A/N: For the the Dean/Cas kink meme on Livejournal.
"Oh, shit, Cas" Dean gasped breathlessly as he withdrew from Castiel, making him shudder beneath him. They both rested on top of the motel room sheets in the dizzying, druggy haze that follows a mind-bending orgasm, but Dean was sobering up quickly. "I think I got a little carried away."
Castiel lay sprawled flat on his stomach, his head turned to one side so he could look up at Dean reverently. Every joint, usually so rigid, had melted into a comfortable bonelessness, and his heavy eyes and languid smile made him look uncharacteristically undone. "What are you talking about?" he asked, still riding so high that he was almost slurring his words.
But his blissed-out expression was somewhat at odds with the latticework of angry, bleeding welts criss-crossing his shoulders and back.
The cane had been Castiel's idea. Dean had been apprehensive at first, but he had soon come around on the idea when he heard the noises that Castiel made under its blows. It had been a game of endurance with Dean swinging harder and Castiel moaning louder each time, each losing himself in the delicate balance between violence and pleasure, until Dean had given in and let their power play devolve into passionate fucking. Dean always gave in first. Truth be told, he preferred the mundane intimacy of flesh on flesh to the sometimes-elaborate and sometimes-brutal games than Castiel liked to plan for them.
But obviously, this time, he had enjoyed the caning a little too much. Castiel hadn't been bleeding the last time he checked, but now spots of red were oozing up in the dozens of lashes that Dean had created. Dean's hand hovered nervously over the wounds. "Doesn't that hurt?" he said, wincing.
Castiel shrugged, the movement making a few droplets of blood run together and pool between his shoulder blades. "That's the point, isn't it?" he replied dreamily, a smile still on his face.
Dean shook his head. He knew that Castiel hadn't really come to terms with that fact that he had fallen, that he was human now. Because he had once been able to heal his body so easily, it sometimes didn't occur to him what a nuisance wounds could be. Dean could tell that this would be one of those times. Castiel was still numbed by endorphins, but he would feel the sting soon enough.
"Don't move," said Dean, pushing himself off the bed and heading for the bathroom.
In the time it took Dean to run a hot bath, Castiel's demeanor had changed somewhat. Dean returned to the bed to find Castiel in the same position he had left him, but with some of the tightness back in his limbs and the smile gone from his face. His eyebrows were knitted together and his breathing was shallow, as if he were trying to move his ribs as little as possible. Dean sat beside him and rested a hand on the small of his back, below the welts. "Was I right?" he said.
"Perhaps we both got a little carried away," Castiel admitted, "But I'm fine. I'll just sleep it off."
A droplet of blood rolled over the top of Castiel's shoulder and bloomed into a circular stain on the white sheet below. Dean said, "Cas, if you don't let me fix you up, by tomorrow morning it's gonna look like we murdered somebody in this bed. Now come take a bath with me."
Castiel finally agreed with a roll of his eyes, but when he placed his arms to lever himself upright the movement made him gasp aloud in pain. Dean's hands were there in an instant, steadying him and helping him to his feet. "I'm fine," Castiel protested again.
"Sure you are," said Dean, an arm around Castiel's waist holding him close as he guided him to the bathroom, "Come here, tough guy."
Once lowered into the tub, Castiel sat curled up miserably with his arms wrapped around his knees and his back hunched to keep his wounds out of the hot water. Dean sat behind him on the rim and ran one hand affectionately through his black hair. It might have been Dean's imagination that Castiel's shoulders relaxed a fraction under his touch.
"I'm gonna clean you up a bit, okay?" said Dean.
Castiel's shoulders hunched even more determinedly than before. "I suppose it's necessary," he mumbled.
Figuring that that was the best he was going to get, Dean cupped some water in his hands and poured it over the tops of Castiel's shoulders. Castiel flinched as it trickled down his spine, but he didn't say a word. A few more handfuls of water washed the worst of the blood away, letting Dean see the damage. None of the cuts were deep, but the skin around each one was red and inflamed. It must have hurt like a bitch. Dean soaked a towel and started dabbing gently at the places where blood had dried and stuck. With each touch, Castiel's head bowed a little farther down, hiding his face deeper between his arms.
