...and were back.

Um...well, I originally planned on two separate stories but as I've been thinking about it I've decided that the events of this story make more sense as one long story, so I'm gonna go for it and write it as one. This is the third story in the 'verse. If you haven't read the first two I doubt it'll make much sense, so go read those first and then come back here.

As I've tagged, there is an instance of extremely dubious consent that takes place in a flashback in this story; given how borderline it is I decided to tag it as non-con rather than skirt that delicate line.

I anticipate this story will be 40,000 or 50,000 words, thereabouts. I've got 10,000 already written. Further, based on current plans I'd say there is one more story in this 'verse.

Also. This story - this whole series - goes some dark places. Last story I had someone contact me and ask for clarification on where I'm going, so they could understand if something I mentioned would be addressed. I have absolutely no issue with answering questions like that; if you have concerns about anything you read in this story or in my previous stories, feel free to get in touch with me - Tumblr is your best bet, my username is unforth-ninawaters.

Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester; Castiel/Naomi (Supernatural); Castiel/Zachariah (Supernatural); Charlie Bradbury/Gilda

Characters: Castiel; Dean Winchester; Charlie Bradbury; Gilda (Supernatural); Naomi (Supernatural); Zachariah (Supernatural); Alfie (Supernatural)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting; BDSM; Sub Castiel; Dom Dean; Dom/sub; Top Castiel; Bottom Dean; Switching; Anal Sex; Sex Toys; Flogging; Masochism; Aftercare; Past Rape/Non-con; Flashbacks; Safeword Use; Angst; Shibari; Sadism; Kink Negotiation; Under-negotiated Kink; Subdrop; Gaslighting; Orgasm Delay/Denial; Edgeplay; Emotional/Psychological Abuse; Physical Abuse; So much angst; Castiel Whump; Angst with a Happy Ending; Hurt/Comfort; Angst and Hurt/Comfort; Anxiety

This is third story in a three part series.

Story 1: SextersAnondotcom

Story 2: Deactivated

Mouth hanging open slackly, Castiel leaned back on his heels, settled his weight on the floor, stretched himself wide, filled himself with the dildo affixed to the floor. Light like fireworks exploded behind his eyes as he tried and failed to focus on Dean's image on his computer monitor.

"Oh God," he groaned. Despite all the scenes they'd done together over the past few months, despite the other times they'd used the toy, Castiel never got used to how big it felt when he first sank down on it.

"That's 36," Dean chided. Castiel bit his lip against a whimper of distress, his hips jerked against the cock within him as anticipation left him desperate and needy.

I shouldn't be this excited about…

…yes I should. It's okay. Dean says it's okay.

"Whenever you're ready, Cas," Dean said.

Nodding, teeth teasing at the inside of his cheek to spark a trickle of grounding pain, Castiel took up his belt, wrapped his hand around the holed end and draped the buckle over his back. His forehead was beaded with sweat though they had hardly started the scene, his back slick with it, the leather of the belt sticking to his flesh. The buckle was, for the moment, a welcome chill against his skin. It wouldn't feel as good when Castiel began his strokes.

"You sure?" There was a troubled note in Dean's voice, but Castiel shook him off. "Cas, the buckle—"

"Do you want to count off or shall I?" Castiel interrupted harshly.

Dean sighed. "Count each stroke. And make it a round 40 for interrupting me."

"Yes, sir."

"Why are you being punished, Cas?" All sign of doubt and concern vanished from Dean's voice. His eyes were hard, his voice unwavering, his expression stern. What little disquiet Castiel had felt at the prospect of whipping himself faded. He needed to be punished for his misbehavior. He wouldn't let Dean down again. Dean's procrastination had been an itch under his skin. Now that he was ready, now that he was full, every moment of delay was agony.

"Because I referred to God as the source of my pleasure, when in actuality you are the source of my pleasure, sir," Castiel replied, gritting his teeth. Tension had his heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps. Every twitch increased the pressure within him, fired pleasure through his veins that he couldn't handle. "I defied your instructions that I go to sleep early after our last scene. I neglected to heed your instructions that I schedule myself one day off in every seven. I came before you twice."

What haven't I done wrong? I deserve so much more than 40 lashes.

"What is your safe word, Cas?" The authority in Dean's voice, quiet and deep, was thrilling.

