Hey, Fearless Readers, Laura here. I'm back with a fic, as per the request of mrscastiel96 on AO3 who asked for Destiel. This will be a multi-chap fic, spanning 3-5 chapters, with updates to come every Sunday until completed, unless otherwise specified. This is my first slash-fic, and it's completely different than anything else I've attempted so I need some guidance here. Let me know what you think, Readers. Whether plot holes or grammar corrections, compliments or complaints, I have an open mind and I'm keen on reading your comments and reviews.
WARNINGS: Contains non-graphic sex, violence, and inappropriate language. The first chapter will (most likely, though no promises) be the most graphic. Rating may be adjusted to suit the fic in future chapters. *Spoilers up to the end of season four.
1. Defiance
It always hurts at first. Sometimes—not too often, but sometimes—it hurts the entire time, but this time after a few minutes, Castiel stops hurting. It never feels good for Castiel like Master seems to think. When he's not mad, he tries to make it feel good, but not hurt seems to be the only compromise his body is willing to make.
Master's mad though so he doesn't try to make it good for Castiel, for which he is eternally grateful. Master's hands are calloused and rough, pinching anywhere he can find purchase. Castiel knows that he's going to have bruises tomorrow, more of them to cover because, though Master likes to be rough with him, he doesn't like to see the markings.
He finds a rhythm and bucks his hips in time with Master's thrusts. It's obvious from his quiet moans of pleasure that Master enjoys it. It doesn't normally take much for Castiel to finish him. He's gotten much better over time. One of the first things he learned was that the better it was for Master, the faster it was over for him. Sometimes his plan backfires, and Master will finish and wait a while, playing with him before going again and again. Usually, though, those nights are for when Master's been pressed into a rage he needs more than just release.
Tonight, though, Master seems almost gentle with his ministrations despite the small amount of anger he can sense.
With a twist of his hips and the rhythmic clenching of the right muscles, Castiel feels a hint of satisfaction as Master's hips stutter to a stop deep inside him. It's wet and messy, but it's something he's come to look forward to because it means Master is finished with him.
Master pulls out quickly and leans in close, right at his ear. "Go to bed. Next time, be quieter."
Castiel nods and makes his way to the floor-mat Master has gotten to replace the tattered cushion he'd slept on for years before. An ache sets in like it only does when Master is rough with him. It'll be gone in a few days though so Castiel doesn't worry too much about it.
He circles around a few times, trying to find a comfortable way to position his bruised wings on the too-small mat. Master's breathing is deep and even, peaceful in sleep. After a few minutes, Castiel's is too.
His sleep is dreamless for the first time in months. He can't count the number of times Master has woken up in a fit of rage from him crying out in the dark, but nightmares don't plague him as much as memories do. When he closes his eyes, he can see his brothers being taken from the sanctuary, one by one, until Castiel, the smallest of the litter, is the is only one left alone. He sees the haunted cast of Gabriel's face as he fights in the pits. He watches as Samandriel and Anna are taken again and again by Masters who wish for only self-gratification, even at great cost to others. He sees the pain of his past loved ones—past because he has no other loved ones now but Master, only Master—and it always breaks away a small piece of him to remember. Tonight, though, there are no dreams. There is only numbing darkness and the comfort of relaxing his muscles after the toll of the harsh days before.
His mind is a complete blank of thoughts, too exhausted to make anything but the meekest of efforts, and when Castiel wakes, he is nothing short of grateful for that.
With a glance to the clock, he notes the time. 4:28. It is two minutes until he is allowed to rise so he waits. Master isn't forgiving of those who break the rules. He remembers his last lesson well, though it has been decades. It would have taken a week of no touching to recover. As it was, it had taken over a month. Master had been cross with the time it took, and Castiel is fervent on not having that particular lesson repeated, or it will be the basement chains and crawling on hands and knees for a month. It will be the withholding of food and amenities, the absolute silence, and the welts of whip marks every night before bed.
This rule, though, is a simple one: rise at 4:30 to begin chores.
