Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1646669.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M, Multi
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester
  Character:
      Castiel_(Supernatural), Dean_Winchester, Sam_Winchester, Gabriel_
      (Supernatural), Michael_(Supernatural), Mary_Winchester, Naomi_
      (Supernatural), Lucifer_(Supernatural), Balthazar_(Supernatural),
      Crowley, Crowley_(Supernatural), Meg_Masters
  Additional Tags:
      Destiel_-_Freeform, Forced_Prostitution, Rape/Non-con_Elements,
      Kidnapping, Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-_Prostitution, Beta
      Wanted
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-17 Updated: 2014-10-22 Chapters: 5/? Words: 18035
****** Song of the Seraphim ******
by J3_(CaseMatthews)
Summary
     When his village is burnt to the ground, Castiel is taken to the
     Capital to become a Seraphim; the most prestigious, beautiful people
     money can buy.
     Dean watched as Castiel was taken, and he vows to find the Novak boy,
     no matter what it takes. No matter where it leads him.
     Explicit in later chapters.
Notes
     I actually quite like this story, and would love people's ideas on
     where it could go. I should be continuing others, but this was
     ingrained in my head and had to come out, so here it is.
     Song for this fic: Lewis Watson - Stay
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Do I Stay Or Do I Go? *****
Four years ago…
“Castiel!”
Dean.
Castiel's already smiling when he looks up, abandoning the book propped up
steady on his lap. And sure enough, the eldest Winchester comes bounding
towards him across the field spanning the decent distance from the village and
the forest, Gabriel’s new soccer ball (the one Anna reluctantly bought him as
down-payment for a batch of her big-brother's honoured almond laced cookies)
balanced skilfully between his feet. He closes the distance in no time at all,
and in seconds he’s stood bare metres away, hunched over himself in attempt to
catch his breath. Castiel grins up smugly at a red faced Dean.
“Yo, Cas, come play with me,” he heaves, standing up with apparent effort,
balancing a hand against his back like an old man. And even playing by himself,
he’s impossibly managed to gain two new rips in the knees of his jeans, grass
stained and muddy. Mary’s definitely going to kill him. “You can’t stay here
all day, dude.”
“I’m pretty sure I can,” Castiel says happily, shielding his eyes casually from
the afternoon sun. “It’s hot, I’m not galloping around like an animal just to
get all sweaty and gross.”
“You calling me an animal, pipsqueak?”
And in just about two seconds flat, Dean’s on him, sweat damp t-shirt crushed
against Castiel's clean button-down, wrestling him away from the safety of the
tree against his back and shoving him haphazardly straight into the dirt.
Castiel, caught unawares, whines at the total unfairness of the attack and
thumps a few fists at Dean’s chest, the attempt turning futile when the older
boy pins him down with little to no effort whatsoever. He'll deny it to his
early grave, but it makes Castiel’s heart race at the notion.
“For goodness sake, Dean, get off!”
Dean grins that grin and catches both of Castiel's flailing wrists in one hand
before locking them on the ground above his head, keeping him completely
flushed and stuck to the dirt with his hips nestled stubbornly against his
stomach. Castiel huffs.
"Problem?" he asks in completely fake sincerity. "Aw, come on, Cas, you can do
better than that, buddy." Patronising ass. He lowers his perfectly free hand to
Castiel's shirt and tugs it lower to cover his stomach from where it ruched up
in the struggle, his perfect fingers brushing against the flushed skin. Castiel
shivers at the touch and rolls his eyes. "Besides, I'm just a mindless animal,
right? Well, I got news for you kiddo," he leans in close, Castiel can feel his
breath brush his ear, "Animals don't play nice. We play dirty."
His hips flex over Castiel's and bullshit if the bastard doesn't know exactly
what he's doing.
“Dean,” he growls, wiggling somewhat halfheartedly in the eighteen year old's
iron grip. Dean doesn’t even move an inch, just leers over at Castiel and
grins. “Seriously, Dean, get the hell off," he takes a glance over at his
discarded, now closed book and snarls, "Damnit, I lost the page now, for
Christ's sake, I'm reading it for school-"
Dean feigns surprise and claps a hand over Castiel's mouth. It's warm and
strong, slightly damp from the running, but perfect all the same. “Oh my
goodness, Castiel! Whatever shall we do?” He lets go of Castiel’s hands, moves
from him completely but sits all his weight back on Castiel’s pelvis, earning
himself a strained, whine-type noise. He laughs at at his own joke. “You talk
weird, dude, anyone ever tell you that?”
“You, actually,” Castiel grumbles. “All the time.”
“Yo, Dean! Quit molesting my brother, will ya?”
They both turn around at the new voice and meet Gabriel, waltzing towards them,
still dressed in his work apron. Castiel wonders why he even leaves the bakery
wearing the thing, if all anyone’s going to do is mock him for it. Dean himself
certainly can’t hold his taunts back,
“No offence, baker-boy, but I think baby Cassy here is a little young for me,
whatever you might wish for us,” Dean turns his grin back to Castiel and, if
it’s even possible, it grows. He winks when he says, “Right, Cas?”
Castiel feels his cheeks brighten and his crotch tighten against Dean. He
scowls and this time shouts it, “Get off!”
But Dean just keeps on smiling and leans back against Castiel’s bent up knees,
relaxing himself. Castiel wants to sob.
“Touchy, touchy, kiddo,” he mutters, and winks again.
“You’re a cruel man, Winchester,” Castiel’s brother says, plonking himself down
on the only grass patch near them.
“So I’ve been told.”
“Asshole,” Castiel grumbles, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. The two
older boys laugh at him, then look at each other, then dive in perfect unison
towards Castiel, aiming straight for his sides and armpits. Fingers gouge into
his flesh, digging at the sensitive parts until Castiel’s left a squirming,
giggling little thirteen year old kid on the floor, pinned beneath his brother
and his brother’s best friend. He feels like a moron, but he’s defenceless
against their insistent attack. He laughs because it tickles, not because he
finds it anywhere near funny.
Castiel sees his eldest brother before he hears him, and he pushes at the hands
on his body.
Michael’s running towards them with a stern expression, Sam latched onto his
back with tear streaked eyes.
“Get off, get off!” Castiel cries, shoving harshly at their hands, and they
seem to realise he’s completely serious, because they let up enough for Castiel
to wriggle out from under them and stand on unsteady feet.
“Go!” Michael’s shouting, and they can only just hear him from the distance
between them all, but they don’t move. He keeps shouting it, a rhythm of
warning as he gains on them, Sam bouncing on his back, his own sobs heightening
in volume. “Go, run, go, go!”
“Sammy?” Dean says, standing beside Castiel now, vast inches above him. His
face pinches in concern.
By the time Michael reaches them, they begin to see the smoke. It starts as a
short pillar, reaching above the squat buildings of their village and drifting
calmly into the smooth blue sky, almost like the small bonfire they set on
November 5th. But then more pillars join the first and it begins to meet in the
air, creating a sort of blanket over their little town. Castiel feels his heart
begin to race just as Michael meets them.
“What did I say?” he shouts, but no one moves. Castiel feels Gabriel and Dean’s
eyes rise with his and narrow in on the black plumes. Sam drops to the ground
beside them and throws himself at Dean, nuzzling into his stomach, his fingers
making permanent indents into his shirt. Only then does Dean seem to snap out
of it, and he drops to the floor on his knees to look into Sam’s eyes.
Castiel looks to Michael.
“What’s happening?” he whispers.
“We need to run,” Michael says, fingers sweeping over his hair, spinning on the
spot as he thinks. “We can go to the next village, though it might already be
taken. We could hide out in the forest until they leave, it’s summer we’ll be
warm enough for the time being and I bet we could find fruit and animals to
live off for a little while…”
“Michael!” Gabriel says, grabbing onto their brothers shoulders and holding him
still. “What is happening?”
Michael looks sternly down the few inches he has on him at Gabriel. “The
village is under siege. You see the smoke? Everything’s on fire, our homes, our
shops, your precious bakery. The people out alive will be taken away and the
ones still inside are dead. Do you hear me, Gabriel? People are dead.”
The air is still for a few tense moments, only punctured by Sam’s sobs. No one
moves though, except for Dean’s hand running rhythmically over Sam’s messy
hair, soothing those racking noises. The others apparently can’t find it in
themselves to cry. It happened too quickly for anything like that, and they all
just stare, in a daze, at the thick and rising cover of darkness in the high-
sun sky.
“We need to move.” It’s Michael that speaks first, already shoving forwards
with his hands on Gabriel and Castiel’s shoulders. They move without thinking
about it.
“What about our families?” Dean asks. Of course it’s Dean.
“They’re gone,” Michael says, without stopping, and only when he realises the
Winchesters haven’t moved an inch, does he turn begrudgingly back. He levels a
look at Dean. “There’s nothing you can do now, Dean. If they’re alive, they’re
alive, if not, then they don’t have to endure watching their homes burn down.”
He sighs when he sees Sam’s face. “The last I saw of Mary, she was in the
bakery, okay? She’ll have gotten out, I promise. Your mom’s fine. But right
now, Sam is your biggest concern. You want him to live, don’t you?” Dean nods
numbly. “Of course you do. And you know what happens when villagers are taken
by the capital, right?” Another nod. “Right. So we need to go. Now.”
All five of them move forward with a robotic strength, Michael a sturdy
presence between Gabriel and Castiel, a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. Dean moves
with Sam’s hand in his, whispering soft reassurances as they gain on the woods.
It’s not too far, they could get there easily if…
“Look, there’s more over here!”
All five heads swing round and see three men, dressed in the uniform blue of
the capital, begin to leg it directly towards them. Castiel doesn’t think he’s
ever run so hard in his life. Michael drags him along with his fingers tucked
into Castiel’s shirt, Castiel sees Dean haul Sam into a piggy back carry and
they all run at the same terrified speed towards the forest.
Then Michael’s hand leaves Castiel’s shoulder to concentrate further on running
and seeking out somewhere to hide. Castiel feels his face pull into a
determined pout as he pumps at his legs, keeping speed with the older boys as
they move like water from their impending fates.
And of course, because everything always tends to be messed up by Castiel, it’s
Castiel who ruins it for them. He’s moving faster than his thirteen year old
body should let him, his legs are a blur beneath him, he doesn’t know where
he’s going, and he trips on a branch. He feels himself falling and he’s
helpless to stop it. And when his head connects with the ground, he doesn’t cry
out, because he can’t. He can’t, because his mouth tastes like blood and his
eyes won’t focus and he doesn’t know what’s happening. It isn’t until he pulls
his head to move on his suddenly tender neck, catches three figures
disappearing into the woods, feels rough hands at his back and something cold
and hard close over both his wrists that he realises they left him behind. They
left him. And now, they have him.
----
“We can’t leave him!”
Michael’s hand is a root on Dean’s wrist, so tight and unyielding, Dean’s
afraid his hand might pop off if he squeezes any tighter. He doesn’t care. He
would run with four bloody stumps to get to Castiel, rather than leave him on
his own to fend for himself with those brutes. Castiel, the kid; Castiel, the
dorky little brother of his best friend, the one that reads too much and has a
total crush on him. The one too goddamn innocent and naïve to hack it in the
world of the Capital. And Dean won’t let him, not alone.
“Dean,” Michael hisses, adding an extra hand into the equation. The fucking
welder has power over Dean that he’s never witnessed before, but with those
hands enclosed over his body, he can feel it. And it dawns on him that he isn’t
going anywhere. Castiel is, Castiel the kid is about to become some posh
bastards slave and his own brother doesn’t even give a shit. “Shut up.”
Fuck that. Dean will not shut up, let them find him, let them come, he’ll kill
them all. Kill them all for ever laying a hand on Cas-
A hand clamps down over his mouth and it takes a second for Dean to register
who it is. Gabriel. Fucking Gabriel, big brother of the year, is just sitting
there as his brother gets hauled off to some whorehouse. He’s thirteen for
god’s sake, one freaking year older than little Sammy.