"Magnolia," he said, "but I won't need it."

He'd taken worse beatings than a mere 40 belt strikes.

Reaching up, Castiel drew his arm down and back sharply. The belt snapped, the leather struck his back stingingly, the buckle jolted directly against his spine, and Castiel stiffened involuntarily, causing the dildo buried within him to rub against his prostate.

"One," he gasped out, fighting down a wave of combined pleasure and pain.

He didn't wait for the reverberating sensations to dissipate before he raised his arm for the second strike. It fell nearly atop where the previous had, with identical results. His cock, hardened by anticipation before the scene began, twitched and dripped thick pre-come down his leg.

"Two."

Castiel didn't try to watch Dean, didn't try to catch his reflection in the mirror, didn't try to do anything but keep striking himself rhythmically, steadily whipping the belt against his increasingly tender flesh. The blows blurred together, the numbers leaving his mouth lost meaning. Each time, his body jerked against the dildo. Each time, the stinging strikes combined with the pleasure until it was all he could do not to come each time the belt hit his skin. Within a few strokes, the pain melted completely into euphoric pleasure. He felt the bite of it, knew it should be agonizing as he worked himself raw, but it wasn't, it was glorious, a trial by fire that burned away everything that was wrong with him and left him purified, floating free within his body, outside his body. If not for the need to count off, he'd have been completely lost, but the requirement that he speak grounded him just enough that he remained sensible. Ten strokes came and went, then twenty, and Castiel thought he could go on forever, each sharp lash a reset button that kept him from thinking of anything save the next number, the next blow, the next exquisite drag of friction in his ass.

"Thirty five…"

Spit and blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, a copper flavor coated his tongue. He must have bitten himself at some point, though he didn't recall doing so. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. His channel screamed for further stimulation, for him to give in to the desire to be fucked senseless since he couldn't fuck. Deliberately, he raised his arm for the next blow, brought it down with the snap-crack of leather on flesh. Pain seared bliss behind his eyes.

"Thirty six!"

The next strike split his skin for the first time, blood joining the flow of sweat down his spine, snaking down his crotch to add to the moisture of the lube in his crack. The burst of agony as his thoughts went completely blank for an instant was amazing, indescribably perfect. He'd missed this feeling so much. "Thirty seven." Everything in his head was endorphins and bliss and the overwhelming need to continue to obey that over-rode every instinct that said he should stop hurting himself, that what he did was wrong. It wasn't wrong, he knew it wasn't, felt so good, he was being punished just as he knew he deserved and it was phenomenal. Another strike – "thirty eight!" – and Castiel's willpower cracked. His hips bucked up and down on the dildo, chasing the pleasure of being filled, of his channel being rubbed against, his prostate stimulated. A sob burst from him uncontrollably.

"Cas!" barked Dean.

"Yes – yes, sir?" Castiel's voice cracked on the simple words, broken by raking breaths that couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. Every movement, even the smallest twitch of his tortured body, stimulated him further, burst bliss from the wounds on his back, from his ass, from his neglected cock and strained muscles. "Oh G – oh, Dean, sir…!" His body pivoted on the cock again, he couldn't help it, it felt so good – so good – so good – there wasn't room in his hormone-swamped thoughts for anything else. His cock ached, it was so hard, and he was close, so close, to coming.

"Color!"

"…yel…yellow," he cried out.

"In that case, you will finish your punishment," Dean ordered, voice rough.

"I will," agreed Castiel, licking his gummy lips, tasting blood and mucus and thick spit. "What…what number was I on, sir?"

"You've completed thirty eight strikes." There wasn't an ounce of sympathy in his voice, not the least hint of mercy. Of course not. I cannot be forgiven for my transgressions until I have been adequately punished.

Another strike, another burst of agonized bliss as his skin tore again, and Castiel screamed, "Thirty nine."

"Breathe, Cas," Dean demanded. Castiel tried to obey, he did, but air caught wet in his throat and he coughed. Each hack spasmed his body against the dildo and he nearly broke, sobs bursting out. He felt, fuck, he felt everything and it was nearly unbearable. "You got this," Dean continued more gently. "One more – just one more – I know you can do this."

Castiel latched onto the words like a promise. He didn't think he could do this, every instinct screamed for him to screw himself into oblivion until he finally, finally, came, but Dean believed in him.

