’re just too proud to admit it. Too stubborn.”


Dean tries to get angry, but his body is draining. It feels like the man has sliced him open, letting whatever made him Dean Winchester pour out.


Since he’s broken, since he has nothing left to fucking lose, Dean admits to the man the one thing that terrifies him. “Those reactions. They – they only happen with you. Just you. So maybe I’m a slut, and maybe some fucked up part of me likes some of this shit you do to me, but only for you. It’s not gonna be like that with the guy who buys me. It’s only with you. And what you did to me in that room? I didn’t like that. I didn’t like that at all. I wasn’t a slut for that. I wasn’t needy. I don’t think I got hard once. You were sadistic. And then you – you - ” Dean drops his chin, ordering himself not to cry. “You raped me.”


The silence that stretches between them is so long that Dean wonders if maybe the man will just leave. Or maybe he’ll hurry to get him out and bring him back to his cell. Or maybe he’ll punish Dean for saying those things.


What he doesn’t expect is the man gently grabbing his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, pulling until their eyes meet. They watch each other for a while. Dean starts to study his features. Maybe if he stares long enough, learns about the curve of his nose and the stubble on his chin and the bags beneath his eyes, he’ll understand him. He sees how bloodshot the whites of his eyes are, making the blue irises vibrant. He remembers what the man they passed in the hall on the way up there had said. About the man not sleeping much. Dean wonders why he wouldn’t sleep. He’s the ruler of this world. What is there to lose sleep over?


Eventually, the man drops his hand from Dean and runs it through his own hair. It’s wet, and it makes his hair stick up in all directions. He looks cute and ruffled. If this was any other situation, Dean would smile.


“What’s your name?” Dean finds himself asking, needing to gain some power here.


The man meets his eye, hand pausing with the rag he’s currently dragging across Dean chest. It rests right over Dean’s pounding heart. “You will not use my name. Ever. Not after this bath. Understood?”




“Alright.” The man continues washing him, avoiding his eyes. “Castiel.”


Dean quirks a corner of his mouth up in a smile. “Nice to meet you, Castiel.”


“And you, Dean.”


“How did you get into this life?” Dean tries to make it funny by teasing, “Did you take an aptitude test in high school and it suggested Slave Trading?”


Instead of smiling like Dean hoped, Castiel’s expression becomes cold. Calculated. “No. My father owned this before me. The first time he brought me to the compound, I was four. The first time I watched a slave getting trained, I was six. The first time I touched a slave myself, in a non-sexual manner, I was seven. The first time I attended a slave auction, I was nine. The first time I fucked a slave, I was eleven. The first time I was given a slave of my own to train for an auction, I was thirteen. I was a born and raised slave trader.”


Dean closes his eyes, imagining a little Castiel walking around the same dungeons he walks now as the boss. A small boy learning about the world through the eyes of his father – the eyes of a monster. No wonder he’s become one himself.


“How old were you when you got your first slave?” Dean asks, hating the sick spark of jealousy he feels at the idea of Castiel owning his own slaves. Ones that get all of him. Maybe go to his home. Get his kisses and compliments and maybe even get to sleep in his arms. A slave that Castiel picked out himself. A slave he wanted. Not a misbehaved slave he got burdened with.


“What do you mean?” Castiel asks after a moment.


Dean pushes away his jealousy for this imaginary slave and clarifies. “When you first got your own slave. Like one that was yours. Not for training purposes or anything, but to keep. For yourself.”


Dean starts when he feels skin against his all of a sudden. He looks down to find that Castiel has dropped the rag, now resting his hand on Dean’s chest instead. He keeps his eyes glued to the large hand as it strokes across his pecs and down his protruding rib cage. He really does need to eat.


“I have never owned my own slave, Dean.”






“But-” Dean pauses, his eyes fluttering shut as Castiel’s hand slips beneath the water and brushes against his quickly hardening cock. He has to bite back a whimper of disappointment when the hand continues moving, resting on his thigh and stroking the leg hair there instead. His cock jumps as if begging for attention.






Castiel smirks down at him. “You were saying something?”


“Oh. Yeah. I – uh – How do you – I mean, do – do you use the slaves being trained – or?”


The hand gets dangerously close to his cock again and Dean shifts beneath the bubbles to make them come in contact. He’d be yelled at if he was a slave right now, but he’s Dean, and Castiel just chuckles and wraps his hand around him. Not stroking. Just holding it. Firm. Steady. Possessive. Dean’s not sure how he feels about Castiel possessing him. Dean has control here, he can say no, and he’s not.


What does that make him?


“Are you asking who I fuck, Dean?” Dean nibbles on his lip and nods, feeling his face grow hot. He swears he sees Castiel’s pupils dilate. “Are you jealous? Worried I fuck other boys? Want me all to yourself?”


“N – No. Not at all.”


“No? Hmmm.” Castiel starts to stroke him, but it’s agonizingly slow. Barely movement at all. “So, if I told you that after I’m finished with you, I go to a pretty slave down the hall and use him to satisfy myself, you wouldn’t feel jealous? Not even a little bit?”


Dean grits his teeth. “What’s his name?”


“Slaves don’t have names.”


Push away his hand, Dean. Push it away. Tell him to fuck off. Stay in this tub as long as possible.


“Dean? Would you be jealous?”




“Stop what?” he asks in an innocent voice, speeding up his hand. Dean whimpers and sinks lower into the water. Castiel claimed he’s the strongest person he’s ever met, but Dean’s calling bullshit. He’s not strong. Not in the least.


Dean keeps his eyes closed. If he can’t see Castiel, maybe it’s not as bad. “Stop what, Dean?”


He means to say, ‘stop touching me’ but what comes out is, “Stop talking about other guys.”


The dark chuckle makes him want to cry. Then the hand slows down again, and he actually starts to, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He flinches when he feels something strange against his cheek, eyes snapping open in shock. Castiel is just inches from his face. He just kissed Dean’s tear, wiping it away with a sweet brush of his lips.


“Do you?” Dean whispers, breathing in the oxygen Castiel shares with him.


“Do I what?”


“Fuck other guys here?”


