Archive of Our Own

Dean woke up in the panic room. It was cold. He was upright, but he couldn't move. His arms and legs were bound. His legs, together. His arms, spread... as though he were strung up on a...

Oh. Oh, that's right.

"Hey," he called to the murky darkness as it began to give way.

"We drugged you," said a familiar, level, patient voice. "It was the best way. I'm sure you understand."

Dean tried to shake away the cobwebs. "Yeah," he said, "yeah, I think I do.  Are--" His face puckered. "Are we really going to do this?"

"You were the one who agreed readily. I was reluctant."

"Yeah," Dean said. His eyes were focusing now, and Castiel's gaze, bright blue heat, drew him in. Their eyes met, and a shudder of laughter passed through them both. "Yeah, I remember."

"I would prefer not to say."

"Why not?" Sam almost leapt through the table at him. "Castiel, this is the best lead we've had yet. Do you know the ritual this book is talking about? You do, don't you?"

"I am familiar with it," Castiel said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "It was an often-used spell at the time the nephilim were..." His eyes caught Sam's, then turned downward again. "Walking among the humans," he finished lamely.

"And can it work?" Sam pressed him. "Can we really bind a human to another angel? Could we bind me to you, so that Lucifer won't be able to possess me?"

"I don't think it will work on you," Castiel said. "The spell's very specific about human and angel blood mingling. I think the demon blood would corrupt it."

"Damn." Sam frowned. "Well, what about Dean? We could bind you to him. Keep Michael away. Same end result."

Castiel looked desperately for a way to avoid confirming this. But he couldn't find one. "Yes," he said. "Yes, that would be doable. If he's willing."

"Why wouldn't he be?"

Castiel looked at him gravely. "How long do you have?"

"You know what's going to happen."
 
Dean was still fighting his way to consciousness. "Yeah. You sort of drummed it into me."
  
"Then you know that this is going to hurt. A lot."
 
Castiel was soaking a rag in oil. He spoke a few words of power over it, then looked up at Dean again. "I'm sorry about this, Dean."
 
"Actually," Dean said, struggling in the bonds, "this is the part I'm least worried about."
 
Castiel let a small chuckle escape him. "Yes, I'm aware of your feelings on it. This will help somewhat. At least, it will be a distraction." He slid the rag over Dean's forehead, let it drip soft oil around his face, butter-thick and warm near his eyes, catching the corners of his mouth. Then he lowered the cloth to dab at Dean's chest. And that's when the changes began.
  
"I think," Dean said, breathing heavier, "I think I just now figured out that I'm naked. You undressed me in my sleep, Cas. You perv."
  
"It was the best way." Castiel dabbed at the hollow of his stomach, ran the rag slowly up his bound legs. "For you to not lose your resolve."
  
Dean's breath was coming short and forced. "Hey," he panted through the sudden, unbearable heat seeping into his body through every pore, "I wasn't the one who had resolve problems. Do I need to remind you?"
  

"I'll do it."

Dean slammed his palm onto the table. He and Sam and Bobby all stared at Castiel with the same purpose in their eyes.

"That's it, you're outnumbered three to one," Bobby declared. "Now why don't you spill the details of this spell so we can get prepared."

Castiel looked desperately for a brief reprieve. "What does your book say about it?"

"I'm not really sure," Bobby said, squinting at the script. "From what I can decipher from the dialect, it's called the ritual of binding, and it's so powerful that they were afraid to even write down the details. There's a sort of poem that goes with it, but that's it." He cleared his throat and began to carefully translate.
 
A tying of hands,
through fire and pain,
to bring sky to earth
and earth to sky again.

"Dude. You just translated that so it'd rhyme," Dean said, applauding. His grin was big. It was the most optimistic Castiel had seen him in long time, and that in itself was enough to sway Castiel to loosen his tongue.
 
"The tying of hands is literal," he said. "The ritual requires that the human be bound. And the flame refers so a certain concoction of holy oils that will make the human feel as though intense heat is burning through him. As for the pain..." His eyes sought out the floor. "That is literal, too."

"I don't care," Dean said. "Anything to thwart these bastards from laying waste to the world. I can take anything."

"So what, do you have to torture him?" Sam said, his brow furrowed.

"In a manner of speaking," Castiel said. "It's... not pleasant."