He couldn't bear to think of the consequences were he to fail.

"Thirty…" Castiel trailed off. No, that wasn't right. He was supposed to – he had to – with an arm that felt pathetically weak, he lifted the belt again, brought it down again. The snap of it filled the bathroom with noise, the moment before it struck him lasted a lifetime, and then the metal buckle struck his skin, tore into him, pain seared through him, and he wasn't sure he managed to mouth the word "forty" as he collapsed limply back against the cock filling his hole, gasping and crying.

"Open your eyes, Cas." Shaking his head nearly caused Castiel to swoon. He couldn't, he couldn't look, he couldn't feel anything else, he could hardly hold himself upright another moment. His entire body throbbed in time to his racing heart beat and he hovered on an edge. "Please, Cas. I know, okay? You've done amazingly. Whenever I think I know how much you're capable of, you prove to me how much more you can do. You're finished, now, and I need you to open your eyes. I know you can." The coaxing, kind words wormed into Castiel's consciousness and, with effort, he blinked his eyes open. Salt stung them, his lids encrusted and gross, and he couldn't find the strength to lift his arms to wipe the filth away. The screen before him was out of focus; he could just make out blurry patches of pale and dark demarking Dean's head and hair and shoulders. "Okay, that's good, that's great. Stay with me Cas – look at my eyes." Finding eyes amidst the fuzzed out image was more challenging; by the time Castiel managed it his breathing had grown more regular and he felt slightly less like he was on the verge of exploding or vomiting or coming on the spot. "Awesome, Cas"

Stepping away from the camera, Dean leaned back on his bed. He was naked and absolutely fucking gorgeous, lean and powerfully muscled, soft at the belly and thigh, hard at the chest and arms and leaking cock. Scooting around, Dean arranged himself so that his backside was to the camera, kneeling on his bed, ass beautifully presented to Castiel. Castiel's heart began to race again, his thoughts simultaneously howling denial and approval. He suspected what was coming and he wanted it, wanted it so badly he thought he might come from the anticipation, and at the same time he was already wound so tight he didn't think he could handle any more feeling than he was already experiencing. Confirming Castiel's suspicions, Dean produced as from nowhere the long dildo he only used with Castiel, rubbed lube over it and sparked fireworks in Castiel's head as he imagined Dean lubricating his cock. Dean positioned the long length between his cheeks and looked over his shoulder at the camera.

"Don't wait any longer, Cas," Dean instructed. "Whatever you need now – take it." Without awaiting an answer, Dean sank the cock into his hole in one smooth, hard motions. There was no conscious thought involved in connecting Dean's actions to the sensations that instantly nearly drowned Castiel. With a loud gasp, Castiel lifted himself from the cock suctioned to the floor, imagined himself thrusting up to fill Dean's gorgeous body, and then lowered himself back down so hard his teeth jarred and his back spasmed in pain. Dean watched him, eyes boring, and he moved the dildo at precisely the same time as Castiel moved, in precisely the same way. Thrusting at air, Cas moved again, again, imagining that perfect tight heat around him, the smooth slide of it over his over-sensitized cock. Within him, the pressure over his prostate was beyond intense, beyond anything he could remember feeling before.

"Shit, Cas," groaned Dean. Every panting breath burst from Castiel vocally, every movement flared through him so hot he couldn't comprehend why he hadn't come. It was too much, far too much, yet somehow it still wasn't enough. "Shit, you're gorgeous, look at how you fucking destroyed yourself for me, such a good boy, took your punishment so well, feels so—" Dean grunted sharply, eyes rolling back as he filled himself roughly. "Fuckin' hell you feel good inside me – want you – really want you – really – really…" Dean groaned again and went stiff, and Castiel could feel muscles contracting around his cock, feel the sublime increase in pressure around him, and he screamed as pleasure obliterated his sight, obliterated everything, and everything that was Castiel floated away into Nirvana.

