#accessor timestamp

“I’m sorry that we missed most of the music. We’ll try again, another time when I haven’t positioned myself so foolishly.”

Dean sighed with an audible smile. A moment passed as they sat and quietly recuperated.

Breaking the silence, Dean hesitantly said, “Cas? Why did you do that? Make up some elaborate excuse? I mean.” He sat up, running a thumb over the edge of one gold cuff. “I don’t really understand why you’re doing any of this to begin with.”

There should have been a simple, easy answer on Castiel’s tongue.

There wasn’t.

“I–” Castiel cleared his throat, winning himself a moment to think. “I regret the neglect of past years. I imagine you haven’t had a pleasant birthday in quite some time. It seemed unjust to let it pass again without acknowledgement.”

Dean’s eyes flicked minutely between points of unseen interest on the floor. For a moment, Castiel was certain he’d say something more, but time slipped by until Dean nodded slightly and only said, “Thank you.”

Something still floated in the space between them, though Castiel felt hopeless to identify it. Deciding to press onward rather than let it linger, Castiel sighed and pushed himself to standing.

“I think some repose is due after that furor. I’ll have a hot bath drawn.”

Dean stood as well. “I’ll allow you some rest alone. Thanks again, Cas. This has been… really great.”

“Oh – no. No, I meant a bath for you,” Castiel corrected. “It hasn’t ceased being your birthday just because of my folly.” An idea struck. “Have you ever had foaming powder in a bath before? I suppose you haven’t. I’ll call for some; I think you’ll like it.” He began shuffling Dean toward the bath chamber, making a mental note to drop some of the lavender oil into the bathwater. It wasn’t every day he got to customize Dean’s bathing experience, and the opportunity to scent him all the more strongly was something like a gift to himself on this special occasion.

Another thought came to him. But… no, he couldn’t. That was too far a step, wasn’t it? Invasive, even. Though, his own memories of the practice were sweet and sentimental. He could ask. Dean was, of course, welcome to decline.

“Would you allow me to wash your hair?”

—

Everything about this had been an excellent decision.

The room was warm and steamy, the air was fragrant, and Dean was once again wonderfully pliant under Castiel’s hands.

Mounds of white foam undulated with the water’s gently rippling surface, hiding everything underneath their luxurious bubbles. Castiel sat on a stool behind the head of the copper tub and scrubbed his fingers through Dean’s hair, making sure to scratch at his scalp so Dean would hum his pleasure. His hair was in need of a trim, Castiel had discovered; however, the extra length allowed for a delightful effect, where Castiel would bury his hand in the thickest strands and slowly squeeze a fist, catching the hair between his knuckles and pulling it taut for a steady moment before releasing it again; Dean keened lowly each time. He was sinking lower in the tub, too, which bade well for his state of leisure, but would soon make it difficult for Castiel to reach him – apart from making it difficult for him to breathe, if he slipped under the water.

“If you sit up,” Castiel prompted, “I can get behind your ears.”

Dean mumbled an assent and struggled momentarily for purchase. A resonant squeaking sound echoed from the bottom of the tub where his feet pushed and slipped on the smooth surface. The foam sloshed as he righted himself, bringing his shoulders above the water and sending trickles of bubbles trailing down his back. A small line of foam remained caught on the top edge of his golden collar, where it slowly fizzed and popped away to nothing but drips that streaked the metal.

When Castiel rubbed soapy fingertips up behind his ears, Dean hummed anew and tipped his head forward. Castiel put both hands to work, using all his fingers to scrub lines from the back of Dean’s neck up to his crown, across the whole back of his head from one ear to the other. That made Dean groan; adding the pleasantly sharp press of fingernails made him groan louder.

Castiel’s limited list of devices that elicited Dean’s pleasured sounds was growing by bounds today. He wondered which ones he might layer together successfully. Perhaps he could knead Dean’s shoulders during another bath, or while he ate something delicious. Or he could hold Dean’s hair, careful yet firm, while nibbling and kissing the sensitive spots on his ribs. Maybe kissing there on his neck…

He blinked into awareness. Dean’s head was tilted to one side, with long, low hums responding to the soft stroking of Castiel’s spellbound fingertips below one ear. He should stop. Now, before those thoughts galloped further from his control.

But Dean seemed to like his neck being touched. Castiel had never explored there before.

Would Dean like it being kissed?

Would Castiel like kissing it?

His lips were dry. He pulled them into his mouth, under his teeth, to correct that; nibbled down on them to quell their desire for pressure.

Surely Dean would be appalled if he knew this wanton preoccupation.

Castiel was nothing if not self-controlled. He would remain focused on providing Dean a good birthday. And Dean really did seem to like that spot on his neck.

A slow, ghosting flutter of fingertips there on the side made Dean inhale. His breath held for a tense moment before rushing back out in a half-chuckle as his shoulder pushed up toward the sensation. Castiel withdrew, intending to ask whether Dean wanted more, but just as quickly, Dean’s shoulder dropped back down and he tilted his head again in wordless solicitation.

Smiling, Castiel gently touched the pads of his middle fingers to either side of Dean’s neck and began brushing small circles. Another intake of breath, another roll of his shoulders, another airy chuckle puffed through the aromatic steam. The addition of another finger on each side had Dean hunching over the way he often did when battling his willpower. Castiel fastidiously traced and tickled the tense lines of muscle and tendon between the corner of Dean’s jaw and his collar. The tub sloshed as Dean squirmed and huffed out breathy laughter. A louder splash of water sent foam spilling over the rim when Dean’s arms suddenly breached the surface in order to grab at the sides of the tub. The tight cords of his forearms, cuffless where the bubbles dripped away, were studded with goosebumps.

Encouraged, Castiel slid his left hand forward to cup under Dean’s jaw. He drew Dean’s head back against his own belly, heedless of the wet hair pressing into his clothes, and spidered his right hand over the exposed length of Dean’s throat.

Dean’s knees jumped up out of the foam as a choked gasp of laughter cut through the steam. The tub squeaked with the slipping of his heels. His hands clutched all the more desperately at the rim of the tub, knuckles straining to remain anchored. A bright, gritting grin was cradled in Castiel’s palm, lighting the whole room with its brilliance.

A brief moment longer was all Dean could apparently take before his hands lurched from the tub’s edge and grabbed convulsively at Castiel’s hands to still them. Flagging giggles tumbled from his mouth as the water and his body both calmed. He grinned up at Castiel, panting and still holding onto the hands around his face and neck.

Something overwhelming flooded Castiel’s chest.

How easy it would be to pull Dean’s face closer, to lean down and–

He swallowed.

“I believe it’s time for the tart,” he said, instead of anything else unwise.

Dean’s throat bobbed beneath his fingers before he, too, nodded in agreement.

—

Castiel knew Dean appreciated sweets, but the audacious quarter of the apple tart that sat on the Accessory’s plate seemed overmuch.

Dean had eyed him shamelessly while levering it out for himself, as if daring Castiel to go back on the pledge that he could have as much as he wanted. Castiel would never, though he silently questioned whether Dean was truly the same enchanting marvel he so often seemed. No one could be flawless throughout their entire existence, he supposed. Foolishness was bound to have its moments.

But perhaps “foolishness” wasn’t the right term. After all, the excessive portion provided that much more opportunity to hear Dean vocalize his pleasure.

