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Tears stream down Dean’s face as the humbler yanks his balls once more. Shit. This was a lot more difficult and more painful than he thought it would be when Cas first suggested it to him. He immediately folds his legs back into position, finding that that sweet spot where he and the humbler are friends, where it merely pinches instead of tugs at his manhood. He heaves in several deep breaths, gathers his bearings.

“Dean?” Cas murmurs. His hand clasps Dean’s shoulder, and Dean nearly flinches.

Knowing what Cas is asking, Dean spits out, “Green.” He’s not going to ruin this for Cas, not when he’d been so happy when that discrete box arrived in the mail.

Normally, Dean’s pain tolerance is pretty high. He and Cas enjoy to playing with his tolerances and finding out how far he should be pushed. Together they tried choking, staples, clamps, and more, and Dean got off on the pain of them all. This however… might be more difficult.

His ankles are held apart with a spreader bar, and his wrists are attached to it with handcuffs and chain. This all holds him in position, with his slutty asshole presented for Cas’s pleasure, and Dean loves it like that. A strange mix of vulnerability and anxious arousal tingles through Dean’s body, leaves him feeling electric to the touch and on the verge of something good.

The humbler brings things to a whole other level.

Cas removes his hand from Dean’s shoulder and replaces it on the small of his back. Dean tries to let the touch relax him, but he feels as tight as a drum and ready to snap.

“I’m going to start again,” Cas explains, and Dean nods as best as he can. He doesn’t have to wait long before Cas’s re-lubed fingers penetrate his hole.

This is good, too. He loves the feeling of Cas’s cock in him more than anything, but his fingers are a close third (behind, strangely enough, objects, for some reason). Cas is always methodical and patient when he stretches Dean out, which is usually maddening as hell, but today Dean is thankful for it because it means he isn’t being jostled much. Of course, when Cas curls his finger toward Dean’s front, finding Dean’s prostate, Dean jostles himself and lets out a sharp cry as the humbler tugs at him, and he freezes up from the sharp pain. More tears leak from his eyes. He wishes his arms weren’t bound so he can wipe the wetness away before Cas can see.

Cas has stopped.

“Dean, tell me the truth,” Cas’s voice cuts through the pain. Dean blinks rapidly, dispersing his tears. His throat feels thick with guilt and phlegm.

“I’m good, Cas, I promise,” he croaks. He still hasn’t moved back into the optimal position, but he has to get used to this. He has to enjoy this, or at the very least tolerate it. The pain has morphed from that initial sharpness to something urgent and long. Dean feels like his balls are going to be ripped away from his body.

He can hear the severe frown in Cas’s voice. “No, Dean. We’re done.”

He’s disappointed him.

Dean remains at Cas’s mercy as he releases him, first from the humbler, then from the handcuffs, and finally the spreader. Cas murmurs nothing apologies to him while removing the humbler and doesn’t stop even after the thing has been cast carelessly aside. Dean’s balls burn with relief. A grateful sob hitches in his chest.

He doesn’t move, though, even after Cas has unlocked the last cuff on his ankle. He doesn’t know if he can move at all anymore. He barely spent five minutes in that damn humbler - what a pansy - and it’s ruined him. It’s ruined his relationship with Cas. No, he ruined his relationship with Cas.

Dean doesn’t realize he’s shivering until Cas lays a blanket on top of him.

“Would you like to go to bed?” Cas asks in a gentle voice.

Dean sniffs and he nods and when Cas asks if he can help him stand, he says yes. God, he’s so fucking weak. He leans in to Cas’s touch as he guides him out of their designated playroom and into the bedroom.

Dean and Cas speak at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

“What? What for?”

“For pushing you, for hurting you.” Cas won’t meet his eyes, and even though there’s something very wrong with that, a part of Dean can’t help but be relieved: he doesn’t want to be looked at. But then Cas does look at him, and Dean immediately drops his gaze. “Why would you be sorry?”

“Look, I know you were really looking forward to using that - that thing. But I can’t. I just can’t. It’s just too much.”

“Dean, look at me.”

Reluctantly, Dean raises his head and stares into Cas’s earnest, blue eyes.

“I don’t mind that you didn’t enjoy it. What I do mind is you not telling me. This relationship requires honest communication. If neither of us feel like we can voice our discomfort, we shouldn’t - we can’t do this any longer.”

Dean lets in a large breath. “I know, I know. It won’t happen again. Sometimes it’s just hard to remember.” He’s been wired to please, no matter the cost, and he can’t always snap out of those ways, especially in the middle of a scene. Cas explained to him about neurochemicals once, how heavy scenes can toy with the participants’ emotions and their trains of thought. Sometimes those chemicals shout his insecurities at him, especially when Cas inflicts pain on him: he’s not good enough, he’s worthless, he deserves to suffer. Those moments suck, but when it’s all done, Cas reminds him of the truth.

“I understand. I'm going to get you an icepack; I'll be right back.”

Cas smiles at him so tenderly, fucking looks at him like he personally hung the stars in the sky and dangled planets in their gravities.

“Can I kiss you?” Cas requests softly.

Dean nods and swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Come here.”