"…so beautiful." The words came to Castiel hazily, disjointed, and he had no idea how long had passed, no idea what Dean was talking about. "When I joined that stupid-ass website I had no idea I'd meet someone like you, Cas. I thought I'd find some dilettante asshole and maybe we'd fuck around a bit for shits and giggles. That's all I wanted. That's all I was looking for. Even when I saw those fuckin' pics you posted of yourself I had no idea what a treasure you were." Slowly, the words began to make sense, painting a roadmap that Castiel used to find his way back into his body. As pain and cold crashed around him, he wasn't sure waking up had been a good idea, that his body was a place he particularly wanted to be, but he had to find the strength to pull himself together. Dean was waiting for him. "And now I'm in the fucked position of having to arrange for you to go to another dom so they can see to your back because I can't…we can't…Shit, Cas, I want…fuck, just ignore me." There was something in Dean's voice that didn't belong, something that caused a dull ache in Castiel's heart, distinct from all the other pains that he was growing increasingly aware of as he returned to himself. "I've worked with a lot of subs – as my partners, as my clients, as my models – and I've never seen anyone like you. The things you do to me, the things you do for me, they're fucking spectacular. How can you not realize how fuckin' perfect you are?" There was a long pause. "Shit, can you hear me right now?"

"Hear you," mumbled Castiel. His eyes flickered open; his face was pressed against the blood-smeared tiles of the bathroom floor. His back felt afire from shoulders to ass, his hole was aching and stretched, and his softened cock hurt where it was pressed against cold ceramic.

"Fuck," muttered Dean. "Sorry 'bout all that, I thought…how're you feelin'?"

"Hurts." Something troubled darkened Dean's brow, and Castiel hastened to add, "hurts good, was so good, sir."

"Are you going to be able to get to Charlie's?" Castiel's words did nothing to resolve the troubled look on Dean's face, a false smile failed to obscure the tightness about Dean's eyes or his knit brow. Nerves settled heavy around Castiel's chest.

What did I do wrong?

"Yes," said Castiel, though he was far from certain. Lifting himself up from the bathroom floor felt near-insurmountable; getting dressed, calling a cab, sitting upright with the seat pressing against his back, walking from the cab to Charlie's front door, all sounded impossible.

But Dean is unhappy and that's what he needs me to do so I'll do it. Then, maybe, he'll stop looking so upset.

Far from easing the tension evident on Dean's face, Castiel's declaration seemed to make it worse. No, no, I have to… Arms shaking, Castiel struggled to push himself upright. Agony seared through him as his back twisted, and he slumped back down with a pained cry.

"Cas! Shit, I…" Dean huffed out a breath. "Show me your back." Grimacing, Castiel rolled so that his back faced the camera. Though Dean was out of sight, the way he hissed as he saw the damage spoke volumes. "Fuck, you don't do things by halves, do you…"

"40 strokes, sir, by your orders." The longer they spoke, the more the conviction grew that Castiel had done something wrong. Dean had seemed pleased while they were in the midst of the scene but he was clearly unhappy now. "I'll get up, I'll go to Charlie's – I'm sorry I've displeased you."

"What?" squawked Dean. Castiel flinched, moaned at the pain that spasmed through him as the muscles of his back clenched. The delightful tinge of pleasure that the pain had brought was gone now, the afterglow of his orgasm fading rapidly. "No – fuck, no, no, no, you haven't displeased me. Jesus, Cas, how can you even think that? I'm just really fucking worried about you and I'm pissed at myself because I should be there. I should be the one taking care of you, I should—"

"No!" We can't meet. I can't be with you. I can't see you. I can't touch you. I can't trust myself in your presence. Pushing aside everything – the pleasure, the pain, the fear, the anxiety – Castiel got his arms under him and pushed himself to his knees, grabbed hold of the sink vanity and pulled himself to his feet. There was blood smeared on his arms, on his legs, mixing with globs of come, making clumps of the dark strands of hair that lay thick on his thighs and crotch. A glimpse of his reflection in the mirror showed him a mockery of his own face: tear-streaked, hair wild, chin coated in saliva and blood.

Disgusting. I'm disgusting, I'm twisted, I'm broken, I'm deviant, I'm…

"I'll go to Charlie's," he said, his voice guttural and broken from his cries.

How am I supposed to go to work tomorrow? What was I thinking? I shouldn't…I can't…

"Cas." Dean sounded heartbroken and Castiel mood plummeted even further.

And after all of that I wasn't good enough for Dean. I tore myself to pieces for him and he thinks I'm filthy, he thinks I'm weak, he thinks…no. He said I was great, he said he's worried about me, he said…I'm dropping, this is drop, I'm crashing because it hurts and because I'm scared and I need help, I definitely need help, help me Dean, I want it to be you, I need it…

"Will you tell me where you are?"