Dean was still warm and malleable from his bath, so his sounds came even more easily this second round of tasting. All the more enthusiastic were they for the whipped sweet cream piled atop the spiced apples. Castiel couldn’t be quite so jealous as before; his own hands had made Dean moan just as provocatively on multiple occasions today. He spent a distracted moment adding them all up and musing over an intricate scenario that placed Dean in a hot, foaming bath while desserting on tart as Castiel massaged, tugged, kissed, and caressed him with far more hands than he normally had available.

“You gonna eat that?”

Castiel blinked. “Hmm?”

Dean gestured with his full fork at the reasonably-sized tart slice on Castiel’s plate, as yet untouched.

“Ah. Yes. I was just… thinking.” Castiel picked up his own fork to spear a bite.

“What about?”

Castiel paused mid-chew with an unintelligent noise in his throat. It must have sounded questioning, as Dean repeated,

“What were you thinking about?” Then, “I mean, you don’t need to tell me, I just thought… it looked like you had something on your mind.”

He coughed a little, working to swallow. “Just. Um. Your birthday gift. I’m hoping you’ll like it.”

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Gift? After everything else today, you still got a gift?”

Castiel smiled at him and took another bite.

“You weren’t joking about making up for past years,” Dean mumbled. The peaks of his features were tinging pink.

“No, I wasn’t. And next year, I’ll have the advantage of actually planning.”

Dean ducked his head, a naked, embarrassed smile besetting his face.

There was the enchanting marvel, once again. Castiel stood, momentarily abandoning his tart in order to retrieve the bundle he’d hidden in his bedchamber. He couldn't very well wait any longer to give it, now.

It didn’t look like much, all folded up as it was. But Castiel presented it as he would any token of favor to an honored conferree, be they sovereign or baron or commander – with open hands, courtly eye contact, and a gentle bow of accord.

Dean seemed to be taken aback, bewildered by the show of formality. But he took the bundle in his hands with halting reverence. The deep green fabric was tucked into a neat, plush square that he turned over with curiosity. He pressed his fingers into the lofty give, squishing it and watching it rise back into shape.

It was clear he was trying his best to appreciate it while having no concept of what it was, and Castiel would forever be enamored with these moments of confusion.

“Allow me,” Castiel said kindly. He plucked out the end that had been tucked almost invisibly into the enfolded layers, unwound a fold or two, and shook the fabric out with a satisfying rumple of heavy, well-made cloth.

A wide, oblong swath of rich green wool unfurled between his outstretched arms.

“Winter wraps made from goats’ wool like this will keep one warm even on the coldest journeys,” he said. “It’s meant to be worn over other clothes, but it should be pleasingly soft even on bare skin. May I?”

Dean nodded, seemingly for lack of any other sensible response.

Castiel laid the body of the wrap behind Dean’s neck and wound it with care around his bare shoulders, looping it a number of times with attentive arrangement of the drapes and folds, until Dean was wreathed in soft green wool. He tucked the ends neatly away among the swaths of supple fabric and wished, not for the first time, that there were some sort of adornment to set the wrap apart; perhaps an edging of embroidery in gold thread to match Dean’s cuffs. Still, not bad for less than two days’ notice. Castiel could always have modifications done in a few weeks.

In fact –

With a brief gesture indicating Dean shouldn’t move, Castiel made another brisk departure to his bedchamber. The small compartment at the top corner of his dressing chest had what he needed.

He returned with quick steps and gathered a few of the layers together at Dean’s left shoulder. Keeping his fingers as a barrier to the vulnerable skin beneath, he slid the sharp end of the cloak pin through the fabric, weaving it under and over so it would hold without falling askew. He smoothed the wrinkles away from obscuring the brooch’s form: a sleek golden wing, whose shape Castiel had admired for some years. Perhaps now was the right time to use it as a basis for a personal sigil. He had some other applications already in mind.

Castiel stepped back to admire how the completed ensemble lay on Dean’s body. Those folds would look better pushed slightly off to one side – there. Even royalty hardly carried such a thing so well.

Dean’s fingers came up to timidly pet the fabric draping his chest. A few strokes, and he buried his hands in the plush folds to squeeze and drag it up to his face for a nuzzle.

“Gods, this is soft,” Dean murmured into it. He drew a long inhale and rubbed his cheek with a fistful of fabric. “Mmm. It’s really for me? Like, actually mine?”

“Actually yours,” Castiel confirmed with a gentle smile.

Dean hugged himself, petting at his own shoulders. “This is the nicest thing I’ve ever had. Cas… thank you.”

Castiel smiled wider. “Happy birthday, Dean.”

He sat back down to finish his tart and watch Dean wriggle around in the softness, sliding the folds this way and that across his shoulders. Castiel congratulated himself on the color choice – it brought out the depth of Dean’s eyes, and it truly would look magnificent with the addition of gold threadwork to coordinate with the brooch. Dean didn’t have much reason for fine clothes, but he’d be more presentable to accompany Castiel on any future, non-secretive ventures in or out of the castle. Perhaps a refined open-front robe, with a low collar that wouldn’t obscure the gold around his neck, would be appropriate for warmer months. Castiel would start to keep watch for just the right one. He could always have one made, too, if nothing suitable was found by early spring.

After another moment, Dean reluctantly unsnuggled himself from amongst the wrap. He folded it carefully across his arms and laid it on the corner of the table, placing the wing brooch gingerly on top. He gave a parting pet to the pile before sitting back down to his remaining tart. The cream was starting to melt. His next forkful he pushed around in the runoff and brought, dripping, to his mouth.

“You’ve, um.” Castiel gestured toward him an instant too late. It was a good thing the wrap was safely off to the side. “Got some, on your hand.” Wrist, actually. Swiftly heading for the cuff’s edge.

Dean hummingly cleaned his fork before turning his attention to the heel of his hand. Lips followed tongue in an unabashed quest to not lose a single drop.

The image came unbidden: Dean’s hands again secured with fingers spread, while Castiel’s tongue explored whether it was just as effective between fingers as it was between toes. An investigation for another day, perhaps.

But despite Dean’s efforts, there was still a streak of cream clinging to his little finger. If he reached to pet the wrap again–

“There’s still,” Castiel began, not wanting to point impolitely. “Still a bit… no, higher… it’s just there…”

The elusive spot drew Castiel to lean forward and take Dean’s cuffed wrist in one hand while reaching for a napkin with the other. It was only a small daub, there by the tip of his little finger. A brief swipe with the napkin would take care of it.

Dean had been so loathe to waste any, though. And it was rare to enjoy such an indulgence.

Castiel pulled in and pressed-swiped his lips against Dean’s fingertip. The touch parted again with the light click of a kiss that Castiel hadn’t quite intended.

It was only an instant, begun and finished in a span between blinks. The instant after, though, seemed to tarry longer than it should have. Dean was very still. Castiel instinctively licked the stray sweetness from the inner edge of his lips. He realized he still held Dean’s wrist.

He released it and sat back, unsure if he was content or consternated with himself.

Dean held his empty fork in one hand while he gazed distractedly at the other, curling it to run his thumb back and forth across each of his fingertips.

Castiel cleared his throat and stabbed up another bite. “If your hands are sticky, it’s probably best to wash them before taking the wrap back to your quarters. The wool will manage snow and rain well, but I’m less certain about cream.”

