Oh man I have been thinking about this story since the day I finished the first SextersAnon story. I even started to write it! But I had other stuff I had to do, so it didn't get finished. However, now is the moment. I'm going to finish this story, and I'm debating just going ahead and writing the several other stories I envision in this 'verse (it'll probably end up around six stories...).
Hope y'all enjoy and think this was worth the wait! :)
Warning: this story has a warning for massive amounts of subdrop.
Relationship: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Characters: Castiel; Dean Winchester; Charlie Bradbury; Zachariah; Anna Milton; Naomi
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; Top Castiel; Bottom Dean; Dom/sub; BDSM; Dom Dean; Sub Castiel; Depression; Subdrop; Kink Negotiation; Aftercare; Rope Bondage; Sex Toys; Light Masochism; Texting; Sexting; Internalized Vanilla Attitudes About Sex
This story is a sequel to my previously posted story Sextersanondotcom. It will not make sense as a stand alone. So go read that, then come back and read this. :)
That was a disaster.
Castiel groaned and pressed his hands over his eyes painfully hard to block out the dazzling sunlight streaming through the crack between the curtains of his hotel room. His body hurt, especially his chest, abs and thighs, and especially his cock, which throbbed with every pump of blood through his veins even though he was limp.
What was I thinking?
He hadn't been thinking, that was the problem. He got one sexy order from a dom who seemed nice and suddenly everything was fair game, every single option was on the table, and Castiel had risked everything he'd spent fifteen years working for to get off for one day.
He was nice. Assertive and strong and sexy and skilled and yet gentle and kind. He gave me what I needed…he tried to give me what I needed.
It had felt fantastic while they were in the scene. Now, in the fresh light of a new morning, reflection on the previous day was a stark, painful reminder of all the reasons Castiel no longer permitted himself to engage in BDSM relationships. The moment a scene started his sense stopped functioning.
I am such an idiot. I can never risk doing that again. Even over text message, I lose myself too completely. Even over text message, I cannot be trusted because I cannot say no.
Of course I can't say no. I'm a submissive and he's my dominant and it is not for me to refuse him.
I could have said I wasn't comfortable with the scene. I could have said we needed to stop until I was done with work. I could have never given the green light to engage in public play in the first place. I could have used my safe word when we pushed past the first couple hours of erection, could have used my safe word when Joshua asked me to stand and speak to the group, could have at any point ended it. But I didn't, because while I was caught in the moment I didn't want to. I didn't want to because it felt so good to push myself, so good to satisfy him, so good to be in control, to be under his control.
If Dean were to contact me tomorrow and for some reason I was insane enough to agree to repeat that scene, I would behave in precisely the same way, even knowing what I know now, even feeling as I do now. I cannot delude myself and pretend that the exact same thing wouldn't happen.
I cannot be trusted.
I can never do that again.
The thought left him sad and empty. He'd enjoyed being a sub again – what is wrong with me, I enjoyed almost destroying my career and ruining my livelihood! – and he'd enjoyed having a dom. He didn't want to tell Dean no. He wanted to text him again, wanted to see and hear him again. He wanted more – he wanted to meet him, to be touched by him, to touch him.
And that's why I can't. I cannot be trusted to behave in my own best interest when it comes to sex.
Castiel had operated under self-imposed celibacy for years. He'd been lonely, he'd been unfulfilled, at times he'd been sad, but he'd been functional and successful. Signing up for SextersAnon, he'd dared to hope there might be a middle ground.
There was no middle ground.
Foolish.
Castiel forced himself from bed, went to his luggage and laid out his outfit for the day.
Foolhardy.
He took a shower, depressed that even the heat of the water couldn't wash away the aches of the previous day.
Disgusting.
Turning the temperature up, he let the burn scour him until his skin was bright red.
Unclean.
It hurt, grounded him, brought a strange kind of pleasure.
Unworthy.
Over-hot showers were a masochistic indulgence, one he didn't allow himself often: he'd turn the temperature to maximum, stand under the flow as long as he could bear it, sear himself until the line between pain and pleasure disappeared and he could ignore everything except the physical sensations.
Dependent.
