Title: Tastes Like Forgiveness - 2/8
Summary: Season 7 Rewrite. After releasing Leviathan, Castiel is pulled from the reservoir fully human. With only the men he betrayed to rely on, Castiel does anything he can to redeem himself, especially to Dean.
Word Count: 4.000 this chapter
Spoilers: End of season 6, throughout season 7
Warnings: Spanking, CBT, humiliation, angst, everyone's mean to Cas, potential domestic abuse triggers
AN: I promised it would get worse. It does :D Also, I mentioned this is not a WIP. It is totally finished. So you may ask "Why not release it all at once?" The answer: Because I'm evil. See you next week!
"Suits, dress shirts and ties need to go to the drycleaners. Everything else gets washed. Whites get washed warm, colors get washed cold," Dean explained as patiently as he could to Castiel.
They were in a Laundromat with a duffel bag full of dirty clothes. They'd finished the hunt in Missouri with little trouble, and were readying themselves for their next hunt, in New Hampshire. Castiel's task was to wash the clothes while Dean dropped his and Sam's suits off at the dry cleaners.
"Do you think you can manage that?" Dean asked, looking doubtfully at Castiel.
Castiel nodded, even though he was leery. All this human stuff was so complicated and foreign to him, but he did not want to earn another scowl from Dean. He did not want Dean to decide he was useless and send him away. So even if he had no clue, he had to pretend he did and muddle through, hoping for good results.
Once Dean left, Castiel set about his task. He read and reread the directions on the washing machines, and the advice given on the bottle of laundry detergent. Finally quite certain of what to do, he opened the duffel bag and started sorting the clothes into two different machines, whites into ones, everything else into the other. He poured in the prescribed amount of detergent, selected the wash cycle, and started the wash. When the machines hummed to life, and nothing exploded, Castiel sighed with relief and sat in a rickety plastic chair.
Dean had told Castiel to return to the motel when he was finished with the laundry and wait for him there. Castiel was hoping desperately that Dean would not be back when he returned. He just needed a little more time to think.
But when he got back to the motel, he could see the Impala parked outside their door, and his heart leaped up into his throat, the start of panic rushing through his veins. He debated turning back, but quickly dismissed it, because he had nowhere else to go. He had to learn to be brave in his frail, human body, or else Dean would never have faith in him again. So he adjusted the duffel bag on his shoulder, filled with their clean laundry, and entered the motel room.
"About time," Dean said. He was sitting on the foot of the bed, looking bored, with the remote control for the TV in his hand. He shut it off and leveled his eyes on Castiel, and then narrowed them suspiciously. "What's wrong?" he demanded.
Castiel gulped, angry at himself for his guilt-ridden features. He needed to learn to hide his emotions better. Though in this situation, it wouldn't matter anyway. He sighed and put the duffel bag down on the bed, opened it, and then stood back, waiting for Dean's reaction.
Dean peered into the bag, and his face was instantly marred with a deep set scowl. He reached into the bag, past the beautifully, meticulously, wrinkle free folded flannel shirts and jeans, and pulled out one of his favorite white band t-shirts. One he didn't even wear on hunts because he didn't want it covered in grave dirt or blood. Now, it was a light, but very distinct, pink.
Dean glared at the shirt some more, his lips a firm, tight line across his face, and then he shoved it back into the bag.
"You really are useless, aren't you?" he said, not even bothering to look at Castiel.
"I'm sorry… some red boxers got in… I didn't know…" Castiel said, feeling the panic swelling further in his chest when Dean said the word 'useless.'
"You don't know anything. I have to teach you everything. You're like a child."
Castiel could feel himself nodding in agreement. Honestly, he would agree with anything Dean said to make him happy, but he also really did agree. He felt like a child, even though he was millions of years old, and knew so much. But nothing useful. Nothing that Dean needed.
"Maybe it was a mistake bringing you along," Dean said quietly, mostly to himself.
Castiel's panic swelled again, up into his throat. He felt like he was going to choke on it, like it was blocking out all of his air. He had to do something to quell it, to assuage the fear that brought it on.