"You know," said Dean, pausing, "We're not playing anymore, Cas. You can tell me if it hurts."
Castiel took him up on the offer by lifting his head, turning to look Dean in the eye, and saying, "Ouch." It was so characteristically testy and deadpan that Dean couldn't help but let out a startled laugh before he could catch himself. Castiel glowered at him.
"Sorry," Dean said, still chuckling a little. Then his laughter died away as he pressed the towel to Castiel's back again and felt the muscles under his hand clench and tremble. "I'm really sorry," he repeated, seriously this time, "I should have been more careful."
Castiel searched Dean's face, judging the sincerity of the apology. He must have found it satisfactory, because his scowl turned into a weak but cheeky smile as he said, "It was worth it."
Dean returned the smile gratefully. "Then let me make this worth it too," he said, leaning forward to press his lips against the curve where Castiel's spine met his skull. This time Dean could tell that it wasn't pain making Castiel shiver. Bracing himself against the edge of the tub to keep from falling in, Dean leaned forward enough to nuzzle the back of Castiel's head and breathe in the scent of his hair.
Once, Dean had tried to describe to Sam what Castiel smelled like. He had failed. There are only so many ways to describe a smell, and most of them involve comparing it to something else that smells similar. The problem was that Castiel smelled like nothing else on Earth that Dean had ever encountered.
For every swipe of the cloth on raw skin, Dean planted a kiss on Castiel's neck, his jaw, in the hollow behind his ear. Castiel answered each kiss with a low hum of pleasure until he finally turned and caught Dean's mouth with his own. Somehow, even after all this time, the touch of Castiel's lips was enough to make Dean weak in the knees. He closed his eyes and let the room spin around him, leaning forward to try to deepen the kiss, chasing that sensation.
That, in that moment, was who Dean was. It was who he wanted to be. Dean was forced to put on so many different faces in the name of his job: government official, priest, reporter… the list was endless. And then there were the faces that he put on for the people he loved. He used to be a good little soldier for his father, even when he wanted to cry and refuse to ever go Hunting again. He was brave for Sam, even during the times when he thought they didn't have a chance in Hell. Even for Castiel, he was at times the sadistic master when he truly preferred moments like this, when he could tenderly lose himself in a simple kiss.
Sometimes he thought that this might be the whole point of the games they played: the moment of understanding between himself and Castiel when they were over. They had torn themselves down to their basest forms of submission and aggression, and now they built themselves back up into men and lovers. For a time, with the air still crackling between them with the rawness of what they had done, it was easy for Dean to be exactly who he wanted to be. What did his pride and his machismo mean next to the marks on Castiel's skin, and the trust it had taken to let Dean put them there?
Castiel had stopped bleeding, and even some of the redness was beginning to fade (though it was being replaced by a deeper hue that promised to become a mosaic of bruises). He stepped out of the tub – steadier on his feet than he had been before – and let Dean dry him off. Dean managed to steal another kiss or twelve as they made their way back to the bed. Dean collapsed into it with a sigh. Castiel twisted and turned like a cat before finally finding a comfortable position to rest in, his head on Dean's chest and his hand absentmindedly finding its way to the scar that matched its shape perfectly.
"I win again, by the way," Castiel mentioned smugly, "You've still never made me use my safeword."
A shadow of doubt suddenly flashed across Dean's mind, and he blurted out, "Have you ever wanted to? Use it, I mean?"
Castiel lifted his head just enough to pull a confused face at Dean. "If I wanted to," he said, "Why wouldn't I?"
Dean shifted uncomfortably under Castiel's weight as he tried to find the right words. "I just…" he stammered, "I don't want you to think that you have to prove something to me. Like today. I went too far. You've gotta know that even when I get too into it like that, you can still stop me. And I won't think any less of you for it."
This time, Castiel lifted himself up fully, an elbow propped on either side of Dean's body as he looked down at Dean face-to-face. He stared seriously for a moment before saying, "I know that you would never want to harm me. So I promise you, Dean, that I will never let you."
One more kiss, and Castiel nestled back down to fall asleep with his cheek pressed against Dean's heartbeat.