“He’s your brother,” he sobs, but his voice is muffled. He thinks Gabriel can
hear him anyway, by the look suddenly taking over his stubborn face, flitting
into something raw and guilty, but only for a second until Michael eyes him.
“You don’t think we know that, Dean?” Michael sighs, already subdued to the
matter, even though if he looked behind Dean, behind the huge oak they’re
cowering behind, they could see an incoherent, wailing Castiel being dragged
off by the capital bastards. Dean finds it ironic that now he’s the one pinned
helplessly when not even ten minutes earlier, Castiel was fragile beneath him.
He feels guilty for teasing him on purpose, reveling in flushing his cheeks. He
misses the kid already. “We practically raised him, Dean, don’t you dare get
all high and mighty with us. He’s alive, and it’s all we can to hope he stays
that way. But right now, I need to ensure Gabriel, Sam and you are all safe and
away, so then at least someone from our village is still alive and free,
alright?”
It’s not alright, not at all, not one tiny ounce of anything that’s happening
is alright. But Dean nods because, right now, there’s nothing he can do. If he
tries to run, Michael will keep him back and he can’t leave Sammy alone, not
right now. If he screams, tells them where they are, they’ll all be taken and
Sam would be taken away from him. Michaels’ right with one thing; Sam needs to
be safe. But as for everything else, Michael can go fuck himself.
When Gabriel’s hand leaves his mouth slowly and tentatively, Dean jerks his
head away and snarls at him. Fucking traitor. If it were Sam out there, Dean’d
right beside him all the way. Because that’s what brothers do. And if Castiel’s
are complete bastards, then it’s up to Dean.
“I’ll find him. Hear me now, you pathetic pieces of shit, I will find him.” And
Dean will. However long it takes, whatever it takes, Dean will find him.
Gabriel blinks. “I know, Dean. I hope you do.”
“Ah, leave ‘em. We got one, right?” The capital accent drifts from across the
yard. “Pretty little thing he is, too. How much d’you reckon we can flog him
for, huh? Two hundred, three? Bet Naomi’d pay a pretty penny for him, eyes like
the ocean, he has. Make a fortune as a seraphim.”
A seraphim. They’re gonna sell sweet little Castiel off as a prostitute. Dean
hunches over and throws up the rest of his apple pie.
No matter what it takes, Castiel, he vows, closing his eyes. I’ll save you.
----
Seraphim.
Castiel’s heard the term before, but he doesn’t know what it entails. He tries
to think, tries to remember as they haul him to his feet and leverage him
there, trudging off towards the burnt remains of his home. He lets them take
the brunt, doesn’t even try to fight, just lets his trainers drag on the floor
because he doesn’t care, not now. Dean doesn’t care, his brothers don’t care,
why the hell should he? Castiel will be dragged off to the capital and Michael
was so adamant to take Dean along and keep Sam safe, he forgot about his own
brother. And Castiel doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what capital people do to
villagers, but he figures it has something to do with the seraphim. God, he
wishes he remembers what that was.
The village is charred. There’s no other word for it, besides ruined or maybe
dead. Castiel recognises his favourite buildings only because after thirteen
years in this place, he could navigate blindfolded; he certainly can’t tell
from the blackened woodwork.
He’s dragged into a clearing, one filled with about half of his people, all
kneeled down, hands propped on their heads. He’s shoved down beside them and
looks up just in time to see a gun trained to his face. He doesn’t even care.
“Castiel,” he hears, murmured from maybe a few metres away. He looks up and
around, focusing his swimming eyes to a tall figure, blonde hair, familiar, ice
blue eyes.
Lucifer.
Why the hell is his brother back?
Castiel feels a boot collide with his back and he’s pushed forwards with a
heavy grunt. He lands, sprawled on the ashy dry ground, splayed for the rest of
his people and these others to see, hands still tight behind his back in the
cuffs. He looks pathetic, he knows. He doesn’t care.
“You know this one?” the voice, another voice from back at the field, asks,
toeing the rubber of his sole against Castiel’s calf.
Castiel looks up, meets his mother’s inherited eyes, his father’s inherited
hair and squints at his big brother. The same big brother that should be away
in the military, that shouldn’t be back here because he made his choice and now
he’s not allowed. Castiel was sad to see him go. He’s relieved to see him back.
But then the blue, immaculate uniform floats into view and everything else
slots into place.
“Lucifer?” Castiel asks, pulling his heavy legs back under him, rising to meet
with his brother. Right now, Castiel knows what Lucifer has done, he doesn’t
know why, but that doesn’t matter. Lucifer is Castiel’s brother, and even if
Michael and Gabriel don’t care, Lucifer will. Lucifer used to dote on Castiel
like a son, he would never do anything except…
“No.”
“You don’t know him? You sure? He seems to know you, Lucifer.” Castiel didn’t
notice it before, but he does now. His brother’s stone expression, the man’s
teasing voice, the tenseness surrounding him. Castiel stares up with pleading
eyes.
“Luce…please, please, they’ll take me away, you have to help me,” Castiel
cries, the tears finally leaking his cheeks, he crawls forward on his knees and
nuzzles at his brothers feet like a child, but he doesn’t care. He needs
Lucifer, he needs him. He’ll die without him, he knows. But Lucifer doesn’t
move.
“Luce, eh?” the voice says, and Lucifer’s eyes leave Castiel to focus on the
holder of the voice. His eyes narrow. “How quaint, boys, huh?”
An echo of laughter sounds, but Castiel doesn’t see it happen. He buries his
face into Lucifer’s stark, pressed military trousers. And when Lucifer begins
to bend, when his knee starts to make its way towards Castiel, Castiel darts
back to meet with those eyes again, the same eyes he hasn’t met for years.
They’re colder than he remembers.
“Listen,” Lucifer hisses, his hand coming up and clutching Castiel’s chin,
clawed into his flesh painfully as his nose moves to a millimetre away. “You do
not address me, do you understand? You are nothing to me, you pathetic little
sap.” Castiel stops breathing. “You will not look into my eyes and you do not
speak to me, do I make myself clear?”
“Lucifer…” Castiel voice is barely even a whisper, but he’s thrown straight
into the hard ground anyway. He doesn’t look up when he sees the shadow above
him and he wants to cover his face with his hands but he can’t.
“What did I just say?”
“You bastard.”
Castiel doesn’t look up at the voice, but he knows who it belongs to. Mary
Winchester, surrogate mother to every single one of the Novak children, stands
up for any one of them, in the right or in the wrong. She stood beside Lucifer,
when he decided he was leaving for the capital army, even when her own husband
was so opposed to it. She helped Michael raise Castiel and Anna, helped Castiel
start to walk when his mother died and his father ran. She taught Anna how to
be a woman. She’s the mother to Dean.
“What did you just say to him?” The sarcastic voice says, and Castiel hears
footsteps move away from him and gain on someone to his left. He should speak
up and distract them, but Lucifer’s shadow is still pinning him to the floor,
so he doesn’t move even an inch.
“He’s your brother, Lucifer! Look at him. He’s terrified and alone, he needs
you. Please don’t do-”
Her voice is cut off with a scurry of motion and people around cry out. A
choking sound moves through the small crowd and finally, the shadow moves and
Castiel is free again. He doesn’t move.
“Prove to us, once and for all, Lucifer Novak, that you are no longer a member
of this little shithole. You prove to us, right here, right now, that you
belong. Kill this bitch, boy.”
Castiel hears a gun click, hears a few timid whispers, feels a soft hand on his
shoulder, but he doesn’t react. He should leap into action, be the hero, save
the life of the most important woman he’s ever met, but he doesn’t. He stays on
the ground with the nice hand stroking over him and listens to his own brother
kill her. He doesn’t even cry.
Everything else that happens in the next few minutes goes by in a blur. Castiel
feels the soft pressure rip from his skin, along with the metallic cuffs, feels
strong hands drag him up and away, but he doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t look
for Anna, he doesn’t watch as Mary’s blood drains from her body, doesn’t see
Lucifer’s face when he drags him to the van. He climbs in the back and crawls
to the corner, but he doesn’t look who else is in there with him. He feels a
few presences, but then the doors close and someone hits the metal wall, and
they’re off.
About twenty minutes in, he smells Anna’s perfume and feels her nudge up beside
him. Ten minutes after that, they’re so close to each other they could be
inside one another, nuzzled into the others skin and staying there, happy and
finally calm.
“Are Gabriel and Michael alive?” he hears her ask.
He nods. “They left me.”
“Shshsh, Castiel,” she coos, pulling his head into her chest. It’s only then he
realises his eyes are watering, but he’s not crying. He doesn’t have it in him
to cry, not now. “It’s okay. We’re together.”
They drive on for what feels like days, and when the van pulls up and the doors
open with a loud and distracting groan, it’s night outside. And then the navy
sky is obscured by a woman in a pantsuit, hands behind her back, sharp eyes
narrowing on the children in the back of the van. Anna pulls Castiel closer.
“Nice little collection, don’t you think Naomi?” One of the uniforms say.
Pantsuit lady clicks her tongue and points into the van bed, eyes slanted and
considering. It takes Castiel a few more seconds and Anna’s surprised hiss to
realise she’s pointing at him.
“That one, blue eyes, black hair. But that’s it, you can take the others.” She
shakes her head at him and tuts again, beckoning with her hand. “Come on, boy,
we don’t have all day.”
In the end it takes two guards to pry Anna off of him and another just to get
him out of the car. He notices idly that it isn’t Lucifer. And when the van
turns into two dots of scarlet tint the darkness, Castiel realises just how
numb he is. And just how screwed.
***** Welcome to Paradise *****
Chapter Notes
     I wrote this whole thing in one day in the middle of exam month.
     Awesome.
     Follow me on tumblr--- http://one-life-should-be-enough.tumblr.com/
Now
Castiel can’t remember the last time he woke up having not dreamt about the
village.
Or, more like, what was left of the village. More times than one, he’d find
himself wondering what had happened to his brothers, whether they’re still
alive, if Dean’s still with them or if he split off with Sammy. Castiel wonders
how Sam’s fairing as a teenager. Sam was - and probably still is - a very smart
kid. Castiel would love to have a real conversation with him, now they’re both
closer to adults and no longer pre-pubescent.
But Castiel, no matter the ache in his chest for his best friends and brothers,
would die if they saw him like this. They teased him before, for being clean
and tidy, for liking his clothes to look neat. They’d simply howl at what he’s
become, what he was made to turn into. He’s a Barbie doll now, nothing more
than a Ken with smooth skin and soft muscles, perfect hair and even brighter
blue eyes. He’s unnaturally good-looking, he knows now. He’s a statue of the
ideal man; the ideal teenager, and people pay for him to look good and be good.
And he’s spent enough years as a seraph to know that.
He’ll be eighteen in a few months.
He’ll be pawned off to the highest bidder for his virginity, and he’ll be a
real seraphim. He supposes the idea is supposed to make him feel good, to spur
him on, but he’s dreading it. Balthazar once said his first time hurt “like a
fucking bitch”, and now Castiel can’t rid the notion. He hopes his winner is
kind to him. He hopes he’s not like Crowley. Sometimes, he wonders if he might
be lucky enough to get a woman, someone soft and sweet, but even if they
weren’t, they couldn’t enter him, which meant it couldn’t hurt. Meg says there
are still ways, but Castiel doesn’t believe her. Meg just likes to tease
because she’s Meg. She enjoys watching Castiel squirm.