With no dom to push his self-control, such showers had been a way to push his limits without needing another person to help, but he didn't test himself now.
Disobedient.
He would either fail miserably or he'd succeed to admiration.
Failure.
He feared both equally; failing would drop him into the depths, remind him how much better his self-control was when he was supervised by a skilled dom like Dean.
Coward.
Even if he succeeded at standing under the scalding shower for long minutes, he'd be burned and red, forced to spend another day maintaining the masquerade that he was fine, that he wasn't a deviant, wasn't broken, wasn't sick.
Pervert.
Hand shaking, he turned the water off.
Weakling.
The instant the heat stopped striking his skin, he shivered uncontrollably.
Whiner.
The air felt cold by contrast and his body hurt even more than it had earlier.
Degenerate.
No one he worked with would understand.
Exhibitionist.
If he'd been caught the previous day…he couldn't even bear to think of it, reminded himself over and over again not to dwell on past mistakes he couldn't hope to repair.
Lunatic.
However insane his behavior had been, he'd gotten away with it once and would never be stupid enough to take such a risk again.
Selfish.
He'd thought nothing of the other people in the room, hadn't considered the impact his behavior might have on them.
Oblivious.
Everyone else present had become inadvertent, unwilling partners in his scene with Dean.
Inconsiderate.
None of them had given consent to be used as props in his and Dean's twisted sex game.
Self-centered.
Castiel felt sick imagining how upsetting it would have been to them had Castiel been discovered, felt sick imagining how violated he'd feel, were he ever to learn that one of them had been exposed under the table, had been masturbating, had been trading sexual text messages the entire meeting.
Rapist.
He felt like he had a violated them all even though he hadn't been found out.
Undeserving.
A lot of good things had come Castiel's way once he put aside his inappropriate behavior and focused on his career.
Incapable.
The money he earned aided everyone in his family; he channeled the rest into investment accounts and charitable causes.
Soulless.
The work he did helped establish a standard of ethics among corporate middlemen, helped ensure that companies that did good work were forwarded and that those that didn't had more trouble advancing.
Corrupted.
Castiel wasn't deluded, he knew that executives at Sandover had at times been guilty of corruption, malfeasance, irresponsibility, and flagrant stupidity, but he was proud that his department wasn't responsible for any of it, not under his supervision.
Arrogant.
He was proud of the work he did, of the position he'd earned after he'd hit rock bottom in his early twenties and realized he couldn't stay with Naomi any longer.
Traitorous.
For fifteen years he'd held his urges at bay and he'd dared to think that finally, finally, he was old enough, mature enough, to handle a simple, anonymous relations.
Stupid.
Yet, after mere days' acquaintance he'd been prepared to throw everything away at the behest of a stranger.
Naïve.
He didn't deserve his position, didn't deserve his salary, didn't deserve the heavy responsibilities of his job, didn't deserve the respect of his colleagues, didn't deserve a dom to take care of him.
Pathetic.
Though he'd followed his orders and behaved, he still didn't deserve the pleasures he'd enjoyed the day before.
Inadequate.
Standing before the mirror over the desk, Castiel avoided looking at his laptop, avoided looking at the chair he'd left a sweaty, come-streaked mess the night before, avoided looking at the soiled tissues in the small garbage, avoided looking at the refletion of his face.
Useless.
With unnecessary concentration, he tied his tie, straightened his jacket and buckled his belt.
Not again. Never again.
Deliberately leaving his second cell phone next to the computer, Castiel grabbed his brief case, retrieved his charging iPad from beside his bed and headed out to the day's meetings. Whatever small amount of pride he felt that he'd left the spare phone behind dulled beside the pain of doing so. He had nothing to be proud of, not when he wanted so badly and deserved so little. He had nothing to be proud of when he longed to retrieve the phone and text Dean and follow his dom's parting instructions to check in this morning.
Never again. I cannot allow myself the pleasure of following his orders. Being a submissive is more responsibility than I can be trusted with.
He'd thought that through years of denial he'd proven himself worthy of enjoying this pleasure once more, but he'd been wrong.
