It's Wednesday again, which means it's time for Writing Prompt Wednesday! This week's theme is "knights in (not so) shining armor AUs."

What is Writing Prompt Wednesday?

Writing Prompt Wednesday is a feature I run on my Tumblr. Followers, readers and friends suggest themes for AUs, and I come up with a list of prompts based on the suggested them. Then, based on those prompts, anyone who wants to join in writes up a short story (or a long story, I guess) and posts it to Tumblr (or AO3, or wherever) and tags it Writing Prompt Wednesday!

This week, I chose this prompt:

Customarily, demanding payment in exchange for rescue is considered bad taste - what part of "I was in the midst of being assaulted they already took my horse/vehicle and all my other belongings" led you to think that I can afford payment - are you seriously YELLING AT THEM TO COME BACK? What the hell is the matter with you AU

Warning: Dubious Consent.

Also: just a reminder that my writing about problematic behavior isn't the same as my condoning it. :)

The kick to Castiel's jaw caused his vision to flash incandescent. In the first instant it didn't even hurt and he had no idea what had happened. One moment Castiel was on his hands and knees next to his wagon, looking up at the group of bandits who had bodily dragged him from the driver's seat; the next moment he was on the ground with the sky searing blue and white through his skull and his ears ringing so loudly he could hear nothing else. A kick to his stomach rolled him over, flooded his mouth with the coppery taste of his own blood, and a large shadow passed within inches of him, passed directly over the spot where he'd been lying moments before.

My wagon, that's my wagon, my horses, everything I own. They're taking it! I have to stop them, I have to…

"Stop!" he croaked, hardly recognizing his own voice, hardly hearing it over the rushing sound filling his head.

The only answer was a stomp to his back that left him writhing against the hard-packed dirt and stone of the road, jagged pebbles tearing and nipping at his skin.

"I said, stop!" he repeated with all the authority he could muster, forcing himself to his knees. Despite the bravery of his words and movement, he couldn't help but cringe in on himself. He was unarmed, untrained, and unused to pain. His body throbbed from the few strikes they'd already delivered, his knees burned where they dug into the cold ground, and every shadow that moved in the corner of his eye caused him to flinch, anticipating an imagined incoming blow.

A person in riveted leather armor – he thought it might be a woman since their face was smooth-cheeked but it was impossible to tell due to the shapeless garb and the helmet over their head – loomed over him, raised a hand, and Castiel hated himself for cowering. The person's hand came to rest with surprising gentleness on his chin and instead of hurting him more, they moved his face, made him look up, to the side, down. Beyond his captor, beyond the others who had attacked him, he could see his wagon disappearing down the road trailed by a wispy cloud of dust.

"The merchandise is feisty," said a voice that didn't tell him any more about the person's gender than the face did.

Slavers!

Fear rose in Castiel's chest. He'd been born free, he was from a free kingdom, they had no right to take him, no right to sell him. With a burst of strength and courage, he tore his head from the strong grip, got his feet under him, resolved to make a run for it. He got three steps before something hard hit him in the back of his head and knocked him face first to the ground. His nose crunched painfully, every pain intensified. Nonetheless, he felt a burst of hope in his breast. As he'd rounded, he'd caught a glimpse of someone approaching down the road, a rider coming fast.

Maybe it's help, maybe they'll get the guard from the nearest town, maybe the arrival of a stranger will deter these scoundrels. Let them have the horse and the wagon, as long as I have my freedom all material things can be replaced…

The scuffing of boots spoke to the thugs moving around him. Castiel hurt too much, was too afraid, to lift his head to look around. Powerful hands wrapped around his arms, hauled him to his feet, and he didn't bother to resist. A belated thought suggested this wasn't the moment to try to escape. They were wary, well-armed, alert. The surrounding countryside was bare and afforded no hiding place amidst endless uncultivated fields of wild grasses trimmed short by the grazing of wild animals. His hearing was clearing, and with it came a semblance of calm, a return to good sense. His attackers were laughing and talking amidst themselves, two holding him while another bound him, hands behind his back, eyes covered with a blindfold, mouth gagged. Castiel didn't bother to struggle. They could overpower him easily. The worse hurt he was, the more difficult it would be to win free at a later point in time. The sound of hoof beats was growing louder, but they didn't seem alarmed.

It's not help, it's an ally of theirs, I'm doomed. No! I can be attentive, I can escape later. It's not hopeless.

"Eight on one doesn't seem very sporting," observed a rough, low voice.

"If you want sport, you've come to the wrong place," replied one of the bandits.

"Naw, I think I'm right where I'm supposed to be," the man replied.

Castiel had no idea what happened next.

There was a schick of metal on metal, a yell, grunts and shouts and the rustle of cloth and the creak of armor and the stomping of boots, the clatter of hooves on stone and dirt, swearing and enough angry voices that the words blurred together. The world spun, his sense of up and down obliterated by the pain thrumming through him and the blind fold blanking out the world. The hands holding him released, the sense of bulk around him faded; strangely weightless and weak, Castiel flopped to the ground.

I could get up now, I could run.

Where would I go?

He lay there until the sounds of battle – he thought it must be battle – faded, until the patter of running boots receded into the distance, until a horse snorted and a single voice was all that remained, muttering a curse.

The rider. He's still here! He defeated all those other people all by himself. Wow.

"Hey, you dead?" asked the man. A foot nudged Castiel's side and a groan died in his throat, stifled by the gag. "Guess not. Rise and shine, morning glory." For the third time that day, hands grabbed him roughly, hauled him upright. It didn't even hurt any more. His whole body ached too much to register anything new, his thoughts swam, semi-incoherent and impossible to grasp. The blindfold tore away from his eyes and Castiel whimpered at the brightness of the light, the world washed in burning white. With gentler movements, the gag was removed from his mouth. "Hey, you okay?"

"Great," muttered Castiel. Bile rose in his throat; when he tried to swallow it down once more he nearly choked on a mouthful of blood that caused his stomach to twist. Disgusted, he spat red onto the ground. "Best day of my life, can't you tell?"