“No.” Castiel presses his lips against Dean’s. The kiss is harsh and dominating, full of biting teeth and violent tongues. Dean just opens and lets him do whatever he wants. He just said he doesn’t fuck anyone else, that Dean is his only one, and Dean is so relieved. So fucking relieved. Castiel is his. At least right now. Castiel pulls away when they’re both panting, looking down at Dean with vibrant blue eyes. “When I get too pent up, I’ll use a slave here. Rarely on my own, though. I’ll jump into a gangbang or use one hooked up to a breeding bench. It’s not often I do a one on one scene.”


“When was the last time you did one?”


Guilt floods the man’s features, and Dean immediately hates himself for trusting him. He’s about to tell Dean that he does, in fact, fuck other guys. That Dean isn’t special after all. He can feel it.


“I fucked a slave the night you hugged me without permission.”


The words feel like a fucking punch to the gut. He broke the rules, and Castiel went and fucked another guy because of it. “Because I upset you.” Dean doesn’t ask it, he states it. Every syllable is soaked in self-hatred and jealousy.


Castiel closes his eyes, forehead wrinkling. “I was upset with myself.”




Castiel opens his eyes and looks at Dean. “I shouldn’t have let you touch me. I definitely should not have touched you. I – Dean, you break my rules. You get me to break all the rules. And I was angry with myself because that was the first time it happened. I thought if I fucked another boy, if I got it out of my system, I wouldn’t be so fascinated with you.”


“Oh.” Dean bites his lip, looking down at where Castiel’s hand is now rubbing light circles on his stomach. “Did it work?”


“No, Dean. It didn’t.”


“Oh.” Dean can’t fight the smile that brings to his face. He just lets it take over, butterflies in his stomach filling him with both happiness and guilt. “Are you training anyone else, then? Or just me?”


“Just you. You’re an exception. I haven’t trained anyone since I was seventeen.”


Dean’s eyes widen. “How old are you now?”




“Old man,” Dean teases. Then words start to process, and he moves his face away from Castiel’s, staring at the wall. “Why me then?”


“What do you mean?”


“I mean, I get you had to train me because everyone else gave up, but why rape me? After eleven years of not needing to. After eleven years of not putting a slave on a bench and beating them bloody and taking what isn’t yours. Why me?”


Castiel stares at him, lips slightly parted, eyes hooded. If Dean’s not mistaken, he looks a little afraid. He sits back against the toilet, giving Dean more distance, and admits, “I was bored. Before you. I don’t enjoy broken things like the men I sell to. I enjoy a fighter. I enjoy sass. I enjoy a slave that gives me a reason to beat him, but then gives me a reason to worship him after. Then you showed up and flipped my entire fucking world, Dean. What I did to you? That was me trying to flip it back.”


“Did it work?”


Castiel huffs a laugh. “Not in the least. Now I just hate myself more.”


Unsure of how to feel about the fact that Castiel hates himself for what he’s done, since Dean’s been imagining that Castiel enjoyed it and will probably do it again, Dean just states simply, “You flipped my world too.”


“Well, good. Then we’re even.”


Dean’s smile slips. “Except you get to walk away.”


“No, Dean. That’s where you’re wrong.” The look Castiel gives him is impossible to interpret. Then he takes a deep breath, almost to steady himself, and leans forward. “No more talking. I want to fuck you.”


“You mean, rape me?”


“No. I don’t. Because I’m asking your consent while you’re still Dean.”


“But the minute I’m out of the tub, I’m a slave again, and you don’t have to listen to Dean’s consent.”


Castiel shakes his head. “Not tonight. Tonight, if you want me to, I’ll take you back to your cell and leave you alone.”


The breath in Dean’s lungs catches, and he wonders if words alone can make your lungs collapse. This is what he wanted earlier. All he wanted was to go to his cell and be left the fuck alone.


This man raped him.


He raped him.


Raped him.


Jesus Christ, Dean, he raped you.


But he feels bad about it.


But he’s using Dean’s name.


But he was only six and he didn’t know any better.


Dean is the only one Castiel wants.


Dean is special.


Dean breaks Castiel’s rules.


Dean wants to see how many more he can break.


“Yes.” Dean closes his eyes, hating himself so fucking much in this moment that he once again wishes to die. “Yes, please.”


“Please what, Dean?”


“Don’t make me say it.” He looks at Castiel, shaking his head a little in desperation. “Please. Please don’t make me say it.”


“Fine. Yes or no. Will you let me fuck you, Dean? In my bed? As my slave?”


Dean’s eyes snap up to look at him. “Your slave?”


Regret ripples through Castiel’s features. “No. Nothing has changed, Dean. I can’t keep you.”


“Why not?”


Castiel stares at him, looking both confused and afraid. “Dean, would you want me to keep you? If you had to choose. If you had the option of me or the auction. Would you truly want me to keep you?”


Say no, Dean.




With no warning, Castiel is on his feet and turning his back to Dean. Dean hears him whisper under his breath, “Fuck.” Then he’s walking out of the room.


Dean’s left in the bath, utterly perplexed. His heart is pounding. Before too many thoughts can flood his mind, Castiel is back with what looks like the softest, fluffiest towel. “Can I fuck you when I take you out of here, Dean? As a slave?”


Dean immediately registers the difference. No longer as my slave, now as a slave. The difference is slight, but it feels like his heart splits apart as wide as the Grand Canyon. His trust wanes.


“Will it – I mean, will you hurt me. Like before?”


Castiel’s face softens, and Dean can see every trace of that self-hatred and confusion that Castiel is claiming to feel etched into his features and gleaming in his eyes. “No, Dean. I will never hurt you like that again. I will have sex with you – it’s what I’m training you for – but it will never be like that again. I will never-“ Castiel stops, clearing his throat, and Dean figures that’s the end of it. Dean’s not an idiot. He’s noticed that Castiel hasn’t been able to use the word rape. Whenever Dean uses it, Castiel flinches, and whenever Castiel talks about what happened, he avoids the term like the plague.


But then Castiel locks eyes with Dean, and Dean is drowning. “I will never rape you again, Dean.”


Dean should point out that technically, every time they have sex will be rape. It’s not like Dean can exactly give or take away consent in this setting. Just because it feels good doesn’t mean it’s not rape. Just because Dean likes parts of it doesn’t mean it’s not rape.


But Dean – not the broken shell, or the desperate slave to please his master – but Dean, the real Dean, wants to have sex with Castiel. Genuine sex. And this is his only chance.


