Checking his watch for the zillionth time that day, Castiel reminded himself that Dean couldn't make it back to Dallas before 5 PM. With the trial over, it had been necessary for Dean to return to Kansas City for a few days, and despite how well things were coming together it would be weeks – months – before they lived together. Only the pleasantly unpleasant aches lingering from their extended scene reassured Castiel when he was lowest about the prospect of their separation. The popularity of Dean's photography business meant that he had shoots booked as much as a year ahead of time. Moving didn't negate those contracts. For now, Castiel took up residence in Dallas and Dean would split his time, transferring his clientele gradually. This time, Dean could only visit for the weekend, and only because a wedding had cancelled at the last minute. Even had Dean been able to stay in Dallas, it wouldn't have mattered. Castiel was flying to Columbus on Monday to meet with Joshua. He'd be staying for a week, wrapping up his affairs there, packing his few belongings and putting them in storage, and meeting with a realtor to discuss selling his home there.

Their weekend together wouldn't be leisurely. What few breaks Castiel had from consolidating his position at Sandover were spent looking at house listings. Alfie had recommended a local real estate agent, and the chain of e-mails that Dean, Castiel and the agent – a woman named Sarah – had exchanged was over 100 messages long. Dean and Castiel would be touring the first ten houses over the weekend. There were hours to go before Dean would arrive and Castiel had a slew of things he needed to complete before he could, in good conscience, leave the office for two entire days.

First, Castiel needed to finish the draft of the contract he was working on.

Second, he had to get through his e-mails.

Third, Anna needed debriefing before she departed for Rabat.

Fourth—

"Hello, Castiel."

Castiel's head jerked up. Alastair stood at the door to Castiel's office, relaxed and in his element in an expensive suit. A moment's panic devoured Castiel's thoughts and then, to his surprise, his mind went blank and peaceful.

"Good afternoon, Alastair." He sounded flat, emotionless.

"Expecting someone?" Alastair's lips curled into a sneer, his snide voice too knowing. His black gaze never left Castiel's face.

What did he do to Dean?

"No, actually," Castiel replied, refusing to rise to be cowed.

Dean must be alright.

He resisted the urge to grab his cell phone and text Dean. He wouldn't let Alastair see him perturbed. He wouldn't let Alastair perturb him.

"Really? Lover-boy let you down already?" Alastair shook his head in mock regret, crossed the room and sat down in the visitor's seat facing Castiel's desk.

Lifting the phone receiver, Castiel dialed the internal line. It rang once, twice – through the glass wall of his office he could hear the answering echo of the phone ringing on Alfie's desk. Glancing out, he realized the executive assistant wasn't there. That explained how Alastair had gotten in the office without Alfie stopping him. Unfortunately, Castiel knew how Alastair had gotten in the building. During the trial preparation, Alastair had been added to the free admittance list, and Castiel had forgotten to remove him. A stupid oversight, the kind of mistake Castiel never would have made if he weren't so busy consolidating his position and picking up the threads of jobs Adler had left half-finished. Castiel set the phone down and dialed the security desk instead.

"Sandover Security, Henriksen speaking."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Henriksen. Would you please remove Alastair Rolston from the list of those permitted in the building?" Castiel stared Alastair down as he spoke. Alastair smiled as if he hadn't a care. Castiel's heart beat quickened, his stomach fluttered with nerves, but he kept his face impassive. He was in control of himself. He was in control of this situation. As with any scene, with any dom, Alastair had no more power than Castiel chose to grant him.

"Absolutely, sir," Henriksen said. "Would you like us to come upstairs and remove him from the building?"

"No, thank you," Castiel replied. "I will handle this intrusion." He hung up.

"Oh?" Alastair smiled coldly. "Think you can handle me, Castiel?"

"I know I can," said Castiel.

"Dean's managed to work a little stiffness into that flimsy, cowardly spine of yours." Somehow, Alastair loomed over Castiel despite the desk between them. Every inch of Alastair's impressive height went into making him appear intimidating.

Naomi and Adler are in prison. The trial is done. I am dating someone I love and who loves me. Alastair and I are in a public place, in an office building staffed by armed security guards.

Alastair can't hurt me.

I have nothing to be afraid of.

"You don't scare me," Castiel said steadily.

"Good boy," Alastair smiled and showed yellowing teeth. "But, then, that's what makes you an appealing option for a pet. Naomi taught you fear and respect, but she didn't break you. A submissive like you needs that, needs to be completely subsumed by their owner's will before real progress can be made."

I thought I could fix you, Cas. But you're broken. You were broken before we ever met.

"Why did you come here, Mr. Rolston?"

You're worth the effort, though. I'll do my best to fix you, I promise. All you have to do is whatever I tell you to do – everything I tell you to do. You can do that for me, right, Castiel?

With difficulty, Castiel pushed the past away and focused on the problem at hand. Alastair's decision to ambush Castiel at his job, his presence in Castiel's office, made no sense. After the care Alastair had shown to acquit himself of wrong-doing in the past, after how he'd targeted Dean over and over again since arriving in Dallas, Castiel could think of no logical reason why Alastair had come.

"I've missed seeing you," Alastair lamented.

Unless, by coming to speak to Castiel, Alastair was targeting Dean. Castiel's thoughts raced with possibilities. Maybe Alastair had told Dean he was going to hurt Castiel. Maybe Alastair intended to hurt Castiel and leave him for Dean to find. Maybe Alastair had waylaid Dean during his drive south. Maybe Alastair had finally demanded his favor if Dean and Castiel had been offered up as a prize. No, Dean would never do that. Whatever Alastair intended, whatever plan he'd set in motion, it would hurt Dean – possibly hurt both of them – and Castiel needed to find a way to thwart him.

"It'd been long enough since I heard your voice that I could no longer imagine how sweet your screams would sound when I flay the skin from your body."

Struggling to concoct a plan on the fly, Castiel glanced at his phone and said, "Excuse me, I have to take this."

"I know no one is there."

Alastair was right. There was no one there.

"Hello, this is Novak."

Castiel needed time to think.

"After all these years, after everything you've been through, how can you believe that a knight will ride to your rescue?"

He needed to keep Alastair talking. Was he imagining the frustration tinging Alastair's drawl? If Castiel baited Alastair enough, irritated Alastair with his determination not to be cowed, would Alastair say or do something he shouldn't? Did men like Alastair make mistakes?

