1.
He fixes his black eyes on the angel because the angel hates it. The pair staring back burns bluer than usual, fierce enough to hold Dean's attention; his fingers are digging into his palms with the silent crackling of unbridled, primal opposition.
Castiel thinks he can take him because he's older, pre-ancient. He's fought wars upstairs and down, scorched the earth and saved it a thousand times over. Saved him.
(Just a slip—won't happen again)
Dean's saved the world a few times too. He thinks he can handle one insignificant angel, even when the veins beneath his skin pulse with disgust at the stench Cas is giving off. It's an indistinguishable scent, a burn. It seeps into Dean's nostrils, pushing its way into his throat. It makes his shaded eyes prickle and water. He hates it.
"What, you wanna make out?" An apathetic taunt despite his current position. Listless, until he leans forward as far as the bindings allow, gives off everything he has. It's enough to scatter life for miles, a low rumbling that shakes the very foundation of the bunker. Enough to stop a man's heart in his chest, and Castiel doesn't budge, doesn't recoil. Then there's only frustration, a swelling pride that draws a throaty growl and a hard jerk that nearly tips the chair forward, wooden legs screeching against old stone.
(Fucking flinch)
Castiel is angry. Dean can taste it when he snaps his teeth around the angel's left wrist (back up) in a fleeting attempt for dominance, which earns him a resounding slap across his cheek before he's shoved back with nothing but pure will and animosity, pinned by a grace too bright to see.
The angel tastes like blood and Kansas.
(Doesn't matter anymore)
What matter are the fading teeth marks on an angel's skin that he put there, and now there's fire in Castiel's eyes. A righteous fire that would consume Hell in its purity, fire that makes Dean wince and snarl.
"The filth of Hell is all over you." Castiel's voice is calm, threatening, his energy burning something awful. It ebbs and expands, brightening the room when Dean presses back against it with rancid curses and blatant threats. "The first time that I saved you," Cas is visibly clenching his jaw while he distractedly rubs at the already-healed wound, and the unrestrained anger is making Dean hard. "The first time, Dean—" he spoke Dean's name like a disappointment, "you begged me for it." A beat of silence, and then: "You scrambled toward me, broken and corrupt, and you begged me to take you home. To Sam. Do you remember?"
(No. Yes.)
"Game's changed, Angel." The sizzling of skin is as painful as it sounds but Dean twists against the ropes anyway, tearing threads and flesh alike with slow, blunt trails.
"Yes, I'm aware. You're stronger now," Castiel softly mocks. "Are you intending on wearing the bindings down or slow amputation?"
"Whichever comes first."
"I can't stand to look at you," the angel spits.
(But you do)
To which Dean shrugs, the apathy slowly settling back into place. The rampant rise and fall of rage touched with apprehension teeters just at the edge of his tongue. "So don't."
"You," the fucking angel's hands are pressed against the sides of his face suddenly and forcefully; his skin is too fucking hot like they're back in The Pit and Dean knows that this isn't a bullshit threat. Cas is out of ideas—Sammy's stupid ritual didn't do anything except almost kill them both—and angels are absolute in their resolve. Cas goes on, holding Dean's body still, "awoke and made the conscious choice to consort with Crowley instead of coming to me."
(Envy's a sin, Angel)
"If you wanted it that bad, I never could turn down a good blowjob." Dean's smile is all teeth. "Want me to tell you what I'm gonna do to you when I get outta this chair?" Feral and low. "Or do you wanna guess?" he manages despite the strong, burning fingers pressing deep bruises into his tightened jaw.
"Be quiet."
"Or what?" Dean thinks he wants to fuck the angel's pretty mouth. (He'll let you)
"Or I seal you into the cage with my brothers." Simple and clipped, hand only gripping tighter. "And yours."
Dean snorts: a harsh, mocking sound. "Hell can't hold me." Cas knows that.
"Lucifer can. Michael can." the angel assures him gently.
"You wanna come downstairs with me?" A genuine invitation, held out for the taking. "I'll give you the tour." A wink. "Strip down that flashy pride and see how long it takes an angel to break. Wha'dya say, Cas?"
(—can show you)
Silence.
Dean doesn't like the dynamics of this conversation. Dean thinks that he wants to rip out Castiel's throat with his teeth, free that pulsing power from its human cage. He wants to tear the vessel to shreds, nails ripping meat from muscle. He wants to—
Then it slams him.
(F—uck)
White-hot light piercing through his veins like a sharp injection, every cell wailing with the rush of it. He can't move, can't open his fucking mouth. Can't reel back from the cooling hands gripping, then cupping, then gently holding his jaw so that Dean faces upward, galaxies and threats and promises that he doesn't want flowing between angel and demon in silent, thumping crests of atoms and molecules and clear blue.
There's quiet, then the constant, peaceful trickling of shallow water over pebbles, the angel's voice breaking through it in a soft murmur.
"When you delved into it." (I know this place) "When you chose Hell, you gave me more influence over you than you can imagine." And Castiel's voice is rumbling low near Dean's ear, slow hands leaving his skin (finally. Fuck off).
Paralyzed in a warm, ebbing blanket of grace, it stings as much as it soothes. Castiel's repetitive, "Don't fight it," is wrapping around his bones, pulling him deeper until his limbs are heavy and weak. Dean's ragged breathing is calming gradually, the rise and fall of his chest becoming slow and even.
(Do you know what I'm gonna do to you)
"If I have to keep you this way, so be it." The angel has taken a step back and is watching Dean with a solemn downturn to his mouth, arms relaxed at his sides. "I could loosen those bindings," Cas informs matter-of-factly. "I could tarnish those sigils and it would make no difference," he taunts, and Dean isn't impressed by the angel's bragging. "But." A nod towards Dean. "Up to this point, you have managed to escape every perilous situation you've gotten yourself into, so." He regards Dean with a slow blink, doesn't even try to restrain what he's giving off. (Too bright) "Until I find a way to save you, this is where you stay. If you manage to escape, I will throw you into the cage without hesitation."
(What I'm gonna do)
"Don't need savin'"
"Very original, Dean." Dismissive. Bored.
(You ain't too impressive yourself, angel)
The grace doesn't fully retract when Castiel leaves the room, thick wooden door clicking resolutely behind him. It permeates the walls, the floor beneath Dean's feet, layers of his skin. The suffocation of it presses him down; it negates his power, it puts him in his fucking place, doesn't it?
Somewhere through the haze, Dean continues his slow grinding against the ropes, soaked through with holy water, burning like a son of a bitch with each drag against his skin. (Just a little more) The angel will come back; the angel will come back because he knows this shit won't hold Dean. Not forever. (Just a little—) The angel will come back if Dean asks the angel to come back, because this is the exchange between them, isn't it? The stream is still trickling, flashes of the sun's gentle reflections catching on pebbled waves. Dean tries with everything he has to push the hallucination away, away to where he can keep it down, focus on getting out of this before Castiel comes back for round two.
But the leaves are rustling sweet autumns in his ears, the air crisp and morning-kissed. The burning in his wrists lessens as he breathes it all in.