"Please don't send me away. I won't make the mistake again. I'll learn. I'll be more careful. I promise," Castiel babbled, his words a rush from his mouth he couldn't control as he looked longingly at Dean, begging for a second chance.
"I'm not going to send you away," Dean said quietly, and the panic receded a little. "Who would take you anyway?" he added, and the insult stung a little, but not much. Castiel nodded again in agreement. Who would take him, indeed? Bobby had made it clear he wasn't wanted, and Castiel knew few other people. Being on his own was a thought he didn't even want to consider. He would likely get himself killed in some mortifyingly incompetent fashion that most humans had learned to avoid when they were small children.
"What am I supposed to do with this stuff?" Dean asked, gesturing to the pink clothes in the duffel bag, an assortment of socks, underwear and t-shirts.
"I will replace them. I can go to the store and buy more," Castiel offered.
"With my money. Some punishment that would be," Dean snorted.
"Punishment," Castiel murmured, thoughtfully. Most of what Dean asked him to do seemed like punishment, designed to humble and humiliate him. Why not take it one step further and make the act concrete? Perhaps it would help him relearn his place after he had so grossly overstepped his bounds.
"Perhaps you should punish me," Castiel offered, a little hesitant. Would it really be punishment if he was asking for it? Or was it just another burden to put on Dean, trying to force him to forgive.
"You want me to punish you?" Dean asked with a perplexed look on his face, almost a smile tugging at his lips, amused. Castiel didn't quite understand it, and while he longed to see Dean smile again, he felt unsure of this odd twist in his lips.
"It was common in Heaven if an angel failed in their mission."
"And how do they punish angels in Heaven?" Dean asked, his smile becoming curious.
Castiel swallowed, and hesitated. Naturally, there was really only one sort of punishment an adult could receive for correction. He was not a child to be put in a corner and denied his dessert, no matter how much he felt like one. So he had nothing left to do but tell Dean the sort of punishment he expected. He had promised himself not to hold back from Dean ever again. To answer any question asked, and only with the fullest truth.
"Pain," he finally answered softly.
Dean's mouth went flat and straight from Castiel's response, his eyes totally unreadable as he contemplated Castiel's words. "Does it work?" he finally asked.
"When I learned of Zachariah's plan to start the apocalypse, and tried to warn you, I was taken to Heaven for re-education," Castiel said, slowly, remembering what he had been subjected to while Sam and Dean protected his abandoned vessel. "You remember the results."
Dean nodded and kept his eyes on Castiel, considering him. His expression was smooth and thoughtful, and Castiel couldn't read his emotions. He wondered if Dean was considering hurting him, using pain to correct his mistakes. And as he thought that, he felt relief washing through him. If Dean would punish him, it meant he cared enough to keep him around.
"Go lie on the bed," Dean said, and the words startled Castiel with their suddenness, and the meaning of them that he couldn't understand. But he didn't need to understand. He just needed to obey, so he did, and climbed onto the bed, lying down on his back.
"No. On your stomach," Dean said, and Castiel obeyed again, turning over. He looked up at Dean, who was standing up over him, next to the bed, considering him again. Castiel shifted anxiously, and wondered what would happen next.
Dean sat down on the bed, next to Castiel's hip, making the bed dip to the side. Castiel had to brace himself so he wouldn't slide into the dip, into Dean's body.
"Loosen your pants," Dean said, another order, but one that made Castiel pause, wondering, looking up at Dean with questioning eyes. Dean glared at him, and barked the order again, impatient. Castiel obeyed quickly, reached under his hips, and undid the belt, the top button, and lowered the fly on his jeans. He waited for further instruction.
None came, but Dean touched him then, and Castiel almost jumped out of his skin as Dean laid a hand on the small of his back. Dean rarely touched him, and the last time had been to twist his arm almost out of its socket to teach him a lesson.
Castiel gasped when the next touch was Dean's other hand, slipping into the back of his pants, his fingers grazing his skin as they slid into his boxers as well, and then tugged the fabric down, the jeans and underwear together, in a rough, fast pull, leaving Castiel's ass exposed to the air.
"What-?" Castiel started, confused, pushing himself up on his elbows to question Dean's strange actions.
