Me and Mine is now a novel! Plans are to make the eBook available for a tiny price, under a pound, if that, and the money will go towards funding my Masters in Creative Writing - hopefully enabling me to become a better writer and to produce more fiction.
More details will be posted in around a week when the book goes live, however, here is a taste of the start of chapter one - part of the second to last draft which I'm currently doing final checks on.
You can follow me at JollySnidge on twitter for more updates on the novel.
Castiel turns the TV on while he eats, the note on the coffee table in front of him. He feels a slight stab of fear every time he looks at it. A killer, one whom could see him as having abused him earlier, could right this minute be after him. He has no idea how Dean now thinks of what they'd done, how warped or changed the encounter might have become in the other man's mind.
He goes into his bedroom and takes off his clothes, padding naked to the bathroom and stepping into the glass shower cubicle. The water is hot and soothing, and it helps to unravel the panic in him. He lathers his skin, hands sliding lower to erase the memory of Dean's touch, of the scars on his skin.
Naked and wrapped in steam he dries off and goes back into his bedroom, sliding into some cotton pants.
He puts the chain across the front door and checks that all the windows are locked before he turns in, falling asleep quickly and completely.
The scent of burning wakes him up, a couple of hours later.
He blinks awake to find that the television in the corner of his living room is still on, visible through the open bedroom door and showing a documentary about angler fish. Castiel inhales sleepily and detects a whiff of smoke, dragging himself into wakefulness he feels a dart of panic.
The documentary changes to a talk show.
Castiel sits up awkwardly, his arms stiff and unresponsive. He frowns at the TV.
It changes from a talk show to one of the porn channels, a blond woman shrieks as she pogos on top of an unseen man.
Castiel tries to get up and finds that his hands are handcuffed to the headboard. He struggles, heart pounding suddenly, and the scent of smoke intensifying, filling his lungs.
The porn changes to a news report.
"...still at large, the police are asking anyone who encounters the escapee to be extremely wary, citing him as 'unstable' and likely to be highly desperate. Dean Winchester was imprisoned for the triple murder of his parents and younger brother, and was due to be executed..."
The channel changes to a sports broadcast, there's the sound of a low laugh from the living room. The tip of a cigarette glows cherry red in the dark.
Castiel inches up against the headboard.
"Dean?" he says quietly, and instantly curses himself.
The cigarette disappears and bare footsteps pad towards him, Castiel swallows dryly, skin tight and cold with fear.
"Hey Cas." Dean appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, somehow larger than he had seemed whilst tied down. He raises the cigarette and inhales, the flare of light dispelling the shadows and lighting up his face. He sighs, a hiss of pleasure in it. "I helped myself, sorry."
He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, producing the crumpled pack of Mayfair from the pocket of his sweat pants. Or rather, Castiel notes as he looks at him, eyes wide in rabbit fear, his own sweat pants – Dean is wearing the oversized sweats, just barely fitting him, and no shirt.
"Smoking, in your line of work?" Dean tisks. "Setting a bad example."
"When I get stressed..." Castiel begins, then stops himself.
"Are you stressed now?" Dean asks lightly.
Castiel nods slowly.
Dean takes a thin paper tube from the pack and comes around to the side of the bed to place it between his dry lips. Dean holds up the plastic bic lighter and strikes a flame to the end of the cigarette. Castiel can almost hear the paper crackle as the flame is sucked into the dry leaves, the silence is so absolute. Dean releases the lighter and wanders to the side of the room, inspecting the pictures and the chair laden with dirty clothes.
"I figured you'd be a clean freak." He says conversationally. He picks up a tumbler that he'd presumably brought into the room with him, draining it deftly. Castiel recognised the twenty year old whisky he'd bought himself for his birthday.
Dean licks his lips and sits on the corner of the bed.
"Sorry about..." he gestures to the handcuffs, the steel ones that had bound him at the hospital. "I didn't know how you'd react." He takes the cigarette from Cas's mouth and finishes it himself.
"How did you get in?" Castiel asks softly.