The stranger chuckled. Castiel's vision cleared to show him his rescuer. Tall, broad, thick bodied yet spare, his build made it clear he was all muscle beneath his coarsely made chain mail. Hide pants were tucked into knee-high boots, greaves buckled over calves and thighs to protect his legs. Over the armor, he wore tattered furs to ward of the coming winter chills. A belt around his waist bore an array of small pouches, an unadorned sheathed dagger and an empty sword sheath. His head was bare, his face handsome despite grime and a scar tracing around one eye. Stunning green eyes, incongruously beautiful on such a bluff, dangerous man, peered at Castiel as if seeing a strange and confusing animal.

"Well, it's over now. Congratulations, you're alive and a free man," said the warrior. His grip shifted to Castiel's armpits and he hauled Castiel to his feet. Where he'd come from, Castiel had been one of the tallest men he'd known, but this man was even taller than he.

"Thank you," Castiel said bemusedly. He tried to wipe a hand over his brow, forgetting that he was yet tied up. He gave the stranger a look, shifting his arms so that the fellow would see. Appraising eyes followed Castiel's gaze, raked over the rest of Castiel's body, as the man released him and stepped away. It was all Castiel could do not to sway as he stood. "Can you help me get to town?"

"Good question," the man walked over to his horse, an enormous black animal with thick, tattered layered skins making blankets over its back, a worn but cared-for saddle snugly in place atop the heap. The horse rolled its eyes at the man familiarly. Leaning over, he picked something up from the ground – a bloody sword, Castiel realized – and stood back up. With his free hand, he dug through a saddle bag until he came out with a scrap of cloth which he used to clean his blade.

"So…you can't help me?" Castiel asked uncertainly. The man snorted and Castiel colored. "Don't get me wrong – I appreciate the help you've already given me, but—"

"10 silver crowns," the man interrupted him roughly. Castiel blinked and a silence stretched out, interrupted only by the man spitting on a persistent spot on the metal of his sword and scrubbing at it with his rag. "That's for the rescue. Five more for escort to safety."

Castiel glanced down at himself, simple travelers garb, homespun linens in natural shades of beige and gray, feet clad in well-made leather shoes. He owned nicer clothing, needed to for his performances, but all of that was on his wagon. "I haven't any money."

"Well, obviously not on you," the man leered suggestively. "Which is why I'd be happy to take you to some place where you do have some money."

"There's no such place," said Castiel, beginning to feel numb to the emotional blows following on the heels of the physical ones he'd suffered earlier. "Everything I owned, every single thing, was on the wagon that the bandits stole."

"You're broke," said the man flatly. Castiel nodded and nearly swooned. "Not a penny?"

"Not a penny."

Scowling, the man snorted his disdain. "Just my fucking luck," he muttered to no one in particular. Indifferent, he turned towards his horse.

"Are you going to help me?"

"I helped you plenty," snapped the man, setting foot to stirrup and easily vaulting into the saddle. "Fat lot of good it did me."

"But—"

"Nothing gets you nothing," said the man. "You should probably run now."

"Huh?"

"Ya!" the man nudged heels to his horse. In the space of a few steps, the mount went from well-trained stillness to a ground-eating canter. "Come on back!" the man hollered loudly. Stunned, confused, Castiel stared after him, feet glued to the ground.

What is he doing?

His form receded into the distance, his voice still audible. "He's all yours!"

Oh God, is he telling the bandits to come back? Why would he do that? He'd already done the work, he could have just left me, and instead…what, will he ask them for money? Offer me back to them for a fee?

Why am I just standing here?

Stumbling, head spinning, a sharp pain in his chest making every breath agony, Castiel made it a half-mile before the bandits captured him again.

I wish they'd just killed me.

His days of captivity gave him a lot of time to think, and those thoughts grew darker and more hopeless the longer he spent with his captors. They were good – attentive, well-led, intelligent – and more organized than he'd expected. Their leader proves to be a woman who introduced herself as Eve, and the eight that captured Castiel were from a camp of easily a hundred, men and women, young and old. They didn't mistreat him. After his initial capture, no one raised a hand to him, no one tried to take advantage of him or violate his body, his injuries were treated and bandaged, and he was well fed. Far from soothing him, his good treatment only made him feel worse.

I'm owned now. My owner will treat me however they wish. Right now, my owners are treating me well, but they're only grooming me, preparing me to be sold. How will the next people treat me? Will they be cruel? Will they beat me? Rape me? Feed me on trash and work me to the bone? Will they pamper me like a favorite toy? What capricious whims might they have?

Castiel had worked in the homes of the rich and powerful over several kingdoms, and he knew only too well what absurdities such people wished from their hirelings and property. He feared falling into the hands of any of their lot. Even when he was a free man they'd seen him as an object. Who knew what extremes of indolence and cruelty they might achieve when they owned him? It was horrifying and terrifying to contemplate.

Endless days passed with nothing to do. By each evening Castiel could hardly believe when he counted the hashes he'd made on the wall of his small room that it had only been a week – two weeks – a month. His nerves wound tighter and tighter, knowing that this was the calm before the storm.

The slave market proved to be every bit as awful as he'd feared. Castiel and the other "slaves" Eve brought to market – a couple dozen men, women and children caught the same as he was, and most just as forlorn – were among the best treated and, as a group, made a contrast to those who had been slaves longer and had seen harder use over their years of servitude. The men who ran the slave auction separated the new arrivals into pens that made Castiel feel like livestock, with enclosures for farm hands, household staff, and who knew what else. Castiel hypothesized that he and those with him were intended as high-end servants. Young or old, male or female, human or otherwise, every single one was attractive, healthy and hale, and there seemed to be a decent level of erudition, mostly expressed now in quiet conversations about their fears. A few people cried. A few people seemed remarkably calm, self-possessed, ready. Castiel resisted the urge to ask them what they felt ready for.

Auctions ran all day, every day, for days. Their pen was not one of the first to be brought to the block and unlike at Eve's, they were fed much as pigs would have been, left to sleep on the ground despite the chill of late fall. It was four days before guards finally began to come for them, taking them in groups of three or four, ignoring families and new-made friendships to seize whoever struck their fantasy. As the group grew smaller and smaller, Castiel felt increasingly sick to his stomach. Whatever the outcome, he'd rather get the auction over with than to bear the wait any longer to know what his fate was going to be.