His two minutes are up relatively quickly and Castiel doesn't waste any time. He stands and tucks his sleep-mat into the closet, picks up scattered clothes and weapons, wipes down every available surface with a bleach-rag, careful not to jostle Master from his sleep. Even with the blackout curtains, there is enough light to see by. With the sun still high in the sky, not even close to setting, he has no trouble using the rebel light to guide him through the room.
He fills a bucket quietly with scalding water and sets himself in the farthest corner, working his way toward the door. Every inch of the floor is scrubbed—quietly, so as not to wake Master—until it shines. He leaves the bucket next to the door and continues on to his next task.
Castiel tiptoes downstairs. He knows that the rest of the den is sleeping now, but they aren't what he is afraid of. Now, he is afraid of the four dogs that guard the house. During the day, they are placed outside, but every so often, one of the Lords will keep one in, frightened—not frightened, no; Lords are never frightened; they are fierce, immortal, with the strength of a dozen men—of the Hunters that may come in the day and threaten to disband them. The dogs never abide by other pets like Castiel. They are vicious, as he knows from experience.
There are no dogs this time, only the soft sounds of the Lords sleeping in their rooms. Castiel has been here long enough that he knows where every creak is in the floorboards, knows just where to touch his feet down to keep from making a noise that would wake them. Their hearing is impeccable. The first time he'd tried to run, they had caught him in minutes, his rapid heartbeat giving him away. In sleep, any unaccustomed noise is sure to rouse at least one of them.
He shivers at the thought of being so careless and twists his hips around the banister to avoid the bottom three stairs. He lands lithely on the balls of his feet, not even a soft thud to mark his fall.
It is as it has been for the three years, the same routine every day since they'd taken residence in this house. Not even a small smile of success appears on his face anymore when he makes not a sound doing so, but a slight turn of his lips as he comes to the basement door. Either he is stronger than he used to be, or he has become apathetic to it, but he has no urge to turn away or become sick with what he knows is behind the door.
The lock is old and large, but it opens easily for him. It makes only one noise, a spring and click as it disengages, then there is silence once more. He closes the door behind him, walking into the darkness, not caring now whether he makes noise. The stairs creak freely under his feet, the sound unable to pierce through to the ears of the Lords and his Master through the soundproof walls.
The basement is dark, much too dark for him to see by, but Castiel isn't deterred by it. He is used to walking by feel alone, has the entire basement mapped out. More often than not, there isn't enough light to see by even in the house while the Lords sleep. In the basement, the only light he will have is a single candle that cannot be lit without oft-forgotten matches. Castiel is surprised when his hand brushes a newly placed matchbox on the table, one with nearly a dozen matches inside, beside the small box of replacement candles.
The small flame doesn't illuminate the entire room, but it is bright enough to light his way. Three women, fully clothed now, huddle in on themselves, trying to keep warm in the damp coolness of the room. Their faces are gaunt and their features are slack with exhaustion. The sight of them is off-putting, but he is more than familiar with it, even if these particular women are new. With a touch of his grace, Castiel releases one from her bindings.
She looks up at him, shocked to be free, but Castiel does nothing but take her by the arm and pull her into the bathroom through the door opposite the stairs. He cuffs her to the hook drilled into the wall and leaves her there to gather supplies.
The water is cold, much colder than his own baths are, but when he finishes, there is no doubt that she is clean. In all likelihood, she will not survive the month, but the Lords are quick to anger when the slaves assault their already heightened senses so cleanliness is one of his main priorities.
The women, though they are only a day or two old, have undoubtedly learned not to scream already. Small whimpers when he splashes her with water are all he gets as he scours her skin from head to toe, making sure to scrub well the most intimate parts of her, even as she shivers in fear.
With a silent prayer, he touches his fingers to her forehead and soothes the aches in her body, sending her into a much needed sleep while his grace heals the worst of her wounds. There is not much he has to spare with the runes carved into the collar at his neck, but there is enough for that.
By the time he finishes with the slaves, the sun has begun to set and casts the house into shadow. Not a single shred of evening light illuminates his way as he walks up the stairs and reseals the basement door where the slaves are kept. They will be fed in the morning like they always are. Any more than that and Master will not be thrilled with the generosity.