Naomi made a mistake eventually. She made many mistakes, which I would have caught if only I'd been paying attention. My eyes are open now. Alastair doesn't control me. Naomi doesn't control me. Dean doesn't control me. Alastair came to me, he's on my turf, and I have the power in this interaction.

I've always had the power, I just had to find the strength to use it.

"Excuse me, you're making it difficult to hear my caller."

Sooner or later, Alastair would make a mistake, and Castiel would catch it as long he kept his wits about him.

"And to believe that Dean is that knight in shining armor? You'd weep to know half the things he's done."

Dean was Alastair's target. Dean had always been Alastair's target.

"I'm sorry, I'll have to call you back."

Even sitting in Castiel's office, taunting Castiel, hinting at the dark knowledge he had about Dean's past, Alastair's goal wasn't to hurt Castiel. It was to hurt Dean.

"Uriel – I'm sorry, Mr. Wisdom – showed the jury a delightful video of Dean. One of my personal favorites. You know, with proper training, Dean could be a true artiste.Unfortunately, watching my boy in his element wasn't enough to sway them to make the right decision, such a pity, but I think you'd find it educational."

He wants me to worry. He wants me to doubt. He wants me to think that Dean is dangerous, untrustworthy. He wants me to believe that Dean will hurt me. I'm the weapon to use against Dean. If I could be compelled or deceived into leaving Dean, that would hurt Dean profoundly.

If Alastair understood love at all, he'd know how futile this plan is. But he doesn't, because he's a sociopath.

The longer Castiel sat silently, letting the pieces fall into place, the wider Alastair's grin grew. Alastair thought his plan was working. He thought he was upsetting Castiel.

I could tell him I understand, tell him to leave, tell him to never come back. That won't work, though. Dean's stopped speaking with him and asked him to leave, so Alastair is trying another tactic. He has no respect for me, so why should he respect any request I make?

There is no long term solution to make him leave short of getting him arrested and incarcerated for something.

Short term, though…

"You're curious, I can see it in your eyes," Alastair smiled, speaking quietly. "You think you know Dean, think you know what he's capable of. You have no idea – but I can show you."

"Fine," Castiel said. "Show me."

Without asking permission, Alastair swiveled Castiel's computer monitor around, grabbed the keyboard and navigated to a plain website. Clicking around the screen, he cued up a video, then turned to stare at Castiel, smiling.

Dean was splattered with blood, clutching a knife, his expression hard. Years younger, he was more beautiful than handsome, but a cruel twist to his lips marred that beauty. A dark-haired woman – Meg Masters, Castiel recognized her from the photographs he'd seen in the Enquirer article – was strapped to a surgical table, sobbing and panting.

"Stop, Dean," she pled, "I can't – I can't take any more. It hurts. Please stop!"

There was no pity on Dean's face as he stabbed her in the side. Straining against her bindings, she screamed her throat raw and Dean stood aside and stared at the blade that heaved and tore her flesh with every desperate breath she took.

"You're doing great," said Alastair's voice from off camera. "Let's see how she reacts to the blade striking her left scapula."

"No, no, stop!"

The video continued, torture in its purest form, and Castiel took slow, calm breaths and refused to be moved. It had been a decade ago. Meg hadn't safe-worded. Did she have a safe-word? Did she have any choice at all? Even if she did, would Dean have listened? Would Alastair have allowed Dean to listen? No matter how the video appeared, no matter what light it cast Dean in, there was no forgetting who the true perpetrator was. Alastair narrated the scene from the darkness beyond the camera lens and Dean did everything Alastair said, wearing disdane and aloofness like a mask over the uncertainty and concern tightening his eyes.. Dean was a victim as surely as Meg was.

The footage stopped and a new clip began. This time, a man was strapped to the gurney. Dean was even younger and Alastair stood at his side. Tears streaked Dean's face as Alastair guided him through every cut until the victim looked like he was bathed in blood. A third video began, Dean strapped to the table, howling and begging Alastair to stop as Alastair cut and expressed his disappointment at how pathetic Dean was. On and on it went, recording after recording. Alastair said nothing. Castiel let horror wash over him, around him, past him. Finally, the last screams fell silent, the last video froze on a shot of a woman's face contorted in agony.

Nothing Castiel saw led him to doubt Dean or doubt his own love.

Dean had done terrible things, often willingly and unprompted, but there was nothing surprising about the content of the videos. Castiel was sympathetic, pained to know that Dean had suffered so much, that Alastair's victims had suffered so much and – he could confess to himself – a little turned on. Dean had gotten off on Alastair describing Castiel being tortured and Castiel got off on watching Dean torturing others.

No wonder they got along so well. They were both broken.

"I underestimated you, Castiel." The silence in the room shattered. Castiel blinked and realized he'd been staring at a blank computer screen for unknown seconds, unknown minutes. "You like what you see?"

"Yes." There was no point in lying. Alastair was too skilled at reading people to miss the truth.

"You're wasted on Dean." Carpet rustled as Alastair pushed his chair back and circled the desk to stand behind Castiel. "I could—"

"If you lay one hand on me without my consent I will have you arrested for assault," said Castiel.

"Dean will never be able to give you what you need," Alastair continued as if Castiel hadn't interrupted, but the touch never landed. "You've seen what kind of dom he is – what kind of man he is. Has he told you any of the terrible things he's done?" Yes, he told me everything. "Of course he didn't. He's a child, afraid to scare you away. He doesn't understand the kind of discipline that a man like you needs. I do understand."

You understand nothing. You're nothing but a sad, pathetic excuse for a human being.

"You'd like to be my dom?" Castiel asked, proud of how steady he sounded, proud of the hint of interest he imbued his voice with.

And you're not going to get away with anything, not this time.

"You're a beautiful creature." Alastair was so close behind him that fetid breath ghosted over the back of Castiel's neck. A tingle of fear threaded down his spine, raised the hairs on his arms. "I would be honored to be the dom to teach you proper submission."

Castiel let the words hang in the air, schooled his expression to appear conflicted, curious, frightened, and said, "I'll think about it."

"You know how to reach me when you're ready."

"Yes – yes, I do."

"Every good sub, every true sub, wants nothing more than to find a dom to put them in their place. I am that dom, Castiel. I expect to hear from you shortly."