"Down," Dean said, and pushed hard on Castiel's back. His words, more than his hands, forced Castiel down, and he lay there, confused and anxious, as he felt the warmth of embarrassment spreading up his cheeks.
"You really are like a child, Cas. You're weak, you're new, your emotions are bare and raw, and you crave so much attention. Half of my day is spent worrying about you in one way or another. So this should be a fitting punishment."
Castiel was about to ask what Dean had in mind, but he soon didn't need to as Dean raised his hand and brought it down with a loud, resounding slap onto Castiel's exposed ass.
Castiel cried out in shock and surprise at the touch, and the pain, as it blossomed and spread throughout his backside. Instinctively he pushed up on his elbows, seeking escape, but Dean's hand on his back held him in place.
"Stay still," Dean said, and his voice held a warning that made Castiel go still instantly, freezing in anticipation and fear. He didn't need to wait long, as Dean's hand fell again, striking him just as hard. Another cry burst from Castiel's lips, before he bit it back, taking his bottom lip hard between his teeth, and bracing himself for the next blow.
Dean's hand fell again and again over his upturned cheeks, alternating between the two of them until Castiel felt that his entire back side was a hot, burning mess. Each smack left him wanting to cry out, thrash and buck against the pain. But he bit his lip hard, tasting copper on his tongue, and held himself still, as Dean had commanded.
After 20 strikes (Castiel couldn't help but count) Dean's hand came to a rest on Castiel's cheeks, rubbing them lightly, a striking contrast to the harshness of only moments ago. Castiel whimpered, the pain still throbbing through his cheeks even after the spanking had stopped.
"I didn't even hit you that hard," Dean said, his voice a reprimand. Castiel didn't notice Dean had been looking at him, but he realized it as Dean reached toward his face and wiped at his cheeks. His fingers came away wet, and Castiel was surprised. He hadn't realized he was crying.
"Go wash your face," Dean said, moving away from the bed. "We're heading out in 30 minutes."
Castiel nodded, and shakily sat up from the bed. He hissed with pain as he put weight on his butt, and stood up quickly, tugging his pants gingerly over his sore skin. The fabric of his boxers, well-worn cotton, felt like sandpaper, and with each step to the bathroom, he winced.
But more than the pain, the humiliation is what made him ache and regret his mistake. To be bared like a child, held down under Dean's greater strength, and then reduced to uncontrollable noises and tears. It really was a fitting punishment. One he would do his utmost to avoid again in the future.
In the week that followed Castiel's punishment, his every action was ruled, controlled, and careful. Every word from Dean's mouth was followed to the letter, with care. His guns were cleaned until they shone. The knives were sharp enough to split a hair. The Impala was kept tidy, inside and out. And when he was entrusted with the laundry again, a look of warning in Dean's eyes, Castiel was very, very certain that every scrap of cloth was in the appropriate pile, especially anything red.
Relief flooded through him, and it felt so good, it was almost like happiness. If he didn't think about it, he was almost certain it was. Dean still didn't smile when he did his job well, nor praise him. But it was enough not to earn his ire. It proved he was competent and useful.
Which is why when he made his second mistake, he had that much further to fall than before.
Dean was with Sam, canvassing the town they were in, disguised as FBI agents to find out information on the latest rash of mysterious deaths. Castiel's offer to help interview had been brushed off without a thought. But he had been given the task of getting dinner before the two hunters returned.
Castiel knew they would return to the motel at 7 o'clock, so he endeavored to get the food as close to that time as possible, so that it would still be warm. He had scouted the town earlier in the day and found a diner that offered take-away food that he knew Sam and Dean preferred. For Sam, he ordered a green salad with grilled chicken and dressing on the side. For Dean, the bacon burger with cheese was the obvious choice, plus fries, and extra ketchup in small plastic cups. Both men drank Coke like water.
Sam and Dean returned shortly after 7, and Castiel was pleased with his timing. He smiled at Sam as the man inspected his salad, but did not get one in return. Dean pulled out his burger and fries, and looked pleased, but then went searching in the bag again. His face fell with disappointment.
"Dude, where's the pie?"