“Okay. Yeah.” Dean stands up and steps one foot out of the bath. Then, with a huge breath, the other. The towel is wrapped around him, and he looks up into the bluest eyes possible. The color of the bedding. The color of the special blanket. The color of the ocean.


He’s falling for this monster. He’s falling right now, in this moment, and he can’t get himself to stop. “Fuck me as your slave, then, Castiel. Master. Pretend tonight, I’m yours.”


Castiel’s lips part in awe. It almost looks like his knees go weak for a second. Then he takes Dean by the shoulders and starts walking backward, leading him into the bedroom. “Yeah, Dean. Pet. Let’s play pretend.”

Chapter Text

When Castiel lays Dean out on his bed, he very nearly falls to his knees at the sight of him. There are still parts of his skin damp and glistening. His hair is wet and wild. He smells of the honey bubble bath. His gorgeous cock is erect, curving ever so slightly to the right. His pink lips are parted and kissable. And those eyes. Those fucking green eyes.


Dean has no idea, but he has all the power right now. Every ounce. Castiel stands there at the end of the bed, his sleeve dripping with water, his cock straining hard against his pants. He’s nearly panting with lust and need. He wants to worship Dean all night. It doesn’t even matter if Castiel gets to come at the end. All that matters is Dean.


His father would fucking kill him.


Jesus Christ, Castiel didn’t even put Dean’s fucking collar back on.


Dean looks up at him with those big, bright, beautiful green eyes. No idea he holds Castiel’s heart in his hands.


“You’re beautiful, my pet,” Castiel whispers, slipping his tie from his neck and running it through his hands, appreciating the silk fabric.


“Thank you, Master.”


“I’ve never seen such a beautiful slave. So strong. Intelligent. Sassy.” Castiel rests a knee on the mattress between Dean’s thighs and leans over to run the pad of his finger along Dean’s lips. “God, this sassy mouth of yours. The things I plan to do to this mouth. I love it so fucking much.”


Dean’s breathing picks up, eyes fluttering. “I thought you hated my attitude, Master.”


“I try. I try very hard to.” Castiel leans just slightly further and grabs Dean’s mouth with his own. He licks along the seam of his lips, swallowing the whimper that escapes them. “You’re addicting, pet.”


“So are you, Master.”


This catches Castiel by surprise, just like the comment about Dean wanting Castiel to keep him. He leans back to look at the man beneath him. He’s talented at telling when people lie, a skill his father made sure to teach him at a very young age. A skill necessary to succeed – hell, to survive – in this business. Castiel has Dean figured out when it comes to lying. Dean usually gives himself away quite easily. That blush of his is a dead giveaway most times. If it’s a small lie, his pupils flash.


Dean is not lying now. He’s addicted to Castiel, and Castiel can see he hates himself for it, but he’s also unable to stop it. The two of them are in the same exact boat, and it’s sinking fast.


Castiel, full of a newfound urge to take and keep, grabs Dean’s hands and places them over his head. He takes his tie and secures his wrists together. Tight. Then he pushes Dean up the mattress until his knuckles are brushing the headboard. He attaches the other end of the tie to the railing and tugs on it, grinning. It’s not as equipped as his playroom downstairs, but there’s something better about this. Dean being in his bed, in the place no slave has ever entered. In a place where Castiel has never had sex before.


It feels right.




Even if it’s just pretend.


With a final kiss to Dean’s mouth, Castiel grabs Dean’s hips and turns him over onto his stomach. The young man immediately spreads his legs for him and lifts his ass slightly off the mattress. Castiel chuckles and kisses from the bottom of his neck down his spine, avoiding the more injured parts of him. Dean’s skin from head to toe is covered in goosebumps by the time Castiel’s spreading his cheeks open and licking the tight pucker between them.


Dean garbles something into the pillow and spreads his legs further, the rest of his body melting.


“That’s it, pet. Let it feel good. Let Master take care of you.”


Dean doesn’t speak, Castiel’s not sure if he’s capable at the moment, but he releases a choked sob and nods frantically into the pillow. Castiel laps at his hole for a minute before finally poking the tip of his tongue in to fuck him. He smiles against the fluttering hole when Dean arches his back and keens.


Castiel’s too impatient, so he doesn’t last much longer just rimming him. It’s not long before he’s thrusting two spit-slick fingers into his hole to quickly prep him. He can tell it hurts Dean, but the young man adjusts quickly and is pushing back to fuck himself within seconds. Castiel skillfully avoids Dean’s prostate, chuckling when Dean figures out what he’s doing and growls at him in frustration.


“Come on,” he ends up spitting out after a close call, looking over his shoulder to glare at Castiel.


With an eyebrow raised, Castiel smacks Dean on the right ass cheek three times in a row, hard and fast. Dean’s breath leaves his lungs, and he looks over his shoulder at Castiel, eyes wide. “That was disrespectful, slave. Apologize.”


“S- sorry. Sorry, Master.”


“You should be punished, shouldn’t you slave?”


Dean starts to tremble and his eyes water. “Please, Master – I’m so – everything hurts.”


Licking his lips, Castiel scans his eyes over Dean’s body. The boy is right. His poor body is battered and worn down from yesterday, a beating they already agreed he didn’t earn. Castiel can’t let him off the hook, though. That’d be no fun at all.


In a cool voice, Castiel repeats himself. “You should be punished, shouldn’t you slave?”


Dean’s face turns red. “Yes, Master.”


“Ask me.” When Dean just stares at him, he clarifies. “Ask me to punish you. Ask your master to help teach you your lesson.”


“Please – please punish me, M – Master. Help me, Master.” Knowing that Dean’s willingly begging for punishment to please him, even though he just admitted to being in pain, does crazy things to Castiel. Especially when the boy whispers, “I wanna be good for you.”


Castiel could come from those words alone. He holds the base of his cock and squeezes, reminding it to behave. Then he reaches up and undoes the knot of his tie, releasing Dean. The boy’s body trembles with fear, but his eyes are full of trust as he looks up at Castiel for instruction. He has no idea what Castiel is going to do, he has no idea that Castiel doesn’t plan on causing him any pain during the punishment, yet Dean’s still looking at Castiel like he’s not a monster.


Castiel has to grab his cock a second time, worrying he won’t last long if Dean keeps acting so damn perfect. He thinks about roughly grabbing him and stuffing his cock in his mouth, but Dean’s being so fucking compliant, he wants to see how far he can push him. He wants to see how willing his boy is.  