Castiel lies in bed and waits for the inevitable knock at the door at precisely
seven o’clock. He watches the hands tick by on the clock on his wall, counts
down like he does every morning, and when the big hand touches down on twelve,
Castiel hears the knock and rises. He pulls on the robe beside the bed (“royal
blue, matches your skin, handsome,” Meg said), pushes his feet into his
slippers and straightens his back before gliding to the door. If he’s caught
skulking around, he’d get beaten, so he forces himself completely upright and
moves with practiced grace towards the dining hall. He slides the door shut
behind him.
Strawberries and blueberries with goat’s yoghurt and granola.
If Dean saw him now, he’d never live it down…
It’s one of those days, apparently. The kind of day when he’s buried deep in
his own head and he forgets where he is and he slouches and he backtalk’s. He
can already feel the lick of bamboo on his thighs.
“Good morning, Clarence,” Meg says, sliding into the seat beside him, her hand
taking its resigned place high up on his thigh. Apparently, it’s her life
mission to turn him on before he’s officially been with someone else, and it’s
too late for her to play these games with him. But Castiel has not ever
experienced an orgasm, nor does he plan to. Apparently, as a seraphim, one
hopes to reach that point, hopes the man or woman they’re with allows them that
relief, but Castiel can’t find it in himself to care. He just hopes it doesn’t
hurt and that they’re quick about it.
Dean once asked him if he’d ever “jacked off” before. Castiel had blushed and
leapt up to run away, but Dean had grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down
beside him. He convinced him it was a normal thing to talk about, especially
between guys, and Castiel believed him. He’d also confided that, no, he’d never
had occasion to. He’d only been twelve, after all, what did he have to orgasm
to? Castiel knew, but he wouldn’t tell Dean. So he lied through his teeth and
said he didn’t find anyone in the village attractive enough to picture. And he
didn’t like the idea of using Gabriel’s laptop for that sort of thing.
Dean had laughed and brushed it off, but Castiel had kept thinking. And at the
end of his pondering period, he’d decided one thing; he would wait for Dean. It
was stupid and naïve, he knows that all the better now, but back then, he
didn’t have much of a libido to speak of, so he figured he could wait. He would
wait for the man he loved. How ignorant he was. Dean didn’t care, and now Dean
still doesn’t care, so why should he save himself? Well, it’s not exactly like
he has a choice now anyway…
“Oh, Clarence?”
Castiel turns to Meg and replaces the spoon back in the bowl. It had been
hovering in mid-air for God only knows how long, and oh, it will definitely be
one of those days. Fantastic.
“Yes, Meg?” he asks, taking in a breath and starting back on his breakfast. If
he doesn’t finish it all, they would reign the Spanish inquisition down on him,
and right now he doesn’t have the patience.
Her hand begins stroking along the silk fabric, brushing it softly out the way
to stretch her skin towards his own, but she doesn’t go all the way. She never
does. She’s not allowed. It’s just one more teasing ritual that Castiel has
learned to simply go along with.
“You seem distracted. Something wrong?” Up and up they travel, just skimming
the line of his sleeping shorts, then gliding back down to his knee. Castiel
feels safer in the fact that if they get caught, he won’t be the one being
chastised. If Naomi catches Meg attempting to force Castiel erect, she will be
mad, but Castiel doesn’t want to see Meg be punished. If forced to, he might
call her his friend, if he had any here. At least she speaks to him, roaming
fingertips or not.
“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m fine, thank you.” The words come out from years of
practice, and Castiel knows Meg can tell that. He watches as she quirks an
eyebrow.
“Will you tell me the truth, angel, hmm?” Past the shorts now, skimming his
crotch. It’s a game that Castiel usually ends, but right now, he’s too out of
it to even register the feather light touches over the silk-thin robe, over his
penis. It’s not making any difference to his arousal.
“I was just remembering my old life,” he sighs, and Meg already knows that.
Castiel doesn’t go all daze-eyed if he’s thinking about anything else. “My old
friends, my family. I would like to know how they are, is all.”
“The same friends and brothers who left you behind? I thought you hated them?”
Meg steals a blueberry from the yoghurt and pops it into her mouth.
Castiel has said that, and then some, especially when he first arrived. And
sometimes, if things get bad, or if he gets punished, he does hate them. He
curses Michael that he cared so much about the precious little Winchesters, but
when his own brother was in need, he kept running and didn’t look back. He
hates Gabriel for being such good friends with Dean and lying that no matter
what happened, he would take care of Castiel, of his baby brother. Castiel
can’t stand that Dean will never get to see him now, that he’ll always know
Castiel as the dorky little kid he had to hang around with because he was the
brother of his best friend. And Castiel can’t stand how jealous he is that Sam
has a brother like Dean, one who cares and who would do just about anything for
him. Castiel can’t even think of Lucifer.
Castiel wants Dean, he wants Anna, he wants a lot of things. He knows it’s
dumb, but he was raised as a free man. It’ll take a while for his desires to
fully abate, and at least Meg understands that.
“I don’t know,” he replies honestly. The hand disappears altogether and Castiel
kind of misses it. It was a comfort he doesn’t deserve, but it was nice, warm.
Rare.
“I get it, baby, I do,” she croons, leaning her face in to nuzzle along his
neck. Castiel feels a few pairs of bright eyes on them, and he doesn’t want Meg
to get into trouble, so he says,
“Meg, you shouldn’t do that.”
She laughs and licks a long stripe all along his jawline to the lobe of his
ear. “Let them try and stop me.” But she pulls back anyway.
“So, what’s your plan for today?” she asks, as if none of it ever happened.
Castiel sighs.
“I’m not sure. I think Crowley said something about a private lesson, but that
was a while ago. He might have forgotten.”
Meg scoffs. “Crowley doesn’t forget, sweetheart.”
“What does he mean by a private lesson?”
“With Crowley?” Meg asks, and Castiel nods. “Probably not something you’re
gonna like, pretty boy. But, you’ll need to know it, so I guess it’s for the
best.”
When she moves to stand up and leave, Castiel grabs at her arm and clutches at
the leather there.
“What does it mean?” he asks, suddenly nervous. He’s never been alone with
Crowley before, and although he doesn’t like the man, he’s never been very
afraid of him. Until now, of course. He blinks up and feels his heart meet his
throat.
“You know that’s not my place, kiddo,” she strokes the hand not currently held
in Castiel’s along his cheek. “I’m just here to make sure you eat your greens.”
And with that, she’s gone.
Castiel finishes his breakfast, takes the bowl to the counter, downs his daily
glass of orange juice and scuttles off to his room to hide out. He doesn’t want
to find out Crowley’s plan for him, and although this is probably the first
place they’ll look, he feels almost safe here. But he’s not safe. He’s not safe
anywhere, it doesn’t matter who it is teaching him, or who babysits him, or who
takes him. He could run to Antarctica and still they would find him. He’s
screwed, in more ways than one.
When the knock on the door sounds not even an hour later, Castiel jumps out of
his skin.
“Castiel?”
Crowley. Damn it.
“Yes?” he asks, tentatively, like he’s been taught. It’s more instinct now,
rather instantly obeying.
The door slides back and reveals the man in his black suit, one hand in his
pocket, the other still on the doors edge. He smiles and Castiel nods his own
greeting.
“Good morning, little Castiel,” he says, in his British accent, folding his
arms and leaning on the doors frame.
“Good morning, sir,” Castiel replies. He rises off the bed and sinks neatly and
swiftly to his knees, allowing one shoulder of his robes to slide slightly and
reveal a patch of clean, porcelain skin. It’s demure and so well practiced,
Castiel shouldn’t feel bad about doing it. But he does. He really does.
Crowley gives a slow, patronizing round of applause, whistling lowly as he
takes Castiel in.
“Been practicing, have we?”
“Of course, sir,” Castiel agrees, bowing his head to show off his neck, to
reveal just a hint of his tattoo at the collar. Crowley chuckles.
“You’re going to earn us a pretty little fortune, aren’t you, angel?”
Castiel doesn’t answer, he just stays stock still as he feels Crowley’s eyes
rake his body.
“I’m sure you remember our little discussion last week?” Castiel nods. “And you
know we only have two months until your debut date?” Another nod. “Well, then
up, we have work to do.”
Castiel rises with the same amount of ease as he did to sink, seconds away from
following Crowley like the good little puppy he is, but stops and looks back at
his wardrobe.
“Uh, sir?”
Crowley pauses and looks back with one quirked eyebrow.
“Should I, uh, get dressed?”
Crowley appears as though he’s about to laugh, but he seems to notice the look
on Castiel’s face as a completely serious one and stops himself. He sighs and
Castiel frowns in confusion.
“You are an innocent being, aren’t you?” he says. “Castiel, this kind of
education will not require clothes.” Oh. Oh. Castiel feels the blood drain from
his face. “Now come along. No, keep the robe on, we can dispense of that in the
other room.”
‘The other room’ turns out to be a room Castiel has never set foot in. They
walk for a while, through the courtyard, past the dining hall and so many
bedrooms and showrooms Castiel can’t keep count. After about five minutes and
two flights of stairs, Crowley leads them into a space that looks as though
it’s designed for training horses. Even with the whole clothes-less thing in
mind, Castiel can’t imagine what half of this stuff is for. Or any, now that he
thinks about it. Some of it, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to know.
“Robe off, hang it by the door.” Castiel slips the silk from his shoulders and
greets the nip of air with a raised head. He turns and, sure enough, notices a
hook just beside the door which he hangs the robe delicately on. “Come here and
kneel down,” Castiel moves. “No, on this cushion.”
Crowley turns then, leaving Castiel knelt in the exact centre of the room, legs
tucked neatly under him, out of the way. He doesn’t enjoy being naked, but he
got used to it after his first few months. Whenever he misbehaved, he’d been
forced to deal without clothes, one day for every misstep and even in the
winter, he would simply freeze. He learned quickly, that was for sure. People
had stared and laughed and pointed, and even that was enough to grovel to Naomi
for penance. He thought he knew humiliation before he came here but they taught
him differently. They’d knocked him so far down, he never thought he’d look
anyone in the eye again, and they rebuilt him how they saw fit. So he sits
perfectly still with his back straight, his eyes forwards, his legs a fist
width apart and his chin up. The perfect seraph, if he may say so himself.
“Honestly, I’m surprised Naomi didn’t start you off earlier. She must still
like the innocence in you, thinks you’ll sell well like it. Alas, you won’t be
completely naïve. She can’t have you crying in the bed now, can she?”
Castiel isn’t sure if he’s supposed to answer, so he keeps his mouth shut. When
Crowley comes back, he stands before Castiel, just slightly too close for him
to glance up subtly and see what the man’s holding, so he resigns to looking at
the Crowley’s thighs. He’d rather see what was coming.
“Have you ever tried anything with yourself?” Crowley asks, and then he’s
moving, leaving Castiel’s view before dragging a chair over and perching it a
few metres away. Now Castiel can see exactly what he’s holding, but it turns
out to be useless. A simple, black bag is perched on Crowley’s lap.
“Sir?” Castiel asks.
“Have you ever touched yourself, you know, like Meg touches you?”
Castiel is surprised. He’s not allowed to. “I’m not allowed, sir.”
Crowley just lifts his eyes to the ceiling and rolls his fingers in the air
impatiently. “Yes, Castiel, but before that. Before you were here. Did you ever
touch yourself?”
“No, sir,” Castiel whispers, and even though he’s telling the truth, he isn’t
sure what Crowley wants to hear.
He sighs. “This is gonna take a while, isn’t it?”
Castiel doesn’t answer, but his interest is peaked when Crowley’s hand
disappears into the bag and re-emerges holding something plastic, oddly shaped
and just about palm size. It’s relatively thin in shape but flares in the
middle with what looks like a finger sized ring at one end. It’s pink.
“You know what this is?”
Castiel shakes his head before remembering himself and answering, “No, sir.”
Crowley sighs and groans. “I’m going to have to do everything here, aren’t I?”
