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A whimper rips its way from Dean’s throat as he watches Castiel, cross legged on the kitchen’s tile floor like he is innocent, tear open the plastic wrap on a package of puppy pads. He had just gotten back from a quick trip to the store (which took nearly an hour because he lives in the middle of nowhere), and Dean hasn’t even seen the rest of what’s in the plastic bag on the island. It’s taunting him—if it had eyes then they would be staring into Dean’s soul, trying to rip what’s left of it to shreds. “You weren’t…” (serious, but the word dies in his throat. He should know by now that Castiel is usually always serious, if not honest).
“I was,” Castiel clarifies, getting to his socked feet to unfold one of the pads (the jumbo sized ones). “Unless you want to apologize for acting like a brat with no manners. But I don’t think that you do, so.” Dean never apologizes, the action is too foreign and too uncomfortable for him to do. It’s kicking him in the ass now, but at the same time… he watches, his pupils blown huge, as Castiel sticks the pad down in the middle of the living room floor… right in front of the undoubtedly largest window in the entire two story cabin. It only faced the woods and the shed in the currently snowy backyard, but still, that was pretty… public. Castiel snaps his fingers, drawing Dean’s attention to his hand, and then to his eyes. “Dogs piss wherever they want to. You can do that outside, but until you learn some new tricks, it’s on these. Maybe not being able to use an actual bathroom will teach you manners, but I doubt that.”
Dean gulps. His dick is already twitching inside of his jeans from Castiel’s words, and the fact that he already has to piss, whether from placebo or not, isn’t helping. “Castiel…” he says, still unsure of the placement. Castiel has curtains, but he keeps them open most of the time in the living room. His mouth is suddenly too dry, and he just looks like a gaping fish trying to find any words to convince Castiel to let him use the toilet less than twenty feet away instead.
But the man’s stern look already tells him off before he even starts. “You need help, puppy?” Castiel asks teasingly, walking around Dean until he can slot himself up against his back, the pad on the floor about a foot in front of them. Castiel is taller than Dean by barely an inch, allowing him to set his chin on Dean’s shoulder as he wraps one arm around his stomach, and slides the other hand down to cup his crotch in it. The barely there pressure makes Dean jolt, and Castiel thinks for a moment that maybe, maybe he’ll behave… but his hips twitch and push up into his hand. Castiel tsks, unbuttoning his jeans and unzipping them with one hand, reaching in to take his cock out through his open fly. “This isn’t for your pleasure, mutt. This is to teach you a lesson. I will help you, this time. But you need to do it by yourself afterwards, or just piss your pants, cause you aren’t getting out of this until you learn how to ask for things like a good boy.”
Dean hisses as Castiel wraps his hand around his mostly soft cock (which is a rapidly changing fact). He can’t move more than a few centimeters in Castiel’s grasp this way, the boy’s slim figure surprisingly strong, but he can’t help but struggle when Castiel digs his thumb into his cockhead, rubbing viciously at his urethra, almost like a kitten’s mother coaxing it out. It hurts, devoid of any pleasure, white hot pain zipping up his arms and his spine from his cock, and he thinks better of snapping his teeth at Castiel—he was told to be a good boy. He didn’t want the muzzle, the muzzle was much more humiliating than having his cock manhandled to force him to piss. Somehow.
He can’t stop the tremble of his muscles either, his abdomen rippling and his breath shuddering and shaking, and it feels like he’s about to have either the worst or the best fucking orgasm of his life—instead of the pleasure that his body was expecting, all that he got was a relief like a dam bursting, his cock erupting into a stream of piss as he tried to sniffle his tears back into his eyes. Castiel rubs his belly, placing a kiss to his neck as he angled Dean’s cock so that his piss all landed on the puppy pad sitting on the floor. “Good boy,” he heard, distantly, but he didn’t feel like a good boy, Castiel had to do all of the work for him. When the stream tapers off, Castiel shakes the last droplets from his skin, and tucks him back into his jeans, rubbing his torso soothingly. “See? Wasn’t that bad, was it? I gotta wash my hands now, can you throw that one in the garbage outside?”
His voice is sickly sweet, and Dean finds himself nodding, almost eagerly. He’s still crying, and he wipes the stupid tears off of his face before bending over to fold the soiled pad up. His own smell surrounds him on the way outside. He prays that he can will himself to use them, because he isn’t sure that he can take even a single instance of wetting his own pants with that look in Castiel’s eyes all of the time.