“Come here so your master can fuck your disrespectful mouth.”


There’s barely a breath between the order and the feeling of Dean’s pretty lips on his cock. He sucks like his life depends on it, and Castiel is left to just watch in amazement. At some point, he starts to gently pet his hair. Then Dean’s hand rolls Castiel’s balls, and he snaps. His hands tighten in his slave’s hair and he begins to fuck his throat.


After just a few thrusts, Dean starts to gag. Castiel yanks Dean’s head back, removing him from his cock. Tears run down his cheeks, and he looks up at Castiel in a panic. “I’m sorry, Master. I’ll be better, Master.”


The rough scolding he planned on saying evaporate as Dean’s words warm his chest. Castiel melts, removing one hand from Dean’s hair so he can cup the boy’s cheek. “Don’t worry, slave. We’ll practice. You got it wet enough anyway.”


Dean’s eyes widen, and he licks his lips. It makes Castiel chuckle, but then he forces himself to focus, turning serious as he orders, “Present for me.”


Like a switch flips, Dean is on his hands and knees, showing his ass to Castiel. Castiel dips his fingers into him a few more times, stretching him while still avoiding his prostate. This time, Dean stays quiet. He barely even whimpers.


Castiel grabs one of his pillows and puts it beneath Dean’s hips. Then he presses him down so he’s lying on his stomach like before, this time his ass in the perfect position for Castiel. “Are you going to be a good boy, or should I tie you back up?”


“Good boy, Master. I’ll be so good. Promise.”


“Who owns your pleasure?”


“You do, Master.”


“And if Master decides not to let you come tonight, what will you do?”


Dean grips the pillow by his face tight. “I – I won’t complain, Master.”


“No, you won’t. You’ll thank me. You’ll thank me for letting you pleasure me. You’ll thank me for giving you every kiss, every touch. You’ll thank me for giving you my cock.” Punctuating that last word, Castiel snaps his hips forward and fucks into Dean. The hole tries to fight him, but Dean’s body relaxes when Castiel whispers in his ear, “Good boy,” and he’s let in immediately.



“Thank you, Master,” Dean pants. “Thank you for letting me pleasure you. Thank you for your cock.”             


Castiel makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat. His thrusts speed up, and he can feel the air being punched out of Dean. He works his slave into a frenzy, shifting so that every single stroke pounds his prostate. His boy is a mixture of broken words and noises and cries. Dean starts to tremble, and his words become coherent enough to beg, “Can I come, Master? Please. Please, let me come. Please – oh, Master – so – so close.”


Castiel stops.


Releasing a wrecked sob, Dean collapses against the mattress. His hands are still tied together, and he pounds his fists against the pillow so that he doesn’t say anything disrespectful. Castiel praises him for it. “Look at that. Such a good boy for your master. You asked so nicely. Wanted it so bad. But you accepted it when Master denied you.”


“Thank you,” Dean pants, as if he’s remembering what he was supposed to do. “Thank you, Master. For – for everything.”


“You’re welcome.” Castiel stares down at his boy’s back with pride. He hadn’t even thought about the thank you part. He had been happy enough when Dean hadn’t complained, but he even remembered to thank Castiel like he was instructed. “You’re perfect, pet.”


“Thank you, Master.”


He leans down and presses a soft kiss to the center of Dean’s back, on a spot mostly uninjured. Then he’s gripping his hips tight enough to bruise and fucking into him harder than he’s possibly ever fucked a human being. Dean’s body jolts, and he shrieks.


“Please! Wait! Stop, stop, stop.” Castiel listens, even though he doesn’t have to. He freezes and tries to catch his breath.


“Did I hurt you?” he pants, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind reminding him that he isn’t supposed to care. Instead, he’s running careful fingers along Dean’s hips, hands shaking in fear. “What happened? What did I do?”


“I was-” Dean clears his throat. “I was gonna come, Master. But you didn’t say I could.”




Castiel stares down at him, speechless.




Falling in love.


“Good boy,” he manages to choke out, trying to gather his wits enough to finish this scene as a master. He shifts Dean’s hips to the right angle and plows into him, each time jabbing his prostate. Dean cries and shakes his head, trying to say no again. Trying to get him to stop. “Ask please.”


“I – n – p-”


“Ask please, because I’m not stopping.”


“Please!” Dean sobs.


Castiel growls, “Please what, pet?”


“Please. Please let me-”


“Come on. You can do better than that.”


“Master- please-”


Chuckling, Castiel teases, “Please what?”


“Oh – God. Sto – Jus- Please.” Dean chokes on his words and starts to crawl away from Castiel. Trying to free himself of the pleasure. Terrified of the idea he could accidentally come and let his master down. Castiel grabs him around the waist, pulling him up and pressing Dean’s back firmly into his chest. He snakes a hand up his front and grips his throat, not tight enough to cut his air supply, but tight enough to make him feel the beginning tendrils of suffocation.


“I’m close baby,” Castiel growls in his ear, not moving his hips in order to let both of them calm down. “If I come before you, you’re going to bed with your cock caged. And you can’t come until I say, so you better try harder.”


Dean deflates, but he’s held up by Castiel’s cock as he starts pounding into him and he’s held in place with one hand pressing against his stomach and the other hand squeezing his throat. “Please – C – Can come Mast?”


The sadist in him peeks out. “Not yet.”


He pulls out of Dean and lets go of him, letting him fall on his stomach and face. Before Dean can gather his bearings, before he can even cry out at the emptiness inside him, Castiel is turning him on his back and entering him again. His hand drifts back to Dean’s throat, squeezing. Those green eyes blink up at him. There’s not an ounce of fear in them. Instead, they radiate trust and joy and… fuck. If Castiel didn’t know better, he’d say love.


The man beneath him is a beautiful, well-behaved slave. But he’s also still Dean. He can see the young man right there beneath the surface. He didn’t mentally break him. This is Dean. And Dean is looking at him like that. Dean is willingly submitting. Dean is… Dean might love him.


God, Castiel can’t let him go. Castiel needs to keep him.


Wanting to help Dean get over the edge, wanting him to fall apart at the same time as Castiel so he can piece them together into something new and singular, Castiel whispers in the boy’s ear, “Now try again. I think you can do better for me, Dean.”