The day passed slowly. The boardroom was too warm. The speaker for the morning – Zachariah Adler, head of sales – droned on as if what he had to say was important in comparison to that which had been said the preceding days. The only reason Adler had the coveted spot on the last morning of the event was that he'd written the schedule for the week; by all rights, Joshua should have been the one wrapping things up. The afternoon was ostensibly more pleasant: small talk over hors d'oeuvre, passed flutes of Champaign, a chance for people to debrief after the intense week of meetings. Most considered it a relief to no longer be trapped in an office chair pretending to be attentive. Castiel thought it agony. He wasn't high enough on the corporate ladder for anyone to be interested in him; thus, his time was occupied by pointless conversations with the other relative non-entities in attendance. To not converse would be to appear rude and aloof, so Castiel gritted his teeth and forced himself and was simultaneously grateful and ashamed when Ms. Milton came to his rescue, shooting him a sympathetic smile and chatting with him about his itinerary for the following weeks. She still believed him struggling against illness, still believed that his distress of the previous day wasn't self-inflicted stupidity.
He was such an ass.
As soon as he could escape he retreated to his hotel room. He had an entire weekend before he had to hit the road again with a flight on Monday morning bound for the Ukraine. He could have planned his scene with Dean for then, when he had privacy and seclusion and time. Instead, he'd allowed it to proceed at the worst possible moment. He'd wanted it to proceed at the worst possible moment. The litany of self-condemnation started anew as he reflected on how poor his decisions were. To think, a month ago when he'd arranged his schedule for June, booked his flights, made the arrangements, so that he'd have the weekend to himself, he thought it would be a chance to relax, maybe do some sightseeing, enjoy a book, get a massage. Now he dreaded it. Two whole days alone with his own thoughts sounded wretched.
First things first. He had to put the entire debacle behind him before he could move on. Reluctantly, he turned on his laptop and navigated to SextersAnon. He had a handful of new messages but he didn't open his inbox to see what they were. Instead, he clicked the link to his user settings and read through the available options. At the bottom of the page he found what he sought.
"Do you wish to deactivate your account?" it read, followed by a drop down menu, "yes" or "no." Castiel selected "yes," scrolled to the "submit" button, and froze as a dialog box popped up at the bottom of his screen.
Metallicar 67: You didn't text me this morning.
An instant later, a second message popped up, so soon after the first that Castiel could imagine thick, strong fingers typing frantically.
Metallicar 67: Are you alright?
Click the submit button, terminate the account, cancel the spare phone, never talk to him again…
…green eyes, tanned skin, strong muscles, curled brown hair, luscious lips, shapely ass, beautiful cock, a dildo he bought just to be me…
Castiel groaned at the memories, groaned at how much raw want came with every thought, groaned as his aching cock twitched. He bit his lip against further arousal; he was bruised and battered and it'd be days before he was healed enough to risk an erection.
MyBoyThursday: I'm fine.
His fingers flashed over the keyboard as he did his damnedest to replace desire with anger.
I'm useless, unworthy, untrustworthy, unreliable; I am too compliant even for a submissive, too complacent to be trusted to see to my own best interest.
No. I can be stronger than that. I can put a stop to this before I take it too far, before I repeat the mistakes of my youth.
With self-recrimination spurring him on, Castiel flicked the mouse over "submit" and hit enter to confirm when a box popped up asking if he was sure. The chat window with Dean disappeared, an animated ring showed the new webpage booting, and a confirmation message loaded.
"Thank you for using . You have 90 days to restore your account in full should you wish to resume use of our services. We would appreciate if you would take a few minutes to complete a brief survey explaining why you have chosen to discontinue using at this time. Thank you!"
Beside the computer, Castiel's extra cell phone vibrated and the screen lit up with a new text. A glimpse showed him it wasn't the first he'd received from Dean that day. He reached out, picked up the phone and read the latest message.
Metallicar67 (6:42 PM): Did you just block me on SextersAnon?
Castiel stared at the phone, heart aching. Incredulity, surprise and pain seemed to ooze from those words. Though Castiel tried to tell himself he was projecting – they were just words, they could have any inflection, might reflect anger or curiosity or indifference or happiness or any of a slew of other feelings – he imagined Dean hurt, imagined him upset and confused. He couldn't stop staring at the screen as it faded to dimness. A moment later, it lit up bright again and shook with vibration.
