Valdelion Valent

Castiel should want to smite him. Dean is hardly free of guilt; he could unlock Castiel's cell and his collar anytime he wanted, and he continually chooses not to. And yet… Dean is just a son duty-bound to his father, like Castiel used to be—before his father proved he didn't care enough about Castiel to release him from captivity.

“Would you?” Dean asks, eyes searching Castiel's. “Smite me? If I set you free?”

Castiel does no more than drop his gaze to their joined hands, but Dean still nods as if he can gather Castiel's answer just from that. Perhaps something in his expression gave him away, some softness he didn't intend to show.

“And… what about Dad? Would you smite him?”

This time, Castiel offers only a hard stare, and Dean sighs and scrubs his face with his free hand.

“Look, I get it, I do. God knows he'd deserve it for what he's doing to you. But I—”

Castiel hears the end to the unfinished sentence—I can't be the cause of my father's death.

It is not a disappointment. Dean has not set Castiel free thus far, and he was under no illusion that he would do so now. Hope will do him no good in this place where even God has forsaken him. 

He regards Dean, sees the regret on his face, and squeezes his hand out of some inexplicable impulse. It pleases him when it makes Dean gaze into his eyes.

“Cas,” Dean says, voice raw with some emotion Castiel cannot decipher. “Can I—is it okay if I come in?”

Dean is a well of surprises. Every time Castiel thinks he's beginning to understand the man, he proves him wrong—like the first time he received a prayer from Dean, showing him images of the world outside this prison and telling him about his day and the state of the world. Keeping him company, even when he couldn't visit.

Castiel releases Dean's hand and stands back, giving permission to enter. He's not stupid enough to think this represents an opportunity to escape—Dean will hardly be carrying the collar key with him—but it is something new and different, and he welcomes it. Welcomes Dean's presence.

“Hey there,” Dean says again once he's inside, his back pressed to the bars—a little afraid, perhaps, his pupils consuming most of the green in his eyes. “This is stupid,” he says, licking his lips, and it’s hard to tell if he's talking to Castiel or to himself. “I'm being stupid. You're a frickin’ A-bomb with a collar and you don't even talk, I don't even know if—I mean, it's probably sacrilegious of me to think that we have some kind of… connection, right?”

It probably is.

Castiel doesn't care much about sacrilege anymore.

He reaches out again, stopping short of touching Dean thanks to his chain, and Dean's eyelashes flutter and cast shadows over his cheekbones. “I really hope you're not going to kill me,” he mutters—and takes a step forward.

Trust.

Castiel has never known trust before. He has known faith, devotion, obedience, but not trust.

Castiel's hand—the one he now touches to Dean's chest, where his heart is beating wildly underneath layers of fabric—could easily crush him.

And yet.

Dean trusts.

Castiel marvels at it, and at the warmth and the pulse of life underneath his splayed fingers.

He explores further, moves his hand up until it encounters skin at the base of Dean's neck, and he presses his thumb into the spot where he once again can feel the rhythm of Dean's blood pumping through his veins.

“Cas,” Dean gasps, leaning into it rather than away from it—trusting again—and letting his eyes flutter closed.

Perhaps Dean is not foolish for trusting him after all; Castiel cannot find within himself a desire to harm Dean, only to feel him, know him.

Dean's lips, when his fingers move there next, part on a shaky exhale. His breath, warm and humid, brings unfamiliar sensations to Castiel's fingertips, and sensing no resistance from Dean he lets them dip inside.

Softness is a foreign thing for Castiel after spending years in this dungeon. His collar is steel, the floor and the walls of his cell cold, unforgiving stone.

Dean's tongue is velvet.

It flexes and gives under Castiel's fingers, shaping itself to them and sucking them deeper, and Castiel feels something—something in between sensation and emotion. Dean is beautiful like this, eyes closed as if in prayer, and his eyes blink open slowly when Castiel withdraws his fingers.

“Cas,” Dean says, looking as entranced as Castiel feels—and then the heavy clang of the dungeon door makes him jump back, eyes wide with panic.

“Get out of there, Dean.” John's voice is a steel blade, and Castiel can see the moment it cuts into Dean. Still, he remains where he is, helplessly staring at Castiel until—

“Dean! You deaf, boy?” John barks, and finally Dean slinks out of the cell and closes the door behind him, head bowed.

“Out. I'll deal with you later.” John doesn't even offer his son a look as he stalks toward the cell, which means only Castiel sees the forlorn look on his face before he turns away.

The dungeon door announces Dean's departure, and John steps up to the bars.

Castiel wants to kill him. Wants to say, Your son's saliva is still drying on my fingers.

Thanks to the cold metal around his neck, he can do neither.

“I don't know what the hell kinda mojo you used on Dean,” John says icily, “but he won't be coming down here anymore. This is the last time you've seen him.”