And then a guard was grabbing him, and then it was his turn, and then him and a young sobbing woman and a determined, stiff-backed older man were being escorted – the young woman being dragged – through the lines of tents to a large one rowdy with noise. Within was as large a crowd as Castiel had ever seen, hundreds of people of all description, the well-dressed and wealthy glowering distastefully that they were being forced to rub elbows with ship captains and plantation overseers and eunuchs and mercenaries.

"Lot 215, household and sex slave lot 16. Item one—" The announcer was interrupted by a wail as the guards dragged the young woman to the front of the stage, making it clear that she was item one. "Item one is just waiting be broken in by a firm hand," the man continued with a suggestive smirk. Castiel looked out at the crowd, at how many faces bore expectant, excited looks, and he choked back vomit. Sex slave. Becoming a slave was his worst nightmare, and it just kept getting worse. "As you can see, she's healthy, whole and – though you'll have to take my word for it – she's a virgin." As he spoke, the guard holding the woman modeled her body. She made his job easier by fainting. "We'll start the bidding at 10 silver crowns."

After a great deal of haggling, arguing, bids and counterbids, and a fist fight, she sold for nearly a hundred silver crowns.

"Item 2 is a young man, clearly of a middle class background."

This, apparently, was him. It wasn't true, he'd grown up very poor working in his father's tannery, but no one seemed to care about the truth. Struggling to maintain his dignity, to stare defiant at the assembled potential owners, Castiel stepped forward unprompted, stood tall, and looked out over the audience. Catcalls and whistles greeted him, but wherever his gaze fell, silence momentarily fell. Small comfort though it was, he was reassured to know that he could still command respect.

How long will that last?

"This item makes up for his lack of experience with charisma and personal charms, and is ready to learn from the buyer willing to invest the time in training him properly."

Wrong, wrong, wrong. Don't they wish they knew the truth, I'd be worth a lot more.

Whatever expression that thought put on his face was apparently something to see, for there was a moment of stunned awe from the crowd. He couldn't believe the auctioneer's terrible double entendres could have prompted such a reaction.

"We'll start the bidding at 5 silver crowns," said the seller hastily, sensing the tension in the air.

"50 silver crowns," said an all-too familiar gruff voice from amidst the crowd. Even though they'd barely met, even though Castiel had never learned the man's name, the voice of his would-be, wouldn't-be rescuer was forever etched into his memory.

The silence grew more profound as everyone searched the crowd for who would bid so much right off the bat. A small circle opened up around the warrior, who had acquired a new helmet and a fancy-looking cape in the weeks since Castiel had last seen him.

"Do we have any other bids?"

No one said a word.

"Sold. You may collect your merchandise at the sales tent, opposite this one along the central road."

With dignity, Castiel followed the guard willingly out to the other tent. His rescuer – his owner – was crossing the road as well and gave him a smirk and a wink. Castiel stared daggers at him without producing the least effect on the other man's confidence.

And that was how, somehow, a mere hour later, Castiel found himself walking alongside a handsome warrior mounted on a fine horse, heading out from the slaver camp, wondering what was in store for him and why the man who had once demanded a mere 15 silver crowns in exchange for Castiel's life – when he could have simply seized Castiel as his property on the spot – had come to spend a small fortune buying him weeks later.

"You know how binding spells work, right?"

Castiel couldn't bring himself to answer. Of course he knew. With such a spell cast between them, Castiel would surrender every hope of ever regaining his freedom.

"Answer me," demanded his owner. Castiel shuddered. He'd had no appetite all day, his feet ached from their walk, and tension played havoc on his muscles, leaving him stiff and pained. They'd finally made camp well after dark, staking out a small clearing just off the road. The warrior hadn't told his name, hadn't said anything all day, until now.

"Yes, I know how binding spells work," Castiel resisted the urge to roll his eyes. They were a powerful form of compulsion and would seal his servitude for life unless his owner released him or he could find someone powerful enough to remove the magic. He'd be subject to his owner's will, unable to resist his commands, forced to obey even the chancest whim that should cross the man's mind.

"Good," the man smiled. To his shock, Castiel's heart skipped a beat. The man was good looking. His new cloak was as finely made as it had appeared from a distance, a far cry from the tattered old furs he'd worn before. Clearly, he'd come into money. "I bought this spell just for you."

"What if I won't cooperate?" asked Castiel reluctantly.

"That would make things more complicated," the man agreed with incongruous good nature. "Honestly, I can think of a lot of ways to...encourage...your cooperation. I can be very persuasive."

"And what if I do cooperate?"

That brought the man up short. He stopped, blinking those incredibly green eyes as he stared at Castiel in the fading light. Then he burst into laughter. "You know...I hadn't even thought about that."

"What, no plans for me?"

"Oh, no, I've got lots of plans for you, been thinking about it ever since I realized Eve was the one taking you, she only takes live prisoners for one reason," the man said. "By the way, name's Dean."

"Castiel."

"But anyway, I just...well, I didn't think you'd cooperate," Dean continued. "Cooperation is not something recently captured involuntary slaves are noted for."

"I like to know what my options are before I commit to a course of action," said Castiel. His thoughts were surprisingly calm.

If this is life now, I'll make the best of it. He can force me to take the binding. But what if he doesn't have to?

"Look, I was in a bad place when we met before," Dean explained apologetically. "Dead broke, hungry, hurtin' from a wound, recoverin' from a curse. I took the chance of messin' with Eve to help you, and not only did you sass me, you couldn't even pay. I got kinda hot and I did something stupid. If I piss her off she'll make my life hell, so I called her back, let her have you, decided to try to raise the money to buy you back. Least I could do. As to what I'd want if you're interested in cooperatin', well, I'm lookin' for a traveling companion, maybe someone to work with. Ever since my brother died it's been damn lonely on the road. Money's hard to come by, most towns don't pay for my help 'cept with room and board while I'm in town, but I scrounged up a few coins, a few there. Was gettin' pretty low about it until during a routine ghost hunt I stumbled on a king's ransom buried with some damn stiff. Figured, I'd go get ya." There was something oddly compelling about Dean, a sadness behind his words, a vulnerability to his look that was a sharp contrast to his rough-and-tumble exterior, his sword and armor, the skill that Castiel knew him to possess.