The knife gleamed silver against the low light, and Castiel examined the point carefully. "Are you sure you're ready for this, Dean?" he asked, the very soul of concern at least for now.
 
Dean gave his best tough-guy face, though he was flushed from head to toe and sweating copiously. That didn't embarrass him. Even the nakedness didn't bother him, but the oil seemed to have gone right to his cock, and he was unbearably, achingly hard. "Bring it," he declared, all bravado. "Hell, I might like it."
 
"You might," Castiel agreed. "Then again, you might not."
 
He came forward and drew the flat of the knife against Dean's arm. The point was angled just far away to avoid spilling Dean's blood. But the knife felt like pure ice cutting through the haze of heat, and Dean sucked in a breath as though he'd been stung. "God!" he cried out when it was done. "You're going to cut me with that?"
  
"The ritual requires pain," Castiel says. "It doesn't require cutting."
 
Dean looked up at him. Had Castiel changed shape? No, it was still him, still his vessel. He just looked... more somehow. His eyes bluer. His jaw sharper, his lips pinker and plumper. He looked... well, prettier wasn't the right word, but it was close.
 
"So if you're not going to cut me," he said, "what are you going to do?"
 
"Mark you," Castiel said, and he drew the knife back and landed the dull side of it in a blow across Dean's chest.
  
Cold flooded through him. It felt like an icy claw had taken hold of his heart, and he cried out in agony. Cold was spiraling through the heat of his breast, freezing him through, and yet his skin was rising, burning even more with the sharp hot slap. His chin came forward as he jerked, his whole body coiling in on itself.
 
Finally, he came back to himself and looked down. A red welt was swelling up on his chest. And he only had a moment to look up at Castiel before the second blow landed.
 
This time it felt even colder, even more heart-stopping. The pain ripped through Dean's spine, and he cried out. But when the pain abated, suddenly he was cold and unmoving, frozen for the lack of sensation. The blows were the heat of life, and in their stead, in the lulls between lashes, there was nothing but cold in his heart. He looked up at Cas and tried to find the word through his shallow breaths.
  
"More." 
 
Thirteen times Cas struck him, but Dean had ceased to count and just felt -- the intensity of the blows, the chafe of his hands against the ropes, and the heat, the blessed heat pouring through him. He thought he was drowning in a vat of oil, he thought he was having his heart cut out piece by bloody piece. His groans sounded loud and echoed against the iron walls. The great fan above his head did nothing to cool him, but it sang to the beat of the abuse. Whirr. Slap. Whirr. Slap. Whirr.
  
And then, with the thirteenth blow, abruptly, he tasted respite.
  
"We're done with that part," Castiel said.
 
"Great. " Dean said. The red welts Castiel had laid on his chest made a strange parody of a pentagram, some symbol too complex in its scant thirteen lines for Dean to comprehend, at least, not in his overheated state. "What is that, some Enochian garbage?"
  
"Something like that." Castiel frowned. "Dean. You do know what comes next, don't you?"
 
Dean sighed. "Yup," he said, resigned. "I suppose I do."
 

"Hang on a sec," Sam said suddenly. "We might want to rethink this."

"What... what are you talking about, Sammy?"

"I was thinking about something Cas said earlier. About the Nephilim. That they were on earth when angels were using this spell." Sam's brow was drawn together in concern. "Dean, I just realized. They were the children of angels that mated with humans."

Dean's eyes widened. "Wait. So... so this is some sort of angelic wedding ceremony?"

"That's... halfway accurate," Castiel said, and the dark tone to his voice was either thoughtful or distressed.

"So I'd be what, Castiel's wife?"

"More like my concubine." Castiel's eyes met Dean's, and Dean made a noise that could only truly be described as a "meep."

"I will defer to your expertise on this," Castiel said. "You have more experience. What should I do?"
 
"Um." Dean said. "I don't actually have that kind of experience."
 
"I mean, in intimacy." Castiel looked shy. "What is the best way to approach you?"
 
"You mean we can't just close our eyes and wait for it to be over?"
 
A crestfallen look stretched across Castiel's face, lips flattening out into a puffy pink line. "I suppose. But I'd thought-- I would feel less like I was taking advantage if--"
 
Dean chuckled. "No kissing on the mouth, big guy. I have a policy."
 