Dean’s too far gone to notice the slip, already sobbing his pleas before Castiel even says his real name. “Please – Master – Please let – Ple – Can I come? Master – Oh, god-”


Castiel grins. “Good enough. Go ahead.”


Before he finishes the last word, Dean is coming. With his final exhale, he whispers, “Master,” like a fucking prayer.


Castiel is so fucked.


Castiel pounds into him through the orgasm, tightening his fingers on Dean’s throat just a little to make it more intense for him, all the while raining praise. “Good boy. So good. Such a good pet. Make your master so happy. So perfect. My good little slave.”


Then he’s finishing and Dean’s turning to jelly, and he’s collapsing on top of him, cock still spurting tiny amounts into his hole. Every last drop. Wringing Castiel dry.


In a cracked voice, Dean whispers, “Thank you, Master.”


Castiel can’t help but release a breathy laugh in amazement. “God, you’re perfect.”


Dean shivers at the words. “So are you, Master.”


“Mmmm.” He’s far from perfect, but he doesn’t need to remind Dean of that. They might have just had the best sex of their lives, but it was pretend. Dean knows he’s a monster. He kidnapped him. He beat him. Raped him. He’s going to sell him.


They’re just playing pretend.


Castiel wants to keep playing for the rest of his life.

Chapter Text

As Dean comes out of his trance-like state, he notices that Castiel is missing. He tries to sit up and look around, but he feels dizzy and weak. His injuries throb. His muscles ache. His skin is on fire. He gives up and just lays back down, rolling on his side a little so he can rest his cheek against the pillow. It smells exactly like Castiel.


He wants to stay here forever.


Movement catches his eye a minute later and he flicks his eyes up to see Castiel walking into the room, wearing nothing but boxers and a t-shirt while carrying a plate of food and bottled water. He sits down on the bed beside Dean and puts the items down. He carefully helps Dean sit up, frowning when the boy whimpers in pain. Castiel puts a few pillows behind Dean to help support his back. Then he’s picking up a piece of watermelon and lifting it to Dean’s lips. Dean opens willingly, allowing himself to be fed. It causes a warmth to swirl in his chest, and he sinks into the pillows, eyes closing.


“Hey you. Wake up.” Dean forces his eyes open, feeling them burn from how tired they are. Castiel gives him a comforting smile. “Once you eat, you can sleep. But you gotta eat first. And drink some water.”


“Yes, Master,” Dean whispers, barely having the energy to open his mouth for the words. Castiel pushes a grape through his slightly parted lips, and he chews.


At some point, his eyes slide closed again. He keeps eating, though, so Castel doesn’t yell at him.


Castiel ends up feeding him the entire tray of food, even helping him take drinks every few bites. Dean can’t think of the last time someone took care of him like this. He’s not sure anyone ever did. Maybe his mom, not that he’d remember. Certainly not his dad.


“Hey, green eyes,” Castiel whispers, stroking his cheek. “Where’d your head go?”


“Just thinkin’,” Dean slurs as he blinks his eyes to wake himself up.




Dean’s too tired to even blush. “No one’s done this for me before.”


“What? Feeding you?”


“No. ‘Mean - yes, but the whole thing.” He shrugs. “Was always the caretaker. No time t’ be taken care of – didn’t have ‘n one there even if did.”


Something dark flashes in Castiel’s eyes, but Dean has the strangest feeling it’s not directed at him. He puts the plate on the side table and grabs Dean, pulling him into his lap and against his chest. Dean is too sleepy and happy to even wince at the pain. “Well, I’ll make sure you go to someone good. Someone caring. You’ll be taken care of, I swear. I promise.”


Dean stays silent because he doesn’t want someone, he wants Castiel. Unfortunately, the silence leads to Castiel opening his hand to show Dean four pills. Dean had forgotten about that little fight between them.


“Dean,” he whispers, catching Dean by surprise. “Please take these for me. I need you to take them for me. You have to stay strong, Dean. Promise me.”


Suddenly wide awake, Dean stares at him in both confusion and wonder. That was against the rules. They aren’t allowed to do that now that he’s out of the bath. Sure, Castiel said it during sex, but that was in the heat of the moment. Dean’s not even sure if he’s aware he did it.


This is different.


God, why does Castiel do this to him? Why is he so fucking confusing?




He jumps, eyes snapping up to look at Castiel. “Sorry, what?”


“Please take them.”


“Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He takes them into his hand, then accepts the bottle of water. Trying not to worry himself, he pops them into his mouth and swallows the rest of the water down with them.


Castiel takes the empty bottle from him and kisses his forehead. Then he turns the light out and sinks down on the mattress, turning on his side and pulling Dean in close. Dean lies still as the pillows and blankets are rearranged perfectly for the position they’re in.


“Ca- Master?”


Castiel’s muscles tense. “Yes?”


“Will you give me a kiss goodnight?” Dean immediately starts to pull away, hearing the words out loud making him realize his mistake. “I’m sorry. Never mind. That was – that’s not what you – I’m lucky to even be in your bed, let alone- that was stupid.”


“Not stupid,” Castiel whispers, rubbing his nose against Dean’s. Then he places his lips over the boy’s and gently, slowly, kisses him goodnight. He tries to pour every emotion into it. Every apology. Every fear. Every promise.


Using all his self-control, Castiel pulls away. He presses Dean close again and whispers, “Goodnight, Dean.”


Dean’s breath catches. “Night, Cas.”


Neither of them falls asleep, and they’re both aware of it. After lying still for a while, just breathing Dean in, Castiel whispers, “I’ve never had a man in my bed before.”


Dean’s heart starts to race, Castiel probably feeling it from where they’re pressed chest to chest. “What does that mean, Cas?”


Castiel remains quiet. He knows what Dean is asking. Dean knows he does.


Unable to answer the question, because he doesn’t fucking know the answer, Castiel just pulls Dean in closer and rests his hand on the small of his back. He already has the boy’s body memorized. He knows that two notches up his spine, there’s a spot where he’s not hurt as badly. A spot where Castiel’s height and positioning was left slightly more protected. He strokes the soft skin there with his thumb and closes his eyes.


It takes a few minutes, the stubborn boy trying to stay awake in case Castiel decides to talk, but he eventually passes out. His body melts into Castiel’s arms. His breathing slows.