Castiel fidgets. He has no idea what this new contraption is for, but if it
requires him to be naked, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like it.
“Get up and go and grab that ottoman over there,” Crowley orders, and Castiel
all but leaps up to obey. He drags the stool type thing over and places it just
before Crowley. “Closer.” Castiel does. “Good. No I want you to mount it,
facing the wall.”
“Sir?”
“It’s not hard Castiel, lie down on the goddamn thing with your ass facing me.”
At the harsh tone, Castiel hurries, and he’s barely settled on it before
Crowley’s pushing his thighs apart with his leather shoe. Castiel mewls. “Good.
Now, this will probably hurt, but you have to relax, okay, and then it won’t be
as bad.”
Castiel wonders what he looks like. Completely naked to the elements of the
room, spread-eagled on some ottoman, thighs apart and ass on display for
Crowley to see. With his arms like this, though, he bets his tattoo looks good.
The wings will be splayed and he’ll look like-
“Ah!”
Something cold, wet and hard nudges at him, pushing at his stubborn hole and
Castiel instinctively jerks away. What the hell is happening?
“What did I say about relaxing?” Crowley’s hand lands on the small of Castiel’s
back, probably just at the base of his tattoo. It’s cold and wet and Castiel
realises what was just pushing against him. He starts to feel sick.
“Sir…” he tries, but Crowley’s already back to where he was, finger nudging
into Castiel until he can feel the second joint and then all four knuckles
knock against his cheek. It feels weird, just toeing painful, but not too bad.
Castiel can deal with this. He’ll have to deal with this, if he’s going to have
someone’s penis up there…The thought makes his vision fuzz.
“Sir, why are you doing this?” Castiel asks, gritting his teeth and forcing
himself to relax. When he clenches, it hurts more.
“You can still form sentences, good on you, angel,” Crowley says, a chuckle in
his voice. “You’ve got to be prepared, Castiel. And you’ll still be a virgin
with a plug nestled up there, don’t you worry.”
A plug. Balthazar's mentioned one before, when he was trying to freak
Samandriel out. And now the plastic thing makes sense.
When another finger joins the first, it’s not so bad. It’s not particularly
pleasant and Castiel’s dick is pretty much ignoring the proceedings, so Castiel
can’t see why people love this act so much. Right now, it feels like a medical
exam, like the one they gave him his first day here. It’s neither good nor
horrendous, though he imagines it could be, if Crowley were any harsher. He’s
being surprisingly nice, so far.
“I’ll avoid your prostate, Castiel, don’t worry.”
Castiel’s not worried. He has no idea what a prostate is.
The fingers spread and stretch, eliciting a dull ache that never rises to
painful. A third finger joins, and Castiel can feel that one, makes a soft
keening type noise, but goes silent once the stretches have worked the muscle
out. The only noises left in the room are Castiel’s suddenly heavy breathing
and the wet squelch of the liquid moving inside his hole.
And then the fingers are gone and Castiel almost misses them. They were
comforting, in a strange little way, even if they were attached to Crowley.
Castiel can’t imagine how it would feel if Dean…
No. Dean is gone, for goodness sake. Four years, Castiel, get over it. He
doesn’t care and he never did. He's forgotten you.
Maybe it would be nice if Meg gave it a go.
Castiel’s about to move, to get up when he feels the hard plastic, moves with
it as it slides into place and sticks when the flared part enters his hole. He
stutters on his next few breaths.
“Well, it’s a shame I’m straight, darling, because that is a lovely sight.”
Castiel doesn’t know what to do, where to move. So he stays still, so very
still and after a few seconds he can forget it’s there.
“Stand up.”
“What?”
“Stand up. Come on, it’s not that hard. Stand up, Castiel, or I will drag you
up.” Crowley pulls at his arm in reiteration of his threat.
Castiel stands up. Slowly.
It doesn’t hurt, but it certainly feels strange, foreign, and Castiel isn’t a
big fan of doing it.
“Walk over here.”
Castiel blinks over in his direction and takes one tiny step, but even that
movement jolts the thing inside him, nudges against his inner walls. He tiptoes
over to Crowley with a face like he’s walking on glass. Crowley chuckles when
he gets to him.
“Not so bad, right?”
Castiel shakes his head because he doesn’t trust himself to speak right now.
“Good boy. Kneel down.” Castiel does, and a hand meets his back again. The drag
of soggy plastic leaving his hole is one hundred percent unpleasant and Castiel
whines. He doesn’t like that bit. At all.
“You’re done for the day. You did well, Castiel, you may go for lunch.”
Later, when Castiel sits down beside Balthazar, a pale look on his face, he
asks the seraphim, “What’s a prostate?”
***** I've Got Big Balls *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm sorry this took so long...it was a bitch to write, I'm not gonna
     lie...but enjoy!!
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“Well I know my baby, If I see her in the dark, I said I know my rider, If I
see her in the dark…”
“Fuck,” Dean growls, his hand darting out sloppily to grope at the nightstand.
He finds the offending phone – still buzzing like a bastard – and shoves it to
his ear with a pissed off, “This better be fucking…”
“We found him,” Gabriel’s voice sounds, alive and awake and conscious and it
pisses Dean off even more.
“What?”
“We found him. Castiel - Dean, we found him.”
Well, damn.
Dean’s up in about two seconds flat, feet firmly on the ground and a solid hand
combing his hair as he sits and thinks it through. And with his friends words
(words he doesn’t even know the truth off) he feels jealousy. Bitter, burning
jealousy that Gabriel found him first.
“…Dean?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here. I hear you.” Dena rubs his hand over his eyes and blinks
back liquid that is definitely not tears. Why the hell would he be crying, for
fuck’s sake? “Where?”
“Garrison Seraphim’s. It’s out in the capital, south-we-”
“South-west, by the harbor, yeah I know. Me and Sammy have looked there, like,
five times. Nothing. You sure, man?”
“Anna saw a poster out in town, called Michael first chance she got. They’re
selling him off at some huge-scale auction, apparently it’s a big deal. Getting
him ready to turn eighteen, I guess.”
Jesus.
“One hell of an eighteenth,” Dean mutters, traipsing up off the bed in hunt of
some coffee. Or liquor, whichever grabs him first.
“Tell me about it,” Gabriel says, huffing out a heavy sigh Dean can feel
through the phone. “Doesn’t seem real, does it?”
“Four years of relentless searching and we find him on a goddamn poster?
Actually, yeah, it does. Fucking typical, actually.” Turns out to be liquor. A
half-drunk bottle of whiskey, to be precise. “So, when we leaving?”
“Midday. Michael’s already called, made the plans for one ‘Mr Dean Smith,
business exec’. You’re already on the guest list.”
“Midday.” Dean looks at the clock beside the kitchen table. “Yeah, I got a few
hours, not a problem. I’ll let Sam know.”
“Okay. Great, man, I’ll see you in a few hours.” Dean nearly hangs up, but
Gabriel halts him with, “And, Dean?”
“Yeah?”
“We found him.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, closing his eyes with a mouthful of whiskey. “Yeah, we did.”
They hang up in unison and Dean throws the phone down on the kitchen table.
They found him. Four years, three months and five days, they finally find the
kid from some poster in the fucking capital. Dean’s not surprised, why would he
be? He’s given up his life trying to find this goddamn kid and he ends up being
advertised on some street corner. Dean should have been fucking expecting it.
But, hey, they found him. He’s alive, at least, virginity for sale or not.
He wakes Sam up with a pillow to his face.
“What the…Dean!” he cries, though he's already too far into leaping from the
bed and tackling his brother until Dean’s back collides with the door to pause
in the realisation that it is only his brother. And Dean can’t stop grinning
even with Sam’s hands grappling at his tee shirt collar.
“We found him.”
The kid stalls. “…What?”
“Castiel. He’s alive, Sammy, we found him.”
Usually narrowed, hazel eyes widen into huge glowing orbs and he takes a giant
step back. “No fucking way,” he breathes.
“Watch the tongue, dumbass,” Dean chastises and Sam has the decency to roll his
eyes and sock Dean in the chest. “But, yeah. We’re setting off at twelve so
make sure you’re ready. We found him, Sammy.”
“How?”
“Anna called. She was street-walking apparently, found a poster with his mug on
and called Michael. I just got off the phone with Gabe.”
“Holy crap,” he says, releasing Dean altogether and stepping away, a hand
running over his ridiculously bed-headed hair.
“Yeah. Holy crap.”
----
The time Castiel wears the plug increases over the weeks. Crowley had it in him
for minutes at a time in the beginning, moving onward and upwards to hours and
days, until finally now Castiel wears it at night.
It’s not much of a problem. The one he dons at night-time is thin, the same one
as that first day, but when Castiel meets Crowley up in that room after
breakfast, he takes out one and puts in another; thicker and wider in girth,
Castiel doesn’t particularly enjoy it, but it isn’t completely unpleasant. And
once, a week or so ago, when he was traipsing back down the stairs with a
particularly large one nestled in, it had hit against something inside of him
and it felt good. Like, really good, and Castiel’s pretty sure he may have
become erect if the feeling stayed around for much longer. But it didn’t, and
Castiel went back to trying to ignore it.
He’s stopped being sore now, for which he is immensely grateful. Even if the
whole thing has seemed to amp up Balthazar and Meg’s teasing.
“How does it feel, Castiel?”
Castiel shuffles on his knees and feels it out.
“Alright, I think, sir,” he says, looking up at Crowley in his armchair throne.
They’ve taken to commencing these lessons in his own study, apparently for
convenience reasons, but Castiel doesn’t care. The man’s not allowed to try
anything, and Castiel would happily tell Naomi if he did.
“Does it feel good?” Crowley asks, kicking one leg to cross over the other.
“Not particularly, sir. Should it?”
He laughs lowly and shakes his head in subtle bewilderment. Castiel’s pretty
used to it by now, though, so he keeps up his genuinely curious gaze.
“Generally, darling, yes, it should. But, whatever, I suppose it’s for the
best. If you did enjoy it every time, you’d have to wear a cock-ring, and I’m
sure you wouldn’t enjoy that. Even if our dear Meg would.”
Castiel makes a mental note to ask Balthazar what a “cock-ring” is.
“You still haven’t touched yourself, have you Castiel?” he asks, and Castiel
shakes his head. “I want the truth, remember.”
“No, sir, I haven’t, I promise.”
“Good boy. See to it you don’t.” Crowley stands up from his chair and crosses
over the short distance between them, to where Castiel kneels obediently on his
plush rug. Once only a metre stands between them he drops gently to his
haunches and from so close a distance Castiel can hear one of his knees click.
Castiel peers coyly up into his eyes. He smirks. “You are something, aren’t you
little one?” Castiel blinks. “And it didn’t take long to brake you either, did
it, Castiel? You were simply itching to just roll over and become that eager
little bitch you so enjoy playing, isn’t that right? Answer me.”
“Yes, sir,” Castiel hastes, shifting on his hips under the scrutiny.
“Then do it. Play the part you were assigned, Castiel, become the slut, little
one.”
Castiel just stares up at him for a long few seconds, his brow shifting lower
in confusion until it all finally just dawns. Play the part. So he does. His
back straightens perfectly and his neck becomes a ruler line of pale flesh and
slender muscle, holding his chin at a flawless right angle with his lips parted
just so and his eyes are perfectly modest as they observe the man. He spreads
his thighs until they no longer touch and his hands fold loosely over his
stomach; with a flick to his shoulder so perfectly set out his robe slips from
the inked skin there and leaves it bare to the world. And then even Castiel
knows he’s perfect.
Crowley whistles lowly with raised eyebrows and Castiel all but shines inside.
He fucking hates it with every single inch of his being, but he feels good.
He’s doing right by his people and that feels really good.