Metallicar67 (6:43 PM): Please tell me what's the matter.
Have to stop, have to put an end to this, have to go to AT&T's website and cancel the second phone, have to deny myself…
Metallicar67 (6:44 PM): I'm sorry Cas.
The phone clattered against the desk as Castiel threw it aside, unable to look at the screen any longer. With all the willpower he could muster, Castiel stood and paced the room. There must be some way he could spend his evening that would serve as adequate distraction. He wasn't hungry, he had no interest in the social pursuits most engaged in on Friday night, and as tempting as a book was he knew no written words would have the power to compel his attention.
Other than anything Dean writes to me. He doesn't deserve the way I'm treating him. He doesn't deserve my ignoring him. How would I feel if our positions were reversed?
There was nowhere to go for a walk. There was nothing appealing about bars or a music venues. There wasn't a single movie he could think of that he'd like to see. There was nothing. He was nothing.
So much for my vaunted self-control. I thought disengaging from SextersAnon would calm me, ease me, satisfy me, and instead here I am, unable to settle on any activity, unable to concentrate on anything. Maybe I should talk to him. But how am I supposed to tell him that I cannot be trusted?
Why is he sorry?
The urge to retrieve the cell phone and ask Dean to clarify his apology was strong but Castiel resisted. Unbidden, the image sprang into his mind of stepping into the shower fully clothed, of letting scalding liquid distract and scour him until he could focus on the pain and wash away everything else. The idea was distressingly alluring. He could repeat his shower of this morning, only with the water even hotter, and he could stay under the flow until his skin blistered and his body screamed pain. He wouldn't bother searching for a happy medium, the tenuous balance between pain and pleasure. He'd immerse himself in the agony and not stop until he burned with it, until his flesh hurt so badly he couldn't sleep but his chastised mind was mercifully silent. He deserved the punishment for the way he was behaving towards his dom. It frightened him that he was so tempted to scourge himself, terrified him that he wanted to. There was nothing healthy or normal in the urge; it had been years since he'd turned to self-harm as a way of reinforcing weakened willpower.
One scene and I'm already broken again. No. I never stopped being broken. I will never stop being broken.
The hotel had a pool and a hot tub. He could go for a swim, soak in the hot water, exert himself, burn off some energy. His muscles ached at the thought but anything was better than pacing the short length of his room torturing himself, figuratively and potentially literally. He'd not brought a bathing suit, but he had a pair of boxer shorts that were modest enough to serve the same function as trunks. Changing his clothes hastily before he could change his mind, before he could grab his phone and reply to Dean, before he could test how hot the shower would grow, he escaped from the confines of his hotel room and retreated to the relative freedom of the roof top pool.
Swimming for two hours helped more than he'd expected. The effort quieted his thoughts and the exertion exhausted his body. The ache of sore arms and legs on added to that of his pained abs and bruised cock provided the punishment he felt he needed for his disobedience, and the strain of forcing himself to swim lap after lap ensured that after the first few minutes spent establishing a rhythm there was nothing in his mind beyond right arm – left arm – kick, right arm – left arm – kick. It was a gorgeous facility, glass encased with a view of the city, trees growing beneath the sky light, the sunset stunning on the horizon, and early evening on a Friday night there wasn't another soul there. When he finally reached his physical limits, he retreated to the hot tub, let the jacuzzi ease his body, let his thoughts begin to process again. His anxiety faded. In its place a single thought remained, perfectly clear.
Whatever my reasons, whatever my personal qualms, it is not fair to leave Dean hanging. I have to explain myself.
Feeling at peace as he hadn't all day, Castiel emerged dripping from the pool, toweled himself off and returned to his room. Taking a seat at the desk, he took up his phone. There had been no further text messages in the hours he was gone. The words I'm sorry lingered tauntingly on the screen. Castiel scrolled quickly through the messages Dean had sent throughout the day – two from the morning casually asked Castiel how he was doing, the messages that followed showing increasing anxiety as the day wore on, culminating in Dean's responses to Castiel's deletion of his SextersAnon account. Reading them now that his head was clearer, he could make a guess why he'd ascribed confusion and worry to Dean. Rather than think that Castiel had removed his account, Dean had automatically assumed that Castiel was specifically ignoring him. It was a small thing that, Castiel suspected, said a great deal about Dean's personality.