"If I'm understanding you correctly, you're looking for a traveling companion?"

"And someone to help me in my work, yes," Dean agreed, nodding.

"To help you fight things?" he asked, startled. "I don't know anything about fighting."

"That's fine, I can train you."

"You'd do that?" Castiel asked. Dean shrugged. "If you wanted to help me, why not just free me?"

"Because if I do that, you'll leave," said Dean. There was such a depth of sorrow in his voice, it was heartbreaking. "Won't you?"

Unable to bring himself to lie to the man, Castiel nodded. Castiel had been alone since his parents had passed nearly a decade before, and he well understood the depths of loneliness that could spur a man to behave as Dean was doing. "But if I take the oath, you'll train me to work with you?"

"If you take the bonding oath," Dean confirmed. That look like Castiel was some mysteriously alien beast, beyond comprehension, was back on Dean's face.

"Very well," Castiel said. The alternative to conceding was Dean forcing him, losing what little trust Dean seemed to have in him, and likely not getting the opportunity to be of use in whatever kind of hunting Dean engaged in. Since he'd be a compulsion-bound slave either way, it was like there was no choice at all.

"Seriously?" Dean's amazement was evident.

"Seriously," said Castiel. "Give me my half of the spell, I'll speak the words willingly." He held out his arm, palm up. Dean would need his blood to complete the spell.

This is my best option. All I can do is pray that he is the man he is appearing to be, that his words are genuine, that his intentions sincere. With the spell completed, he'll be able to force me to anything he chooses.

Please, Dean, be the man I hoped you were when I first saw your horse coming to my rescue.

The binding sat oddly over Castiel's soul. Over the days that followed the casting, it became impossible for Castiel to tell what he decisions he made and actions he took because of his essential pragmatism and what he did because it was what Dean wished him to do. The feeling was incredibly disturbing. Dean didn't ask anything terrible of him, but he knew that Dean might and that not only would Castiel not be able to resist, he'd likely not even want to resist. Despite everything, despite his captivity, despite Dean's crude manners and innuendos, Castiel liked him. But did he like Dean because of genuine interest, or because of the binding spell?

It worried him, yet the concern was difficult to hold on to. The feelings came so naturally that Castiel had no idea if they were his own or the result of the spell.

Slowly but surely, he adapted to his situation.

As days stretched to months, Castiel even grew to like it.

"Overhand," snapped Dean. Panting, Castiel followed the command. When he'd first picked up the sword, the blade had felt heavy and weird in his hands. His early attempts at wielding it had been pitiful, lame, flailing efforts that left Dean laughing, guffaws that flushed his cheeks and lit his eyes with life.

He's beautiful when he's happy.

After a winter under Dean's tutelage, Castiel had gained a basic level of competence. He still felt slow and ungainly, but Dean said he was learning remarkably quickly, said it with a smile that put a warm glow in Castiel's heart and brought a blush to his cheeks.

I like it when he's proud of me.

They traveled together far and wide, beyond the kingdoms that Castiel's old business had taken him to. Dean never asked what Castiel did before they met, and Castiel never volunteered that information. Dean's own life was nearly as obscure; though the warrior gleefully talked about hunts he'd been on, foes he'd vanquished, damsels and lads he'd rescued, villages he'd saved, he never talked about his parents, rarely mentioned his brother, never discussed where he came from or how he'd come to this life. The tales of derring-do were as much instructional as entertaining, for with them Dean taught Castiel the ins and outs of facing the many dangerous creatures and magics that infested the lands, the hunting of which was Dean's chosen profession. It was an even worse job than the one Castiel had once worked, less rewarding, more likely to get Dean killed, and surprisingly unappreciated by those whom Dean aided.

"Underhand," Dean ordered. Castiel fluidly switched his stance, movements free and easy.

Though they'd not been together long, it was already hard to remember that they were master and slave instead of friends and traveling companions. They laughed and joked together, talked through the night together, faced life-threatening peril together. Dean had saved Castiel's life twice; Castiel had saved Dean's once. It hadn't occurred to him until days later that had he stayed his hand, he could have been free of his bond of servitude without the least trouble and without violating the terms of the binding spell. He hadn't wanted Dean to die, so he'd acted unthinkingly.

That's what this magic does. It's insidious. There's no knowing if I actually wanted Dean to live. I don't get to make that choice. It's made automatically, subconsciously, by magic so thoroughly twined with my heart and soul and mind that there's no knowing where I end and the spell begins.

"Slash," instructed Dean. Castiel did as he was told. They'd done this drill so many times it felt instinctual, or maybe the drive to obey Dean was so powerful that even Castiel's muscles couldn't but respond automatically in whatever way Dean ordered him to.

Do I have free will anymore?

Holding up a hand to stop Castiel, Dean waited for him to cease moving and then stepped close. "Adjust your grip like this – the way you're doing it is gonna ruin your hands in a few years. You'll be damn effective, until suddenly you're not, and your fingers'll never work right again." The touch of Dean's hands against Castiel's as he adjusted how Castiel held the sword tingled heat through Castiel's body. He wanted more from Dean, wanted from Dean the things he'd once done for himself with his hands and toys in the performances he'd put on for men and women wealthy enough to indulge their perversions. Masturbating as a party spectacle hadn't been the most obvious profession, but it had worked for Castiel. The pay was adequate and Castiel had genuinely enjoyed the work, making a show of pleasuring himself for the gratification for others. It was absurd, but that wasn't his problem that the rich had strange taste and indulged in bizarre fads. All he'd wanted was their coin.

Could I have these doubts if I didn't have free will?

"Okay, good. Let's work on the thrust."

The word conjured up a slew of images, Castiel filling himself with his favorite toy, Castiel moaning and climaxing as bored socialites yawned as if they'd seen the like a hundred times. For all he knew, they had. Other images came, fantasies rather than memories, of a living cock filling him instead of a wooden one, of Dean smothering Castiel's body, thrusting into his hole, moaning and spurting come deep within him, of Dean's wonderful hands stroking Castiel through his climax as Castiel had always, always had to do for himself.

