#slave!dean

“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.”

—