Sparing a glance for the wrap, Dean nodded. His fork continued to hover for another moment. Finally, he huffed a breath, resettled himself in his seat, and scooped up another heaping forkful.

“Can I ask for something?” he said.

Castiel raised his brows. “Whether it’s in my power to provide will be seen. But, once again: far be it from me to deny the request of the birthed one.”

Dean smiled down at his plate. It was nearly empty, now. Castiel was almost impressed.

“After things settle,” Dean said, looking up at him again with an illustrative hand over his belly, “before nightly preparations, do you think we could have a – a gentle – session?”

Gods be good, Dean was actually perfect.

“Any way you want,” Castiel said warmly.

Something sparked in Dean’s eyes. “Anything?”

Castiel felt a bubble of eager curiosity rise from his stomach. Whatever kindled Dean’s zeal was sure to rouse Castiel’s as well. “As I live,” he promised with a smile. “Anything. Everything. It’s yours.”

—

By the time Dean appeared in the outer chamber, Castiel had arranged all the delivered platters and assembled a sampler plate. He glanced up at the blanket draped around Dean’s bare shoulders to ward off the morning chill and smiled. The doubt that had plagued him all night about his choice of gift dissipated at once. It would now be a struggle to wait until evening to give it. He stirred in one last dollop of honey and presented a steaming mug as Dean sat and took in the spread with wondering eyes. 

“Grilled cakes with warm berries, sausages, a selection of cheeses…” Castiel listed off each item as he set the plate in front of Dean, and pointed around the table to indicate the remaining options. “...And hot mint tea with honey. If there’s anything else you desire, I can pass word to the kitchens.”

“No, this is… more than enough.” Dean looked up from the food, and while there was still confusion on the edges of his expression, something warm and pleased was rising in his cheeks. “Thanks, C–ah… my lord.”

This was one of many phenomena about Dean that Castiel found intriguing: the way he’d address his master appropriately when level, but slip into using Castiel’s name – and a shortened familiar form, no less – when fatigued or off balance. Castiel had assumed this peculiarity would resolve itself in time, but if anything, it had increased, particularly over the past year. Whenever Dean stumbled over his words to correct himself, all it did was draw attention to the blunder and press upon Castiel the awkwardness or even anxiety of the misstep.

He recalled a conversation they’d had not long after Dean came into Castiel’s care, when it became clear that the title of “Master” provoked a certain distress. Dean had been more hesitant back then. They’d barely known each other, but were able to discuss it and come to the solution of allowing Dean to address him as any attendant would. It put an end to the unease, and the world hadn’t collapsed as a result. 

Another concession in this area wouldn’t collapse it, either. 

“You needn’t do that,” Castiel said. “Revising yourself in regards to honorifics. If referring to me by name comes more naturally to you, you have my permission to do so. In private, of course.”

Dean blinked. “My lo– uh. Are… are you sure?”

No. But he would grow comfortable in time, just as he had with the prior shift. “Yes, I’m sure.”

A halting smile tugged at Dean’s face. “...Okay, Cas.” His brows furrowed suddenly with doubt. “‘Castiel?’ Or ‘Cas?’”

After a moment of consideration, Castiel said, “I have been ‘Castiel’ to everyone I’ve known since coming of age. I can’t recall the last time I was called ‘Cas,’ if ever.” He absently fingered the utensils laid by his place setting. Perhaps it would be nice to have that symbolic sense of familiarity within the confines of his own quarters. And if he never grew comfortable with it, he could change his mind. “Given the differing nature of our relationship, it would make sense for the way you address me to be different, as well. ‘Cas’ will do. Now,” he gestured to Dean’s plate, “have your breakfast before everything cools.”

Castiel happily spent the next half hour paying more attention to Dean’s eating than his own. He commented on each food item, making note of its origin or preparation as he knew about it, and watched Dean closely for signs of enjoyment or displeasure with each new bite. Most dishes were met with satisfaction, if not relish, though none brought the height of pleasure the tart sample had. All well – the tart would come later. 

Once Dean set his utensils down and leaned back in his seat, humming in contentment and the glow of being well-fed, Castiel decided it was time for the next itinerary item. He stood and motioned toward the bedchamber door. 

“If you’re finished, make yourself comfortable on the bed. On your front. I need to get something, but I’ll be there shortly.”

Dean suddenly looked somewhat unsure. He placed a hand on his stomach. “I, um. Should probably relieve myself first, my lord.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “I mean, Cas.”

That would indeed take some getting used to. Castiel nodded and sent him off. Dean’s fullness wouldn’t be a concern in the way he was probably thinking. Castiel was hopeful that the alternative he’d planned would find itself agreeable with both of them. 

He called in an attendant to clear the meal, and took a moment to point out the dishes Dean had seemed to like the most, instructing that the remainders should be kept for later. Castiel wasn’t feeling as full as Dean likely was, but the walk he needed to take for his brief errand would further soothe his tensing stomach. 

When he arrived back at his quarters, he found Dean on the bed as requested. The room was warm enough now that Dean’s blanket had been discarded, leaving his back bare as usual. That was certainly for the best. 

Castiel removed the stopper from the newly-acquired bottle he held and smelled the contents. The subtle scent of lavender infused in the oil made him smile. 

“Just lay still,” Castiel instructed as he knelt over Dean’s rear, balancing himself on the bedding. “And let me know if anything I do hurts. I’m… inexperienced.”

Dean’s shoulders stiffened slightly. 

Castiel hoped that would reverse itself rather quickly. If not, this would end up being quite the awkward event. 

—

Dean’s stomach turned as he felt Cas’ weight settle over his hips. His eyes locked sightlessly on the headboard as he tried to decipher what was about to happen. All the warmth he’d felt from the settling of the delicious (and much too generous, birthday or not) breakfast foods, and the small flame of hope kindled by this new permission to call Cas by name, was seeping out of him. 

At first, he’d been sure Cas was about to initiate a session. He’d wished he had been told the plan before stuffing himself full, as it was never so comfortable to laugh on a straining stomach. But now, Cas was taking a commanding position at his hips, and oil was being prepared, and there was talk of hurting and inexperience and Dean was suddenly sure he’d been horrifyingly wrong about where this was heading. 

His throat was too tight to speak. If all the trust he thought Cas had built with him was about to crumble, he’d vomit right here, right now, spilling that cloying breakfast back up over Castiel’s pillows. Too much saliva was already gathering in his mouth. He shakily swallowed it down. 

Cas’ hands touched his lower back. Dean squeezed his eyes shut. 

Oil-slicked palms slid slowly up his spine. At the top of his shoulders, they lifted, retreated back to his lumbar, and slid upward again, repeating the path with slightly more pressure. Cas’ thumbs pressed circles as they went. 

Now Dean was thoroughly confused. 

“I’ve been considering your suggestion for quite some time,” said Cas. 

The pressure moved up just shy of Dean’s collar and began rubbing from there out to the ends of his shoulders. 

“When I helped with your sunburn, you told me I’d benefit from an apprenticeship with a masseur. I couldn’t do that, of course, but the underlying idea had merit. Yesterday morning, I sought out a short lesson. I doubt my hands will ever be so skilled, but I hope they can provide at least some small measure of relaxation, in meager return for the refreshment you’ve been giving me all this time.”

Oh, sweet gods of the heavens. A massage. 