Dizzy, Castiel lost his balance, nearly drove his sword through his own foot.

Instantly, Dean was there, easily taking the dangerous blade from him and tossing it aside, catching him, supporting him. Castiel's heart raced, pounded like thunder in his ears. Flushed and aching and growing hard, Castiel stared into Dean's handsome, scarred face, relished the feel of Dean's muscled body against his own.

"I'd like to sleep with you, Dean," he said abruptly. The words sprang from his lips virtually unbidden.

My words or the words he wishes me to say? I don't know, I just know that it's true. I want him as I've wanted few men, and unlike those other men, I can imagine him in reach, imagine him available. I can imagine that Dean wants me as well.

Dean blinked in shock but made no effort to put distance between their bodies. Rather, he adjusted his hold, held Castiel more securely, supported him more effectively.

"I'll own I'm confused," Castiel continued, every word serving as a valve opened to relieve the pressure that threatened to burn him up. "Since you purchased a sex slave, I assumed you'd like to use me for sex, as – as you originally said – a companion, and yet you've made no advance. I'm your property. You may do as you will."

"Does it bother you that I haven't forced myself on you?" asked Dean incredulously.

"After a fashion," Castiel confessed. Some part of him still sensible to his position, literally and figuratively, screamed that he must have lost his mind, that the words leaving his mouth must be a result of the compulsion of the spell. Whether that was true or not, Castiel could no sooner have stopped himself speaking than he could have stopped the changing of the seasons. "I'm disappointed. Do you not want me? Am I not desirable to you? You're very desirable to me."

"Oh-kay," said Dean. The embrace fell away, Dean stepped back from him, and Castiel was surprised to find himself capable of standing under his own power. He felt feverish, needy, hard. "Well, you know, with the bond – it didn't feel right. When I asked the bond of you, I figured that was the trade off – I'd get some of the things I wanted from you, but not others."

"So one of the things you wanted from me was to train me to be your hunting partner?"

"Yes."

"And another of things you wanted was to have sex with me?"

Dean heaved a sigh, ran a hand through his hair. "I mean, yeah, yes, I would like to fuck you, Cas, you're gorgeous. I almost offered to rescue you in exchange for a toss in the hay that first day we met, but I assumed you'd say no. And now...now I don't know if, when you say yes, you really mean it, because now you can't say no to me. I know if I ask, you'll do it, whatever it was, regardless of whether you want to."

"That's true," Castiel said. "If you ask, I'll do it."

"Well, I thought I'd be okay with that," Dean said, turning away. "But when the moment came...I wasn't. And I decided – I'd rather have someone to hunt with than someone to fuck. Is that okay with you, Cas?"

"No."

"What?" Dean rounded on him, tone strangled, eyes wide.

"It's not alright with me," said Castiel. He felt completely disconnected from himself. One of the people they'd helped a month back had described being possessed by a ghost, the sense of riding in their own head unable to control their actions, their words, their behavior, even their own emotions. Castiel felt precisely like that. It had to be the compulsion spell.

I should stop, I should be quiet, I should leave things at this. But I can't. My need – no! his need! – is too great.

"It's not alright with me, Dean," Castiel repeated. "I'd very much like you to, as you say, fuck me."

"Why?" asked Dean suspiciously.

I don't know. Except I know I want you. You're handsome and brave and diligent and caring and trusting and dedicated and strangely selfless. You're gentle and kind and generous. And I have no idea if I think you're wonderful because I have to or because you actually are all those things, because you are, you definitely are, and yet...

"Do you mean you don't want to?" countered Castiel, lacking any sufficient answer to Dean's question.

...and yet you've bound me thus.

"I mean...yes, of course," Dean stammered. "But I don't want you to do this because you have to. I want you to want me."

You don't understand. There's no difference between the two any longer.

"I want you."

There was a pained pause, Castiel's heart thudding, his ears buzzing, his skin tingling, and then Dean was on him, hands hard on Castiel's cheeks, lips meeting, surprise and pleasure bursting through Castiel's mind like gunpowder taking fire. Desperate kisses followed hard on each other until Castiel began to wonder if it might be possible to climax just from feeling Dean's mouth on his, the taste of Dean's tongue in his mouth, the pressure of Dean's fingers against his skin. Finally, Dean relented. They couldn't have sex where they were, a forest glade in the midst of a reputedly vampire-infested forest, yet it was clearly a wrench for Dean to let go. It was all Castiel could not to beg him to continue.

"When we finish this hunt," Dean vowed. "If you still want to."

When the moment came, nearly two weeks later, Castiel thought he'd be nervous. Dean radiated tension despite his attempts at nonchalance. When the moment came, Castiel thought he'd be shy. After all, though he'd dreamed of being with a man for a long time, he'd never actually been with one, never met one who shared his interests, had never even had sex with a real person – only engaged in the incredibly strange job of making a performance of masturbation. When the moment came, Castiel thought he'd be reticent. He still wasn't sure whether this was what he wanted or what he'd been compelled to want.

If anything, he felt serene and composed, like this was inevitable and that in accepting it, in initiating it, he'd regained some modicum of control in a situation where he didn't have any control at all.

Unusually, they'd taken a room at an inn. Ostensibly, this was to give Dean someplace comfortable to rest and heal his wounds after the extended, stressful hunt against the vampire nest. Castiel hadn't been hurt, but Dean would have a new scar on his face, this one across his cheek and nicking his nose, and a long gash down his chest that he'd treated with a smelly cream from a jar and which he insisted didn't hurt. Despite his injuries, when Castiel had asked if Dean was ready, Dean had said yes with hunger in his eyes and a noticeable twitch in his pants.

All of which was how Castiel found himself naked kneeling at the foot of a large bed, straw poking through the mattress to tickle and prick his skin, his back to Dean, his butt stuck out and on display as Castiel used his hand and an ample amount of fatty grease to prepare himself for Dean's cock.

"You're..." Dean licked his lips loudly enough for Castiel to hear. "You're very good at that. You done this before?" His voice was raspy and dry and arousing.