The kitchen is near to him, but Castiel makes his way upstairs to gather the other pets. All six kneel just outside of their respective doors, awaiting their orders from him. He had taken too long with the slaves, but the pets don't seem to have noticed. Their faces are blank masks, their wills crushed to extinction. Of the seven of them, Castiel is the only one who continues to rebel, and even his defiance has been curbed. The others are near-perfect models of efficiency, and Castiel employs that aspect of them now.
When they catch sight of him, they rise and follow him downstairs, all stepping uniformly in the same spots to avoid noise. He sends half of them to the closet to gather supplies, two to the kitchen to prepare food, and the final one to collect the laundry. The latter had obviously been worked over the night before, but he pays the pet no mind other than to assign him the most menial of tasks before he busies himself with readying the house for the Lords' awakening.
With the sun having set behind the mountains, he opens the curtains and flicks on the low wattage lamps throughout the house. Their demeanor does not change, but Castiel is certain the pets find the light much more comforting than bustling around in the dark, even though they generally live in the night.
Castiel hasn't seen the sun in decades, hasn't stepped foot outside in a year. The thought bothers him much more than he thinks it should, but he presses it deep down and continues on with his chores. The potpourri is changed, the towels in the bathrooms are replaced, the rugs are beaten out over the balcony on the second floor and set back in their proper places. He can smell the food being prepared in the kitchen, and he knows that the Lords will awaken shortly when coffee begins to perforate the air. There are still a half-dozen chores to finish before that time.
He walks back downstairs, nods to missed spot on the floor for one of the pets to clean, and enters the kitchen for a final inspection. The food is nearly prepared and the rest of the house is impeccable, perfect. Not a single picture frame is out of place. All things are in their proper order. Even dust motes in the air are practically nonexistent.
The basement door is opened once more with a flick of his grace. They all know what is coming, but none of the women scream. It is better a needle than the sharp fangs of teeth.
He returns to the pets with three pints of blood—B-Negative for the cooks' Masters, A-Negative for the cleaners', and O-Positive for his and the launder's. The pouches are far from easy to pour from, but he has had practice enough not to spill a drop as he divides the spoils among the trays. The two pets with him finish wiping down the surfaces of the kitchen before taking their respective trays of food upstairs to their Masters, not even a padding of footsteps to signal their departure.
Castiel hears the quiet latch of the hall closet and the three pets enter the kitchen to gather their own trays, leaving just as quietly as the other two had. Five minutes pass with him alone in the kitchen. He glances at the clock—8:10—and worries his bottom lip over the launder's delay. The pet—Lord Nikolas's, he thinks the name is—had not looked particularly well, limping despite his training, and Castiel knows something is wrong.
He walks briskly to the laundry room, prepared for what he sees only because of his inability to be shocked at the den's cruelty.
The pet is badly injured. Bruises pepper his side and welts show plainly on his back and thighs, but that is not an uncommon occurrence. More often than not, the pets show their Masters' markings. It is not the external injuries that concern Castiel. The pet is prepped against the door frame, clenching his stomach in pain while the clothes spin soundly in the drier, tears in his eyes as he holds in screams of pain with a herculean effort. Castiel fingers the pet's chin bringing his head up to look him in the eye—something the pets have all been trained against, even by Castiel—reaches for his last bit of grace, and presses it inside.
Castiel watches it work. He sees a deep-rooted calm take hold of the pet, followed by the smallest inkling of peace. It takes a minute for the pain to subside, and the bruising does not go away completely, but the what damage to the pet that is left, is insubstantial. Its job complete, the grace recedes. The pet's eyes dim again with the knowledge that he is to return to a Master that is angered with him, but there is no mistaking the glint of gratitude in his eye.
Without a word, the pet follows Castiel into the kitchen and gathers his tray in his hands, only stopping when Castiel makes no move to grab his own tray. The pet's face betrays his terror when he watches Castiel pick the prepared glass of blood off of the tray on the counter and pour it down the drain. Castiel gives a minute shake of his head at what he supposes to be a protest, then empties the rest of the food into the garbage.