Dean could nearly have cried in relief. The pieces of their relationship, as he pictured it in his mind, began resealing the jagged cracks that had threatened to shatter them apart. As absurd as it seemed, Cas giving him a massage fit so much better into that picture than… the alternative Dean refused to think about. 

The scent of the oil was blooming between the heat of hands and back. Lavender. Dean nearly laughed. If Cas had been reminiscing about the past summer, of course he would choose lavender. Dean inhaled it contentedly and felt the tension in his body being replaced once again by warmth. 

Over the course of his time under Castiel, Dean had become quite familiar with a good massage. But there was a significant difference between the practical massages of the castle’s trained masseurs that served to relieve strain, and the massage given now by his caring master. Aside from the obvious imbalance in skill (which Dean had to admit was incredibly endearing), there were no aches to be soothed, no pulled muscles to be attended. It was being given purely for pleasure’s sake. While masseurs knew the body, Cas knew Dean’s body, and Dean’s body hadn’t been treated with singularly selfless pleasure in a very long time. 

He hummed at the touch on his shoulder blades. Thumbs digging along his spine pressed him deeper into a groan. Offering Cas his physical and verbal responses was ingrained habit, so there was no embarrassment in how his groaning wavered and pulsed with the rhythmic pressure of Cas’ hands. Just as his laughter tutored Cas in his sensitivities, his sounds now taught gratification. 

Cas learned well and quickly, as he always did. It wasn’t long before what he lacked in skill was made up in bespoke touch that melted Dean from the outside in. Where masseurs used elbows and stones, Cas used deft fingertips. Where they kneaded relentlessly until the muscle surrendered, Cas pressed broad, soothing strokes. Dean’s thoughts muddled under the touches like flour and water became dough, losing their individual qualities and snuggling together into a soft, pliable mass. 

Just as he tottered on the far edge of conscious thought, Cas huffed a quiet sound of bemusement. 

“I didn't expect it to be so difficult not to tickle you right now,” he said. 

There was suddenly a small thrill under Dean’s skin, running just ahead of Cas’ hands as though baiting to get caught. 

“It seems,” Cas continued, “my fingers are keen on their habits, and I must keep them under strict attention to curtail the impulse. I never predicted this depth of struggle.”

Dean chewed his lip, face hiding in the bedcovers as he weighed his response. “You could... stop struggling, a little. If you wanted.”

“But it’s your birthday,” said Cas, sounding confused.

Dean smiled and, daring a minuscule tease, said, “I gathered that.”

He grinned to himself when he was rewarded with an unseen huff above his back. Perhaps for most, exercising an Accessory’s usual role could hardly be seen as a birthday favor. But Dean’s body reveled in Castiel’s hands, and the prospect of Cas’ novice strokes being supplemented with his masterful ones was tantalizing. 

“Would you?” he asked quietly.

Cas hummed. “Far be it from me to deny the request of the birthed one.” 

—

As Dean’s groans cracked apart into giggles and condensed again into moaning, Castiel decided that it might be worthwhile to entreat the masseur for another lesson. He quite liked being able to draw sounds of pleasure out from his Accessory. And, of course, pulling laughter alongside was delectable. Perhaps there were other techniques of bodily healing that Castiel could learn and adapt into this enticing mix. 

His fingers delighted in crawling the smooth, familiar skin parallel to the deep presses of the heels of his hands. That Dean had asked for such treatment was the sweetest nectar of all. Nothing Castiel had plotted for today could be considered excessive in light of that. Dean deserved all of it.

That still left the problem of the next outlined event, however. He still wasn’t sure how they’d manage it. 

Somehow, by the help (or curse) of the gods, Castiel would get better at improvising. 

—

“This way.” Castiel glanced once more down the wide hall to ensure nobody of note was passing by before turning into the narrow attendant’s passage. 

Dean followed, clearly suspicious and much too loud. “Where are we–”

Castiel hushed him with a flapping hand as they slipped along in the cramped space. 

At a more appropriate volume, Dean whispered, “Where are we going?”

“To the central assembly.” Castiel paused at the next cross-hall, hesitant. He was half-certain they should go left. Of course, that meant half his certainty was still unaccounted for. A good portion of it was distracted by the massage-oil scent that clung to Dean in their close quarters. Aside from that, navigating without the usual cues of windows and tapestries was more difficult than he anticipated. “Assuming I can actually find it,” he muttered under his breath. How attendants managed this daily was beyond him.

“Left,” said Dean. 

Nodding assertively, Castiel continued leading the way. 

A few moments more, and a faint murmur of sound began growing into musical strains deadened by walls of stone. Each turn and narrow staircase up, and up, and up, brought it more clarity until they approached the rectangle of light marking the end of the passage. Stringed instruments sang a refrain Castiel vaguely recognized as he peeked out. Seeing no one, he gestured Dean along behind him and stepped out into the song. 

The central assembly lay three stories below, its music echoing up into the great domed ceiling just above their heads. The narrow balcony rail Castiel stepped up to curved around the perimeter of the open space. The decorative patterns painted up on the arched stonework were larger and much more grand close-up than they appeared from ground level, where Castiel was accustomed to experiencing this space. He tilted cautiously over the rail to look down at the gathering below. Musicians were clustered on the center dais, playing some stately song that seeped upward with slightly distorted echoes that gave it an ethereal quality within the high dome. 

Dean appeared next to him with an awestruck expression as he took in the dome and the massive space it capped. 

“I didn’t know if you liked music,” Castiel admitted quietly. “But I thought it might be nice to hear something other than the turning of pages in my chambers.”

Dean’s grip on the railing was tight as he looked down. The scene below swirled with the gentle motion of people moving through the space, circling the floor to greet one another or flow past groups on their way to further destinations beyond the assembly. A new song began, something more lilting than the last. 

Nodding down at the dais, Castiel said, “This group is from near the western border. I thought there was a chance they might play something you’d find familiar.”

A smile was growing on Dean’s face, which was worth every moment of the journey’s trepidation. 

“This is…” Dean began, then shook his head. “Thanks, Cas.” He glanced over. “Or is it ‘my lord,’ out here?”

Castiel opened his mouth – then grabbed Dean by the shoulder and yanked him down. They dropped messily to the floor, Dean yipping as Castiel flipped their backs to the wide stone rail supports. He tightened his grip in a warning for silence before leaning slowly to one side to peer around the support. 

“What…?” Dean whispered harshly, blinking away his startlement. 

Castiel pulled back out of sight. “Crowley,” he growled in annoyance. “With others, on the balcony one level below.”

“He’s on the Council, right? Why are you afraid of–”

“I’m not afraid.” Castiel peeked again. “I just… I can’t be seen. Out here. With you. With anyone. I, ah…” He sat back and rubbed a hand over his face. “I may have lied, to some people, about today.”

“What are you talking about?” Dean hissed. 

With a hand partly over his mouth and one eye, Castiel turned sheepishly to his Accessory. “I said I was hosting a sensitive meeting with a Consul – an important one – from… from I don’t even remember where.”

Dean stared blankly.

“I didn’t want us to be bothered today,” Castiel explained, feeling the desperation tightening his words. “It was the only way I could think of to keep anyone from asking questions, about the meal, and… and anything else.”

Another beat of staring, then Dean’s face contorted. He brought a fist to his mouth. 

“You– what?” Dean appeared to be fighting back laughter. Then, voice cracking, “Why?”