Scarce daring to breathe lest he give away the lie behind his behavior, Castiel watched Alastair stroll casually from the room. Castiel stared after the Alastair as he waited for the elevator, stepped on to it, and disappeared behind the closing door.

Releasing an explosive breath killed the tension that bound Castiel in place. With a shaking hand, he reached out and took up the receiver on his office phone. He scrolled through the company's internal phone book until he found the number he needed and dialed it.

"IT, this is Johnston."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Johnston, this is Castiel Novak."

"Mr. Novak! Oh…wow…uh…is everything okay with your computer? Do you need me to come upstairs?"

"Am I correct in understanding that the company's firewall keeps records of everything accessed by employees?"

"Not exactly. It keeps a log, and larger files are stored on local servers that are purged of non-essential files every 24 hours."

"And if there was something in the temporary server that we needed to keep?"

"It's been less than 24 hours?"

"It's been less than 10 minutes."

"Then I can retrieve it for you, yeah. What, download a file and then accidentally delete it?"

"Something like that. Please access and save all the videos that were viewed on my desktop in the last hour."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Johnston?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't watch them."

Heart pounding, Castiel hung up, grabbed his cell phone, navigated through his contacts, and selected Garth Fitzgerald. It rang twice and Castiel was convinced Fitzgerald wouldn't answer when—

"This ADA Fitzgerald, what's your crime?"

"Good afternoon, Mr. Fitzgerald," Castiel said breathlessly. Considering how excited he was, he was amazed that he could get the words out intelligibly.

"Hey, Novak! Things good?" Fitzgerald sounded sincerely pleased.

"I think I've got another case for you," replied Castiel. "Are you available to come to my office?"

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Sure, I've got some time between meetings. I'll be there in ten."

"Thank you."

"You're not locked in your office again, are you?"

"No."

"Good. Glad to hear it."

The line went dead.

We've got him. We've really got him.

I got the justice I deserve. I got closure, and now Dean can get his.

For the first time in his life, Castiel began to believe in happy endings.


Dean (5:30 PM): You're not back at the hotel yet.

Dean (5:31 PM): Everything okay?

Castiel (5:35 PM): The answer to that is complicated. No, everything is not okay. However, I think things will be okay. I take it from your message that you've arrived?

Fitzgerald was watching one of the incriminating videos, wide-eyed.

Castiel (5:36 PM): I think it would be best if you come to the Sandover building.

"You realize that if I call the police and have them arrest Rolston, I'll have to arrest Winchester as well?" said Fitzgerald, pausing the latest clip. Alastair froze as he took a stapler to the abdomen of an unknown young woman.

Dean (5:38 PM): You freak the shit out of me when you hint at stuff but don't tell me wtf you're talking about.

"If Dean testifies against Rolston, won't that need be obviated?" Castiel asked.

Dean (5:39 PM): omw

Dean (5:39 PM): That means on my way.

"Potentially," Fitzgerald said slowly. He used the mouse to run the video back about 30 seconds and hit play. The victim's face contorted, tears leaked from her eyes and she shrieked, struggling to form the words to beg Alastair to stop.

Castiel (5:41 PM): Alastair came to speak to me at work today. I was able to obtain incriminating evidence about him. I'm currently meeting with Mr. Fitzgerald.

Dean (5:42 PM): Oh.

"Dean will be here in a few minutes."

Fitzgerald nodded and stopped the playback again. Johnston had brought them up burned on to a CD, white-faced and trembling. Castiel hadn't needed Johnston's apology to know he'd made the mistake of watching them. It was strange to consider how objectively horrific the videos were, considering how similar the contents were to things that Castiel had done.

"We need to do this by the book," said Fitzgerald reluctantly.

"I understand," Castiel nodded. "May I warn Dean?"

"Guess it depends, think he'll cut and run?" Fitzgerald asked.

Castiel shook his head. "He feels guilty, and he hates Alastair. As long as he understands what's happening and why, I don't think he'll cause any trouble." Fitzgerald nodded absently and stared at the still image on the screen, a considering look on his boyish face. Castiel picked up his cell phone again.

Castiel (5:46 PM): I've turned over videos of Alastair's sadism to the ADA. You're in the videos. Fitzgerald informs me that he'll have to arrest you. I believe that if you cooperate you'll not be in trouble. I'm sorry Dean it wasn't my intention to get you in trouble.

Dean (5:48 PM): So if I come to the Sandover building I'll be arrested?

It was impossible from the simple text to determine if Dean was upset, and nerves thrummed beneath Castiel's skin.

Castiel (5:49 PM): Yes.

Seconds passed. A fancy clock that Adler had liked sat on a pointless, small table and ticked maddeningly. Castiel made a mental note to get rid of the clock at his earlier opportunity and stared at his phone, waiting for Dean to reply. A minute when by, two minutes, five minutes. The screen went black and Castiel continued to stare.

"Everything okay?" asked Fitzgerald, sympathy thick in his voice. "I'm sorry it's gotta be this way, but if it looks like I'm showing favoritism the entire case will be compromised."

"I know," Castiel said. "Neither of us wants that." The computer screen went dark as the screensaver finally kicked in. The horrid image vanished and in its absence a spell seemed to break. Fitzgerald shook his head, pulled the CD out of the disk drive and grabbed his phone.

Castiel's phone chimed and the screen lit up. Grabbing it, he read Dean's text.

Dean (5:55 PM): Henriksen said he'd let me send you a text before putting the hand cuffs on.

Dean (5:56 PM): I forgot how hot it is to have a handsome son of a bitch wrapping metal around my wrists. Remind me next time I'm planning a scene.

Dean (5:56 PM): Everything's gonna be fine. I love you Cas.

"Yes, everything is fine. Our security is arresting Dean and will hold him until the Dallas police arrive."

"Awesome," Fitzgerald said as he scrolled through phone screens. "I'm on this, Castiel. If possible, we'll have him back to you tonight. Tomorrow, definitely. Even if I have to stay up all night, okay?"

"Thank you, Fitzgerald. You're a good man."

"You're not so bad yourself," Fitzgerald gave him a half smile and strolled from the office, holding the phone to his ear. He started to speak but the words were cut off as the office door shut behind him.