Castiel stays up much longer. Most of the night, in fact. Imagining what it would be like. Wondering if he could do it. Knowing that every fiber of his being wants to.


He wants to keep Dean for himself.


He knows he can’t.

Chapter Text

When Dean wakes up, groggy but well rested, he finds himself smiling. The smile disappears when he looks at Castiel.  


Castiel stands at the end of the bed with his hands stuffed in his pockets. The jacket of what looks to be an expensive suit is on and buttoned. His tie is knotted at the base of his throat. He’s freshly shaved. His hair is perfectly in place. His blue eyes are no longer bloodshot.


By the time Dean is sitting up slowly, looking around to gather his bearings, Castiel has his head on straight. He’s focused. Boundaries firmly in back place.


Dean is a slave. Just another slave. One of many.


Dean is not special.


Dean is not his.


This was a mistake. A mistake Castiel will be sure to not make again. A mistake he can fix.


“Up,” he orders, his voice low and steady. Dean hesitates, and Castiel lashes out, slapping the slave across his face. “Get. Up. Now.”


Breaths ragged, Dean scrambles to his feet and stands in the spot Castiel is pointing at. He tucks his chin to his chest, not out of submission but in order to hide his tears. The spot on his cheek where Castiel hit him is burning, but it doesn’t hurt as badly as the ache forming in his heart.


“You will not speak unless spoken to. Failure to listen will result in severe punishment. There will be no warnings. No second chances. Understood, slave?”


“Y-yes.” Dean clears his throat and hurries to repeat himself. “Yes, Master.”


“Keep your eyes down. Hands behind your back. Grab your wrists and hold still.”


Dean does as told, begging his body to stop shaking. He’s only able to get it to calm slightly, but Castiel doesn’t yell at him so it must be enough. A piece of cloth brushes his cheek and he flinches, looking over just in time to get a glimpse of black silk before it can be put over his eyes.


With a violent twitch, Dean moves his face away from Castiel and stumbles back a few steps. He lifts his chin and stares straight at him. Betrayal darkens his green eyes. Castiel forces down anything he feels that his father wouldn’t allow – his newfound system he’ll be using to keep himself in check – and approaches Dean. Dean backs himself against the wall, flinching when his injuries hit the unforgiving drywall.


“You’ll regret that, slave,” Castiel whispers, his lips turning into a sadistic smile. “Don’t make it worse for yourself. Come here.”


“Not the dark. Please, no blindfold. You know I can’t do the dark.” When Castiel just continues toward him, Dean’s legs go weak and he falls to the floor, his hands and knees rubbing against the carpet so that his skin burns. “Cas – please don’t.”


Something dark and inhuman floods Castiel’s eyes at the sound of his name. Before Dean can process, his back is being pressed firmly into the floor, and Castiel is straddling him. One hand clenches around his throat while the other continues to hold the blindfold in a tight fist. Dean’s legs kick out as his head begins to throb from the lack of air. Tears leak down his cheeks, and he wrenches his face away in disgust when Castiel laps at them.


“You’re fucking sick,” Dean says through choked breaths.


Castiel laughs, the sound sinister enough to make ice rush through Dean’s veins. “We’re going to have so much fun today, slut.”


Dean opens his mouth to say something back, but Castiel tightens his grip on his throat until his eyes roll into the back of his head. With every passing second, Castiel’s father’s voice fills his ears. That’s it, boy. Just a few seconds longer. Bring him right to the edge. Then let go and tell him, “Your life is mine, slave,” Castiel growls, saying the words as his father shouts them in his head.


As Dean coughs, chokes, and sputters, Castiel continues his reminder, “I can kill you right here, right now, and no one would do anything about it. You belong to me. Your life. Your oxygen. Your entire fucking existence. How did you forget that so fast, slut? Do I need to teach you that lesson again?”


With a broken voice that’s more air than sound, Dean whispers, “No, Master. Sorry, Master.”


Castiel stares down at where his fingers are imprinted onto his slave’s throat. His cock fills, and he grins. His father would be patting him on the back right now.


Still straddling Dean, Castiel gets on his knees so he can turn the boy onto his stomach beneath him. Dean whimpers as Castiel runs his hands along his abused skin. He tries to stay still, though. To be good.


It drives Castiel insane.


Why does Dean have to be so fucking perfect?


Why can’t Castiel just get the fuck over him?


Castiel lifts his hand, then begins to rain down on his ass. Each smack is harder than the last, but Dean gets quieter as the ordeal continues. By the time Castiel split open one of his wounds on his right ass cheek, Dean’s pliant and breathing steady, green eyes blinking slowly.


Needing to test if Dean has truly learned his lesson, Castiel grabs the blindfold. He shakes it out, making sure Dean sees it out of the corner of his eye. The boy tenses but does nothing else. Castiel secures the blindfold. The moment the fabric is wrapped around Dean’s eyes, the boy starts to hyperventilate, his body jerking in fear. He behaves, though. He doesn’t speak out of turn. He doesn’t try to remove the blindfold with his free hands. The only movement is his fingers tangling together where he was originally clinging to the carpet.


Castiel ignores Dean as he falls apart, instead focusing on removing his belt and unzipping his pants. He tugs his cock out and strokes it a few times.


“Beg me to prep you, slut.”


Dean starts to cry harder but manages to choke out, “Please, Master, prep me. I-” Castiel shoves his fingers into Dean’s mouth, cutting him off. Dean’s tongue immediately starts to lap at them as he tries his best to coat them with as much spit as he can before Castiel pulls away.


Pressing two spit-slick fingers against Dean’s hole, he rubs the rim three times before pushing in. Dean’s hips buck, and he sobs, “No!” After a sharp slap to his abused ass, Dean corrects himself. “Sorry, Master.”


“That’s what I fucking thought.” Castiel pulls his fingers out, spitting on his cock and rubbing his hand over it. He lines it up with Dean’s hole and says in a sickly-sweet voice, “I guess you don’t want to be prepped. Your wish is my command, slut.”


Just before he snaps his hips, Castiel catches Dean’s broken whispered, “You promised.”


And just like that, last night comes back to smack Castiel in the chest. It knocks the air out of his lungs, and knocks his father right out of his mind. Castiel looks down at Dean, seeing that damn blindfold, and he can’t do it anymore. Because Dean’s right. He promised.


Castiel can’t keep doing this to him.