“Shh!” Castiel reprimanded, but Dean was crumbling. Castiel lunged sideways in an attempt to clap a hand over his mouth. “Quiet, they’ll hear us! It made sense at the time!”

Dean curled, sniggering helplessly at his indignation. Castiel followed and arched over him as if his body could shield the sound. He tried hushing Dean again, but the perspective on his own choices was showing an edge of absurdity. Maybe it was a little amusing. Plus, Dean was giggling all the more for trying not to, and a sudden snort echoed through the dome, acoustically enhanced over the far-below sound of strings. Castiel abruptly switched tactics to cover his own mouth instead to muffle the chuckles amplified by Dean’s mirth. They grasped at each other, choking down laughter in a desperate, failing attempt to avoid attention. 

“Who’s up there?”

“Crowley,” Castiel gasped, and flailed forward. He grabbed at Dean, ducking and dragging them both away from the balcony’s edge as he stumbled with panic and laughter. “Come on, hurry!”

They staggered into the narrow passage and fled, wheezing, hands clasped to hold each other up. 

—

It is a testament to how far they’ve come that Dean does not immediately capitulate. In fact, after a beat of hesitation, his response is almost glib.

“Your technique could use some improvement.” Then, “But I honestly meant you might be good at it.”

The jab is the first Dean has dared to make at any of Castiel’s competencies. But the sincerity following it is just as unexpected. The only thing Castiel can think to say is, “Is that so?”

He must have allowed more candor into that reply than he’d intended, because Dean turns to look at him over his shoulder.

“Yes,” he says simply.

Something about that pricks at the usual pride inside Castiel’s center. It feels like something in his chest deflates, but not due to sadness; rather, like a tension he’s always held up as a shield has fallen away, and what’s left is an unguarded inner part of himself. He never would have anticipated that such an effortless affirmation might be so humbling.

He’s still searching for a response when Dean continues, turning away to face the wall once again.

“But you might get bored with no one to oppose, so your current position is probably best.”

For the second time, Castiel is thrown. “No one to…? What do you mean by that? I’m not... Dean, do you even know what I do?”

Even as he says it, he realizes he’s never actually explained his role to Dean. Not that he has ever felt the need to educate a slave on things of the court, but having had Dean by his side for more than a year without addressing it in some way strikes him as absurd.

That feeling is not helped when Dean shrugs under Castiel’s hands and answers, “Argue?”

Castiel is startled into laughter once again. And again, as he absorbs Dean’s answer and sees how truthful it is. And yet more, as the mirth takes hold, and in mere seconds, he’s laughing helplessly, remaining upright only by his grip on Dean’s shoulders, quaking and blurry-eyed and overcome with the preposterousness of it all.

A moment or two later, when he comes back to himself, he finds he has curled to the point of resting his head on Dean’s broad back. His hands and forehead are sticky with the paste he’d been applying.

“I’m sorry,” he pants, rubbing at his eyes with his wrist as he sits up. “That was just–” He almost stutters into laughter again. “Are– are you alright?” He gently smooths over the smudged texture left by his forehead between Dean’s shoulderblades, once again cautious of irritating the skin.

“No, I’m… It’s fine.” Dean sounds distracted, but his back is still to Castiel so it’s hard to be sure. “I think it’s finally done with the hurting part. Should be good as new in another day or so, at least until the scaling starts. Even that shouldn’t be as bad, though, if we keep doing this.”

It takes Castiel a moment to understand that “this” means the oily regimen, not… whatever this give-and-take is. An exchange that feels friendly, even teasing, in a way they haven’t been before. The lingering effects of the laughter feel good. Really good, actually.

“I’ve never heard you do that, my lord.”

That sounds like something Dean had been wanting to say. Castiel clears his throat of clinging amusement.

“I suppose I don’t very often.” He sets aside the mortar as Dean turns on the bench to face him. “As a Consul, I ensure that the rest of the council doesn’t get us all killed with poor diplomatic decisions, at least until the King comes of age. Then I presume my role will be the same, except that the power to heed or ignore will be in one set of hands instead of a half dozen. It doesn’t leave much room for diversion.”

But perhaps Castiel should make room. He can feel the ache in his belly from the strain of little-used muscles, and it’s a tangible reminder of how nothing else had mattered for those few moments of laughter. His body feels less weighed down. His head is clear. The release is almost one he’d equate to having a session with Dean.

Speaking of which.

“You said it doesn’t hurt anymore?”

—

Any loss Castiel may have felt in replacing the cuffs and collar on Dean’s untanned wrists, ankles, and neck is balanced quite nicely by the fulfillment of that latent desire to lash him facedown and feather him to pieces.

He’s never done this entirely in the absence of Dean’s wrap before, but he’s certain he won’t go back to including it. The lightweight strips that form the undergarment are so brief as to provide almost no protection at all, and the lack of excess material to keep out of the way means more of his concentration can go toward driving Dean out of his mind. To Castiel’s keen satisfaction, the pale, firm swells of Dean’s ass are just as exquisitely sensitive as he has repeatedly imagined over the last few days. Dean heaves, clenches, quivers under the dance of the bundled feathers Castiel dusts ruthlessly over his helpless form.

While there is something intensely enjoyable about the way Dean’s whole body seizes when Castiel slips a feather under the thin fabric and drags it through the tightened cleft between his cheeks, Castiel’s favorite spot is the exposed lower slopes just above his thighs. Dean’s laughter deepens upon the application of two smaller feather bundles that tickle there in tiny, wiggling circles. For long moments on end, Castiel does not stop or change tactics except to shift minutely toward the left or right to keep the sensation fresh. He wishes, not for the first time, that he had more than two hands so he might also tickle the backs of Dean’s thighs, and perhaps the sides of his hips. To the sound of increasingly delirious laughter, he resolves to find occasion for setting Dean up as a wind chime once again. This time, he will position Dean on his front like this, but slip a bolster pillow beneath his hips so as to lift his rear and open the creases between his buttocks and thighs. Castiel will arrange all manner of tassels and strands of silk, and he will accentuate their endless breeze-driven caresses with the twirling of feathers between his own fingertips. Yes, this is a good plan.

As tormented as Dean currently sounds, he’s not writhing so desperately. Perhaps he’s still being careful with his tenuously healed skin, or perhaps he is nearly as hungry for this as his master is. The thought that Dean is relishing it equally with Castiel solidifies another desire that quickly overwhelms him.

The lavender aroma from the latest bath still hangs on Dean’s skin, beckoning, and Castiel finally yields to its draw. He releases the feathers so he can drop to his elbows over Dean’s lower back and bury his nose in Dean’s side. He breathes deeply of the charged scent and holds onto Dean’s waist as though he must keep him from trying to get away. Castiel rolls his lips open on the soft skin and seals them down fervently.

Dean’s laughter tapers into a groan. Castiel grips and re-grips his waist, rubs and squeezes his hips, mouths his scented skin as though it’s the only meal he’s had in days. The sounds Dean makes in response are breathy, sinking into moans when Castiel’s kisses are firmed with teeth. Every inch under Castiel’s touch is virgin-soft with the absorbed oil that’s been keeping the sunned skin nourished as it heals. The herbal fragrance is part of Dean’s flesh, imbuing him with irresistible sensual lure. Castiel is sure he could remain caught in this spell for months with no hint of starvation, physical or otherwise.

Though, maybe he would miss one thing.