If Dean was going to spend the night in prison, Castiel might as well stay at the office and work. But first…

Taking up the ugly clock, he rose and carried it to the executive bathroom that he would never use again. When he needed the facilities he took the stairs to the 19th floor and used the bathroom there instead. Standing in the marble tiled room made Castiel feel sick, brought back memories of how he'd allowed himself to be used by Adler in one of the pristine bathroom stalls. The tiles were perfect for his needs. Lifting the clock high over his head, he slammed it down on the ground as hard as he could. With a jangle of bells and a tinkle of shattered glass, it dashed into uncountable pieces. Castiel's legs were peppered by shards but none penetrated his slacks. He wished they had. He wanted to hurt. Dean was in trouble because of him, Alastair might yet get off scott-free, and Castiel's dreams of a lovely weekend searching for a house with his boyfriend – his tentative plan to propose the following evening – was destroyed as surely as the clock was.

Breathing hard, Castiel returned to his office, wiping his hands uselessly on his thighs. Picking up the phone, he dialed Facilities.

"Yes, this is Mr. Novak. I'm sorry to inconvenience you but I've made a mess in the 20th floor executive bathroom and I'd like someone to clean it up."

He paused.

"Actually, never mind. I'll take care of it."

Castiel slammed the phone down and went to the janitorial closet to pull out a broom and dustpan.

It was time for Castiel to start cleaning up his own messes.


Tapping his foot nervously, Castiel waited by the door to the suite. It had been an endless day. He hadn't slept the night before, too nervous about Dean alone at the police station. Castiel had gone in to the local precinct to file an official police report about his encounters with Alastair and the threats that Alastair had made. He'd hoped to catch a glimpse of Dean while he was there but he didn't have the opportunity. Fitzgerald assured him that things were going well but could give no details. Dean had sent him a single text.

Dean (8:44 PM): omw back. Can't talk battery is dying.

Since then, Castiel had returned from working at the Sandover building, ordered them hamburgers and beers from room service, and now it was nearly 9:30, Castiel had no idea what the delay was. The room reeked of cooked meat. Castiel couldn't focus on anything, so instead he bounced on his heels and stared at the doorway that he hoped would open any moment.

The elevator pinged.

Castiel launched himself at Dean the instant he stepped into the room. Startled, Dean caught him and held him.

"You're okay, Cas," he murmured reassuringly.

"You idiot," Castiel mumbled, "I'm worried about you."

"Don't be," Dean replied, drawing back and sniffing the air curiously. "Didn't get nothin' I didn't deserve. And Fitzgerald is a fricken saint. He watched those videos with me, smiled at me nice as you'd like as if he hadn't just watched me torture some poor SOB, and then offered me immunity from prosecution if I'd tell him everything I know about Alastair. That was a fucking no-brainer, let me tell you. Shoulda done this fucking years ago. Do I smell burgers?"

Nodding, Castiel stepped back and gestured invitation to the dining room table. The staff member who'd brought up the cart with their food had set everything up, an elegant table cloth and lit candles an amusing contrast to the water beading on the outside of their beer bottles and their hamburgers – still fundamentally burgers no matter how fancy the hotel restaurant tried to make them.

"Holy shit. You're fuckin' amazing, Cas, you know that? I'm fricken starved." Dean huffed a laugh as he crossed the room and grabbed one of the seats. For no reason he could explain, Castiel was frozen in place, staring. The candle light painted Dean's face in shades of yellow and gold, highlighted blond streaks in his brown hair. Dean looked up, eyes twinkling and eager, and caught Castiel looking. "What? Something stuck in my teeth?"

"Marry me," Castiel breathed. Dazed, he realized what he'd said, flushed and looked away. "I mean…" So much for all his carefully considered plans. "Shit."

Dean goggled at him. "What?"

The ring was in his pocket. Castiel had originally planned to propose that night, after looking at houses. He'd made reservations. He'd planned it down to the last detail. He'd cancelled everything when he'd stumbled home the previous night. Even if Dean was free, Castiel didn't think it fair to expect Dean to be up for anything fancy. It could wait. It wasn't important.

"Marry me?" he repeated hesitantly. He pulled the velvet-covered box from his pocket and held it out, hand shaking.

Until the words left his mouth he hadn't realized how much he needed this. What would he do if Dean didn't say yes?

"Really, Cas?" breathed Dean. The candle flames flickered and swayed. Long shadows danced against the wall behind Dean. Castiel nodded. "Fuck."

"Fuck" wasn't "yes."

Castiel's knees went out.

Dean was there a heartbeat later, taking the box from his hand, kneeling next to him, holding him tight.

"Of course I'll marry you, you fricken…you…" Dean whispered the words in his ear. "Like how the fuck are you even real?"

"You're it for me, Dean," Castiel mumbled. "You must know that."

"Well fuck, I guess I know now," Dean replied.

"Will you look at the ring?" Castiel drew away, loathe to lose Dean's heat but desperate to know Dean's reaction, to see the ring encircling his finger.

Wide-eyed and intent, Dean flicked the box open. The dark metal band caught the candlelight and glowed with surprising luster, the string of tiny embedded diamonds twinkling. Castiel had debated not getting any stones in the ring but he'd wanted an excuse to buy Dean a wedding ring, separate from the engagement ring, and stones would make the two distinguishable. Dean's fingers trembled as he pulled the ring out of the box and ran his thumb along the edges. Catching the different texture of the inscription within, Dean frowned and held the ring up to the light to better see. Castiel couldn't read it from where he knelt but he knew what it said. When he'd first had the idea he'd felt so certain it was the correct course, but he'd felt increasingly silly about it since. Now, every nerve fired painfully as he dreaded Dean's reaction to reading the simple script that said:

You're mine, sir.

"Damn right I am," Dean muttered. Limp with relief, Castiel collapsed back on his heels as Dean slipped the ring onto his hand and admired it. "Perfect fricken fit, too. Dude, when did you do this?"

"Like a month ago," Castiel admitted. "Gilda helped me pick it out. I haven't had the nerve…I mean…there was always some reason not to tell you, not to ask you, and I just…well…now you know."

Grinning, Dean leaned towards Castiel and placed a hand on each of his cheeks. The metal of the ring was chill against Castiel's heated flesh. "Damn—" He kissed Castiel. "—right—" Another kiss. "—I—" Another. "—know." Another. "Gonna be my husband, Cas." The full sentence was followed by a long, languid kiss, Dean's tongue flicking teasingly at Castiel's lips. "Better get you a ring." The kisses went straight to Castiel's head, amplifying his disorienting relief, leaving him dizzy. "You know what it's gonna say?"