“Well, look at you, all ready and willing.” Crowley smiles in an almost
predatory fashion before lifting smoothly back up to standing and petting down
his suit trousers. Castiel follows with his eyes. “Looks like we have nothing
to worry about with you, hmm? You’ll come when we call, won’t you? Literally.”
Castiel feels his muscles pushing him to shift awkwardly with the rod still
inside of him but he shoves down on that instinct and blinks it away. Seraphims
do not shift from presenting. They’re perfect, marble statues to be admired and
adored without complaint or thought. Castiel is perfect.
“You may stand, Cas. How are you prepared for this evening?” he asks, rising
and returning to the leather. Castiel follows him in standing, his legs
together and his head bowed slightly in respect.
“Prepared, sir?” he asks.
“Yes, Castiel, prepared. Please tell me you’ve at least tried on that suit.”
“Yes sir, Meg fitted me with it this morning. It fits well, I think.” It does.
Stupid thing it is.
“I’m sure, Castiel. And you remember what Naomi’s told you, correct? How you
will act?”
“Yes sir, I remember.”
“You don’t sound very enthralled, little bird. Is there something wrong?”
Of course there’s something wrong, there’s so many things wrong; about tonight,
about Castiel’s duties, about the pressure suddenly pouring onto his
shoulders…he hates being the centre of attention in the dining hall, let alone
in front of over a hundred people.
“I’m…nervous, sir,” he says, figuring that Crowley would probably know if he
lied. “I don’t enjoy so much attention.”
“You’re a demure little thing, aren’t you? Naomi’s about to be a very rich
woman.”
Castiel just hums.
 
The suit fits like a second skin, but it doesn’t prevent Castiel fidgeting the
whole way there in the back seat of the limo. He feels like the rare red crayon
in a classroom of pre-schoolers; Samandriel looks as though he’s about to throw
up his lunch and Hester couldn’t appear more like a primped up duck if she
tried. She does look beautiful though, so Castiel can’t really blame her.
“Stop your incessant fidgeting, Castiel, really,” Naomi hisses, whacking at his
hand with her clutch. He halts immediately and returns his eyes to the window,
battling with his own reflection at the glare that’s very much insisting to
make an appearance on his face.
“You look like you’ve just seen Meg naked, kiddo,” Balthazar jokes, nudging his
foot at Samandriel, who just turns sharply his way as if startled and smiles
crookedly. Castiel would feel bad if he wasn’t in the exact same position.
They’d all three been sat down and informed over a month ago now. Today and
tonight will be their debut; the annual displaying of seraph’s from all over
the city up for auction or bid. It’s rare that Garrison’s offering three all in
one year, both Meg and Balthazar were alone during their own, and Castiel feels
immensely grateful that it isn’t the same case with him. He would be in the
same state as Samandriel if he had to do this all alone.
Naomi had explained; they will all file in as some great ceremony, all of the
Seraph facilities one by one to display their livestock; they will all be
presented individually with photographs taken of them weeks ago on some huge
screen for everyone to see; they will travel the room with irritating small
talk and Castiel will have to play again.
He just hopes beyond anything that by some fluke Anna might be there.
And then the vehicle slows down and stops altogether, Crowley’s hand on his
shoulder and urging him out of the open door…”Show time.” Castiel’s heart
starts beating in violent earnest.
They weren’t joking about the ceremony. There’re cameras in Castiel’s face from
every which way, people cat-calling and cooing at them all as they walk the red
carpet, Crowley’s hand at his back the whole way there. And now Castiel wants
to vomit. Every single face in the vicinity is clear as a bell as it watches
him, following him moving as he walks through the grand doors and enters the
ballroom to even more intrigued people.
Castiel watches Hester grin at the attention.
Castiel allows everything occurring to just pass him by in a blur; Crowley’s
sturdy presence disappearing and Meg kissing his cheek as a goodbye; another
older woman leading them up a set of grand stairs to a stage where they’re led
to sit side by side, perfect little statues. Castiel just smiles when he feels
like he must and follows his blatant directions. The hard part comes later.
There’s about forty of them altogether. Twenty odd facilities, forty seraph’s.
“Welcome all,” the old lady says into the microphone, once every seraph is
perched like their very own brand of baby bird in the raised rows of seats on
the stage. A hush falls over the gold-encrusted room and every suit-clad man or
diamond emblazoned woman directs their attention to her. “As we all know, this
is a very special occasion. The debuting ceremony of our newest Seraph’s!” A
round of applause echoes from the chandeliers. “As always, our beautiful little
seventeen years olds will be presented in company order, oldest first.”
Castiel’s pretty sure she continues her speech for a few more minutes, but he’s
zoned out. God, he detests things like this. Ever since he was a child at
school, the idea of speaking in front of his classmates or even gaining their
collective attention ran shivers down his spine. You’re acting, Castiel. Play
the game. Right. Of course, play the game, none of this is real, not anymore.
Castiel will be the thing of people’s desires because that is his duty, nothing
more. So it shouldn’t be a problem; the real dorky, geeky Castiel no longer
exists and now this beautiful being has taken over. It’s an unfair trade,
really.
“Cassy of Eden,” the lady says, and for two quick, terrifying seconds, Castiel
thinks she means him, before a young, dark skinned girl waltzes to the front,
twirls her dress and curtseys for the crowd. Castiel isn’t that good of an
actor, he’s sure. A few claps ensue and one man blows a wolf whistle but other
than that, it’s a relatively dull greeting. The pictures are shown, she pats
down her pastel pink dress and after two or so minutes, she’s told to sit back
down again.
This happens three more times before, “Hester of Garrison,” is called and
Castiel suddenly adopts the real fear of vomiting in front of everyone. He’s
next. Hester’s birthday is in a month’s time, Castiel’s a few days beyond that
and Samandriel next year sometime. Castiel’s next.
The two minutes swoop by like nothing and in seconds, he hears, “Castiel of
Garrison,” and everything just evaporates.
----
Dean’s half way through tugging at his dumb collar and tie when he hears the
name, and when he does there’s no helping the weird little jolt that rushes his
body, his head lifting up like a magnet.
And then there he is.
Fuck. Where the hell did that dorky little kid go? The one with the crush on
him, who hated sports and religiously read stupidly hard books out in the
fields behind their little village; the one with crazy messy hair that used to
drive his mom up the wall until she finally relented and slicked a wet palm to
try and tame it to no success; Gabriel’s weirdo kid brother. One of Dean’s best
friends, Sam’s for sure.
But this dude…this teenager isn’t dorky. He isn’t so scrawny and he doesn’t
have wild bed hair anymore, he’s wearing a wonderful suit that clings in all
the right places and that shade of shirt matches his stunning eyes perfectly,
Dean can practically see them glowing all the way from down here…in essence,
the kid got hot. And as fucked up as it might be, Dean could totally get behind
bidding on him.
He walks delicately over to the front of the stage and his eyes scan over the
crowd, Dean can see him gulp. He doesn’t wink or bow or display anything fancy,
he just stands there with his head held high and it is one of the most arousing
scenes Dean’s ever witnessed. How the hell does that work?
The pictures displayed on the wall behind him look more candid than most of the
others. And sure, embedded in there are more graphic images, displaying
Castiel’s perfectly nude body; but mostly it’s just him. Looking all perfect
like, his eyes drifting into the beyond, one of him smiling and laughing, the
next his head nestled in a book, sat on a bench beside some cherry blossom.
It’s a good selection, Dean thinks.
It disturbs him, how much he’s apparently okay with all of this. He’s here to
save Cas, to bring him back to his family, back to where he belongs. But right
now all Dean’s thinking is the bid he’s gonna place, the amount of money he’d
really be willing to spend with even one night with this magnificent specimen.
It’s a high number and he feels sick because of it. He’s already being sucked
into their messed up little games.
Castiel didn’t choose this, his mind supplies. Castiel was kidnapped from his
home, trussed up like a pig to the slaughter, thrown into a van and forced to
sell himself for money. This isn’t fair, this is fucked up. And now Dean’s
found him, he will save him. If it’s the last fucking thing he does; Castiel
deserves the world and Dean’s gonna give it to him, one way or another.
So Dean turns away from the stupid fucking pictures and focuses his eyes on the
boy before him. I will save you, Cas. We all will.
It seems like hours before the last kid’s presented and the seraphs are free to
disperse and the second they do, Dean goes off to find Naomi. Get this ball
rolling.
“Ah, Mr Smith,” she greets, reaching over to take his hand. “I’m glad you could
make it.”
“Yeah, me too. Great selection this year, huh?”
“It is particularly good this year, I’ll admit. But even you have to admit,
Garrison has done a fine job.”
Dean forces a laugh at the woman who ruined Castiel’s life.
“Yeah, I’ll give you that one. Especially…Cas, something? The black haired
lad.”
“Castiel,” she smiles knowingly. “Yes, I believe he’ll be popular this turn.
We’ve had a few enquiries already, actually.”
“Well, then I officially offer mine. He’s a stunner, that’s for sure.”
“Well, maybe you’d enjoy meeting him?” And there the coin drops. Dean smiles
and nods his approval, so she smiles back with dollar signs in her eyes and
takes Dean’s arm as a guide, all the way over through the crowd to a black clad
back. “Crowley?”
A man turns round, a relatively squat looking, beady eyes type of guy. Dean
doesn’t like him already.
“Naomi.” He smiles tightly.
“This is Mr Dean Smith, he’s interested in our Castiel.”
“Mr Smith,” he says, offering Dean a hand which he regretfully takes. “Castiel.
Good choice, if I may say so myself. A real natural submissive, that one.”
Dean wants to growl at him and rip his dumbass head off, he might have done if
the thought of Castiel on his knees for him wasn’t so distracting…Fucking nice
Dean, you piece of shit.
“He’s with Meg, Naomi. Over by the buffet.”
“Thank you, Crowley. This way, Dean, if you’ll please.”
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Crowley,” Dean says, already moving off with
Naomi.
“Likewise, Dean, likewise.”
It turns out, Cas’ grown since the last time they were both on the same level.
He’s maybe three, four inches from Dean’s height when Dean advances on his own
black back, slightly hunched as he listens to a blonde man talk animatedly to
another seraph, the adorable one with the brown hair that went up just after
Cas. He looks terrified. Poor kid; Dean’d bet he’s from some outside village
too, dragged in like Cas was. Maybe they can rescue this one as well.
“Castiel,” Naomi says, and then he’s moving, four fucking years and the kid’s
moving to look at Dean, he’s gonna know Dean’s gonna save him and they didn’t
just abandon him all those years ago…And when those blue eyes turn, widen like
a deer’s in the headlight, Dean offers a giant grin. “This is Mr Dean Smith.
He’s interested in you.”
“Evening, Castiel.”
Chapter End Notes
     Please comment and kudos!!! If you liked it, obviously :D
***** And What's My Master Plan *****
Chapter Notes
     I am sooooo sorry this took so long!! I seriously have no excuse,
     just please except my deepest condolences :)
     Otherwise, enjoy!!!
By the time they’re instructed to diverse back into the crowd, Castiel’s too
far out of it to do anything but follow Samandriel’s hurriedly retreating form
back to their little flock. Hester follows them with a litany of complaints
that they should be mingling, but neither boy pays her any attention and by the
time Meg sets her sights on him, he’s absolutely one hundred percent ready to
piss off back home.
He doesn’t mention that out loud of course.
“Racy pic’s, Clarence, didn’t know you had it in you,” Meg grins, reaching out
a carefully manicured hand to pat down his hair instead of the usual rub she
frequently awards him.
He rolls his eyes.
“Hmph,” is all he offers.
Okay, so that wasn’t quite as terrible as he’d initially imagined. Sure, his
heart still feels like it could very well shove it’s way straight through his
chest, but he’s still breathing, so that’s a good sign, right? Now all they
have to get through is the whole ‘social-selling-yourself’ thing and they’re on
a homerun.
