A/N(Touta Matsuda): Warning, questionable consent, smut, etc. Dean's 18, legal age of consent, and in my country, more than eligible for marriage. In Fallout, I'm pretty sure legalities are a moot point.

Chapter 4

As Dean prepared for the raider initiation he couldn't help but feel he never signed up for this, except that he explicitly signed up for this. Initiation was more of a hazing, a figuring out how much you could handle before collapsing, a test of endurance –whatever you wanted to call it, it with brutish and it would suck. Dean was stripped of his clothes, discarded in a pile off on the ground, left in only his underwear. He had to take this willingly, had to accept the pain. Four raiders were circled around him, Castiel and Uriel among them, all armed with a melee weapon.

Uriel clasped the baseball bat with both hands, pulling the improvised weapon back and striking it to the palm of his hand, an eager smile on his face, "Well boy, you think you can handle this? You think you've got what it takes to be a raider? We'll see about that." Uriel spat on the ground with distaste, turning to Castiel, "He's your find, the first strike is yours."

Cas glared over at Uriel, pissed that this douche had managed to be one of the four raiders participating in the hazing. Despite his strong reputation, something most raiders didn't understand about Cas was that during the hazing he would pull his punches. He made it look real, like it was all of his strength put in, but the most damage his hits did was knock the initiate over (that usually looked strong enough). No one but the raiders that Castiel had hazed knew this about him, and they'd just as soon not tell. For one, they may have to re-do it. And secondly, Castiel would probably slit their throats.

Dean turned his gaze on Castiel, watching the man carefully. Part of him wished he could be confident enough to say that Castiel wouldn't do it, or at least that he didn't want to do it. But Cas had a reputation –an impressive one, from what Dean could understand of it. And this was part of their customs, everyone circling him now had taken this initiation before. Dean couldn't help but search Cas' eyes for some indication that maybe he didn't want to do it, even a glint of compassion.

Another thing about Cas was that he put on brass knuckles as his melee weapon of choice, made it easier to cause less damage. Granted everyone else in the group wouldn't do the same as him, at least it was only three people wailing on you as hard as they could instead of four. He looked down at Dean, his head tilted up slightly, and to the side. The glint in his eyes was difficult to understand but if Dean tried hard enough he'd get the message; Play along.

Cas reached forward, taking Dean by shoulder with one hand and pulled him close. It happened in an instant, his fist swinging right for Dean's jaw and his leg coming up, hooking around Dean's leg. Just before his knuckles made contact he kicked Dean's legs out from under him to make the boy fall, while his fist did land a hit it was much less painful than it would've been. To help the punch look a little more real he shoved Dean's shoulder with the other hand to send him stumbling to the ground.

Dean landed hard on his hands and knees, which surprisingly hurt about as much as Castiel's punch. 'He's doing this on purpose, that's what that look was for.' Dean wasn't a mind reader, and he didn't know Castiel nearly well enough to read him, but now it made sense –he was helping, in his own way. Dean pulled himself back up to his feet, getting ready for round two. This would not be easy, and this would not be fun. But it was a hundred times better than being stuffed into one of those slave pens. With Big Town demolished and Sammy waiting back at Little Lamplight Dean had no choice but to find a path that would allow him to persevere –and being part of the gang seemed like the easiest way, he was already half way there anyhow.

The raiders took their turns at beating Dean down, striking at his sides and limbs, leaving glaring bruises and broken skin. Uriel would up again with his bat, frustration evident on his face that Dean hadn't gone down after the first few hits. The boy was stubborn, and it seemed like he actually had a chance of passing the initiation, and Uriel wouldn't stand for that. The bat swung quickly, aimed higher than the previous blows, right for Dean's head.

It was almost like slow motion to him, Cas could see Uriel's expression, he could see the tightening muscles of his arms as he clearly meant to kill the boy. Cas knew the blood lusting look, he could see it before Uriel even moved to do it, and he reacted. They moved nearly at the same time, Uriel's swing and Castiel stepping in closer to 'hit Dean harder'. It wasn't unbelievable that he would get closer, wearing brass knuckles and all that. The bat cracked against his shoulder and splintered against his armour as he stepped between them.