But then what is he going to do? He’s proven that he can’t be like his father, but he can’t be the Castiel that’s falling in love with Dean either. There has to be some sort of balance. Some kind of way to survive this.


“Get up. Kneel,” Castiel says in a voice that’s lacking a decent amount of authority.


Dean obeys, gracefully moving into the new position and putting his hands behind his back. His chest and stomach are bright red from rubbing against the carpet. His cock is soft. Castiel leans forward and removes the blindfold from Dean’s face. Green eyes blink up at him, eyelashes sticking a little from how many tears are soaked into them.


“Thank you, Master.”


“There’s lube in the bedside table. Get it.”


With a sharp nod, Dean does as ordered, crawling since he wasn’t told to walk. By the time he’s back, cupping his hands together and presenting the bottle of lube to Castiel, Castiel’s hands are shaking. He can’t let Dean see.


“Prep yourself. Lie on your back and spread your legs so I can watch.”


Dean blushes but does as told, situating himself. He meets Castiel’s eyes and silently asks for approval. Castiel starts to reach for his leg, to stroke it and make him relax, but his hands haven’t calmed. He just leans back against the wall and stares at Dean. The moment Dean realizes he’s not going to be praised is evident in his features. He goes from scared but determined, to devastated. He tries to shove two of his fingers inside himself, a tear slipping down his cheek, and Castiel’s heart breaks at the obvious need to please lingering in Dean’s eyes as he watches Castiel watch him.


“One finger, pet. Slow down. Make it good.”


There’s slight confusion on Dean’s face, but he pulls the two fingers out that he was trying to cram inside himself and focuses on just doing one. It slides in relatively easy, and after a few small pulses, Dean’s cock is starting to harden.


Castiel gains strength as he watches the slave. His head is on straight. His hands are steady. His heart slow. He instructs him to add another finger. Then another. Tells him to try and hit his prostate. Tells him to stroke his hard cock with his free hand.


It doesn’t take long for Dean to be rolling his hips, trying to gain friction where there isn’t any, trying to get his fingers deeper when it’s not possible. He whines low in his throat. Then green eyes are big, wide, and pleading as he looks at Castiel. “Pl – please, Master.”


“You want me to fuck you now, pet?”


Dean vigorously nods, biting his bottom lip to keep himself from moaning or begging any more. He’s still mad at Castiel.


He still loves him too.


It’s doing crazy fucking things to Dean’s head.


“I’m going to fuck you hard, pet. No mercy.” Castiel starts to crawl toward him, giving Dean a smile that makes him whimper and draw back. “Are you sure you’re ready?”


Biting harder on his bottom lip, Dean nods.


“Okay. On your stomach, then.” When Dean rolls over, showing his ass to Castiel, Castiel frowns. The spot that split open is swollen. Blood has been smeared all over both ass cheeks. There’s a matching spot on Castiel’s floor.


Gritting his teeth, Castiel lines himself up and pushes into Dean. The slave turns his face into his crooked arms, hiding from Castiel. Trying to at least. He makes no sound as Castiel fucks into him, his body going slack.


As he stares down at the bruised and broken body beneath him, Castiel’s father’s voice returns. Fuck him, boy. Fuck him until he gives up. Fuck him until he breaks. That’s it, boy, hurt him. Dig your fingers into his ass. Right there, yeah – where he’s bleeding. Good, Castiel. I knew you’d be great at this.


Castiel grits his teeth, smearing the blood from Dean’s wounds further as he tightens his grip on his hips and lifts him up. It’s the perfect position to hit his prostate, and Dean starts to violently shake his head, crying too hard to verbally beg. Castiel ignores the boy as his father whispers to him, Now make him come. Hard. Confuse the fuck out of him. Make the slut get off on his own pain.


He slams into his prostate violently, reaching around and jacking the slave’s cock with a tight fist. Dean cries harder, trying to wiggle away as Castiel uses his hand slick with Dean’s own blood to push him closer to an orgasm.


“Please, no,” Dean whimpers, his head hanging between his shoulders as he’s fucked on his hands and knees. When Castiel just continues to stroke his cock, Dean releases his first sob. “No. Lea’ me ‘lone. Don’ wan’ it. Stop.”


Castiel thinks about last night. Thinks about the way Dean had looked at him as he pointed out that Castiel raped him. As he pointed out that he wasn’t hard during it. He’s hard now, he likes this even if he won’t admit it. Or is that just Castiel’s fucked up way of thinking? Maybe Dean doesn’t want him at all. Maybe this entire time, right from the moment Castiel first laid eyes on him, Dean hasn’t wanted him even a little. His body is just reacting to stimulus. It’s science, not emotion.


Dean probably hates him.


And Castiel loves him.


The boy is beautiful.


And last night? He was so good for Castiel. So perfect.


Then Castiel fed him.


Took care of him.


Held him.


Fucking kissed him goodnight.


A shout pulls his attention back to the present just as his hand is covered in cum. Hating himself, Castiel squeezes his eyes shut and spills into the boy’s hole. Castiel rolls off Dean and rests his back against the wall, drawing his knees up and placing his feet flat on the floor. He rests his elbows on his knees and dangles his hands, staring at them. They’re streaked with Dean’s blood and cum. It makes him sick.


What really kills him, though? When he looks up to see that Dean is forcing his aching body into a kneeling position, using his hands to keep balanced. The boy is shaking, the front of his body rug burned, his cock covered in the same red and white mixture as Castiel’s hands. He kneels just like he was taught and places his hands behind his back, tucking his chin to his chest. He even manages to swallow his sobs.


Castiel sits there for a long time. Longer than he should, because Dean’s probably sore and in need of water and rest. He can’t stop staring at the boy.






It isn’t until Dean’s body has completely relaxed, letting Castiel know that he’s most likely slipped into a different mind space, that Castiel gets to his feet. He goes to the bathroom, washes his hands, changes into a new suit, and grabs a rag. He cleans Dean while the slave stays completely still, his breathing not even changing, his green eyes vacant. Dean’s not in this room anymore. He’s somewhere else. Castiel is thankful for that.


Castiel wishes he wasn’t in this room either.





Dean comes back to himself when he’s placed on the cold cement floor that he’s pretty sure is his cell. This makes him smile softly. He’s relieved to be here again. Things make sense here. He’s a slave, and Castiel is his master. It’s when they go upstairs that things get confusing. That’s where Master acts like Castiel, and Dean doesn’t like Castiel. Castiel is confusing. Castiel lies.