Castiel (9:01 PM): Why are you sorry?
Metallicar67 (9:01 PM): Cas!
Castiel (9:02 PM): You do not owe me an apology. I owe you one.
Metallicar67 (9:02 PM): Are you alright?
Castiel was still considering how best to reply when Dean's next message came.
Metallicar67 (9:03 PM): I absolutely owe you an apology and more besides. I've been thinking about it all day. I screwed up last night. I screwed up all day yesterday. We barely know each other we should have been doing level 1 scenes and instead I pulled out a level 10.
Castiel (9:03 PM): I don't understand that reference.
It was an effort to wait for Dean's reply but Castiel forced himself to patience, forced himself to hold back until he'd given Dean a chance to express himself. The idea that Dean might have been in error was incredible to him. It was Castiel who'd screwed up, Castiel who'd agreed to be in a scene that could ruin him, Castiel who hadn't used a safe word, Castiel who'd indicated that he was "green light" when he should have been warning yellow or even terminating things with red. Any mistakes that were made were clearly on him.
Metallicar67 (9:05 PM): It's a video game thing. Don't worry about it. The point is I was so excited to scene with you that I didn't start small like I should have and don't get me wrong you were spectacular Cas. A lot of subs couldn't have done what I asked you to do yesterday. I'm not sure I've ever had a sub who could have. Thank you. Thank you for your service. Thank you for being fucking amazing. And after you blew my fricken mind after I ditched you to your own after care even after you warned me that you've not been given adequate care after scenes in the past. No I did worse. I gave you orders and told you to follow them when I should have been asking what you needed.
Metallicar67 (9:06 PM): I said the scene was done and instead of taking care of you I gave you further commands. That wasn't care at all. I'm sorry Cas. You deserved better.
Castiel (9:07 PM): That was not my perception of events. I thought you did an excellent job. You're the best dom I've served under. It was my performance that was inadequate.
Metallicar67 (9:07 PM): That kind of says it all doesn't it.
Castiel (9:08 PM): I don't understand.
Metallicar67 (9:10 PM): May I call you?
Castiel waffled, sighed and replied Yes. The phone rang a moment later and Castiel hated the quiver of anticipation in his heart, the errant thought that cooed excitedly that he was about to hear Dean's gorgeous voice again.
"Hey, Cas," Dean sounded, inconceivably, even better than Castiel had thought the night before. There was a gruffness to his words that felt as amazing as a touch. Something about how Dean said Cas made Castiel want to hear him say it over and over again.
"Hello, Dean." Silence stretched out and Castiel frowned, puzzled. "Why did you wish to speak with me?"
"Sorry," Dean muttered. "Look, I'm trying to figure out how to say what I need to say without sounding like I'm making an accusation or anything."
"You needn't trouble yourself," Castiel replied, steeling himself. The temptation to listen to everything Dean said was great. He had a powerful urge to put off his own admissions and pretend for a few more minutes that there was any future in what they shared. Pushing down the desire, Castiel continued in a rush, "I will not be able to scene with you again. I thought that I could do this, but I was wrong. Thank you for yesterday; I'm sorry I disobeyed this morning and did not get back to you. I should go."
"What?" Dean said, stunned.
"Goodbye."
"Cas, wait!" It wasn't the supplication in Dean's tone that made Castiel hesitate to hit the disconnect button. There was an edge of rawness, of pain and distress, that Castiel couldn't ignore, couldn't leave without attempting to assuage. "You really think that you were anything other than awesome yesterday?"
"You say I was adequate. As you are who I sought to satisfy, and have no cause to lie to me, I believe you," said Castiel, every word carefully chosen. "However, there are reasons that I stopped engaging in BDSM activities. I thought such issues would no longer be a concern now that I'm older. I thought restricting my activities to text message would curtail my most deviant behaviors. I was wrong on both counts."