"You thought a window lock was going to keep me out?" Dean's smile is indulgent rather than predatory. He leans over Castiel's bed, closer to the man bunched up by the headboard. "I was here before you were baby."
Castiel's eyes widen as he remembers walking naked through his apartment, going about his routine as usual.
Dean smiles at the realisation in Castiel's eyes.
"Quite a show. Made it hard to stay where I was."
"Where were you?" Castiel asks, his voice sticking in his throat.
Dean pats the bed. "Underneath." He murmurs. "I know a lot about hiding."
Castiel frowns at that.
"I helped myself to some food while you were asleep, hope you don't mind." Dean mutters. "Coffee, whisky...watched some TV..." He stretches a little. "I'd forgotten what it felt like, living on the outside."
He touches Castiel's bare chest lightly, and the bound man wonders if that is what this is, what he is – another perk of freedom. Food, booze, smokes and sex. The last hurrah. He shivers.
Dean withdraws his hand with a frown, reaching up to cup Castiel's face, fingers stroking the hair by his temple.
"Hey..." he says softly. "Don't be scared."
Castiel looks at him, feeling his pulse beat fast in his throat. "You tied me up."
"I said sorry." Dean tips his head forwards and kisses him lightly, Castiel's mouth is warm and unresisting, though unresponsive. "I don't want you to be scared..." His breath is warm on Castiel's face, smelling of smoke and expensive whisky. When he kisses him again Castiel breaks against him, kissing back, slow and deep. Dean hums in surprise, hand sliding from Castiel's face, down his chest to settle on his hip.
Castiel's arms ache in their cuffs, but the pain is dulled as Dean's mouth falls to his fluttering pulse, then on down his throat and chest, teeth nipping and hot breath painting his skin warm and shivery. Castiel gasps towards the ceiling, the ceiling with its spider webbing cracks that he has memorised on all the nights he's spent pleasuring himself here, alone. His hands rattle the cuffs as he arches into Dean's hungry mouth.
Dean smirks as he slides lower, mouth embracing circular bites of skin and lavishing attention on them. His lips reach the waistband of Castiel's pyjama pants and he nuzzles the trail of dark hair above the elastic. Castiel whimpers, eyes opening to behold the ceiling in rapture. He licks his lips as Dean pulls the cotton pants down.
Castiel's hips are thin, made scrawny by consuming coffee and little else whilst doing too much work. Dean scraps his teeth over their sharp edges, hands jerking the thin fabric down Castiel's legs and off onto the floor before licking and nibbling his way back up to the top of his thighs. Castiel's legs fall open and he arches under Dean's touch until the larger man backs up, kneeling over him and smirking.
Castiel looks up at him, breathless, fear and desire warring for his attention.
Dean's hands embrace the sharp hips lightly; he dips down in one sinuous movement, mouth claiming the rise of Castiel's flushed cock and slipping over it easily.
Castiel's hips rise up and he throws his head back, moaning extravagantly, because having all that heat, all that wet, around him and yet not being able to curl his fingers into Dean's hair and force him closer, not having anything to hang on to? Is the best, and most exquisite torture.
Dean revels in the shaky gasps and panted expletives, entreaties and pleas from the man spread out underneath him. The slide of Castiel's pale skin on the dark sheets is beautiful, the taste of him, clean and slightly cottony, edged in salt – by far the best delicacy Dean has yet experienced in his new found freedom.
Only when Castiel begins to struggle, hands clasping at the air, shaking thighs spreading, feet digging into the mattress and his mouth emitting wonderfully deep, rhythmic groans as he lifts his hips, dragging his weeping cock head through Dean's lips over and over again, his release clearly building – does Dean pull away.
He pants as he watches the bound man buck at nothing, a whimper caught in his throat, his body strung tight and yet loose with anticipation, inviting and hot. Dean strokes Castiel's thighs and the other man looks at him, eyes hazy and aroused, yet still that slight sliver of fear.