The rest of the hazing stopped, the raiders looking up to see how Castiel would react. His sharp blue eyes snapping up as he turned his head in Uriel's direction. The silence of the moment was eerie, Cas slowly shifting his body to face the larger man, gaze never leaving his face. "Uriel," he growled, slipping the knuckles off and dropping them with a loud, metallic thud. "You'll pay for that." He didn't give the man a chance to explain, his hand gripped the handle of his gun and, just as quickly as Uriel had swung his bad earlier, Castiel drew and shot. The sound ringing off the cavern walls, his face stone cold and calm, eyes narrow as he watched his fellow raider hit his knees and fall to the ground, head blown clean off.

Dean stared in awe as Uriel's lifeless (and headless) corpse fell to the ground with a splat and a thud, blood pooling out and soaking into the dirty earthen floor. Dean wasn't sure what was more terrifying: knowing that he nearly died or watching a man blow his comrade's head off like it was nothing, like he would be better off without him anyway. And maybe he was –Dean remembered the night before, Castiel's venomous rage: 'Because you're always alone, idiot! There is no one; there is nothing... nothing but you and yourself.' But that didn't make sense because, even if Castiel denied it with every fiber of his being, he got in the way on purpose.

"Initiation over," Cas snarled at the others, "My shoulder hurts." He started walking away again, calling over his shoulder like an afterthought. "He's in."

"I'm in?" Dean echoed Castiel's demand, shocked and relieved all at once. 'Of course I'm in, I'm the motherfucking mayor of motherfucking Little Lamplight!' Dean beamed, "Hell yeah!" Of course, Dean's sense of achievement was marred by the humility of nakedness and semi-consciousness, but hey –victory is still victory. Dean quickly gathered up his clothes and put them on, glad the ordeal was over.

"Congrats buddy," one of the raiders pat Dean on the head roughly, "Welcome to Evergreen Mills." They pretty much dispersed, Cas stopped walking and waited for Dean to catch up to him. He knew the kid would, there was no way they'd beaten him to his limit yet. Or so he figured anyway.

"Thanks," Dean departed from the dispersing crowd, moving to catch up with Castiel. "Thanks for waiting," Dean stammered out. With the beating over and the adrenaline fading away, the edges of Dean's vision started to blacken. "Can we go lie down, or something?"

Cas looked him over and gave a small smile. "Sure," he continued on toward his place. "Come on Dean." It was the first time Cas used his name aside from the first repetition of it. Cas had been calling him kid, boy, and other things like that. Dean was worthy of a name now.

Dean grinned, and it would've been ear to ear, but he was pretty sure half his face wasn't functioning right. Dean walked beside Cas stride for stride, pride welling up in him and serving as a buffer from the easy slip into unconsciousness.

Once back to Cas' chambers Dean made quick work of discarding his armor, intent on cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Dean was grateful –it didn't feel like anything was broken, fractured maybe, but not broken - which was surprising, given Uriel's relentless assault with the bat. Dean used some of the irradiated bottled water to clean out the wounds where his skin broke on impact and looked around for some cloth to bandage with. "Hey Cas, could you give me a hand here?"

Castiel had tossed his own armor to the floor, shedding his clothing with a smirk. "A hand?" He strolled behind the beaten teen, his arms reaching around Dean's slender frame and resting his stubbled jaw on Dean's shoulder. A low chuckle vibrated in his throat as he tilted his head and brushed his lips along Dean's soft neck. "I think you owe me, Dean." He whispered roughly, a hand slipping up Dean's chest, then back down toward the base of his trousers.

Dean's breath hitched in his throat at the unexpected touch. Castiel was doing that... thing, again; whatever it was that made Dean feel hot all over and left this weird tension building up inside him. And now Dean was pretty sure Cas was doing it on purpose "What do you mean, 'I owe you'?" Deantried to turn to look Cas in the eye, his own pupils blown wide and black.

Cas breathed in Dean's scent and trailed his tongue along the tender skin, "I think you know what I mean, Dean." He growled, though this time it wasn't angry. Cas wasn't particularly hurtful when hauling Dean to his bed but he wasn't being nice about it either. He didn't understand the word gentle, or at least he didn't understand how to be it. A firm grip and a hard shove were being nice, or so that's how he figured it. Castiel leaned over Dean, pinning him down with the weight of his body, trailing kisses down to the nape of Dean's neck.

Dean choked back a small whimper as he hit the bed, his bruised and battered arms trying to catch him as he fell, but failing under the strain of Castiel's added weight. Dean pivoted his head to face out and breathe, he didn't know what to think or what to do or what was going on –but it seemed like his own body knew better than him. The heat was unbearable, and Dean was starting to break out in a sweat, his breathing erratic, and his body arching back to feel Castiel's body against his, a hard line of muscle pinning him down.