"No," Castiel breathed, swaying. Only Dean's grip on him kept Castiel upright.

"I'm yours, boy."

It was a long time before they got around to eating dinner.

It was even longer before Castiel came, screaming, as Dean cut the fourth set of feathers into his back.


"What do you think, Dean?"

Every house they'd seen in Dallas had been spectacular. When the least expensive options they were considering cost a million dollars, it wasn't surprising that they were all remarkable. However, as Castiel had learned to his chagrin, remarkable and spectacular didn't necessarily equate to nice. Most were garish, or in bad taste, or opulent to the point of ludicrousness.

This house was none of those things.

This house was perfect.

"I, uh," Dean side-eyed their real estate agent. When they'd first started looking at houses almost six weeks before, she'd promised that their opinion mattered to her only to the extent that it helped her choose more appropriate properties to show them. If they hated something, she explained, they needed to tell her. The advice had been sound; by giving Sarah frequent feedback, she'd done an excellent job of narrowing down the possibilities to find them a house that fit their needs. "Well, Cas, remember how I was describing to you, um, certain uses I'd like to put some of the rooms to?"

"Of course I remember, Dean." Castiel kept the heat from showing on his face as he remembered the relish with which Dean had described his ideal play room.

"Well, I was thinkin' that bedroom with the built-in cabinets would be perfect for that," said Dean. Castiel nodded. "And I could convert one of the other bedrooms into a small studio."

"We'd still have plenty of bedrooms to accommodate guests," agreed Castiel. "This is the first house we've seen where the white cabinets in the kitchen don't look ridiculous."

"I was hoping you'd feel that way," Sarah said with relief. "You'd said 'no more white kitchens' but in this house I thought it worked."

"The fireplace is the ugliest shit I've ever seen…" Dean grimaced.

"But I like the outdoor arrangement," said Castiel, glancing out the window of the dining room to the slate patio in the back yard, complete with a beautiful wooden lattice overhead and a stone fireplace.

"I guess," Dean side-eyed the view. "Is it ever cold enough in Dallas that we're gonna want to sit outside and roast our asses?"

"As with every house we've seen, some modifications would be desirable – I'll definitely want to put a pool in – but I think we could make this one work," said Castiel.

"I do too," Dean said quietly, looking around.

"That's great!" said Sarah brightly, casually brushing her dark hair back from her face. "The sellers are asking $2,075,000. I can call the broker and run a bid by them, if you know what you'd like to offer."

"How about two million flat?" Dean said, half statement, half question.

"We'd be paying in full upfront," Castiel added, though Sarah knew that.

"Sounds good! Excited?" Sarah asked.

"Nervous," Castiel admitted.

"Fuck that, I'm pumped," laughed Dean.

That night, Dean used Castiel as a foot rest and a table, bound and gagged and blindfolded. Dean burned him with an over-hot plate, made him kneel until he couldn't feel his knees, and carved the fifth set of feathers into his back. The best part was the massage the end, sweet-smelling lotion working out every ache and pain except the recurring, evocative twitches from his new lacerations.


"Um, here."

Dean thrust a non-descript box at Castiel and walked away.

"Is something the matter, Dean?" Castiel called after him, concerned.

"Just open the damn box, will you?" Dean disappeared into the bedroom.

Castiel opened the box.

Within was a delicate, filigreed ring set with an impressively large sapphire. The inside of the band was inscribed, as promised, I'm yours, boy, in an angular, sloppy script that Castiel recognized as Dean's own handwriting.

Dammit, Castiel wished he'd thought of that.

It was hours later, well past midnight, when Dean finally took pity on Castiel and let him fill the fleshlight with come, and only because he'd managed to work it over his cock the entire time Dean sliced the sixth set of feathers.


"Sam, once you pick your jaw up off the floor, maybe you'd like to meet our realtor, Sarah Blake?" Dean laughed at Sam, who stared abashedly at Sarah.

"Thanks again for inviting me to the house warming," Sarah spoke ostensibly to Dean but she gave Sam assessing look. Sam colored and coughed, glancing at the grass, doing a terrible job of pretending he hadn't been staring.

"Well, ya know, we don't know many folks locally," Dean explained with a shrug. "What good's hosting a bar-b-q party if no one comes?"

"We're grateful for your diligence in helping us find a home," Castiel added.

"So anyway, this is Sam, my kid brother, but don't let that throw you off cause unlike me, he's a little bitch," Dean continued, grinning.

"Dean!"

"He's wrapping up a veterinary degree at A&M, so he's an Aggie – if I'm remembering right, you graduate from UT, but don't hold the Aggie thing against him, it's not his fault." The longer Dean talked the more mortified Sam looked.

"If it helps, I hate College Station," Sam mumbled.

"What's your opinion of Dallas?" asked Sarah. There was an assessing look in her eye, a gleam that suggested she liked what she saw.

"It, uh, well it has its advantages," hedged Sam. She quirked an eyebrow at him. "It's not my favorite place in the world but my brother lives here, and I was thinking I could do worse than to live near him."

"Really, Sammy?" Dean exclaimed.

"I mean, if you wanted…"

"Fuck, yeah!"

"Okay, cool, I—"

"You'll need someplace to stay," interjected Sarah smoothly. "As it happens, I know an excellent realtor, helped your brother and his fiancé find this wonderful house perfectly suited to their needs."

"Really?" Sam brightened. Dean stared at the exchange avidly, as if watching a soap opera or a sitcom unfold, and Castiel picked at the sleeve of Dean's shirt until Dean realized that this was when they should leave the budding couple alone. As they walked away to mingle with Charlie and Gilda and some of Dean's other local friends from the BDSM scene, Castiel could hear Sam shyly saying, "Before I could contact the realtor I'd need her – you did say it was a woman, right? – I'd need her phone number…"

"You took me away just as things were getting interesting," Dean muttered. "I'll have to punish you for that."

"I look forward to it," Castiel replied sincerely. They were still figuring out the best configuration for the play room. They'd agreed it would take a great deal of trial and error to get things perfectly right.

That night, after Dean finished scarring the seventh set of feathers, they agreed that the room would look far better with slat-board blinds and that, while the black pads were a nice idea in theory, they were oppressively dark in practice. Neither knew what color to use instead. Something easy on his knees, Castiel suggested, as if color had anything to do with that. Something that showed blood, Dean suggested.