Dean leans up and kisses him, feeling Castiel's entire body rise up off of the bed, pressing against his own completely, shuddering and rubbing a little, aching for release. He lets himself relish the taste of the other man's mouth, the feel of it and the hunger there before he pulls away. Dean opens the drawer in the side table by the bed and removes the half empty tube of lubricant he'd seen there when he searched the room earlier, curious as to Castiel's life away from the hospital. Castiel makes a sound like a greedy gulp upon seeing it, lying back with his legs open amicably.
Dean shuffles back and removes the borrowed sweats quickly, not missing the gasp that escapes the bound doctor at the sight of him.
The scars on his abdomen are the least of the damage that John left him with. Dean has little cigarette burns on his hips, more on the tender flesh between his legs, scars on the fronts of his thighs from his father's belt. A bite mark on the side of his leg.
He feels self-conscious of these marks now, a Frankenstein's monster of torn tissue with the hands of a killer, the stink of prison still on him. He freezes there, until Castiel's foot rubs against his thigh, the dry, warm sole massaging the flesh like a cat pawing a cushion. Dean lays over the man and their warm skin connects, comforting and sensuous. Castiel's breath comes rough and uneven.
"I know." Dean whispers. "I know...but I told you remember?" He whispers close to Castiel's ear. "I'm going to ruin you."
Castiel arches up and Dean kisses his way back down his chest, parting his thighs with his hands, roughened from doing pull-ups to the sill on his cells one window. The lube is scented, which makes him huff a disbelieving laugh, the finer things in life – whisky, smokes and citrus lube. Nicer than the hospital stuff Castiel had used on him. Far better than what he'd gotten inside – spit and cooking grease, if he got anything at all.
Castiel parts almost gracefully to the first finger, sighing and arching slowly to push it further inside.
Dean leans on his other hand, watching Castiel lazily as he writhes on the bed.
"You're so perfect." He breathes. He kisses the inside of Castiel's thigh tenderly, and Cas wishes he could touch Dean's hair, trace his jaw gently. He whines and the cuffs jangle as he moves his hands.
"Later." Dean promises. "Later you can touch me."
Castiel barely stifles a moan at the second finger, and now Dean kisses his pristine abdomen, the creamy skin almost glowing in the shadow, the sheets crinkling around him like the paper around a fancy bottle of boxed scent. It's a memory from his parent's room and he brushes it aside angrily. Not here. Not now, with the warm and welcoming body in front of him, offering up, if not love, then at least want, trust and compassion.
He slides another finger into Castiel, feeling the stretch around it like a rubber band, like an open wound.
Castiel thrusts down hard and twists his head to one side, against his extended bicep.
Dean licks across his sharp hipbone and listens to Castiel sigh at the touch.
"Ready?" he asks, and the bound man nods his head, looking at him without any trace of fear left, like a small animal soothed with a light caress and a kind hand offering food. Dean is glad, unlike many he's met in and out of prison – he does not find fear in the least bit arousing. Fear, he learnt the hard way, was something that was done to you – not something that was shared between partners.
Castiel wraps his hands in the handcuff chains as Dean spreads his legs apart, lifting them around his waist. At the first push inwards, Castiel pulls on the chains, back arching as he pushes against Dean, his own cock heavy with blood and resting on his stomach.
Dean slides home with a groan, everything slick and hot around him, Castiel's body practically swallowing him down.
Castiel struggles unthinkingly at the chains, his mind only concerned with the feeling of being full, and close to someone else, finally, and not being able to lie still as it happens. If he stays still, as the thick tip of Dean presses into the nerve centre of him, he will go mad, he's certain.
One of Dean's hands grasps Castiel's thigh, the other balancing him, and the details of the room, of the bed, even the colour of the sheets fades from his mind and all there is, is the feeling of being inside of Castiel, of having all that soft, warm flesh bared for him like his last meal.
He leans down and bites lightly at Castiel's nipple, feeling the body underneath him jolt, a sharp cry of pleasure leaving Cas's mouth.
Dean's thrusts build momentum, and his promises of ruin look set to come true. Castiel feels fucked apart, utterly and completely loose and impossibly deep. With his arms chained to the headboard he can do little else but push his ass against Dean's hips and groan at each press to his prostate – which feels more like a punch than a touch. It's glorious, like mainlining pleasure straight into his veins.