Castiel's hands ran up and down the tender flesh of Dean's bruised torso, the calloused skin of his palm scratching. Cas moved slowly against Dean, his arousal poking the teen's side graceless and shameless. "You'll enjoy this," he promised in a growl, flipping Dean onto his back, Castiel's hand finding its way beneath the dirty fabric of Dean's pants and grabbing the base of his cock, squeezing lightly before sliding his hand up and down the shaft.

"C-cas..." Dean stammered out, losing himself to the sensation. Unconsciously his hips bucked forward, eager for more contact, more friction. "Mhmmm," Dean rocked into Cas' hand, eyes fluttered closed with an expression half way blissful.

The raider continued the motion, working Dean up until he could hear how close Dean was. "Okay," Cas muttered, letting go and inelegantly removing the remaining clothing from Dean's already mostly naked body.

Dean outright moaned in protest when Castiel's hand pulled away, leaving him strung out and unsatisfied, right on the edge. Dean's hips bucked forward again, a motion somewhere between a plea and a demand, "Cas," Dean whined out his name, a question and an accusation all in one.

"Now your turn." He spoke in that usual rough way he did, though this time it had a different edge to it. Not sinister but definitely not pure. He threw his own clothes to the floor and climbed over Dean, one thigh on either side of the teen's head. "Suck." He demanded, reaching down and pulling Dean's hair to force his face into Castiel's half-hard dick.

Dean's already laboured breathing took a moment to adjust with Castiel's weight settled over his chest, a moment he didn't have the mercy of taking before he felt the tip of Castiel's cock push passed his lips. The first few moments Castiel guided Dean's head through the right motions, his eyes partially open as he slowly moved along with the sensations, groaning roughly and squeezing the mitt-full of hair he had. Dean nearly choked on the first two of three slow thrusts of Castiels member as is brushed close to the back of his throat, but he soon gave in to his body's wanton needs and base instinct, following Castiel's guidance before taking it up on his own. Dean moaned around Castiel, challenging himself, finding how much he could take, how close he could get to those crisp black hairs at the base of Castiel's cock –they tickled his nose.

Cas bit his lip and pulled away from Dean just before it got good, just as he'd hardened to the point it was painful. "Turn around," he demanded, forcing Dean onto his face. Cas propped Dean's ass up, gave it a slap for good measure, and rubbed the pre-come on his hand around his swollen member for lubrication. Once that was done, he slipped a finger into Dean's entrance, swiveling it around and working him open enough to fit a second and soon a third digit in. Cas smiled at the whimpers he was getting as he finger-fucked the teen, reaching the point where his hand slammed in and out.

Dean's outcries were a series of yelps and muffled screams, Castiel's finger breached him and it was momentarily horrifically painful. Dean's body went lax after the first few moments, adjusting to Castiel's too much, too fast style. Dean could almost enjoy it before the second finger was added, same story went for the third. Slowly Dean could feel the pressure building, and Castiel's rough treatment was starting to feel so good. Dean pushed back to receive more, mewling softly as Castiel's hand pulled back.

It was enough for him; Cas pressed his dick to Dean's ass, slowly pushing at it. He pondered the idea of giving warning but decided against it; Dean would learn what sodomy was just like the rest of them had to. Castiel slammed inside, burying himself deep in the first thrust. He let out a low moan as he slowly picked up the pace; no reason Dean shouldn't enjoy it too.

Dean almost didn't recognize his own screams as they were ripped from his throat. Castiel was much bigger than his fingers, and his first slide in wasn't so much a slide as it was a bulldozer, reaching far passed and prepped areas of his finger's limited reach. Dean almost tried to fight back then, to no avail. Castiel seemed pretty single-minded at the moment. But the pain of being filled and torn was offset by the friction, something about Castiel's methodical movement inside him set something off in Dean, and he gave himself willingly to the sensations –moving, rubbing, groaning, all so base, so instinct driven.

Cas gripped Dean's hips as he started to pummel the boy's ass, adjusting his thighs and thrust enough to hit what he knew was Dean's prostate.

Dean`s mind almost came back to him for a moment, only to be blown apart; his vision going white behind his closed eyes.

"Sing for me, baby." Cas breathed heavily, hunching over Dean's back to whisper in his ear.

Castiel`s breath in his ear nearly sent Dean off the edge, and he whimpered in reply, eager to give Castiel what he wanted, to keep this going as long as they could. Dean cried out louder at Castiel`s rough and perfect thrusts, but that didn`t take much effort because it just felt so natural in that moment.