Castiel wonders where Naomi is for a split second before realising she’s
probably already got the whole selling ball rolling pretty smoothly and any
second now she’ll pounce and drag one of them away (Hester, probably, she’ll be
the most eager to comply) to make use of the skills racked into their brains
over the last four years. Joy. Because he’s looking forward to that.
With the white noise of one of Balthazar’s tales filling in the background,
Castiel considers what the next few weeks are going to mean for him. More
socializing, inevitably. Leering stares and lewd winks are also pretty
unavoidable, but Castiel only has to get through them, past his birthday and
the inevitable ‘mating’ and then…he can have a break?
Maybe.
Hopefully.
God, what if someone buys him? And not just for the night like usual, but
actually buys him, like, forever? He’s heard stories of seraphim’s like that.
Like pets kept in the house with shock collars and no clothes sleeping in
baskets at their owner’s bedside—it’s pretty damn rare, but it does happen.
Jesus Christ, Castiel can’t do that. He won’t. He won’t.
Castiel snaps his eyes up to Balthazar and forces his brain to listen to him
instead and ignore these brand spanking new fears. Just when he thinks one
thing’s finally over, another just rears its head and demands his unflinching
apprehension…
Castiel knows Naomi’s behind him because he watches Hester’s gaze move up from
her suddenly materialized, non-alcoholic cocktail glass and her spine
straighten in an obedience only ever really awarded to the woman. Castiel
lengthens his, too, on instinct.
“Castiel,” she says, and he turns obediently around.
And he stops.
And everything else in the whole room, in this whole goddamn building, freezes
into a blistering snowstorm that sends remembered chills down Castiel’s back
because…
No.
No it’s fucking not, it’s not, because Dean Winchester isn’t…he’s not…
Only he is, and he’s standing right in front of him. Oh good god, this can’t be
happening.
And suddenly Castiel’s not a seraph anymore. He’s not a seventeen year old boy
with his virginity on the market; he’s a thirteen year old kid being left
behind by his best friends in the whole world and watching this guy leave him -
leave him to these people.
Dean doesn’t belong here, not in this place.
Castiel figured that out three years, eleven months and seven days ago, because
that was when he gave up and inescapably became the seventeen year old boy with
his virginity on the market. Because no one cared enough about him to do shit
all. Not Dean. Especially not Dean.
What the hell is he doing here?
Who the hell does he think he is, charging about grinning like some Cheshire
cat down at Castiel as though he has some sort of right…
Fuck. What if he’s here to bid? Not that that would be surprising, Castiel
doesn’t know Dean anymore; he sure as hell doesn’t know this guy, the one in
the designer tux and Armani shoes.
“This is Mr Dean Smith. He’s interested in you.”
Oh god, he’s interested in him.
Fuck. He’s going to throw up.
“Evening, Castiel.”
And then that’s it. That’s just it, because everything snaps out of Castiel
faster than you can say ‘traitor’ and he’s bowing his head like that good
little seraph; the kind Naomi and Crowley and Balthazar would be proud of and
his face is devoid of emotion. Like it should be.
“Hello,” he offers, peering up at ‘Mr Smith’ through his lashes like he’s
supposed to—just catching Naomi’s pleased little smirk in the corner of his
eye. Good. Castiel should be relieved to make her happy.
Mr Smith’s brash grin falters slightly and a tiny catch makes itself known at
the centre of his brow (near that scar he got falling off the wall of Castiel’s
school when he was teasing him and took it too far) but swipes itself away
again to be replaced with a cocky smirk. Castiel has to fight the urge to roll
his eyes.
“Mr Smith works in the entertainment business, isn’t that exciting, Castiel?”
Naomi prompts, offering him that all too familiar brow raise, before placing a
red-nailed hand to Dean’s shoulder and urging him forward, closer to Castiel.
He manages against stepping back, but only barely.
He offers a taught, coy little smile. “Very exciting.”
Naomi beams at him.
“Well, we wouldn’t want to impose,” she says, sending a pointed look to the
others who scuttle to obey, spanning out and away almost immediately. Meg sends
him a wink on her departure. “But don’t take up all of Castiel’s evening, Mr
Smith, it’s been a very eventful day, I’m sure he’s eager at the chance to wind
down and mingle.”
‘You’re not the only one interested in him, so don’t take away a potential
sale.’
Mr Smith throws his head back and laughs, nodding in agreement.
“Naomi, I wouldn’t dream of it,” and grins as she walks away, seemingly
placated.
“So,” Castiel starts, keeping his eyes locked to Mr Smith’s. “The entertainment
business.”
But Mr Smith clearly isn’t listening. His eyes (god, green, so green) switch
from frowning down at Castiel in impatient confusion to darting back around
them, checking for something or other. Finally he seems happy enough with the
situation because he turns towards Castiel more fully and offers him a goofy,
apparently relieved grin before shoving his fingers to run smoothly through his
combed out hair.
“They’re still watching us so I can’t hug you, but holy fucking shit man, is it
good to see you.” He splutters out a giddy laugh. “You look…amazing. How are
you?”
Oh god, Castiel can’t do this.
“What are you doing here?”
Dean falters again once greeted with the hostile tone, but, again, he recovers
quickly with a sheepish smile.
“Dude, I’m here to save you.”
Castiel licks his lips and coughs into his fist slightly, distracting himself.
“From what?”
Confused, offended. “What…? Cas, man, I’m gonna get you out, we’re gonna save
you, I swear, dude…”
“Mr Smith…”
“Don’t,” Dean snaps. “Don’t call me that.”
And Castiel fixes him with the steadiest glare he thinks he can get away with
Naomi seeing, before repeating steadily, “Mr Smith. Why are you here?” But Cas
halts him when he rolls his eyes and opens his mouth, “And don’t say to save
me, because that’s not an option. So I’ll ask you again. Why are you here? Do
you want to bid?”
“Fuck Cas…look, man, I get you’re angry and everything, but not even you could
enjoy somewhere like this, they’re using you for sex, man, that’s so effed up—”
“Not even me?” Castiel repeats, the words swimming in his head because of
course that’s what Dean thinks, he’s saving Castiel from himself, of course he
does, because Dean—Mr Smith knows everything now, what a goddamn surprise. Well
fuck him.
Fuck. Him.
“What? No, shut up, dude, that’s not what I meant—”
“No. Do not tell me to shut up, Dean, you have no idea. You left me and now you
think-” he has to take a steadying breath instead of braking down in tears, “-
Just because it’s a good time for you, you think you can miraculously save me.
Well screw you, Dean. I don’t want you to save me. I don’t want you.”
And when he steps to the side and aim for Crowley, who’s watching them near the
stage with a regular finger of scotch in his glass, a strong hand (oh God, that
hand) closes over his bicep and halts him with a squeeze. Shit.
“Cas, please, buddy, this isn’t what this is about, I swear, Anna found—”
Castiel halts his struggle.
“Anna? You know where Anna is, is she okay? Is she here?”
“Is everything alright here?” And for the first time in the last five minutes,
Castiel is furious at the notion of Crowley interrupting them and terrified
that they’ve been heard.
On the plus side, Dean releases his arm, however begrudgingly, and steps back
out of the way, offering Crowley a forced smile. “Everything’s great,” he says.
Castiel steps into Crowley’s space when it’s offered and turns a subtle sneer
at Dean’s slightly bewildered expression, tilting his head to Crowley’s touch
to stab it in a bit further. Dean doesn’t belong here. Fuck. Him.
“You don’t mind if I borrow Castiel for a while, do you?” Crowley asks, letting
his hand appear around the other side of his waist most likely to just piss
Dean off that a touch so very close to his ass is allowed, appreciated and very
much accustomed. God, if only Dean knew just how close to Cas’ ass this man has
actually been, he wouldn’t be offering saviour then. He’d be sneering in
disgust and hightailing it back to Anna. And when he nods and Crowley leads
Castiel away, Cas doesn’t look him in the eyes anymore. The shame won’t let
him.
----
Sam picks up on the second ring.
“Dean? Hey, you okay, what’s going on, is everything alright?”
No. No everything is not fucking alright, how the hell’s he gonna do this if
the guy they’re trying to save wants shit all to do with them? Crap, this did
not going how he was expecting this to go. Shit.
“Yeah, everything’s great, I’m on my way back now,” he rallies, flicking the
indicator to turn right out of the dumbass-long driveway. “Will you grab Gabe
for me?”
“Yeah sure, hang on,” there’s a pause, then Sam talking off the phone,
presumably to Gabriel, “Hey, it’s Dean, he wants to talk to you,” before
shuffling sounds and Sam speaks to him again. “Dean. Did you see him? Did you
talk to him? What was he like?”
Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, Sammy, lemme talk to you
when I get back, okay? I’m about twenty minutes away from the house now, I
won’t be long. I’ll see you soon, alright?”
Sam echoes his earlier sigh and agrees before handing the phone off to Gabriel,
a weighted pause of motion as he exits the room before Dean’s acknowledged with
a greeting of, “whatthehellhappened?”
Dean flinches at the onslaught and wearily cracks his neck.
“It’s not great, Gabe.”
“What?! What the hell do you mean, ‘it’s not great’, what the hell happened? Is
he okay? God, he’s not hurt is he, did they fucking hurt him?”
“No, no, dude, he looked fine…great, actually,” understatement of the year,
“He’s just…I don’t think he’s all that eager on the saving front. He seemed
pretty pissed at me, I don’t know.”
“Who gives a shit if he’s pissed; we’re doing this with or without him.”
Dean rolls his eyes, “No shit, man, I get that, but it’d be a hell of a lot
easier if we had his go ahead on this whole shebang, don’t you think?” There’s
a weighted pause and heavy breathing on the other end of the line, before Dean
just huffs and says, “Look, we’ve got months before his auction, don’t we? I’ll
get him to come around, don’t worry about it.”
“Dean…”
“Man, I said don’t worry about it. I’ll be back at the house in about ten,
we’ll talk then.”
Gabriel sighs with a knackered, “Sure.”
“And Gabe?”
“Mm?”
“He looked real good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, man. He’ll pull through.”
----
On the ride home, Castiel falls asleep on Meg’s black clad shoulder with
Hester’s incessant chirping in the background.
Waking up’s a chore, but once he’s back inside, every ounce of tiredness has
left his bones and an electric current of DeanDeanDeanDean has decided to make
itself known in the very pit of his being so his trots to his room, hands the
suit to a waiting maid and throws on his sleeping shorts and robe to join Meg’s
invitation out in the Seraphim’s living room.
He’s never been allowed in here before, but it’s nice, so he’s pleased.
By the time Castiel shuffles in (with the absolute knowledge of Naomi and
Crowley’s retiring) the music channel usually reserved as background noise in
the dining room plays softly in the background, casting a pale light over the
room from the television and illuminating Samandriel’s slumbering form curled
around Balthazar in an armchair. Balthazar’s hand has taken to idly running
it’s fingers through the Seraph’s hair, but he salutes it to Cas when he enters
and he offers a small wave back.
He wastes no time in stepping over Hester’s sprawled out, grinning form and
manoeuvring himself over to a pajama’d Meg reclining in the couch. Tucking
himself to her side should probably be more pathetic than he considers it right
now, but he honestly couldn’t care less.
He fingertips start at his knee.
“That. Was. Awesome.” Hester flips over, her halo of blonde hair flopping
itself over her face until she shoves it back with one hand and reveals the
giddy expression she aims at Castiel.
A non-committing, “Mmm,” is his returning offer.
Balthazar snorts though.
“I think it as a little too much for some people,” he says, motioning at the
unconscious figure in his lap. As if on cue, Samandriel’s body sucks in a few
deep breaths and lets them go at once, nuzzling his face deeper in the crevice
between leather armchair and silk pyjama top. Balthazar chuckles and thumbs at
his flushed face. “My point exactly.”