"You never asked what I did before I was a slave," Castiel commented around panting breaths. He'd not pleasured himself aside from quick strokes against a hard cock in many months. The feelings were simultaneously alien and familiar, wonderful, heightened by the anticipation of being with Dean.

"What, you were a prostitute?" Dean spluttered in amazement.

"I was a sensual performer," corrected Castiel.

"A...what the hell is that?" asked Dean. "That's a profession?"

"You'd be amazed what entertainments the rich will arrange to amuse and shock their friends at parties," Castiel bit back a moan as he pushed a third finger inside himself, dropping his head against the hard bed frame. An echoing moan came from behind him. The bed shifted as Dean moved. Hands came to rest on Castiel's hips, lips pressed against the small of his back, and Castiel's moan deepened and shuddered through him. His hard cock bucked at air, brushed his belly and his thigh, begging for touch.

"You have got to be joking!"

"Pay wasn't very good, but it was a living."

"Come on, Cas, don't tease me..." Dean apparently thought the teasing should be up to him, he cupped Castiel's balls in one hand and kneaded them gently, thumbed along his spine with the other, ghosted feather-light kisses over the sensitive skin along Castiel's crack, carefully skirting the hand that Castiel thrust in and out of his body.

" 'm not," Castiel groaned, unable to keep himself from wiggling back against Dean's touch. " 's what I did."

"Masturbated for an audience? How'd you even get a job like that?"

A finger teased at Castiel's already-spread entrance, squeezing in alongside his, and Castiel gasped. Dean's movements mirrored his own, but his fingers were longer, his reach deeper, his skin rougher, and God did it feel good.

"Stayin' in a room like this..." Castiel panted, thrusting harder, pressing back against Dean's hand. "Walls were thin. Guy heard me. Liked what he heard. Hired me. After that it was word of mouth. Needed the money. Kinda liked it."

"An exhibitionist, huh?" A second of Dean's finger joined the three Castiel had in himself, spreading him wide, spreading him wider than he'd ever been before.

"Oh God, Dean," he moaned. "That feels..." More. "Want you." Deeper. "Please, Dean!" Harder. "Fill me, please, fill me with your cock." Need you.

"Anyone ever touched you like this before?" asked Dean, and though he tried to sound casual, Castiel could hear the thread of jealousy coloring his words. One of Dean's fingers found the sensitive spot that Castiel had only ever been able to stimulate with his long-gone toys and a cry of bliss shattered Castiel as he arched his back to tried to drive Dean's fingers deeper.

"No," he barely formed the desperate noises escaping him into words. "Only me, no one else, only you."

"Good," whispered Dean. "I'm going to take care of you, Castiel, just like you deserve." The hand playing with Castiel's balls left, seized the hand with which Castiel stretched himself and pulled it from Castiel's body, forced it aside. "If one of those others had had you...if one of them had hurt you..." Dean sucked one of Castiel's balls into his mouth and Castiel shuddered as waves of pleasure rippled through his body. "So beautiful, Cas. So glad you want this." Hard thrusts left Castiel speechless, hardly able to understand what Dean was saying to him. "Wonder how much those sons of bitches would pay to watch me fuck you." Dean withdrew his fingers, and Castiel lifted his ass higher in the air, arched his back to accentuate everything he was offering Dean. "Would you like that, Cas? Like me to fill you in public with people watching? Like me to drive you so wild you don't care who hears you scream?"

"Dean," Castiel gasped. "You know I can't – I don't want you to make me share – I want you, just you, so much." The blunt head of Dean's cock rubbed against his entrance, thickness and heat so different from a finger, and Castiel bit back a frantic sob of need. "Don't make me share. Don't shame me in front of others. You know I will, if that's what you ask, but...don't make me...just fill me, please fill me, please make love to me, Dean, please."

With a groan, Dean pressed his hips forward, cock easily breaching Castiel after his ample preparation. The initial thrust was slow, hesitant, and for an instant the thought flashed through Castiel's mind that this might be Dean's first time, surely not his first time ever but maybe his first time with a man. He couldn't bring himself to ask. After thinking about having sex with Dean for so long, after agonizing over whether this was what he wanted or whether this was being compelled of him, now that the moment had come all Castiel could truly grasp was that there was a real, flesh cock pulsing within him, that it was Dean, that it felt glorious. He waited for Dean to start to move, to thrust hard and take him mercilessly, but Dean was still. Desperate beyond words, Castiel grabbed the bed frame, pulled himself forward, pushed back as hard as he could, so hard that Dean doubled over around him with a guttural groan.

"Gods above, you really mean it—" Castiel interrupted Dean's gruff voice by seizing what he wanted again, rocking forward, rocking back. "You want me this much?"

"Yes!" Castiel did it again and Dean slumped forward, his chest hard against Castiel's back, his arms wrapping around to hold their bodies close. One hand found Castiel's chest, played roughly with his nipples, and pleasure like a rainbow through a prism scattered through Castiel's body. The other hand closed over his cock. Groaning, Castiel hitched his hips hard against Dean's again, again, and Dean matched his movements, pulling back when Castiel moved forward, thrusting back in hard when Castiel pressed back towards him. The combination was unbelievable, sinking Dean into him firm and fast, pleasuring Castiel beyond anything he'd ever been able to do for himself. Sounds, maybe words, tumbled for Castiel's mouth but he had no idea what he said, no idea if the groans Dean made in reply might be coherent. At every thrust the sensitive place within Castiel was pressured wonderfully, Dean's hand stroked his cock confidently, and Castiel found the feeling addictive, craved it like a drug, needed it to never end.

"You're mine," growled Dean.

"I'm yours, I'm completely yours, you own me, Dean...yours..."

"No one else gets to see you like this, hear you like this," commanded Dean.

"Never!"

Do I, really, have any choice at all?

Castiel felt so good it was impossible to care. Dean slammed into him again, cock dragging friction through Castiel's channel, pressing against the most pleasurable places in his body again, hand strong along Castiel's leaking length, and with a wail of sheer bliss Castiel climaxed, stimulated and sensitive and enraptured as never before in his life.