The pet stands in shock, clenching his own tray in fear of what Castiel will do to it, but Castiel merely reaches out and hands him a piece of paper.
The pet will know what it is, come morning. Castiel can only hope that he is smart enough to begin the chores upon waking instead of stupidly waiting for Castiel to come retrieve them, especially with the warning that is included on the bottom of the list. There is no doubt in his mind that he will be otherwise indisposed this coming week. The pet takes the paper and, without looking at it, walks away with his tray, serving his Master.
Despite his apprehension, Castiel does not hesitate at the stairs or in the threshold of Master's bedroom. Instead, he walks in boldly, keeping his eyes level instead of casting them downward as he has been trained to do. He goes to stand beside Master's bedside and waits for his orders.
"I don't suppose there will be breakfast this morning," Master comments.
"No," Castiel responds, knowing that speaking is the quickest way to a beating unless given express permission.
Master tsks. "Oh, my pet," he worries. "When will you learn?"
But Castiel doesn't respond. Master knows exactly what he is doing, instigating a punishment. It is a personal insult for Castiel to continue this way, to make the house as orderly as it is possible before his act of defiance because it proves that Castiel is defiant by choice, not by accident. It shows that he holds onto his will through a stubborn sense of… not pride, it isn't pride, but something like it. Determination, maybe.
Castiel knows he has become too complacent in this place, too like the human pets the other Lords keep. He knows without a doubt that he is broken. What he isn't is completely drained of anything but his Master's will.
This is the only way he survives with a part of himself. This is his only respite from the habitual submission that he is forced into. This is the only way he can live with the decisions he's made and the things he's been made to do. This is how he fights for his freedom.
Castiel expects the pain that instantly flows through him at Master's incantation. The collar at his neck heats rapidly and brings him to his knees. There is no resisting it with the spells laced through, forcing him to obey every one of Master's commands.
Castiel knows that, should Master utilize the collar that came with his pet, should Master want it, he could be forced to do as Master wishes, but Master does not want that. Master wants Castiel to break, wants him to obey every command, not out of force, but out of his own want and need to obey. He wants Castiel to become his pet, not his slave, not his captive, and that is something Castiel has fought against for the last eight-hundred years.
"You had been doing so well, too," Master says sadly once Castiel's face is pressed to the floor in a low bow. There is a hint of anger in his words, and another of unrepressed glee. He is furious Castiel has found the gall to oppose him, but there is no doubt that Master will enjoy the punishment that is sure to follow.
Master's first row of teeth descend threateningly from his gums in sharp points. Castiel's resolve only wavers for a moment, but he hides the fear deep within himself and stares directly into Master's eyes, watching the pupils contract, anticipating the taste of Castiel's blood. In one quick strike, Master latches onto his neck, sucking in time with Castiel's beating heart.
Castiel waits for it, waits for the expression of displeasure…
And there it is. The small grunt that comes from Master's throat is enough to make this worth it.
Castiel smiles.
The lack of grace in his blood is just another act of rebelliousness on his part. Master doesn't know where it has gone, doesn't know that it has been used to heal—won't know as long as the pet and the slaves know well enough to lie—and it forces Master to realize that he cannot own Castiel, not completely, cannot make Castiel anything but an unwilling slave.
Master's fury is something to see. It is beautiful in its chaos and in its strength. Even amongst the pain that floods his body when Master's teeth tighten on his neck, set on draining him of blood, Castiel can appreciate his fury. This time… this time, he'll surely have angered Master enough to die.
This concludes the first chapter and the premise for the fic. Nothing after this point has been written. It's all just a jumble of plot bunnies hopping around in my head and has yet to be put in print. The title is also a working one and will be replaced once my muse sees fit to name the fic appropriately. Have a suggestion? A prediction? Something you think would be totally awesome to read and want it in here, now? Include it in your review :) and until next time, Readers, read on!
P. S. Chapter 2 will be written, edited, and posted by Sunday!