Castiel's arms thrash, chains catching desperately as Dean pummels his insides, the other man's eyes almost closed and his mouth slightly open, drawing desperate breath as he sprints at the cliff and dashes himself into his orgasm like a suicide on the rocks.
He thrusts through it, feeling himself spill oh so copiously as Castiel wriggles under him, body long and tense as a bow string. Come is forced from Castiel's entrance as Dean pushes in, trickling hot and quick down Cas's ass and over the back of his thigh. By the time Dean stops, spent and tired and thrumming with aftershocks, Castiel has spilled over his own stomach, stripes long enough to paint across his navel and up to his chest. Both sticky wet with it, they part, and Dean rolls onto his side next to Castiel, petting Cas's heaving abdomen and running his fingers lovingly through the thick trails there.
Castiel is still panting, too tired to even move his legs, the place between them so abused that he can't find it in him to close them.
"Dean..." he turns his head limply to look at the other man. "Untie me." he croaks.
Dean takes the key from the side table instantly and unlocks both sets of handcuffs. The rush of blood into his arms as he lowers them is like a drug, euphoric and sudden. Dean bundles him up in his arms as soon as he's free and Castiel strokes his skin, touches every inch of him, finally.
They press together, warm and comfortable.
"Give me fifteen, and we'll go again." Dean kisses the top of Castiel's head, inhaling the scent of sweat and mint shower soap on him. "God that was good."
Castiel hums his agreement.
"It didn't hurt?" Dean asks, a wrinkle of concern on his face.
"Mmm...no." Castiel can't find an ounce of strength in his body, but he feels more of a well sated ache then actual pain.
Dean reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the side table and lights one, passing it to Castiel once he's taken a drag.
They lie in silence for a while, sharing smoke, listening to the distant sound of the football game on the TV.
"You never asked me why I did it." Dean murmurs. "That's what made me like you, at the hospital."
"You don't have to tell me." Castiel whispers.
"I want to, if that's ok...I don't want you to be afraid of me." Dean takes the fact that Castiel moves closer to him as a sign of assent.
"My Dad...well, you know what he did, it's pretty obvious. But my Mom...she knew it was happening, and she still...she stayed with him, pretended it wasn't happening, even when he started in on Sam. Sammy was my little brother, and he was...well, everything I wasn't; good, smart, friendly. I was kind of a nightmare kid. And I guess my Dad thought he was better too..." Dean strokes Castiel's hair when the other man tenses. "He wanted him, not to hurt but...the other way. For a while, I even thought it was me, that maybe the whole reason he hated me was because I wasn't what he wanted...I kind of hated Sam, for a while. Then...Sam came to be and he asked me if I could get Dad to stop it. I guess then I realised he was just a kid, like I was before...it wasn't his fault, it was Dad, and Mom."
"Is that when..." Castiel's voice trails off.
"I stabbed my Dad." Dean says quietly. "I wish I hadn't...just remembering is like a nightmare I can't get out of...but back then I thought he deserved it like that. Painful. I shot my Mom in the heart, it's quicker that way and she'd never hurt me herself, you know? But Sammy..."
"Why kill him?" Castiel asks softly.
"He couldn't have lived with it – with what my Dad did." Dean murmurs. "It broke him, being used like that, and I knew eventually he'd do something to stop feeling like that. Foster care? Growing up with what had happened? He'd never have lasted." At Castiel's confused look he looks down and says softly. "Suicide's a sin Cas...I didn't want Sammy to go to hell."
"Murder's a sin too." Castiel whispers, touching Dean's face gently.
"I know." Dean lies back on the bed. "Better me than him. That's what big brothers are for right? They're supposed to protect you." He wraps his arm around Castiel when the other man rests against his chest. "I smothered him in his sleep. Couple of sleeping tablets in his hot milk...I don't think he felt anything."
Castiel closes his eyes, but the tears get out anyway.