"All right." Castiel circled him, looked him up and down, and came to stand a few feet behind him. "Is that comfortable?"
 
"Dude. I'm being held up on a rack with my hands and feet tied up, butt-naked. Of course it's not comfortable." But the oil was still making his skin burn, and his mind go languid and hazy, and he didn't really feel all that uncomfortable at all. He could hear the whispered movements of Castiel undressing behind him, and as thankful as he was that he wasn't going to have to see Cas naked, his body was already reacting to the possibility of another against his, of skin touching his skin. It was the weirdest heat. It wanted nothing more than more heat.
 
And then Castiel was moving up behind him and Dean groaned, loudly, with the anticipation of the touch to come. "Cas," he murmured.
 
"Yes?" Oh God, the voice was in his ear.
 
"I'm... I'm hot." He sighed. He was fucked, was what he was. And he hadn't even been fucked yet.
 

  
"Well, I've got good news and bad news," Bobby said, closing the book. "The good news is, you might be spared the bridal veil after all. 'Course, that's the bad news too, because it means we're back to square one."

"Why?" Dean frowned at him. "What's the problem?"

"It says here," Bobby said, thumping the book with a fist, "that both the angel and the human have to be virgins for the spell to work. We know this Jimmy fellow wasn't a virgin, and, well, I don't ask a lot of questions, boy, but I'm fairly sure you ain't either."

"Oh." Dean looked half crestfallen and half relieved. "You hear that, Cas?"

"It's inaccurate," Castiel said bluntly. "There's more layers than that. The angel represents sky and the human earth. So the angel's soul must be chaste, and the human's body must be unspoiled. I have never... My soul remains chaste," he said with a touch of embarrassment.

"Yeah, but my body's so not." Dean was about to walk away, hands in pockets, with a huge grin, when Castiel cleared his throat.

"Actually," he said, "it is. In the way that matters."

Three jaws hit the floor.

 
"Are you ready?" Castiel said for the umpteenth time. This time, it was in Dean's ear. Dean shuddered all over, as though Castiel's breath was a block of ice.
  
'Yeah," Dean said quickly. "Yeah. I don't-- this oil is weird-- Cas, I think I need it."
  
And then Castiel's chest was bumping up against his back, Castiel's legs finding his, and Dean groaned, loud and resonant in the small room. His dick was throbbing. He swore under his breath and craned his neck. Castiel's chin jutted forward, fitting into that crevice of space. His voice sounded very close to Dean's ear. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
  
Soft hands, wet hands, played about the small of his back. Dean gasped, gasped more when he realized Castiel was hard against him. It was like having a gun pressed to his skin. No, worse, a warm gun, the threat of death and pleasure so present, so immediate that it made Dean's blood race at a frenetic tempo. Even when Castiel's fingers ventured lower, sliding into the cleft of his ass, Dean could only feel the flame ripping through him, and an intense, almost sacred sense of connection. He mustered up his humor for one last moment. "Definitely," he said weakly, "definitely don't stop."
 
Castiel's chuckle sounded against his ear just as his fingers dipped inside. Dean lost all coherence after that.
 

"Cas," Dean said, clearing his throat. Castiel looked up from the book he'd picked off Bobby's shelf. "We need to have a talk."
 
"I won't do anything against your will, Dean." Castiel's eyes were bright and determined.

"I know." Dean shrunk from his gaze. "The thing is, Cas... a lot happened to me in Hell. They... they didn't shy away from any kind of torture."

Castiel's eyes widened. "Oh. I never realized."

"Don't-- don't." Dean shook his head. "I don't-- I just don't know if that counts, you know? To disqualify me."

For a moment, Castiel remained silent. "I remade your body," he said finally. "I rebuilt you. I filled in your scars and took away every impurity. I think--"

"So I was re-hymenated after all." Dean's grin was quick, shifty. "Good to know."

Castiel approached him. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Dean's hands sunk into his pockets. He looked almost shy. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. It's our best hope. Besides, I can deal with being your concubine. You're, uh--"

Blinking, Castiel tilted his head. "I'm what?"

Dean turned quickly away. "Nothing," he said, strolling out of the room. "Never mind."