Clearly, they'd need more trial and error before they could decide.


"Mr. Winchester, one final question for you." Alastair's lawyer, a creepy man named Azazel, met Dean's eyes and smiled knowingly.

"Hey, it's your horse-and-pony show, ask as many fucking questions as you want," Dean snapped. Castiel flinched on Dean's behalf, finger nails digging painfully into the wooden bench before him. He'd maintained his white-knuckled grip for so long that he didn't think he could unlock the joints. No matter how many soothing touches Gilda and Charlie swept down his thighs and forearms, Castiel remained tense.

"Your honor, please remind the witness not to speak when he hasn't been asked a question," Azazel said.

"Mr. Winchester…" reprimanded Judge Carnegie. Castiel wished Judge Mills had gotten this case. Judge Carnegie was less opened minded, less forgiving, less sensible. Dean scowled but held his tongue.

"What are your plans for this evening, Mr. Winchester?"

"Objection – relevance?" Fitzgerald stood and quirked an eyebrow.

"Mr. Azazel?" The judge turned the question to the lawyer.

"Your honor, I will demonstrate that no matter how contrite he appears, Mr. Winchester hasn't changed his ways in the least, and that in painting my client as the villain of the piece Mr. Fitzgerald has made a deal with the devil – and that devil is Mr. Winchester," Mr. Azazel explained.

"Judge Carnegie should have made Azazel go to the bench to explain that," muttered Charlie angrily. "Now he got to say all that in front of the jury and everyone! This is such bullshit."

"Why didn't Fitzgerald stop him?" added Gilda. Castiel shook his head. He didn't know.

"I'll allow it," said Carnegie.

"Your honor, this is grossly prejudicial and irrelevant testimony!" Mr. Fitzgerald exclaimed, frustrated for the first time that Castiel had ever seen.

"What, afraid of what your witness will confess to when he answers a question you haven't schooled him on?" Azazel replied.

"May we approach the bench to continue this conversation?"

"No," Judge Carnegie cut off the debate. He sounded bored. "Answer the question, Winchester."

"I've got a date with my fiancé," Dean replied tightly. Dean had a scene planned; before they'd left for court, Dean had calmed his nerves by binding Castiel tightly beneath Castiel's suit, heavy thick leather that chafed at his skin and rubbed at his nipples. Without explanation or apology, Dean had stuffed Castiel's cock in a cage and barely lubricated him before shoving in a vibrating butt plug. It was awkward and uncomfortable to sit in the courtroom prepared for the evening, but there was no danger of Castiel being asked to expose himself, not this time, and the periodic glances that Dean had shot Castiel's way demonstrated that his presence and his submission were helping Dean cope with his strenuous, unpleasant cross-examination. Castiel would have suffered far greater humiliation to keep his boyfriend, his husband-to-be, his dom, happy.

"Really, just a date?"

"Your honor!"

"Enough, Mr. Azazel, we don't need the gory details," grunted Carnegie. "You're done, Winchester."

"Thank you, your honor."

Dean walked proudly down from the stand.

Charlie and Gilda begged off dinner, correctly assessing Dean's terrible mood. Instead, Dean and Castiel returned home and, taking deep breaths to keep himself calm, Castiel offered himself up.

There was no quarter given that night. Testifying had torn Dean to shreds and, exhausted and stressed, he worked out all his frustration and anger on Castiel's body. A whipping tore Castiel's lower back, ass and sides; the scalpel cut the eighth set of feathers; and Castiel wept silently next to Dean as they lay in bed together, still hard after having release denied to him.

Dean made it up to him the next day, treating his wounds, easing his injuries, cooking him dinner, making love to him sweetly, apologizing every few words. There was no apology necessary, though. As long as what they did was consensual, Castiel didn't mind getting beaten bloody from time to time. Indeed, he enjoyed it. Throughout the following days, he was aware of his wounds, aware of the pain, aware of the secret bruises and welts and cuts hidden beneath his tailored suit, and he adored having that secret, something that was all his and no one else's.

Castiel wouldn't change a thing about their relationship. Except Dean's habit of tossing his dirty laundry next to the hamper instead of picking it up and placing it in the bin.


"You never look at them," Dean observed as they stood beside each other in the master bathroom, brushing their teeth. Mornings had been more fun since they'd started getting ready to leave at the same time – Castiel heading to work and Dean heading to the gym before going to his new studio. Now that Dean was based more in Dallas than in Kansas City, they were having to learn each other all over again. So far, it had gone wonderfully.

"I'm don't know what you mean," Castiel said, wiping his freshly-cleaned mouth with a washcloth.

"Your back," Dean clarified. "I figured you must sometimes try to see your wings in the mirror, but you never do. At least, not when I'm around."

"No," Castiel smiled, "I never do. I don't need to see them. I know they're there. I can feel my clothing rubbing against them, feel the twinges as they heal. I trust that you're doing a good job. Maybe when they're done, I'll ask you to take a picture and show it to me. It's not about how they look now, it's about choice. My old scars were largely the result of punishments I neither wanted nor deserved, exacted against my will. The pain didn't bother me – often I enjoyed it – but they represented so much more than that. Naomi's touch, still lingering. I never wanted her to touch me again, but I was always aware of the scars. It was like I'd never been free of her."

"Woah, kinda deep for 6 in the morning, Cas," Dean laughed.

"These feathers are different," Castiel continued, undeterred, turning to stare into Dean's face. Dean froze, meeting his eyes. "I chose this. I wanted this. I requested it of you, and you've kindly granted it to me. This is my opportunity to remake myself into a form of my own choosing. You're the agent for that change, but I'm the instigator. For that, it's enough for me to know that they're there. I'm in the process of becoming, I don't need to see it unfolding."

"You've thought about this a lot."

"Yes, I have," Castiel nodded, "and talked to Dr. Ellicott about it a lot, too."

"Get on the bed, Cas."

"Huh?"

"I need to see you becoming again. Or maybe just coming."

"Classy, Dean," Castiel grinned, though. "I have to get to work."

"Bull, I know you don't need to get there this early."

No, he didn't.

They hadn't carved another set of feathers in over a month, not since Dean testified against Alastair. Dean felt guilty over how badly he'd hurt Castiel that time and had been playing gentle since then.

As pleasant as the soft touches and sweet words were, being coddled was driving Castiel crazy. He liked to hurt sometimes. He wanted to hurt.