Master is simple. Master tells you what to do. You do it. Master hurts you. You take it. Master rewards you. You thank him.


Dean’s entire body hurts, and his mind is in shock. Castiel had warned him. He told Dean he had hurt him because he was in a bad mood. No matter what Dean does, no matter how well he behaves, it doesn’t save him from this. Sure, Castiel promised not to do this anymore, but Dean’s a fucking idiot for trusting that. For trusting him. Even if he did decide not to hurt Dean, even if he did let Dean prep himself, he still fucked him. Hurt him. Made him come.


God, Dean didn’t want to come. It was bad enough he was fighting with himself during the sex with his emotions – trying to tell his head to hate Castiel when all he wanted to do was turn on his back so he could look into Castiel’s eyes as he was fucked by him. Maybe even kiss him.


Dean is fucked up.


This whole damn thing is fucked up.


This is Dean’s life now. Castiel decides everything. Even whether he lives or dies. It doesn’t matter if he’s good or bad. It doesn’t matter that Castiel complimented him and cuddled him and kissed him goodnight. If Castiel wants to treat him well, he will. If Castiel wants to treat him like this, he will. Dean’s just along for the ride. He has no say.


And the whole time, his heart is going to continue to fall for him. For this monster.


Dean waits for that to piss him off.


He waits for this revelation to devastate him.


He waits for any emotion at all.


Instead, he just feels exhausted. He just wants it all to be over.


Apparently, his master doesn’t agree. Rough hands yank him back to his feet and pull him until he stumbles. When his eyes accidentally meet his master’s, he immediately turns his gaze down to the ground, not wanting to be disrespectful.


His arms are brought toward the ceiling where a pulley system is set up. Master attaches Dean’s wrists to the leather cuffs linked to the chains above his head. With a harsh tug, he’s pulled to his tiptoes, a sharp pain starting in his shoulders and shooting up to his fingers. He hisses and starts to spin, unable to keep his balance in the position.


“Stay still,” Master orders impatiently, swatting his hip. He sighs as if he’s annoyed that Dean once again let him down, even though Dean can’t figure out how he can possibly stop turning.


Without another word, his master leaves the room. He doesn’t close the door. Just leaves.


Dean holds his breath, confused and scared. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. His master returns with his hands full of things Dean can’t focus on, because he’s far too distracted by his shoulders that feel like they’re tearing.




Still distracted, Dean parts his lips and allows his master to slide a thick penis gag into his mouth. It’s heavy on his tongue, and he gags before figuring out how to make the two coexist.


When he hears a squeaking wheel, Dean whips his head around to see what’s coming next. It’s like the spanking bench from the playroom, but mobile and smaller. An arm wraps around his waist and hoists him up until he’s lying flat on his stomach against the cool leather. It tugs on his shoulders in a painful way but at least with the bench Dean is no longer left spinning in circles. His ass is moved further up then the rest of his body and Dean whines low in his throat, praying his master isn’t about to fuck him again so soon.


Something nudges Dean’s crack just a second later, and he starts to tremble, because it’s cold and wet and feels wrong. Far too wrong.


It slides in easy enough, but then it starts to inflate inside him, not stopping until his eyes are burning as badly as his hole. When he feels cold water start to run through it, he blinks rapidly, tears beginning to fall down his cheeks. It hurts, but it’s also the humiliation making him cry. They’ve done plenty of things to him here, but never this. Not a fucking enema. It’s so clinical and non-sexual and – oh fuck, actually… that hurts. That really fucking hurts.


His stomach starts to cramp, and he sobs into the gag, trying to fight now. He kicks his legs out and yanks hard at the chain attached to his wrists. Surprisingly, his master just ignores him. The enema has a long enough tube where he can just keep filling Dean no matter how much squirming there is. The part inside his hole is far too big to be jostled out anyway.


When the water finally stops, Dean breathes a shaky sigh in relief and rests his head, his shoulders on fire. Fresh tears spring from his eyes, and he groans, another wave of cramps running through him.


“I’m going to remove this. If anything spills – even a drop – I will flog you until you’re bloody, then tie you up and let every trainer in this facility fuck your hole while you’re still full of water.”


Dean chokes back a sob and nods his understanding. He clenches as hard as he can but isn’t sure if it will be enough, especially when the clenching brings on more cramping.


By some miracle, the enema is removed without any spilling, and a large plug is worked into him. He squeezes his eyes shut as he realizes that his master plans to keep him full like this. It’s starting to really ache and he’s not sure how much longer he can handle it, but he knows his master doesn’t care.


With only a few quick movements, the bench is gone and Dean’s back on his tiptoes. He feels the water slosh inside his belly and whimpers.


Master comes to stand in front of Dean, his blue eyes still vacant and cold. He tugs at his nipples with his fingernails, making Dean grunt and buck forward. When they’re nice and long, Master attaches clips to them. The metal bites into the sensitive flesh, making Dean flinch. The flinch causes pain to shoot through his shoulders and his abdomen. Which makes him flinch again.


His master stares at him for a few more seconds, as if he’s contemplating something. Then he pulls out the blindfold from earlier that he had stuffed in his pocket and secures it around Dean’s eyes, ignoring his muffled pleas and broken sobs.


Dean can’t see anymore, but he knows his master leaves when the loud metal door slams closed. The lock is put in place and he feels it echo inside his chest. It’s only a matter of seconds before he’s tuned in to every single point of pain in his body. Since he can’t see anything due to the blindfold, and he can’t hear anything since it’s completely silent in there, and he can’t smell anything because his nose is stuffy from crying, and he can’t taste anything other than the rubber in his mouth, all that’s left is to feel.


To feel everything.


He focuses on the main thing; staying alive. He forces himself to ignore all of the pain and sensation and emotion and hurt. Instead, he turns his face and wipes his nose as hard as he can against the skin of his shoulder. When he can breathe more clearly through it, he takes deep, steady breaths. In and out. He refuses to let himself cry because if his nose is blocked any worse than it was, he’ll suffocate.


So, he just breathes. In. Out. In. Out.


Until he loses all feeling in his shoulders. Until his stomach aches so bad, he screams into his gag. Until he pisses himself. Until he passes out.