"Would it be too much to ask that we at least discuss the scene before you go?" asked Dean desperately. "This was my first time trying something long distance like this; your input would be appreciated so that I don't blow it quite so badly when and if I try again. No pressure, though."
"You don't want me to go," said Castiel.
"I thought we worked well together," Dean replied. "You are the most responsive submissive I've ever worked with. I think there's a lot we would need to discuss before we could engage in another scene together. If you wanted to try, I mean. It sounds like you'd rather not. And that's cool too. It's up to you."
Castiel grimaced at the phone, blinked slowly to keep himself calm. Part of him was screaming to listen to all the hints of what his dom wanted and to obey, as he'd always obeyed those who claimed him, those who owned him. Despite his careful phrasing it was obvious that Dean wanted to do another scene, wanted Castiel to be interested, wanted possession of Castiel just as Dean had said the previous day. In many respects Castiel wanted the same. It was so much easier to let himself go, to focus on his own control and cede decisions on when to let go of that control, to trust his well-being to his dom and focus on being what they needed and wanted him to be, whatever that was. Unlike some he'd been with in the past, Castiel didn't think that Dean would take advantage of him. That wasn't the problem. The problem was that Castiel thought himself capable of so much more than he actually was.
"I'm sorry, Dean."
"You dropped badly, didn't you?" said Dean sadly.
Shaking his head, Castiel said, "No." Before signing up for SextersAnon, Castiel had done extensive research on current BDSM practice. From what he'd read, he'd understood that some submissives crashed emotionally and physically after a scene. They'd become sick, achy, volatile, depressed to the point that they could barely function. Castiel had undeniably experienced negative emotions after scenes, but never anything out of line with what he'd done during; the same was true of his physical symptoms, they were in line with the strenuous exertion of his role. Considering what he'd read on the safe practice websites he'd frequented, it was impossible to credit that what he'd dealt with was sub-drop. Everything he'd felt after scenes was appropriate considering the many foolish things he'd done. "The past 36 hours have been an unfortunate reminder that I cannot be trusted to act in my own best interest as concerns my sexual behavior."
"So we take public scenes off the table," offered Dean.
"That would be an ameliorant to the immediate issue but does not solve the greater problem," Castiel explained. Keep it clinical, get him to understand, and then get the hell off the phone. "In order for us to scene together, you would need to be able to trust me and I would need to be able to trust myself. Everything that we did yesterday, I sanctioned before and during. It was only after that I considered how ill-advised it was. What other options that I've approved of might I have equally misjudged?"
Hang up. Stop trying to explain. I'm not good enough for him. I'm not good enough for this.
"When you were filling out the survey on kinks and you reached the options related to public scenes, do you remember what you were thinking?" asked Dean.
Frowning, Castiel considered. He'd been excited when he'd taken the survey but he'd still considered his replies carefully. When he'd given the green light to engage in public sexual behavior, he'd thought back on his prior experiences. He loved the way public scenes tested his self-control. With the risk of discovery came a high unlike any other. The danger forced him to push past what he normally thought himself capable of and the resulting emotional pay off was fantastic. Wasn't that exactly what had happened yesterday? He'd always felt guilty afterwards, though. He'd managed to forget that part in the anticipation of getting a chance to once more engage in activities he'd denied himself so long.
"I enjoy them," conceded Castiel. "But the potential for them to go wrong is astronomical. It was highly inappropriate for me to engage in such behavior, to take risks with my own well-being and with the well-being of every innocent bystander who inadvertently ended up involved."
"Surely you thought of that when you were filling out the survey," Dean pointed out. "And when we discussed possible scenes and you agreed to keep that option on the table."
A table was all that stood between me and disaster for 9 hours yesterday.
"I did, but I dismissed it, which is precisely why I can't be trusted," snapped Castiel.
"How do you feeling today?" asked Dean.
"What are you getting at?" Castiel's temper was rising. He'd told Dean that he needed to stop and Dean had said he wouldn't pressure him, said he only wanted to discuss the previous day's scene, yet here he was, pushing Castiel, trying to make him doubt himself, asking questions that had nothing to do with how the scene went.
"Anxious?"
"Yes."
"Tense?"
"Yes."
"Ashamed?"
"Yes."
"Guilty?"