Castiel reached around and found the dripping, blood-swollen weight between Dean's legs, he fingered it briefly before stroking it in time with his own movements. He felt Dean's muscles tighten on his dick and caught himself before a whine escaped him; eyes squeezed shut as he rode Dean into his orgasm. With a hot exhale of air and a final solid strike against Dean's prostate, Cas painted his insides milky white, excess already dribbling down from where they connected.

Completely spent, Dean`s shaking knees collapsed beneath when Castiel slammed home, dropping them both to hard mattress beneath them.

Cas gasped for air and pulled out of Dean slowly, dropping down onto the bed with a satisfied sigh. His eyes were closed pleasantly, a small pleasured smile on his lips as he let himself relax.

Dean rolled onto his side, draping an arm over Castiel and snuggling in close for warmth and comfort. It hurt like hell, and Dean had a sneaking suspicion that it would for days; not only his battered ass but his body was still covered in bruises and unbandaged wounds. And oddly enough, he caught himself smiling at the thought of it.

Staring over the horizon of the Capital Wastelands, Jet narrowed his eyes in a thoughtful moment. He'd been increasingly silent as time passed, thoughts and ideas swarming in his mind for the last couple of days. "Long-shot," he muttered the name of an old friend of his, knowing the ever-quiet man was never too far off. "I've been thinking a lot about our next move," he referred to the entire Union. Jet was the leader of the Temple of the Union, a group of people, escaped slaves more specifically, that wanted to create a haven to inspire all runaway slaves.

"The Lincoln Memorial, we need to take it for ourselves." He smiled, his intentions purely good though he couldn't help how wicked it came across, his anger coming out more in his expression than his words in that moment. "We need to make a stand and it's a perfect symbol for any of those slaver bastards." Jet shifted his weight and crossed his arms, sharp eyes still fixed on the horizon. "We won't take their oppression like beaten dogs, their reign of terror is over." He spun around, his broad shoulders straight in the confidence he carried with him.

His stride was strong, and the way he carried himself inspired those working with him. Jet was an escaped slave himself, collared at a young age and forced into labour. His skin was dark, proof of living in the sun, his body covered in the remains of scars left by owners and slavers. But what was evident in his eyes was one thing they could never beat out of him, his fighting spirit remained intact, and it was more than ready to take them on.

"We'll make Lincoln Memorial our base, and once that's done we'll take on the slavers." Jet said excitedly, an almost harmless looking smile now coming over his features. "First though I need to make a deal with some merchants for supplies, has anyone seen a caravan around here?" He called the last part loud enough for his people to hear, his voice was always demanding attention and that's exactly what he got. Jet was a ruthless man when crossed; even friends didn't want to piss him off. Not paying attention to him when he spoke counted as pissing him off, though he'd gained the respect of everyone there so that usually wasn't an issue.

After meeting with his contact in Canterbury Commons, it didn't take long for Jet to secure the supplies; he could be very charming when he needed to be. The first impression majority of people have with Jet is that he's a muscle-bound moron, though they couldn't be far from the truth. He was smart, a scary kind of cunning that the best of fighters wouldn't want to mess with. His name had been carried around the wastes before, merchants knew him and a lot of the time townspeople knew of him too. Depending on who you were, he was either a blessing or a curse.

The movement to take over the Lincoln Memorial started smoothly, though intel explaining the presence of supermutants didn't slide by Jet. He'd considered it and knew exactly what they had to do, fight their way through. It wouldn't be easy, they'd have to use strategies, fight smart, and hopefully, with luck on their side, they'd get through with few casualties. Jet was a strong fighter, and a strong man in general. He knew he wasn't going down but he couldn't say the same for all of the Union.

It happened quickly, two or three supermutants burst through the walls and down the hall toward Jet and his team. A quick shift of his legs to widen his stance and Jet was off, running at the mutants just as quickly as they ran at him. They were at least twice his size with weapons as big as he was, but he didn't care. The others went head to head with the other two beasts, leaving Jet to handle this one alone; that suited him just fine.

The mutant slammed a massive bludgeoning weapon into the floor right in front of him, giving him the opportunity to leap up the beast's arm and shoot it several times in the face with his double-barrel shotgun; it didn't last too long after that. He landed on the ground, his momentum still pushing him to run even after he landed, his shotgun raised again to take out another incoming supermutant.

The Union had trouble ahead of them, but Jet was more than confident.