"Pie?" Castiel parroted, and then panic swelled up inside him. Pie! How could he forget pie? Dean loved pie, and always, always berated Sam for forgetting pie, even when he hadn't asked for it. "I… I didn't know you wanted pie."
"I always want pie. Don't I always want pie, Sammy?" Dean turned to his brother for confirmation. Sam just nodded a little, as usual, taciturn in Castiel's presence, as though even speaking in front of him would be considered a sign of favor.
"I'm sorry. I'll get pie next time," Castiel said quickly. "I won't forget."
"Yeah. Don't make that mistake again," Dean said, and the word 'mistake' made a shiver go down Castiel's spine. He was relieved that Sam was in the room, because soon both men were engrossed in their dinner and discussing the hunt, Castiel completely forgotten.
It wasn't until well after 11 pm that both hunters started to yawn and droop in their stations. The interviews had been less than helpful, and they were waiting to hear back from Bobby about some books they didn't have. Soon, Sam resigned himself to his weariness, and retreated back to his motel room for sleep.
Castiel, too, was starting to feel sleepy, so he started getting ready for bed, reaching in his duffel bag to change his clothes for the night.
"Before you pass out," Dean said idly, not quite looking at Castiel, as he was leafing through the notes and research he had on the table. "Lie face down on the bed."
Castiel jerked up, ramrod straight at Dean's command, and looked warily at the bed, where just one week ago, he'd been laid out and punished under Dean's callused and heavy hand. He should have known Dean would be angry about the pie. Sam had stalled Dean from exacting his punishment, but hadn't cancelled it.
"I didn't know you wanted pie," Castiel said, after hesitating for a moment about arguing his case. There was a chance it would only make Dean angrier, to hear his protests, but there was a chance he could win him over with reason and spare himself the humiliation of an ass beaten cherry red.
"I didn't have to tell you I wanted a bacon burger. You remembered that well enough on your own. But you forgot the pie. You know I always want pie."
"I'll remember next time. I promise."
"I know you will, because I'm going to smack the memory of it into your backside. Now get on the bed."
Castiel could do nothing but nod. He approached the bed, loosening his belt and pants as he went, and tugged them down slightly, past the curve of his ass, before lying face-down on the bed, waiting for Dean to approach and dole out his punishment.
Dean sat down on the bed next to Castiel, making it dip again. Castiel turned his head away from Dean this time, staring at the wall as Dean reached for his pants, tugging them down a little further, adjusting them how he liked.
"I want you to count," Dean said as he laid one hand on the small of Castiel's back, and the other smoothed over the cheeks of his ass.
"Count?" Castiel questioned, confused by the request.
"Count how many times I smack your ass. If you lose count, I'll start again. Understand?"
"Yes," Castiel said, trying not to sound pitiful, and biting back the protests against his unfair punishment.
Castiel felt Dean raise his hand from his skin, felt the air thicken with anticipation, the fear knotting in his chest, and then Dean's hand fell, heavy in the center of his ass, striking both cheeks at once and sending a loud clap of flesh against flesh ringing through the room.
"One!" Castiel choked out quickly, once he recovered from the shock of the blow. He barely got it out though, before Dean's hand fell again, just as hard, focusing on his right cheek, and making Castiel shift to the left on instinct before choking out "Two!"
Dean's hand was slow and hard and steady for the first few smacks, but as Castiel rounded six and seven, the blows started coming faster, stinging heat into his flesh, forcing him to gasp out the numbers, stumbling on them in his haste not to fall behind.
As Castiel cried out twelve and thirteen, he felt like his skin was on fire, and each smack of Dean's hand was an explosion against his backside. Even with the hunter's hand firmly on his back, holding him down against his instinctive jerks, Castiel still writhed on the bed, his body seeking escape he couldn't control.
On seventeen and eighteen, Castiel felt hope filling him. Dean had stopped at twenty last time. He felt numb, though the pain sparked back to life at the instant of contact, and he knew from last week, that once the spanking stopped, the burn would continue, unrelenting, and make it difficult to sit in the Impala for hours on end without Sam noticing the way he squirmed.