Dean's pulse beat hard against his ears. It was all he could hear now, that and the sound of his own groans as Castiel quickly, deftly worked him open. Castiel was silent. It felt like the rest of the world had stopped, like the only things alive and vital right now were him, and Cas, and this living heat between them. "Fuck," he gasped, his hands opening and closing in their bonds, seeking something to hold onto, something to tear into. "For fuck's sake. Cas. Come on."
  
"By the flame and the pain I bind thee," Castiel murmured. "By the sky and the earth. Thou art mine."
  
Castiel was inside him then, heavy and full and rich, and Dean thought he was tensing but the oil and Cas had rendered him loose and free. And it was nothing like hell, it was nothing like that at all. It was warm pressure, real, immediate and intense. Dean wanted more than anything to see Cas' face. See those blue eyes burning into him. Whether it was the spell or something else he didn't know, but Castiel felt so perfect in him. And Dean was flooded with knowing then, the sense that Castiel fit in his life, in his soul, as easily as he fit in his body. He was being bound, body and soul, and Dean could think of no kinder fate.
  
"Cas," he whined, body bucking back into the hips that slammed against him. "Cas, I need more. I need you to touch me."
  
A hand was circling his erection before he even stopped speaking. Dean tipped his head back and landed on the solid bar of Castiel's shoulder. Castiel's face was still tucked into Dean's neck, his breath, faster and shakier, buffeting against Dean's skin. Dean breathed as evenly as he could. But the heat kept building, and Castiel's hand, God, his hand against Dean's cock was impossible, it was so hot, so sweetly perfect.
  
"You-- reading my mind?" Dean managed to whisper after one particular stroke that seemed almost ridiculously attuned.
 
"We are bonding," Castiel said after a moment of trying to gather human breath to speak. It was coming with less ease in the throes of the heat.
  
"Cas," he gasped, then, "Castiel." Because this was the angel as well as the man, the possessor as well as the friend, and the angel to whom Dean had bound his soul deserved no less than his full name spoken.
  
"What?" Frightened blue eyes met his. The heat was about to escalate to its boiling point.
  
Dean craned his neck further and kissed him as they both groaned with the impending thrill of climax. They broke apart only to scream their release.
  

"Here's the thing," Dean said quietly. They'd been sitting there for an hour, barely talking, nursing beers. Sam and Bobby had left the kitchen to go prepare, or at least to give the two of them a chance to get their heads in the right place before it all went down. "I'm a little scared of what I might say in there. Of losing control, I guess."

"Understandable."

"Is it?" Dean said. When Castiel looked up at him, he got nervous. "Never mind," he blurted out. "I know, I know. I should just suck up and deal. So I'm going to get a tingly feeling in my fanny as the price of saving the world. I can deal with it."

"That's not what you're worried about."

Dean's heart sped up. He didnt like when Castiel looked at him like he could see right through him. It was happening more and more these days.

"No," he said. "I guess it isn't. Is this--"

He took a long swig of beer.

"Is this gonna change us? What we are?"

Castiel reached out. His fingers covered Dean's on the beer bottle for a bare moment. "Of course not."

"That's just the thing," Dean said. "I think it might, anyway."

 
Dean fingered the red mark on his chest. "Is it going to go away?" he wondered, circling his ankles to bring the blood flow back.
  
"Not entirely," Castiel said. "It will probably hurt from time to time. When my... need is particularly great."
  
"So do I have to call you master now?" His stubborn good humor bowed to no ritual.
  
Castiel's lips twitched. "I sincerely hope not."
  
"Well, that's a relief." Dean walked to the pile of his clothes, sitting on the cot in the corner of the room. "Hey, Cas... I didn't say anything embarrassing after all. Did I?"
  
"You didn't say anything surprising," Castiel said, staring at him. He had long since put on his clothes, while Dean recovered from the effects of the ritual and the oil. A soft wet washcloth had dried and cleaned them, but the spell took time to wind down, and so he'd dressed while waiting.
  
Dean pulled on his pants. "Good." He sat on the bed to roll up the cuffs at his ankles, then looked up to see Castiel still staring.
  
It wasn't his usual stare.
  
Dean got up again. His bare chest was throbbing with borrowed desire. Dean looked down at it, ran a finger over it. The evidence of Castiel's need. And looking across the room at the angel who now owned him, Dean knew what it was he needed.
  
He crossed the room, ignoring the wobble of his legs, and took Castiel by the waist. "In that case," he whispered, "I'll say it now."