He didn't feel Dean come, all he knew was that Dean must have, because when Castiel regained awareness of anything outside of his own body neither of them was moving. They both were breathing hard, Castiel clinging with a white-knuckled grip to the bed frame, Dean wrapped around him protectively, a slick of sweat damp between their naked bodies.

"You okay, Cas?" asked Dean, voice soft and tender. His hands gently eased the tautness from Castiel's straining muscles, tense from holding them both up, and coaxed Castiel to slump bonelessly against the bedding.

"I'm glad it's you, Dean," he whispered. "It was going to be someone, and God, I'm so, so glad it's you."

Lips brushed against his bare skin and Castiel shivered.

"Thank God," Dean murmured. "I never want to hurt you, Cas. I'll never force you."

You don't have to. The bond does all of that for you.

"I know you won't."

Or does it? Did I choose this? Did I want this?

Dean adjusted Castiel as if he hadn't the strength to move himself, lay them both under the blankets, cradled Castiel's body with his own. Safe and warm and satisfied, Castiel cuddled close to the larger man, adored how protected he felt in that embrace.

...I do want this. I want Dean. I want to be the only one he touches like this. I want to be the only one he holds. I want to be the only one he fills. I want to be the one who fights beside him and treats his wounds and shares his bed. I want to taste him, learn every inch of him, stay by his side.

"I'm a fool for letting you go the first time."

I'm glad he didn't rescue me that day. I'm glad he's the one who bought me. I'm glad that we get to be together.

"Yeah, you were," Castiel smiled gently though Dean couldn't see. A finger jabbed his side by way of silly punishment and Castiel squirmed and laughed.

If that isn't crazy, if that isn't proof I'm addled by the bonding spell, I don't know what is.

"Mine, now," murmured Dean sleepily. "Mine forever."

And I don't care. Being with Dean feels so good. Let it be enough that it feels good. Let it be enough that we're together. I can't control any of the rest, but I can control how I feel about my lack of control.

"Yes, Dean," said Castiel, wrapping an hand over the palm Dean had splayed over his belly. "I'm yours forever."

I accept it.

Gentle lips kissed his neck. Dean relaxed against him, at ease as he never was when they were on the road or camping in the wild. He was usually wary, guarded, an apt and attentive warrior, always on the edge of violence. Not now. Alone in their inn room, he was sweet, caring, gentle, tender. It was wonderful to feel him so calm and comfortable, so sated, to know that Castiel himself was what had brought out this side of Dean.

All I want is to be with him.

Occasionally, the magical bond that tied Castiel to Dean still troubled him. Even after two years, he understood so little about how it worked. Usually, he could put that aside, focus on the realities of the moment and not worry about the conflicts in his thoughts, but in the still of a chill night, all the things Castiel didn't know came back to him, and he wondered what it all meant, how the bond actually worked. Castiel had no idea if he could want things Dean didn't want. He had no idea how tightly the bond bound them. He had no idea how much of a fluke it was that he seemed able to bend Dean to his will sometimes, if that was the result of inverted magic or of Dean's genuine affection for him. All he knew was that there was something he wanted more than anything and the only way to get it was to ask. If the idea was a result of the bond, then Dean must want it too. If the idea was Castiel's own, it meant that Castiel did still have some amount of free will, it meant that Dean would theoretically be able to say no if Castiel asked him for it.

As free as I am to say no?

The campfire died down, the night grew eerily quiet save for the occasional call of nocturnal birds. Dean lay in his blankets an arm length away, his breaths coming from him slow and steady as in sleep. Flat on his back, wide awake, Castiel stared up at the black sky and traced the familiar patterns of the stars.

This feels like freedom. Is that an illusion? Could I leave if I wanted to? Pack my things, mount Impala, ride away and leave Dean here alone? But I don't want to leave, so does it matter? Or do I not want to because I'm compelled?

I think I don't want to because I love him.

But maybe I have no choice in feeling that way. Is the magic powerful enough to make me love him?

None of the wise men Castiel had consulted could answer the questions he had. None of the wizards he'd spoken to knew where the bond ended and Castiel's own desires began. The usage of binding spells was common enough, but none Castiel had spoken to knew of a case where the lines had blurred as they had with him and Dean. Always, always, the master held a position of superiority, their bonded servants kept obedient through other means. By befriending Castiel, by training him, who was master and who was servant had blurred. The spell required loyalty and affection from the servant towards the master, but the opposite was not a feature of the magic. Nevertheless, Castiel had ample examples of Dean behaving with loyalty and affection towards him. If Castiel could make a request to satisfy his own desires, if Dean answered with unnecessary generosity, what did it mean about their bond?

Maybe asking this of him won't give the answer I seek.

But, depending on his response, perhaps what answers I do get will be enough.

"Dean?" he whispered into the still of the night.

"Yeah, Cas?" Dean replied groggily.

"I want to be inside you."

"You woke me up for that? Can't sucking you off wait until the morning?" Dean chuckled. "Such a demanding servant."

"No, Dean," Castiel said more assertively. "I want to prepare you with grease, I want to stretch you with my fingers, and I want to fill your hole with my cock."

There was a long pause. Castiel's heart thudded, his cock thickened, his skin felt hot and flushed.

"Now?"

Castiel bit his lip against a surge of arousal. "Would you like that?"

There was an even longer pause, silence so deep Castiel thought Dean must have fallen asleep, convinced himself that come morning Dean wouldn't remember the conversation or would speak of it as a humorous, ridiculous dream.

Then, finally, came a single word.

"Yes."

Carefully, deliberately, Castiel closed the space between them, adjusted the blankets to cover them both. Fully clothed, Castiel slotted their bodies together, wrapping his arms around Dean's chest, pressing his chest to Dean's back, tangling their legs together, slotting his erection against the firm ass he'd dreamed of so many times. Dean shuddered and trembled in his arms, and Castiel mouthed gentle kisses against the back of Dean's neck, remembering his own first time taking hardness into his ass so many years before they ever met.

"It's okay, Dean," he whispered. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. All I want is to make you happy, to make both of us happy."

"You make me happy, Cas," Dean breathed. A calloused grip closed over Cas' hand and pulled it to the bulge at Dean's crotch. With a shuddering sigh, Dean rolled his hips forward into the touch, back against Cas' cock. "Want to, I want to, just, this is so new. My first time, Cas...want it to be with you...want to do this for you..."