Twenty was a broken sob, and for an instant, fear twisted in his gut that it wouldn't end, but then those seconds between smacks stretched out longer and longer, and Castiel let out a shaky breath of relief as Dean's hand lifted from his back.
"You going to forget the pie again?"
"Never!" Castiel promised, knowing he would hunt all over every town they visited to find Dean pie. He would buy Dean every pie in creation to keep him happy, to correct this mistake.
"Good. Then get off my bed," Dean said gruffly, giving Castiel a small shove.
Still a little shaky, and careful this time of sitting up, Castiel pushed himself onto his arms, and slid off the bed. He avoided putting weight on his butt, and stood quickly, clutching his pants and pulling them up carefully, hissing quietly as they slid over his cheeks. He walked gingerly to the bathroom, still holding his pants up, adjusting them slowly, so that Dean wouldn't see.
He'd felt the burn of Dean's smacks, felt the heat envelop him, consume him, override him with pain and shame. But what he hadn't expected to feel, was his senses going crazy, flipping in the extremity of the situation, and leaving the heat to funnel through to his groin, and consume him in an unexpected fashion.
Castiel palmed the hard cock in his shorts once he got into the bathroom and closed the door, confused and embarrassed by his reaction. He wanted to tell himself it was just the friction of rubbing against the bed, that his body had natural urges he had ignored and allowed to build up. But he wasn't so certain.
How could he have become so aroused while he was experiencing so much pain? He found his body confusing and contrary on the best of days, never quite doing what he wanted it to do, but this was stranger than most. All he could do was hope it was some strange fluke, perhaps remedied by a few extra minutes in the shower each day to stave off the pressure.
A problem arose when they arrived in a tiny town for a hunt. There was only one motel, and only one room available. Sam fumed, and there was a suggestion of someone sleeping in the Impala, but Castiel was glad when Dean stood his ground and ushered all three of them into the room, despite the tense and awkward silence.
Dean dropped his stuff on one of the two beds and then went back outside.
Castiel glanced at Sam for a moment, only to see that Sam was pointedly ignoring him as he unpacked his duffel bag. It was the first time they'd been alone in weeks, since Castiel had tried speaking to Sam in Bobby's library.
He felt words in his throat, but quickly reminded himself of his own rule not to speak to Sam until he could make amends, and also started fiddling with his duffel bag.
Dean returned a few minutes later with a rolled up sleeping bag and shoved it into Castiel's arms. It smelled moldy and forgotten, and he wondered where it had come from, since he had never seen it before. He didn't want to think about where Dean usually shoved it in the Impala to leave it smelling so bad. Still, he unrolled it on the floor, struggled with the zipper to get it open, and then left it there, hoping it would air out before he had to crawl inside.
Sam went to bed early, surely a subtle sign of his disapproval with the sleeping arrangements. Dean stayed up awhile longer, surfing websites and slowly nursing a beer. Castiel lay stretched out on his stomach, reading a book, on top of the sleeping bag.
"You look good there," Dean said, glancing over at Castiel.
Castiel looked up at Dean from his book, confusion marring his features. "What do you mean?"
"You look good, on the floor, at the foot of my bed," Dean said more clearly. "It suits you."
Castiel felt the old anger rising up inside him that he hadn't felt for some weeks. Dean comparing him to a dog, sleeping humbly at his master's feet, seemed appropriate. He only wished he was a dog. Those beasts seemed to please their masters so easily, while Castiel could not.
"Maybe I ought to make you sleep there, even when Sam has his own room."
Castiel lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut, holding back the anger and frustration Dean's words were invoking. He knew that Dean was trying to provoke him, to get some sort of angered response, to see how far he could push.
"Or do you think you deserve to sleep on a bed?" Dean asked, and from the weighted silence, Castiel knew Dean actually wanted an answer, but he had to choose his words carefully.
"I don't think I deserve anything," Castiel said, finally looking up at Dean again. He hoped Dean would understand the double meaning of his words, the rebellious nature of them, but also feared he would, and that some punishment would be meted out for his daring.
"Good. Tomorrow, take your sleeping bag to the Laundromat. It's stinking up the whole room."