He lay on his stomach on the bed in 5 seconds flat.

There was nothing violent or loud involved in carving the ninth set of feathers. Every slice was a caress, every whispered word a blessing, every flare of pain cathartic, and when they finally both came, it was as sweet and gentle as the most tender affection could be. It was the most tender affection. As unorthodox as it was, for them this was bliss.


"Fitzgerald cracked Alastair," Dean said excitedly.

"What?" Castiel had been concentrating so intently on his work, and had been so alarmed to see a phone call from Dean spring up on his caller ID in the middle of the day, that he scarce tracked the words, too worried that something dreadful had happened.

"Doofy, silly Fitzgerald who goes to fricken children's hospitals on the weekend so that his sock puppet can read to children cracked Alastair Rolston," Dean crowed. "Got him to admit that he fucking killed Meg. Under oath. While on the stand."

"How?" asked Castiel, all distractions falling away.

"I couldn't fuckin' tell you," Dean replied. "I mean I was there and it was just, like, fucking magic. Fitzgerald kept at him and kept at him, played to all of Alastair's egocentric bullshit, got him all riled up because Alastair doesn't make mistakes, right? He's a pro at this. He's the best. So if something happens under his knife, or under the knife of his protégé, it's because he meant it to happen. And even knowing that Fitzgerald was baiting the fuck outta him, Alastair fell for it hook, line and sinker."

"Alastair murdered Meg?" Castiel stammered.

"Yeah, 'pears so," Dean agreed more solemnly. "And fuck do I feel bad about that. She'd never have gotten into the life if not for me. You'd have liked her. She was awesome. We coulda had some fuckin' hot three-ways."

"…please tell me you're not thinking about necrophilia," said Castiel. Dean laughed.

"No, fuck no, that's…no," Dean said. "I just…I feel kinda crazy guilty but at the same time I'm so damn happy that he finally fucked something up, and I'm pissed at myself that I don't feel more sad cause shouldn't I, but I can't feel said cause Alastair is going to be locked up for the rest of his fucking life. Even fucking Judge Carnegie couldn't ignore a murder confession. Basically, Alastair is fucked. It's…it's awesome."

"That's great, Dean." Relief flooded in. The trial hadn't been going well and Castiel had grown concerned that Alastair would walk free or receive only a minimal sentence. Few of Alastair's submissives – victims? – had been found, and most of those who had been refused to testify. A statistically unlikely number of those Alastair had scened with were dead. Fitzgerald had mentioned, in passing, that there was a real possibility that Alastair was a serial killer but without any bodies as proof there wasn't much that could be done, and though charges had been brought against him in previous cases, he'd been acquitted each time and double jeopardy rules meant he couldn't be tried again despite the obvious pattern.

A confession changed everything.

"So, um, Cas – tonight – can we…?"

"Anything you want, Dean," said Castiel.

"Awesome."

"I look forward to it."

It was one of the strangest scenes Castiel had ever done, and showed him how profoundly important carving the feathers into Castiel's back had become for Dean. Every stroke was a benediction, an apology. Instead of whispering endearments or praise or rebukes, Dean whispered about Meg, his first girlfriend, his first sub, his first – after a fashion – love. Castiel shuddered and moaned and whimpered and realized that, no matter what the cuts meant for Castiel, for Dean each slice was an attempt at absolution, a reminder that Castiel wasn't an unwilling victim. Each feather was visual proof that Castiel wanted the pain that Dean offered, that their relationship was built on consensus and trust and love.

Hot tears struck Castiel's back as Dean bandaged the tenth set of feathers, but Castiel said nothing. He didn't think Dean would want Castiel to acknowledge that he was crying.


"Are you sure?" Dean asked for the fifth time.

"Dean…" Castiel said warningly.

"You're gonna be on your feet all day," Dean pointed out. "People are gonna, like, hug you and shit. We're gonna dance – we are gonna dance, right? – and like kiss and…whatever the fuck people do at this kinda shindig. I know you dig pain but this is gonna hurt like woah."

"I'm not sure how much woah hurts but I'm aware that this will be painful. This isn't the first set of feathers, Dean."

"No, but listen, this is the last bit, down at the lower part of your back, it's gonna hurt more, it's gonna stretch and pull every time you bend. I figured we'd do it during the honeymoon, when you'd have time to heal." Dean sounded desperate.

"If you don't wish to do this now, we don't have to," said Castiel, trying to figure out what the actual problem was.

"No, fuck, I want to," Dean grabbed Castiel's hand and pressed it to the bulge at the front of his trousers, "fuck do I want to, but it…it worries me."

"It's my choice, Dean," said Castiel patiently.

"I know – I know." Dean nodded as if convincing himself.

"You did bring everything, right?"

"Well, yeah, like I said, I was hoping…in a few days…so I packed it all in my checked bag," said Dean.

"Please," Castiel implored.

Dean nodded slow acknowledgement.

Minutes later, Castiel sat in the enormous hot tub in their suite, a pillow propped beneath his arms to hold his weight as he leaned forward, and his tension drain away. It was his wedding day. He had a right to be tense but he'd grown so anxious that he was no longer excited. As worked up as he'd grown, there was no way he'd be able to enjoy himself. As Dean cut, all Castiel's concerns disappeared. Even if the day was a disaster nothing would change between them. The blood from the last set of feathers, carved deep into Castiel's lower back, ran down the drain, and Castiel sighed happily.

"Don't forget to pack Carrie," Dean called from the bathroom as he cleaned up afterwards. The stuffed cat lay flopped on the bed, a bit worn and tattered by the hard use it had seen since Gilda had given it to him almost two years before. Castiel had saved packing it for last, so that he could give it one last hug before heading out to confront – amuse? entertain? – their guests.

He could do this.

Smiling, Castiel finished packing, laid out his outfit for the day, and helped Dean finish his own preparations.

Everything was under control.

Everything – everything that mattered – was perfect.


"Oh my God, Castiel!" gushed Charlie the instant Castiel answered his phone. "Oh, wow! Holy…! Dean did that to your back? Have you guys been working on this the whole time?"

"I take it the magazine arrived at the store," Castiel replied dryly.

After their honeymoon, after life returned to normal, after Dean finished up his last jobs in Kansas City, after Castiel settled in to spending most of his time in Dallas, after Dean cut Castiel's back a handful more times to adjust and correct and perfect his wings, after the wounds had healed completely, Dean had brought Castiel into his studio for an art shoot.