"Yes. Why won't you listen to me, Dean? I—"
"And you claim you didn't drop?" asked Dean with incredulous anger.
"I didn't," Castiel snarled. Why am I so angry? "You don't know me, Dean. How dare you try to tell me what I'm thinking and feeling? If you'd risked everything for the chance to jack off in a board room, you'd feel lousy about yourself, too."
"Cas, when you were having a day when you reported feeling stable and healthy, you said that you would be cool with scenes of that nature," Dean said with forced patience. "Today, you feel like crap, yet you trust your current assessment over your previous one? So, if you don't think that's subdrop, what do you think it is?"
"Normal!"
Dead silence greeted Castiel's shouted declaration.
"I only agreed to speak with you because it felt unfair to leave you hanging because being upset made me petulant," said Castiel. Pushing himself to sound calm left his tone icy and detached, but at least he wasn't yelling. I never get upset like that. This must be because of the scene. I cannot keep doing this. "Now you understand, and I should—"
"I don't understand," said Dean softly. "Do you mean to tell me that, whenever you've been in scenes in the past, you've always felt depressed and unhappy afterwards?"
I have to go, I have to get off the line, why do I keep speaking with him? Why do I keep prolonging the inevitable?
"Of course I have," Castiel replied. "Why should I feel otherwise? I understand that I'm deviant, Dean. When I'm anticipating a scene, when I'm lost in the moment, it's easy to forget that, but afterwards? When my body aches, when my cock hurts, when I'm cut or bruised or burnt and the good feeling is gone? It's inevitable."
"It's not, Cas," Dean said, sad and sympathetic. "You're not 'deviant' and there's nothing wrong with enjoying stuff that gets you off. Fuck, if I'd known how much you struggled with this—"
"What are you—"
"If I'd known how much you struggled with this," continued Dean forcefully, "I'd never have…fuck!" Dean sighed. "Every time, Cas?"
"Yes?" Castiel's annoyance finally gave way to confusion. If Dean had sounded upset with him or disappointed in him, Castiel would be fuming. Instead, Dean sounded as if learning that Castiel was upset and uncomfortable physically hurt Dean. Castiel had no idea what to make of that.
"And no one…no one you've been with before ever thought that was weird?" asked Dean.
We didn't talk about it.
"Why would they?"
Hell, I think Naomi got off on how sick I felt after scenes.
"Cas, it's classic drop!" Dean explained. "Feeling guilty after a scene? Feeling physically crappy? Feeling like you'd done things you shouldn't? It's like the fricken text book definition of subdrop – if there were a text book of BDSM, anyway. If you were getting adequate after care, if your dom was checking in on you like they should – if I'd given you after care, if I'd checked in on you like I shoulda – it wouldn't necessarily happen. Even if it did, the symptoms would be milder."
"I know what I'm feeling, Dean," Castiel objected, though he was troubled. "Everything I've read described subdrop as severe –like a sickness, a nervous breakdown."
"Sure, it effects some people to that extent – but not most," said Dean. "Generally, it's more like what you're describing."
"If I don't do scenes, I don't feel this way…"
"Exactly."
Letting the words sink in, Castiel fell silent. It seemed inconceivable, that all this time the reaction he had to being a sub had been a psychological side effect that might be treated. Was it true that he could be a submissive without feeling terrible afterwards? Outlandish, his frustrated thoughts suggested. Highly unlikely. This happens because you're a bad submissive, because you are too giving, because you do not have enough self-control, because you enjoy things you shouldn't. That voice, suspiciously similar to Naomi's, had always spoken so loudly, especially after scenes, and he'd always listened. The more intense the scene, the worse he'd always felt.
"Penny for your thoughts?" There was awkward humor mingled with concern in Dean's voice.
"I don't know," said Castiel, frustrated. "What am I supposed to say?" Tell me, please, tell me how I should react, how I should feel, and I'll be whatever you want me to be. Dean didn't answer. "Please, Dean, just let me go. It'll be better that way."
"What will be better?"
"Everything," Castiel answer. I'll be better, life will be better…won't it be?
"Such as what?" Dean pressed.
"Why won't you leave me alone?" demanded Castiel.