Castiel precedes the next kiss in his path with a flick of his tongue. One of his hands relents from its firm grasp and drags a fingered line down the side of Dean’s hip. Dean’s body squirms in a serpentine motion as he gasps.

Yes, this is perfection, Castiel thinks as his wandering fingertips find that spot low on Dean’s behind. A gentle, spidery tickling there, paired with continued devouring with eager mouth and tongue on Dean’s waist, causes Dean to laugh through his moaning – or perhaps moan through his laughter – as he arches into and away from the simultaneous sensations. Castiel wants to spend eternity finding every combination like this on Dean’s body. He wants to breathe nothing but lavender and feel nothing but Dean’s writhing and hear nothing but pleasured laughter for as long as his soul lives.

—

Hopeless.

Entirely hopeless.

There is no deliverance, no savior. Every new incident only widens the maze Dean has found himself in, and each step takes him further into its depths. Whenever his mind wanders as he drifts toward sleep, it finds the same path, wearing the rut deeper until Dean can no longer climb his way out.

Dean had really thought it could get no worse. He had really been wrong.

Cas is out of sight, tinkering around the washroom while Dean lies, exhausted, on the bedpillows. He never thought he’d use the word “ravished,” but damn if that’s not exactly how he feels. His ass is still tingling. He can feel the lingering pressure of Cas’ mouth on his side, the heat of Cas’ palm clamped on his hip. Dean has been bound and tickled and kissed in varying combinations before, but never all three together in the measure he just received them. If he believed in the ability to read thoughts, he would surmise that Cas had delved into his personal maze to unearth the yearnings hidden there. But he doesn’t believe in such things, so he releases the notion. What’s left is the idea that Cas acted of his own accord, from his own impulses, and that possibility… that grows the maze.

Then, as if all that hadn’t already been more than enough for one day, there are the preceding events to process. Dean has become deft at sifting out hints of gladness from his master’s usual steely temperament; until now, he’d thought he was satisfied with that. Proud of it, even. But now, every quiet moment, he’s reliving the sound of Cas’ laughter, the mirth-weakened grip on his shoulders, the press of Cas’ forehead on his back, and he knows that hints will no longer be enough. All of the past subdued smiles and quiet chuckles are so frail in comparison with the full-bodied expression Cas had shaken out against his back, and hells, Dean feels so cheated that he’d only felt it instead of seen it. He aches to know what Cas has looked like when that laughter caught him by surprise. Had he thrown his head back, or ducked into his chest? Had there been dimples hiding under yesterday’s shave? How had those strong, beautiful features been transformed as his body was overtaken by something as simple as laughing?

Dean’s thoughts swim slowly as his eyes fall closed for longer intervals with each blink. He wonders if Cas might ever try kissing his lips instead of his skin.

And there’s the rut. He is too weary to scale its walls, so he resigns himself to walking it. He imagines the soft, dry brush of Cas’ lips trailing across his face to meet his mouth. He conjures the slide of Cas’ fingers into his hair, the warm weight of his body, the confident press of his tongue–

The bed sinks at his side. Cas runs a thumb down his spine, and Dean is both annoyed and helplessly pleased by it. It sends a delightful ripple across his skin but it is woefully far from the way conjured-Cas was touching him. He wants more, but he is a slave, and Cas is… Cas is kind, and fierce, and endearing. But Dean has learned enough of Empyrean ways to know how impassable the barriers are between classes. He has already been afforded more freedoms than an Accessory ever should be; even that comment Cas had made a short while ago about self-opening cuffs could have been considered insurrectionary. Dean isn’t treating it as a realistic possibility, no matter where his ruts try to lead.

He sighs contentedly under his master’s touch. For now, he will appreciate what he has.

—

When he arrives at his chambers, Castiel does not rip off his outer robe only because the physical effort would risk making him dizzier than he already is. Instead, he peels it gingerly from his damp underclothes and hands it off to an attendant who did Gods-know-what today but it had to be preferable to being locked in a stone oven with six other argumentative pseudo-rulers for as many hours. The water basin isn’t as divinely cool as it usually is, but it still feels like heaven when Castiel dips his hands in it. He doesn’t bother suppressing a pleased groan when he presses the dripping washing cloth to his nape, throat, then re-drenches it and spreads it clumsily over his head like an Ecclesiastic veil. He shuffles like that off to his bedchamber, where he can lay atop his bedcovers and suffer horizontally instead of vertically.

The large carafe at his bedside is on its third refill (and Castiel will admit to considering cutting out the intermediary single-serving drinking cup before he’d even finished the first fill) when he hears Dean’s voice in the entry room.

Odd, because Castiel had assumed that Dean was in his quarters, napping through the heat of the day like any sound-of-mind person should have. But he’s definitely out there, conversing with an attendant, and Castiel works his overheated brain to figure out where he might have been. Perhaps he’d gone in search of new reading material. Or maybe he had gotten restless and walked the halls, because the sunny courtyards were out of the question today.

The bedchamber door opens. Castiel has returned to draping the rewetted washing cloth across his forehead and partly over his eyes, and he doesn’t expend the energy to remove it even when he hears Dean stifle a chuckle upon seeing him. Castiel merely grunts and twitches a hand in response, interpreting any following activity by sound alone. There’s a rumpling as Dean putters in his little space off the corner of Castiel’s bedchamber. An attendant moves through the washroom, and the heavy rushing sound of a bucket being emptied into the tub echoes out. Dean must have requested a bath. Castiel cannot even imagine the insanity of wanting to climb into hot water right now. That makes no sense. But investigating means moving, and moving is inadvisable, so he resolves to just be proud of Dean for taking the initiative regarding something he wants. Castiel will question his judgment later.

A few more paths of footsteps travel to and from the washroom, dumping water each time until the tub has lost its hollow sound. Conceivably, Dean is in need of as much water as Castiel was earlier. Perhaps Dean will set himself up on a cushion next to the tub and drink directly from it, as Castiel had contemplated with his carafe. The ingenuity is commendable. Castiel wishes he’d thought of it himself. He would go join Dean in this self-irrigation exercise, but again, that would require moving.

There are tiny clicks and clatters as the attendant assists in Dean’s cuff removal. Then a telltale splash conveys the mental image of Dean climbing into the tub, cautious of slipping. Castiel realizes he was expecting to hear the usual soft groan of relaxation, but what reaches him instead is a hiss through clenched teeth.

It takes a moment to put it together. Castiel blames his sluggishness on the fact that humans were not meant to operate at such temperatures. Dean requested a cold bath, not a hot one. Dean is a brilliant prodigy.

The sluggishness is again to blame for how long it takes Castiel to banish the image of joining Dean in the blessedly cool tub. Eventually, he convinces his body to overcome its preoccupation with discomfort and succumbs to early exhaustion.

—

In comparison to yesterday, the world Castiel wakes in is crisply autumnal. It’s still high summer, of course, but that intense heat has broken overnight and Castiel doesn’t feel as hateful about letting anything touch him. That doesn’t mean the day’s council proceedings are much more pleasant, but even Crowley sounds less stupid than he did yesterday when they come back to the point about who shouldn’t be invited to the ambassadorial welcome banquet.

When Castiel, thinking he could stand to exert energy for a session with Dean, gets back to his chambers late in the afternoon, the table under the large window in the entry room is not as he left it. At least, he doesn’t think it looked like that when he walked past it this morning, but sometimes he misses things in his early grogginess. Half of it has been cleared of its inkwells and sheaves of papers. The space is instead strewn with greenery, opened bundles of herbs, a stoppered amphora, two pestles and three sizes of mortars.