“Poor, Sammy,” Hester says sarcastically.
Oh, god. Sammy. Dean’s Sammy, baby Sammy safe with Castiel’s family instead of
him…
Really, Cas?
Castiel’s throat makes a soft groaning sound at the thought before he can even
consider giving it consent to do so, and Meg laughs into the top of his head.
Cas rolls his eyes and slides down her body, until his legs are out of her
reach and he’s resting his head on her lap. Seconds later, his robe is untied
and long enough fingernails are stroking their way over his bare stomach. He
twitches at the sensitive skin, but otherwise doesn’t complain.
“And what do you think about tonight, huh, Cas?” she asks, her other hand
finding solace in his hair and mussing it like she’s supposed to.
“Yeah, what about…Mr Smith?” Hester grins, sitting up. “He was totally hot,
d’you reckon he’ll bid?”
The groan escapes again and Castiel clenches his jaw shut on it, forcing it
down and away and fucking buried far from the dumb Winchester’s. Smith.
Whatever.
“Aw, what, you don’t like ‘em pretty?” Meg teases, tugging at the shorter hair
at Castiel’s temple. “You want a grizzly daddy type, don’t you, huh? Like that
bearded guy in the fishing business, the one that kept whacking your arm,” she
chuckles at the memory, but Castiel’s cheeks heat at the phantom fear he felt
at the idea of that giant taking him. “You wanna take a ride in his boat,
Clarence?”
“No,” he growls, hauling himself into sitting so he can get a better view at
her reaction, and deem Balthazar’s as well.
He clears his throat before he asks the question busting up his mind. “You
know…you know after the auction?” They both nod, seemingly realising this
question’s for them. Castiel’s voice is quiet when he says, “What if someone
buys us? Outside of Garrison, I mean. What if they make us into…a pet? Or a
brothel buys us or another house or—”
“Clarence,” Meg says, her voice tilting in a seriousness Castiel absolutely
detests being there. She tugs him back to her lap, probably so he doesn’t catch
the quick glance she shoots at Balthazar (he does anyway) and this time both
her hands make room in his hair, brushing it rhythmically from his face.
“Someone’s got to be real freaking interested in you if they’re willing to pay
Naomi’s selling price, trust me. For you, all three of you, actually, it ain’t
gonna be cheap, trust me. Besides, who says I’m willing to let you go, huh?”
And her hand moves to cup his ass beneath the shorts, but Cas doesn’t care.
Her words have little effect on the turmoil in his chest. Crowley’s already
said (multiple times, actually) that Naomi will make a lot of money from him,
and after tonight, Castiel’s inclined to believe him.
Alastair certainly seemed willing to pay. He seemed willing to buy, and that?
That’s scarier than any ghost coming back into existence and saying, “Evening,
Castiel.”
***** Son of a Son of a Sailor *****
Castiel has officially decided: he hates polo shirts. Pretentious, dumbass
things they are. Furthermore: he hates wearing them.
“Oh, what?” Meg teases, threading the collar of the royal blue one currently
encasing his tensed up torso through her manicured fingers. “I think you look
cute. Adorable, even,” she drawls, letting the words lick themselves over
Castiel’s ear. He shivers at the sensation and bats her off, half-heartedly.
“I’m sure you do,” he mutters, looking down at the offending thing and picking
specks off the denim of his grey jeans. At least he’s not forced into chinos,
is all he’ll say. Poor Samandriel. “We would have to be the only house on the
harbour, wouldn’t we?” He’s not whining. He’s not.
“You kidding me?” Meg says, leaning back against one measly little railing and
folding her arms over her navy-clad chest, crossing her legs one over the other
beneath the striped fabric of her floor-length skirt. At least Castiel can take
some solace in the knowledge that she’s probably just as uncomfortable as he
is. “The witch rakes in more money with this little stunt every year than some
of the auctions. It’s the perfect ploy.”
“Yes, she most certainly does.”
Castiel jolts at the exact same second Meg tilts her chin at the intruding
Naomi, both lengthening their spines when they catch sight of her in all her
mint green glory. It’s unsettling, seeing her out of the suit. Castiel hates it
as much as he does her in it.
“Shoo, Meg,” she says, flicking her fingers in the direction of the cabin she
just left. “Castiel and I need to have a little chat before this
afternoon’s…proceedings.”
Uh-oh. That most certainly cannot be good. Castiel watches Meg waltz off with
the same sense of dreaded finality he felt that day everyone left him…(not
Dean, we’re not thinking about Dean).
“Ma’am,” Castiel greets dutifully, bowing his head forwards and allowing that
stray piece of hair to fall across his forehead because he knows she likes—
She sighs half-heartedly and pushes it out the way with the tips of her
fingers. Yes. She’s done it since his first week under her and it’s one sure
fire way to get her on his side, whether he appreciates her there or not.
“Castiel. You look nervous,” she says, fiddling minutely with the buttons of
his shirt—undoing one more and tugging the fabric open to reveal another small
stretch of alabaster skin. She hums before taking her clawed hands back to
herself and looking up at him expectantly.
“I’m fine, thank you, Naomi,” he replies shortly, following her lead and
looking out from the stern of the yacht, over the stretch of water opposite the
docks—crystal clear and blue, so blue, perfect and…
“You know the game, don’t you, Castiel?” And that’s a threat if he ever heard
one. Of course he knows the game; he’s been playing it since she picked him.
He’s only recently learned to master it.
“Of course, ma’am,” he replies. “What would you like me to do?”
She sighs with that wistful smile she sometimes gets when Samandriel mewls for
her on his knees; when Castiel bows his head without any sort of nudge or when
Meg actually does as she’s told. It’s sickening and Castiel wants Dean to shoot
it right the fuck off—no. Shut up.
“You’re the lead today, little boy,” she says, facing him again. “Hester won’t
be pleased, but I have a feeling you’ll sell marvellously. She’ll be lucky if
the fisherman wants her, the way she keeps flaunting herself like some common
whore.” Castiel flinches. It doesn’t do well for anyone to displease Naomi.
“No, Castiel, it’s you. I want you demure the whole way through, do you
understand?” He nods. “I want them to work for you; I want you to be their
challenge. You will swim once they’ve insisted enough; you will dance if they
practically beg. But you’ll be shy about it, not like your sister.” She clucks
her tongue and shakes her head and Castiel silently fumes over the fact Naomi
just called Hester his sister because he only has one of those and she is most
certainly not her. She seems to return to the problem at hand then, because
she’s raising her eyebrows at him in insistence, and he’s nodding before he can
think it through. Right, like he has a choice anyway.
“Of course, Naomi,” he says, smiling slightly in that small way Balthazar
always says breaks hearts. She smiles back, so he guesses it works on ice too.
“Good boy,” she says. “You’ll do well.” And then her hand’s on him again,
stroking along the strong curve of his jaw and ending at the joint, massaging
her thumb there so he parts his lips slightly like he knows she wants. “My God,
I am good.”
Then she’s patting his cheek and waltzing away. Castiel bets she looks good
crystal blue and blood red…
“What did she want with you?” Hester says where she suddenly stands beside him,
her eyes trained after their House Mother like the world belongs there,
materializing in the blink of an eye beneath that floaty mint dress.
Castiel sighs when Hester sits huffily down in front of him, somehow taking up
the whole of the lounge chair with her (“Dolce and Gabbana Castiel, you
couldn’t possibly understand”) dress that has knights and horses adorning it.
Castiel thinks it looks weird and so does Meg and Balthazar, but they’d never
say. Well, to Hester at least.
“She was just reminding me of my place, Hester, nothing important,” he answers
swiftly, moving back from the railings and glancing down at his watch. Ugh.
‘Dean, Cas, Dean might be here to watch you and laugh and…’ Shut the fuck up!
“Oh,” she says shortly, bolting up and moving to follow close behind him as he
treads towards the cabin. “You’re not still being weird, are you? ‘Cause I
thought the last time she did that water thing you learned your lesson.
Wouldn’t be surprised if she did it again, to be honest, if you’re behaving
like you did.”
Castiel stops moving. Jesus…Christ, why the hell would she bring that up now,
he can’t think of that now, he can’t go back to it, she shouldn’t…but they
wouldn’t do it again, right? He hasn’t put one toe out of line since back then
so there’s no reason for them to touch him like that, he doesn’t remember, he
doesn’t think about that as a steadfast rule, shit, shit, shit…
“Aaaand, that’s enough talking for you today,” someone says outside of
Castiel’s train of thought, a voice he knows and recognises, female…Anna? Oh
God let it be Anna… “Fuck off back to your hole, Hester.” Not Anna. Meg. Fuck,
what the hell’s happening to him?
“Meg, something’s…I can’t think—”
“That’s okay, angel, you’re okay. Little girls just can’t keep their traps
shut, but you’re stronger than her, right?”
Hands meet with his shoulders and manoeuvre him back the way he came, back into
the strong, warm rays of sunlight on the deck, down to sitting on the lounge
chair Hester just vacated. It feels distant. It feels wrong.
Shit. Of course this happens again today. Typical…oh God. If he…if he messes up
today, Naomi might do it again, she’ll do it again and Castiel can’t…he won’t,
fuck, please…
“Hey, whoa there, Clarence, what happened to being stronger, huh? Don’t let
that little shit get to you, alright? No-one’s hurting you like that again, you
hear me? I’m not gonna let ‘em.”
“You held me down,” Castiel reminds her, moving his eyes up slowly so they can
meet hers and lock on them, willing her to remember how sorrowful he was when
they finally let him up, how that was the first time she ever comforted him and
how he can be that again, he can.
She blinks and her face changes minutely, twinging slightly against his
incessant gaze, but then it’s leaving him again and moving on to something more
important.
“What’s up, buttercup?” Balthazar. He wasn’t there, right? (Yes he was, you
idiot, he was pouring the water.)
Oh God, oh God, oh God…
“Don’t do that, angel,” Meg says, pulling him standing again and Castiel wishes
she’d just make up her mind. “We’ll get you downstairs, okay? Where it’s cooler
for a little while before your guests come.”
“Come on, Cassy,” Balthazar says, tugging him away towards the cabin steps by
his free hand, leading him down them and all but holding him up on sea-legs
that haven’t even felt the sea.
Meg stays in front and they follow her like an apparition, leading the way into
the bowls of the ship, deeper until they reach the living room Crowley took the
plug out in and Castiel knows he’ll still be in there, and they can’t go where
he is, they’ll punish him again if they see him like this on such an important
day…
“Oh,” Meg says lightly, stopping in their tracks. “Busted.”
“Quite,” Crowley’s voice comes from beyond Meg’s body, drifting around her,
threatening… “Move.”
Meg does. And then Castiel’s bare to him in his black suit (Naomi didn’t stop
moaning about it the whole drive here) that finger of scotch cradled lovingly
in his grasp where he’s sat opposite them on a couch, reclined like there’s
nothing else he should be doing. Castiel, on the other hand, is shaking beneath
Balthazar’s shoulder grip and he’s finding it very difficult to breathe.
“What’s wrong with him?” he asks them. Castiel ducks his gaze.
“Hester mentioned the whole,” she cups a hand around her mouth and whispers
crudely, “water-boarding thing just to freak him out, the little shit. She’s
just fucking jealous because Naomi wants him at the forefront.” Meg glances
back at him and winks, but it doesn’t do much to help this tsunami making
itself known in his stomach, his head—Christ, if he didn’t know any better,
he’d definitely suspect he’s having a heart attack.
“I’m sorry,” he tries, darting his gaze from one authority figure to the next.
“I’ll…I’ll be fine. I am fine, I’m perfectly…” he glances down at hands
vibrating through the cutthroat fear. Okay, not fine. “…fine.”