Really, if we both want it, does it matter why we both want it?

Dean moaned faintly.

A hand flailing behind him found Castiel's saddle bag, and with difficulty he retrieved the grease without disentangling himself from Dean. Castiel warmed the slicking oil between his hands, coated his fingers in it, tugged Dean's pants down only enough to expose him. Gently, he anointed Dean's rim, worked a single finger into him, spread the grease around, gave him time to accommodate, eventually worked in a second. There were no sharp thrusts or quick movements, no aggression or roughness, only tender touches and delicate stretching to prepare Dean. All the while, Dean fell apart around him gloriously. That powerful body was so responsive, so sensitive; the sounds Dean made were so irresistible, so enticing; the backwards rut of Dean's hips as Castiel finally worked three fingers inside him, deliberately thrust them in and out, was so alluring that Castiel thought he'd lose his mind. Whispered moans and whimpers and broken pleas breathed mist into the night air.

"Want you, Cas," Dean mumbled, straining back against Castiel's hand.

"Good," murmured Castiel against his neck. "You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear that."

Dean mewled pathetically when Castiel withdrew his fingers, gasped in astonishment when Castiel replaced them with his greased cock. The first few minutes were excruciating, Dean went rigid and tense, his hole tight, the feeling of tension around Castiel's cock unfamiliar. He could scarce get the head within Dean's body, the pressure was so intense. Reaching around, Castiel found one of Dean's hands, clenching and unclenching helplessly against their blankets.

"It's me, Dean, it's me."

"Only you, Cas, only for you," came the moaned reply.

Incrementally, Dean's breathing slowed, his body relaxed, and ever so gradually Castiel edged his way into Dean's body until finally, mercifully, spectacularly, he was all the way inside. Castiel expected to feel desperate, to be consumed by urgent need as he'd often been in the past when Dean filled him, but instead he felt calm and in control as he hadn't in years – as he hadn't since the bond between them had been made.

I chose this – I think I chose this. And he – he chose me.

Murmuring in Dean's ear all the affection he nurtured in his breast, Castiel pulled out slowly, pressed back in gently, euphoric from the feel of friction and Dean clenched around him. The rhythm was perfect – wonderfully, tortuously perfect – and Castiel wrapped a hand around Dean's cock and stroked him to the same tempo, in and out, up and down, over and over again. Time ceased to mean anything, pleasure flooding his senses, Dean flooding his senses. Dean didn't beg, didn't try to force him faster. Instead, the warrior whom Castiel had watched fell a hundred or more foes lay beneath Castiel and trembled and moaned, spasmed and quaked, matched Castiel's every movement without demanding one iota more than what Castiel offered. At that impossible pace, they grew increasingly drunk on pleasure; at that impossible pace, Castiel felt himself losing all control.

"You're okay?" he asked. Dean's only answer was a frantic nod at odds with their deliberate movements. Massaging over Dean's cock, toying at his slit, coating his hand in precious drops of release, Castiel coaxed Dean over the edge to that same endless, slow pace, left him gasping through a drawn out climax. Muscles clenched around Castiel as he unrelentingly continued just the same. It was more than he could take, glorious and intense and empowering. With a deep groan, he came, driving his seed deep into Dean's willing body, stroking and thrusting until the pleasure became too much for either of them to bear, until Dean went soft in his hand and Castiel went limp and came free of Dean's pucker.

"I love you, Dean."

Dean lay still and trembling and didn't say a word, his eyes closed, his carefully controlled breathing a contrast to the racing heartbeat Castiel could feel where their bodies were pressed close together. Not a word was spoken after Castiel's declaration, they lay clasped close, calming as one, as light slowly brightened the sky towards stunning turquoise.

"I free you from your bond," whispered Dean as the first edge of the sun crested the horizon to spread golden over the land. "You're free, Castiel."

Something shattered, twisted painfully through Castiel's heart, through his body, disordered his thoughts. Groaning in pain, Castiel tightened his hold on Dean, terrified to feel the other man cease to be a part of him, frightened at the prospect of being alone after so long joined, shocked that he had, over the years, grown so accustomed to their connection that now the thought of being without it left him sick with anxiety. Dean shook in his arms but Castiel was so lost in his own body, his own mind, his own soul, that he couldn't understand any words that Dean might have said, couldn't interpret any movements he made. Castiel hurt, his body seared as by fire, his thoughts scoured. It went on and on, and all he could do was cling to Dean, the only solid thing left in the world, and hope that the agony ended quickly.

All at once, it was gone.

"Cas," Dean gasped. "Can't breathe."

"Sorry," he mumbled, tongue awkward and thick in his mouth. "I..."

I'm free.

He loosened his hold, rolled away from Dean, tangled in his blanket, felt inches like miles between their bodies.

I could go anywhere in the world. There's no more compulsion. My thoughts and wishes are my own. My obedience is my own to grant or deny as I will. He can't make me feel things any more, can't make me want things anymore. Whatever I wish is what I wish, not him.

Something was missing.

"Shoulda done that a long time ago," said Dean sadly. "I'm so sorry I did this to you, Cas. I never wanted to hurt you, but I couldn't stand to be without you."

Something was missing, and it's absence was unbearable.

"Dean," Castiel whispered, trying out the name, feeling as if he'd never said it before.

"Yeah, Cas?" Dean sounded so broken, so lonely, so forlorn. Hearing the loss in Dean's voice hurt as badly as the breaking of the spell had.

Castiel knew exactly what was missing.

Rolling back to Dean, Castiel wrapped his arms around the gorgeous man, pulled Dean around so that they were facing each other and kissed him chastely over the lips. Dean stared at him in awe and fear, wide eyes gathering the pre-dawn light and gleaming deepest green.

"I still love you, Dean."

The pain ceased. The world settled back into comfortable, familiar rhythm, the sound of Dean breathing, the touch of skin on skin, the scent of Dean's hair.

Everything was alright.

"I love you too, Cas."

Everything was perfect.

End note:

Anyway...a little different than my norm...but only a little. Hope y'all enjoyed! :)

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