"Um, ya think?" Charlie exclaimed.

They spent a day together, tying Castiel in different ways, making love, playing with toys, decorating Castiel's body, treating him like an objet d'art. The pauses during which Dean took photographs felt natural, a progressive flow that started soft and mild and culminated in Castiel's orgasm, eyes rolling back in his head, tears streaking his face, come pooling between his thighs and soaking in to the ropes that bound him. He'd felt loved. He'd felt whole. He'd felt free. He'd felt beautiful.

"Is that Castiel?" Castiel heard Gilda call faintly from the other end of the line. "Tell him he looks amazing!"

Dean showed Castiel the photographs before allowing anyone else to view them and asked Castiel's consent to share them with others.

It was the first time he saw his wings.

"Thank you."

Each image was more spectacular than the last. Dean was an excellent photographer and these were his best work. Castiel didn't hesitate to grant his permission for Dean to seek to exhibit the work. Castiel's back was a work of art and every binding framed the intricately carved, accentuated them, added to them, until Castiel looked in some shots as if he might fly in truth.

"How long have you guys been keeping this a secret?" Charlie asked.

Taking a chance, Dean submitted the images to Rolling Stone. They accepted. None of the explicit photographs would appear in the magazine, but a dozen shots were chosen in total, depicting Castiel in various states of undress, various states of bondage, various states of arousal.

"Almost six months," Castiel admitted. "Have you gotten your invitation yet?"

Dean saved the pornographic images for the gallery show featuring his work that was set to open next month. It was his first foray into the art world, Dean's first time accepting the possibility that his photographs were museum-worthy works of art, and Castiel thought it long over-due.

"Invitation?" Charlie squeaked excitedly.

Castiel was looking forward to attending the opening. Many of their friends had been invited. Many important clients of Dean's had been invited. Many representatives of modern art museums had been invited. Joshua had been invited. Castiel was nervous, but he was ready to come out of the shadows. His name had become known all over the country because of his supposed deviance, but Naomi and Adler and Alastair were behind bars and he and Dean were free. They were innocent. They were kinky but they hadn't done anything wrong. Almost everyone who knew Castiel knew what he'd been through, and he'd been shocked by how understanding people were, how many had shame-facedly confessed that sometimes, they liked to be tied up, or they enacted rape fantasies with their partners, or they got off to reading 50 Shades of Gray, or – or – or. Everyone, it seemed, was a little kinky, and after Castiel's public exposure he'd become a safe person to speak to about their dirty little secrets. It grew tiresome sometimes but it was also empowering. Somehow, he'd become a symbol for many people who'd always felt they were broken and deviant for enjoying non-standard sexual behavior. He'd become a symbol of sexual liberation and honesty, and most people he met appreciated him for it.

"I won't spoil the surprise."

Not everyone, but most people.

"Aw, come on!"

For the rest, Castiel still had Assistant District Attorney Fitzgerald on speed dial.

"I bet it'll come today," Castiel laughed. "If it doesn't, call me tonight and I'll explain, I promise."

He was still anxious sometimes, but he wasn't afraid any longer.

"Oh, fine." She was sticking out her tongue. She must be. No one could sound that petulant and not stick their tongue out.

The medicine helped, Dr. Ellicott helped, their friends and family helped, Dean helped.

"I gotta go."

Life wasn't perfect.

"Fine, fine, t-t-y-l, Cas."

No one's life was perfect.

"That Charlie?" Dean asked sleepily as Castiel tossed the phone aside and snuggled up once more.

Perfect was for fairy tales.

"Yeah," Castiel yawned and let his eyes slip shut.

With Dean, Castiel was happier than he'd ever dreamed of being, happier than he'd dared imagine he had any right to be.

"Love you, Cas," Dean murmured, half-asleep.

"I love you too, Dean."

Okay, maybe life was a little perfect.


ENDNOTES:

(reminder: if you want to see versions of stuff with links, etc., you should really come over to AO3 to read my stuff. Bonus, if you leave comments/reviews there, I can actually reply. As a general note, I'm growing increasingly frustrated with FF dot net as a posting platform for a variety of reasons not worth enumerating here. I'm tentatively planning to continue to post my WIP stories here but I'm seriously debating whether to continue to add new works to this account. For updates on this topic, follow me or check out my Tumblr, unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com)

Thing 1: I used Trulia to find an appropriate home for them, and modeled the one in the story off one of those.

Thing 2: True story, my uncle is a professor at the Texas A&M veterinary school. He hates College Station, and I do too. I've spent about six months of my life there, spread over multiple visits.

Thing 3: As always I don't know shit about actual legal proceedings. Sorry.

Thing 4: I was requested to include some images in this chapter like I'd done in some earlier chapters but I'm not going to be able to do so. I don't have the time to really look up appropriate stuff, and there's only a couple things I think it'd be appropriate to include as photographs anyway (…such as Dean's gallery shots, but where would I ever find something that specific?). However, I did find some examples of feather tattoos created with scarification tattoos. Take a peak at my tumblr for an example of what Castiel's back looks like (keeping in mind that Dean was working over existing scars, so Castiel's aren't quite this "clean," also I think the ones in these images were mostly branded, whereas Cas' are cut.)

Thing 5: Um, I tried to wrap everything up…did I miss anything? I'm willing to add a few more short time stampy scenes (like the ones throughout this last chapter) if y'all bring it up in the next few days but after that I'm calling this story done and moving on to other stuff. (I'll set a cut off of Sept 9th, 2016, sound fair? If I haven't heard your request for closure on some plot point by then, I'll call it finished and answer any questions folks have in short comment replies instead).

Thing 6: I have no idea what I'm going to be working on next; I've been putting together some plans regarding my original work. I can't go into detail on here without violating FFdotnet's Terms of Service so keep an eye on my Tumblr (again, that's unforth-ninawaters dot tumblr dot com) if you might be interested in having an opportunity to support me by reading my original work. I'm hoping to make this happen in the next couple weeks.

Thing 7: Thank you all so, so much for reading this and sticking with me. This is the second longest writing project I've ever completed, and it's been a slog for me at times. The feedback I've gotten from y'all has really kept me going. Without readers, I am not a writer. I don't know how to thank you all enough for your many kindnesses to me. Keep being awesome! *heart!*