“Mm,” Crowley hums, looking over at him with narrowed eyes. He takes a sip from
his glass as he waves his hand at them all; nodding and swallowing before he
says, “Leave us. Castiel, come here.”
Castiel makes sure Meg doesn’t leave him without one more desperate, pleading
look that she doesn’t tell Naomi or leave him with Crowley long enough for him
to hurt anymore. She just winks at him before following Balthazar back up the
stairs.
He toes towards Crowley, still shaking, and he kneels at his feet without a
second thought because he can be good. They don’t need water and cloths to make
him behave anymore, he’s good at it. He can prove it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he says quietly, shifting closer still. “I don’t know…” he
peers down at his hands, “I just won’t stop shaking.”
Crowley crooks a finger and motions for him to advance still—until his chin is
bare inches from Crowley’s knee and he has few other choices but to rest it
demurely on the dark silken fabric. He blinks up at the man and hopes he’s
proving himself to a high enough standard.
“I…I won’t be like that again, sir, I promise. You don’t have to do it again.
Please?”
“Now I know you’re not really this pathetic, are you, little bird?” he asks,
threading his fingers—damp from the glasses condensation—through the messier
strands of hair that Balthazar insisted was artfully tousled. “That little girl
knows how to get you, doesn’t she?”
“I don’t usually let her,” he insists, because it’s true. Hester isn’t opposed
to teasing him like it’s her only pastime—she was among the forefronters
taunting him when Naomi took his clothes. But Castiel has grown a thicker skin
in this new person he’s been built into. It’s just this one. He can’t handle
this one. “But…I can’t forget that. It won’t let me.”
Crowley chuckles lightly. “To be fair to you, Castiel, that was the point. And
I can at least promise it won’t happen again unless you step out of line.
Enormously out of line. And it most certainly won’t be happening anytime
soon—at any event such as this one. Naomi can’t have her star seller
traumatised before his big debut, can she? God fucking forbid.”
Castiel manages a small smile at that.
“Thank you, sir,” he says, nuzzling closer, dipping lower and urging that hand
to scratch along the back of his neck, the same way he does if Castiel’s
whining from a particularly gruesome plug, calming him from the pain. He
doesn’t hurt so much right now, but he’s pretty sure it will never not be a
comfort.
“That’s just fine, beautiful,” he says, and then, “Like what you see?” which
Castiel doesn’t understand.
He blinks up at Crowley and finds his attention elsewhere—positioned at someone
above Castiel’s head and nearer the door opposite them. And then someone clears
his throat from that direction and Castiel wants to throw up all over again.
Oh god, no. No.
Castiel’s gaze swings round faster than you can say ‘fuck’ and there he is;
stood in the doorway like he’s been caught in the goddamn headlights in his
fitted white shirt (Jesus, he didn’t stop growing up) and light coloured jeans.
He’s also eyeing Castiel like the Seraph’s just grown a fifth head in the last
ten seconds.
Castiel gulps and falls onto his flank with a decided thud, shifting further
away from this humiliation. This is exactly what he didn’t want Dean to see.
This, right here, this pathetic little boy thanking his captives for not
torturing him for having his own thoughts and feelings, he knows exactly what
Dean and the rest of them will think about that. Shit.
“Oh, don’t let this repel you, Mr Smith,” Crowley says, burying his hand into
Castiel’s hair. “Poor thing’s just nervous, I’m sure you can understand that?”
He’s toying with Dean, Castiel realises. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
Please Dean, he begs with his eyes, leaning forwards with his intent,don’t
screw me over. They’ll hurt me, please.
But Dean doesn’t flip out at Crowley and some deep, sadistic part of him is
pissed about that. He should be fighting Castiel’s honour, shouldn’t he?
Of course not, you idiot.
“Of course,” Dean replies, full lips tilting in a wry smile. “I can understand
that. Are you okay?”
He’s talking to you, dummy.
“Uh,” Castiel stumbles, drawing in a deep breath before he can even begin to
think about talking back to him. In front of Crowley, for God’s sake. Jesus,
what is he even doing here? “Yes, thank you, Mr Smith. I’m much better now.”
He smiles again, the same forced, bitter twist of his lips as before and
Crowley chuckles at him, before standing and tapping Castiel’s shoulder for him
to follow suit. He stays beside the man and hopes Dean Smith isn’t down here
for him.
“Naomi told me you were down here,” he says, shoulders sloping in a practiced
nonchalance. He leans casually against the gleaming wall of sturdy glass and
keeps smiling, just keeps freaking smiling and it’s fake and wrong, for God’s
sake but still…
“You were looking for me?” Castiel says smoothly (weakly), daring a small
glance through his lashes at Crowley bare inches away. “You’re early, Mr
Smith.”
Dean laughs. It sounds like…like early school mornings when he’d bully Castiel
into ditching and they’d spend the whole morning throwing pine-cones at Gabriel
through the Bakery window—like Sam waddling his way over the ice on Christmas
Eve like a baby deer they once spotted through the hedgerow by the Town Hall.
Like the past. Like…wrong. Wrong, here, out of place and too little too late,
Mr Winchester.
Too Late.
“Well,” he says loosely, crooking his elbow as if he expects Castiel to
actually take it. “I guess I just couldn’t stay away.”
“Quite,” Crowley agrees from beside him, nudging him a little in urging and
sighing too close to his ear for it to be anything but warning. “Well, I’m sure
the two of you can find some way to pass the time, hmm?”
Jeese, at least Castiel knows he doesn’t mean that as inappropriate it sounded
(not allowed anything weird before the auction—end up worse than the water if
he did).Gross. Wrong. Too late for that shit with this man.
Castiel thirteen year old self is screaming his protest.
He puts it off for as long as possible but in under ten seconds, Castiel is
there next to Dean and he’s touching his warm arm with that miraculously sprung
muscle beneath it, that hand too close and too tense. He follows Dean’s lead
back to the deck and it must be like walking along connected to a wooden plank.
Good. Castiel hopes it’s uncomfortable enough to make him leave (with you, with
you, Cas). Alone.
“You look too eager, you know. People will get suspicious.” They’re outside
now—on the opposite end of the yacht to where he and Meg had positioned
themselves little over an hour ago—tucked away just enough in sight to look
conspicuous but far enough out to be beyond the range of sound. Castiel had
checked. Twice.
“What, I can’t just want to see you?” Dean smiles—real, familiar.
“Not since I was thirteen, no. I thought I told you plainly, Dean. I don’t want
you here. Leave.”
Dean just scoffs beneath his breath and rests his ass atop a second railing.
They’re at the front of the boat, a good spot when other guests arrive and they
won’t have a need to talk. “Always could hold a mean grudge, couldn’t you?”
“You think this is a…” Castiel glares like his whole crappy life depends on it.
“Fuck you, Dean. This is not me holding a grudge, I swear to God…this is me
pissed that you think I still want anything to do with you. And I told you
before; I don’t need rescuing. So unless your planning on bidding,” Castiel
scoffs, “Please leave. Preferably within the next twenty minutes so you aren’t
forced to swim back, though it doesn’t matter either way to me—”
“Who says I’m not bidding?”
“…What?”
“Who says,” oh God, he’s leaning closer, “I’m not bidding?”
“You aren’t…you can’t…”
“Can to,” he grins, leering too close, so close. “And mark my words, Cas. I
very much intend to win.”
“Ah,” Castiel says with a mean nod, averting his eyes because surely the
distrust burning in them would ignite Dean? Well, then again… “So you plan on
raping me? Wonderful. Good luck to you.”
Yeah, that knocks that smile off, nice and clean.
“Wait a second, what the fuck, Cas?” he says, making a grab for the cuff of
Castiel’s short sleeved shirt and tugging it taut, keeping him immobile.
“That’s not…”
“You should’ve gotten your rocks off when I was a human being, Dean. Back when
I had free will. When I would have been willing.”
He pauses again like the wimp he is, that grip bordering on painful and cutting
off circulation Castiel will need to shake hands in the next few minutes. He
can see Naomi greeting them now; a colourful soiree of freshly dressed men and
women filing neatly over the yachts gangplank, jovial laughs and words filling
the air with dread. Punctual as ever, of course. Never miss the party of the
year, bidders or not.
“…and I would never do that to you, I…” But Castiel’s not paying attention, not
anymore. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t.
*
“Castiel, you must swim with us. You can’t miss out like this, you simply
can’t. We won’t allow it.”
It’s a blonde woman—all but yelling at him from floating in the water—a skimpy
white bikini stretched across very fake breasts, her husband’s credit card
being the one that bought both for her. She’s lounged out beside him now and
Castiel doesn’t want to comply to her—more than anything he wants her gone and
away and forgetting him because he overheard them about half and hour ago;
asking her husband to keep him. Won’t he look delicious in chains, George? The
foot of our bed, I know how you justlovegetting fucked, so why—
Castiel had stopped listening then because that was more information than what
he needed to hear. He’s pretty sure they fucked later and he’s pretty sure his
name was mentioned more than once but what got him was…they want to buy him and
keep him. Chain him up like a dog at the foot of their bed and fuck the husband
whenever they feel like it. (Better than them fucking you, right? Maybe. Not if
there’s chains involved.)
But Naomi’s eyeing him from a sunbed in her own swimsuit and sarong, intense
gaze meaning enough resistance, go.
“Yes,” Castiel smiles, climbing his way softly down to the very end of the
stern, cheered on by the crowd of people below him in the crystal blue
water—some even groping hands out over his body to help him, though he
understand that’s not the only reason they’re touching. His own trunks aren’t
exactly very forgiving in themselves. Meg picked them out. She really does like
blue. “Alright.”
“Perfect,” the blonde lady says, swimming over to rest her arms on the side. Go
away, lose interest. “I’m sure you look even better wet.” Oh God, please…
“Always be wet with me, handsome,” it’s the fisherman, muttering in his ear and
fucking grinding against his back, Jesus… “Love water, don’t you?”
Castiel turns a couth smile on him because Naomi’s watching, before turning to
the water, levelling his arms above his head and diving in, clean and smooth,
he knows, because it took him so long to learn. They’re cheering again, when he
emerges.
“George, God, baby, I was right, wasn’t I? Even better,” blondie sings, tugging
Castiel to her and wrapping her legs about her waist. He has to cling to the
side to stop them from going completely and terrifyingly underneath both the
boat and the water and Castiel can’t muster up much of an enticing expression
when he’s fighting for air. In more ways than one. George, at least, looks
bored from where he’s floating, which he supposes is a good thing. Maybe he can
talk his wife out of bidding (or buying), or at least put his foot down at the
extortionate price. No. He owns an island. That’s not a problem. Oh, God.
“Best not drown the poor thing, Blaire,” Dean, Dean says it, paddling up next
to them and neatly pulling Blaire to him instead, leaving Castiel to himself
and the stares of the twenty other people in the water. He spots Samandriel
when he looks away from the scene, up on the deck and talking charmingly to a
stern, no-nonsense looking business woman that for all intents and purposes
could be Naomi’s sister, but he doesn’t have that usual, timid little dip to
the smile he’s awarding her. Castiel’s not sure he’s that good of an actor,
either. Huh.
“Oh, you little party pooper, Mr Smith,” Blaire grins, clinging onto Dean’s
tanned shoulders (speckled with freckles and tinted red in the sun) instead
now, pressing her scarlet lips too close with her husband bare metres away.
He’s not even watching her.
“Who me?” Dean grins. He fits in. God, he fits in with these people, what a
fucking hypocrite. From the guy who spent a hefty chunk of his childhood
putting their City accents on and dancing around in Anna’s winter cloak. Kids
will be imitating him now. “Never.”
“Like I always said, Clarence. Blue looks good on you,” and Castiel has never
once been so relieved to hear that voice. He turns quickly and smiles at Meg,
letting more relief into that one look than he knows he should allow. He
doesn’t care.
 
End Notes
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