"Because if that was really what you wanted, you'd have hung up already," Dean replied. "And because I haven't known you long but I'm fairly sure this angry, emotional response isn't normal for you. I'm worried about you, Cas, and it's my fault you're struggling."
Anger flared hot only to die away. Dean was right. This wasn't normal, this wasn't Castiel. It's because of scene, it's because… "What should I do, Dean?"
Please, just tell me what to do.
"What do you want to do, Cas?"
No, don't leave it up to me. Tell me, and I'll do it.
"I don't know."
I want to keep hearing your voice, I want you to touch me, I want to touch you, I want to meet you, I want you to bind me and break me and put me back together again. I want to feel as good as I did yesterday, want to feel that way all the time, want you to make me feel that way.
"I think you do know. But you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."
I want you to take care of me. I want you to make all these terrible feelings go away.
"I should go," Castiel whispered pathetically.
"Please, Cas, let me help you," implored Dean. "You…you…" He swallowed words. Castiel wondered what he was thinking, what he wasn't saying.
He must be wondering the same about me – what I'm holding back.
"It's not your fault," Castiel said. "I can't be what you need me to be."
"What do you think I need you to be?" asked Dean.
"I…I don't know." Castiel felt like a broken record, emphasis on the broken part.
Why haven't I hung up?
"Cas, it's for me to say whether or not your service as a submissive is adequate," said Dean. The man had the patience of a saint. I don't deserve this. "Yesterday, you were everything I could hope for and then some. The more I've thought about it, the more I've marveled at how much you accomplished. It seemed like it was so effortless for you; if you'd seemed strained I never would have messed up and pushed it so much farther than I originally intended to. It's not for you to decide what I need you to be, and I can tell you honestly: you were exactly what I wanted you to be and so much more than I needed you to be. You exceeded my expectations by, like, multiple degrees."
"Dean…"
"So don't put words in my mouth and suggest that I was anything other than utterly fucking thrilled with your performance, cause dude…you're amazing," Dean continued his relentless kind words.
"I'm really not," Castiel managed.
"And I've been thinking about what I could do better," said Dean. "You don't trust me now – you won't talk to me – and I get it. You've got no reason to trust me, not after how I treated you last night. If we're done, we're done." It was impossible for Castiel to stay angry in the face of how upset Dean sounded at that prospect, though Dean clearly was attempting to hide his emotions. "All I ask is that you be honest with yourself. Put aside all that crap about being deviant and broken and whatever other shit lies your depression is spewing. If none of that was true, what would you want?"
You.
"You've already got me, if you want me," said Dean softly.
Fuck.
"I shouldn't…I can't…" Castiel stammered.
"It's up to you, Cas," said Dean. "Everything is up to you. All I'm asking right now is for one more chance. I'd like the opportunity to take care of you as I should have yesterday. If, after that, you still feel the same, I'll never bother you again. Would you want that?"
More than anything.
But I don't deserve to be taken care of, I don't deserve comfort. I'm sick and broken and disobedient.
Naomi's voice spoke to him from nearly fifteen years before. Her praise had always been extremely hard to win and the more valued for it, her condemnation quick to fall. She'd promised that she knew how to fix him, knew how to improve her, and Castiel had believed her, trusted her for far longer than he should of. In the end, she'd been wrong, and when Castiel had left he'd been even more broken than when he'd started his relationship with her.
Dean isn't like Naomi. He's lavish in his praise. The punishments he threatened – the punishments he delivered on – weren't arbitrary. He set out the rules clearly and I was rewarded when I obeyed and given reasonable consequences when I did not.
If how terrible I feel can be treated, if it can be prevented…
If Dean thinks he can help me…
Dean isn't Naomi.
"I'd like that, Dean."
A whoosh of sound spoke to Dean releasing a burst of air directly into the mouthpiece of his phone. "Thank God," he said fervently. "I'll be the dom you deserve, Cas. I promise I'm going to do my best, okay?"
You're already perfect.
Or am I just falling into the same traps all over again?
How will I know? How will I tell the difference?
Can I learn to trust myself again?
I don't know.
I don't know anything, and I never did.
"Help me, Dean."
"I will, Cas. I will."