“Balthazar?” he calls.

“No,” comes a slightly delayed response, echoing from the washroom. Dean.

Castiel heads toward the sound, habitually sheds his robe and discards it on his way past the foot of his bed. He enters the washroom (which smells heavily of something herbal) to find Dean in the bath (again?) and puzzles over what’s making the copper tub reflect its color so strongly on his skin.

Only when Dean cracks his eyes open does Castiel realize it’s not thrown color. Dean is red. Painfully so, every inch of him, above and below his collar – except for a stark white band around his forearm when he lifts it out of the water, right where his wrist cuff normally sits.

For a moment, Castiel is speechless. On one hand, the color is comically intense. On the other, no wonder Dean is soaking again; the pain must be staggering.

“This couldn’t have happened just today,” he finally reasons, for lack of any other comment. “Were you outside yesterday? In that heat?” The cloudless sky had offered no diffusion of the beating sunlight, and if Dean had been out for long enough to turn into this, it was a marvel that he hadn’t collapsed with sun sickness. Castiel is both horrified and vexed that Dean had put himself in such danger. He’s also appalled at himself for being so absorbed in his own relief yesterday that he hadn’t even looked at Dean until now.

“Just a regular summer day back home, my lord,” Dean quips with a pained smile. “I just… hadn’t been out on a day like that for so long. Forgot some of the, uh, precautions.” Bits of crushed leaves slosh with the surface the water as he struggles to sit up. “Sorry, d’you wanna–?”

“No!” Castiel gestures him back down. “Stay exactly as you are. Is there anything I can do to help?” He backs up until he can see past the doorways to part of the table out in the entry room. “I presume you sent for what you needed from the Monastic stores?”

“Yeah, hope that’s okay.”

“Of course. Was there anything they weren’t able to provide? Some…” He waves a hand aimlessly. “...native plant you’re used to, or anything more exotic?”

Dean closes his eyes in thought. “There was one I can’t remember the name of. Little knobby purple flowers, grows in a bush, smells real nice. Even in most droughts we could usually still find it somewhere. I didn’t try drawing it yet; maybe that’ll help somebody figure it out.”

Castiel squints. His practical knowledge of such things is limited, but the description stirs a memory. “Do you mean lavender?”

Dean’s eyes pop open. “That’s it! Will it be hard to find, you think?”

It won’t be, since just about every Empyrean noblewoman keeps sachets in her wardrobe and bedding. Castiel hasn’t been surrounded with that scent since leaving his childhood home; he wonders if it will be like he remembers. “I will ensure you have it. Anything else?”

Dean grunts a negative noise. “I think I got everything. But I would, um. Appreciate some help with my back, maybe. I can call Maeve to do it–”

Castiel almost stumbles over himself in haste. “No, no, I will. No need to distract Maeve from her duties.” He has no idea who Maeve is; on further thought, he doesn’t think he’s ever referred to any attendant by name before. Dean probably knows Castiel’s usual staff better than he does. The realization is like a slap.

His chagrin is quickly overshadowed by Dean’s obvious pain when he pushes himself up from the water. The sharp demarcations where Dean’s skin had been shielded from the sun draw attention with their contrast. Castiel desperately tries to keep his focus on the lines at Dean’s wrists, not his waist.

“What. Ah. What should I…?”

“The largest mortar out there,” Dean directs, while he bends stiffly to pick up a soft drying cloth. “It’s got everything already mixed.”

Castiel gratefully flees the presence of the Accessory’s delicately pale and distracting rear end. The stone bowl he finds is full of an oily paste that smells like autumn flowers. He dips a curious finger in it and rubs it over his thumb as he re-enters the washroom. “What is this– oh, absolutely not.”

Dean startles when Castiel snatches the cuff right out of his hand. (Thankfully, the drying cloth has at least been tucked around his bare waist in Castiel’s brief absence.)

“The last thing you need is to chafe the edges of that burn,” Castiel lectures as sets aside the mortar in favor of sweeping the other cuffs further from reach. He plucks the tiny key from Dean’s stunned fingers. “Proffer.”

“My lord–”

“Proffer, Dean.”

There's some form of surprise on Dean’s face for the half-second before he complies by tilting his head. Castiel snaps open the lock of the collar and lifts it carefully away from the angry red skin, leaving a pale, untouched ring in its place. He catches the way Dean’s fingers flutter self-consciously up to it when he turns to march the golden bands back into the chest in his bedchamber.

It will only be a few days before the skin heals enough to replace them. A week, at most. Castiel won’t be uncomfortable with Dean walking around uncollared when he knows the situation is temporary and necessary. It would be best to keep Dean sequestered during that time, though. If the last thing a sunburn needs is irritation, then the last thing Castiel needs ahead of a distasteful ambassadorial party is the headache of reversing a wrongful arrest for absconsion.

Dean’s fingers are still at his throat when Castiel comes back for the mortar.

“Your back, yes?”

—

The next several days are… confusing.

The first time Castiel returns to his chambers and is met with the scent of lavender, his sense of time is lost. The strength of memory is overwhelming. Details fly to the surface of shadowy shapes: how soft the pillow was when he climbed into his parents’ bed as a small child, the scented darkness inside a wooden chest during a game of hiding, twining fingers in his mother’s curls as his cheek pressed her shoulder.

He walks, dazed, to the washroom, where Dean is again submerged in an herbal bath which now includes this new ingredient. The lavender, he’s told when he asks later, speeds the healing process and prevents scarring. The way it wafts off Dean’s body through the evening is heady. More than once, Castiel has to stop himself from running entranced fingers, or even his own nose, across the Accessory’s damaged skin. He wonders how long after the healing he can keep asking Balthazar for more lavender before it becomes suspicious, and how he might convince the (far more knowledgeable than himself) Accessory that bathing with the infusion should become a permanent practice.

The only relief from his impulses comes when Dean prepares a new batch of the oily paste. He brings the bowl to Castiel, who gets to carefully palm it over the breadth of Dean’s back while inhaling the mixed floral scents. Dean cringes less each day as the redness gradually recedes.

Separately, there’s the matter of Dean’s decollaring. It’s odd, because the marks of ownership are right where they’ve always been, but they’re represented in flesh instead of metal. The unburnt skin looks devastatingly tender and soft. Castiel’s fingers beg noisily to caress those milky swaths, to see if they might somehow be more sensitive than the developing tan surrounding them. This is a particularly loud and argumentative problem when considering Dean’s backside, which has seen more of Castiel’s chambers than ever. Dean has been going without his usual wrap, instead clothing himself in only the undergarment that doesn’t threaten the healing skin at his waist and thighs. Its abbreviated coverage only hides the cleft between the curves of his ass. Castiel already knows how Dean trembles when tickled there; the urge to lash him down and feather that pale, delicate skin until he shudders to pieces is a powerful temptation.

Over the course of these days, Castiel also has an intrusive thought about asking Dean to wear the physical ornaments of his position only when outdoors, so that he can exist like this in the privacy of Castiel’s chambers, marked with tint and shade alone.

It is decided, then, that times of healing must no longer occur. Having Dean so close and yet so untouchable is an unfair torment, and Castiel has endured it thrice thus far in Dean’s tenure. It addles his faculties into these thoughts of madness. No more.

If only he knew the exact supplication that might grant such an acute need, and to which of the two gods he should make it.

—

Complete helplessness under Castiel's hands was something Dean had quickly come to relish. At times, particularly early on in Castiel's mastery, the thought shamed him, that he should be so exhilarated by that which had been used to exploit him in the past. But everything with Castiel was different. There was no apprehension, no humiliation. Dean was nourished, healthy, comfortable. There was even a small layer of softness on his lower belly that built up when time stretched too long between his sparring practices. Castiel always seemed to lavish extra attention on it when trying to draw out longer spells of continuous laughter. Dean was utilized, not used. He was cared for.

And perhaps he cared a little back.

The bed dipped and shifted. Castiel kneeled up on the mattress from where he’d been hunched by the floor, and continued his upward motion until he was standing, towering over Dean with one foot on either side of his waist. He was looking and reaching upward.

Dean jerked at an unexpected brush on his side. He lifted his head. A feather was creeping up onto his stomach, pulled by a slender string tied around its shaft. The other end was up in Castiel’s hands, being strung through the wooden lattice of the bed canopy.

Castiel glanced down, scrutinizing the feather’s position as he adjusted the length of the string. It skimmed along Dean’s skin, its touch soft as its own weight until it angled up on its point. It pivoted in lazy arcs as Castiel secured the string in place. Dean tried to keep his breathing shallow – the feathertip dragged minutely whenever his stomach moved.

With a small satisfied nod, Castiel stepped down to the floor. He bent down again, out of sight. He came back up with a dozen more strands trailing from his closed fingers.

The next quarter hour was one of the most teasing of Dean’s life.

There were countless tiny points of sensation dotted all over his body, and they shifted capriciously with every movement. Castiel kept producing strings a handful at a time, stepping carefully around Dean’s prone form on the mattress as he stretched up to attach each one. Dangling from the ends were feathers of varying sizes, slender bundles of soft horsehair, long strips of silk. Dean thought he recognized a tassel from the curtains. Every one trailed its end along his skin, many pinpointed maddeningly over his most ticklish spots. He jerked and tried to stifle a gasp whenever Castiel brushed aside a group of strings in order to place another. Castiel appeared to smirk each time.

If he weren't so distracted, Dean might have appreciated how the multitude of strands caught the sun from the windows, shining like endless streaks of rain that wafted faintly with the currents of the room. But as it was, every movement of the strings produced scores of ghosting touches that stole his concentration away from anything else. Dean squeezed his eyes shut and found himself thankful for the added ropes that kept him motionless.

Castiel was prowling somewhere off to his right. There was a click over by the wall, a creak, and then a soft whoosh of sound that seemed to expand the room. Dean's eyes popped open. Castiel had opened the largest window.

The first caress of the breeze set Dean's skin alight. He tensed with a stuttered gasp. The strings and their instruments danced and fluttered in pulses, skittering along his body only to drag back into place when the air waned. It tickled, more thoroughly than anything in recent memory, though so softly he thought it might drive him mad. The next gentle gust had him whimpering with giggles, and he heard Castiel's pleased hum.

Like the decorative collections of glass and copper hung outside a village shop, he was a wind chime.

Soft sensations tormented the tops of his feet, his shins, his kneecaps below the looped rope, all along his thighs right to the edge of the wrap around his hips. There was even something fluttery drifting between his inner thighs, whispering at them each in turn. Ticklish paths twisted and scurried across his belly, licked at his chest, his underarms, his collarbones, along the lengths of his arms. Strands of horsehair dangled by his ears and neck, causing his head to shudder mirthfully from one side to the other.

A moment passed, then two. The air swirled into the room in playful puffs, utterly unpredictable. Dean strained at his bindings, whined, laughed, and in a longer gap between breezes, he finally managed to lift his head to look for Castiel. The intent way his master watched him at times was nearly as stirring as the touches of his hands.

The man wasn't there.

The room was empty, silent but for the airy brush of feathers and cloth. Dean felt a twinge of disappointment, but realized Castiel must have stepped out for something, perhaps a tool that would aid in this session. The thought of his plight intensifying, of a stiff brush on his soles or fingers in his hips, had his next giggle resembling more of a mewl.

The relentless breeze carried on. Dean squirmed vainly, breathless and expectant.

Castiel did not return.

Gradually, the helplessness turned from thrilling to something more dire. What if Castiel had left him here? What if he was forgotten, as the night grew cold and the open window welcomed all manner of things from the darkness? What if someone else found him here while he was defenseless and alone? The playful wind became pitiless, brutal in its pursuit of his responses. Dean's breath pumped faster in his chest. He was powerless, exposed, abandoned. Castiel was gone.

He should not call out. Seeking mercy was disgraceful. Blemishing a master's experience meant Alastair would come with worse punishment.

He couldn't... he couldn't...

———

"Dean?"

He recoiled.

"What happened? Does something hurt?"

He blinked, tried to see through the fog that covered his eyes. Castiel – not Alastair – hovered over him, one hand thumbing at his face. It felt wet.

"Cas," he gasped on a sob. "Don't– don't leave... please..." Everything was blurred, save for Castiel's wide blue eyes.

"I won't. I didn't... oh, Dean."

The ropes at his joints suddenly slackened, followed in quick succession by the release of his four cuffs. Dean curled, flinching away from the hangings that still tried to tease at him. The room went quiet and still. There was a moment’s pause, then another touch, on his shoulder. He twitched from it until he felt its warmth.

“You were gone,” he murmured, barely a whisper.

He heard Castiel adjust his weight where he sat, close enough to feel the heat of his body. "I was only in the other room. I wanted to hear you while I worked.”

The hand on Dean’s shoulder tightened, like a hesitation, then slid over to his neck and dragged fingertips back and forth above the edge of his collar. The spot made him want to curve into it like a cat. Tell me, he heard Castiel's past voice demanding gently. I will prevent this from happening again. But you must tell me.

“I– It’s better when you’re here,” he ventured. Castiel's touch was seeping into his bones, warming him like a hot bath.

"If I stay in the room, would you be opposed to repeating this?"

Dean shook his head, careful not to dislodge the stroking on his nape. The drain of the stressful affair was pulling him deeper into the bedcovers. "S'good when you're close."

Castiel hummed thoughtfully. "Anything else?"

Everything was growing heavy and fuzzy. The steady rub felt so good. Missed your hands, he thought. Whether or not the sentiment actually made its way out of his throat, he couldn't be sure. But the touch continued until the room faded away.

———

The light scrape of a shadowed chin brushed near the crook of his neck.

"Is this close enough?" Castiel asked, voice dangerously quiet right behind his ear.

Dean closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. A small, reckless part of him wanted to say no just to see what his master would do about it. He was perched at the end of the mattress, his ankle cuffs tethered out wide to the legs of the bed frame. His arms were tied behind his back – no, behind Castiel's back, because Castiel was pressed into him, the man's chest flush against his shoulderblades. Dean's arms looped around him in a backwards embrace, with his wrists resting in the dip of Castiel's lower back. He was acutely aware of how warm Castiel's sides were against his inner elbows.

Castiel worked himself impossibly closer, adjusting the lay of his legs where they hooked over Dean's. His fingers wandered down Dean's stomach to tap along his open thighs. He seemed expectant.

Dean nodded wordlessly.