Full stop. For a moment, panic and terror blanked even Castiel's post-scene distress. He'd never crashed this completely this quickly, but it was the first time he'd done such an intense scene alone, the first time he and Dean had done anything to add to the collection of scars on Castiel's back. At the same time, he felt such longing. He wanted Dean to know where he was, wanted Dean to come to him, wanted Dean to claim him and take him away from everything that hurt.

"Not for me," Dean added hastily. Of course not, Dean doesn't want me now – no, that doesn't even make sense, he came screaming my name, saying how beautiful I was, how good I was, he wants me, he does, he— "I want to call Charlie and ask her to go to you, instead of you trying to go to her. Or I could give you her number and you could call her. Whatever you're comfortable with, Cas. I just want to…I have to take care of you."

Castiel's knees gave out and he crashed down to the tile floor, barely missed smacking his thigh on the dildo still suctioned to the floor. Splatters of blood struck the tiles and his computer monitor.

Shock. Some of this is shock. I'm bleeding a lot.

"That's…that's a good idea," Castiel managed, pushing aside self-recrimination to focus on the things he and Dean had discussed in preparation for this scene. Reaching out, he changed the camera shot of Dean out of full-screen mode and checked his Skype account. As he'd hoped, Charlie was active and online. He opened a new chat and typed as best he could with shaking hands, "I cant go to u can u com here."

"I'm…I'm not okay, Dean," admitted Castiel aloud, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as he waited for Charlie's response.

"I know – I know you're not, but you're gonna be fine, Cas," Dean said. "I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay with you until Charlie gets there, longer if you want. There's nothing wrong with enjoying what we did. There's nothing wrong with you."

We'll just have to keep at you until the lesson takes, Naomi's voice whispered in his memory.

No, no, I'm not that person any more, Dean is nothing like Naomi. Dean doesn't think I need fixing, training, reprogramming, repairing.

"Absolutely. Tell me where you are I'll be there ASAP. Anything I should bring?" Charlie's reply came through while Dean was talking.

"joule," Castiel typed back. "room 457." Letting Charlie see to him wasn't the same as telling Dean where he was. The more he'd gotten to know Charlie over the past months, the clearer it had become that she was no danger to him. She had Gilda. She was a lesbian. She was a dom, true, but she wasn't like any other dom he'd ever met, not even Dean. Charlie was safe in a way that Dean wasn't. There was no danger that Castiel would want to stay with Charlie. He didn't want to be hers. He wanted to be Dean's.

"OMW," came Charlie's immediate answer.

Dean watched him expectantly.

"Charlie's coming," Castiel explained. Dean heaved a relieved sigh. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"You've nothing to be sorry for, Cas," Dean said. Every time Dean said his name, it grounded Castiel, helped him focus, and he loved it. "We knew this scene would be intense, that's why we did it in Dallas, where we knew Charlie could help. Just turned out to be even more so than we were expected. Can you do something for me?"

"I'll try."

"Call Reception and have them prepare a key for Charlie, that way she can get in without you having to get up," Dean suggested. Castiel nodded. It was a good idea.

Am I trusting too much? What if I'm wrong about Charlie? She knows where I am, now, she could tell Dean where to find me. They're friends. I can't trust my own judgment, I'm always so wrong about everything, that's why I can't do this, I can't meet Dean, I can't let Charlie in, what am I doing, what have I done, I…

With difficulty, he rose again and tottered out of the bathroom. His room was lovely, pristine white curtains and sheets and blankets, modern black furniture with perfectly straight lines and harsh right angles. He tried and failed not to think about how he was dripping blood onto the crimson carpet. At least both were red; the way Castiel soiled everything he came in contact with would never show.

"Come back to the bathroom when you're done!" Dean called after him. Nodding again even though Dean couldn't see him, Castiel swooned against the desk, his head spinning. Perhaps nodding wasn't the best idea he'd ever had.

Nothing about this is the best idea I've ever had.

But it felt so good while we were doing it.

Picking up the receiver on the hotel phone, Castiel hit the button to dial concierge.

"Good evening, Mr. Novak, how can we help you?"

"I have a guest coming." His voice sounded so broken, God, they'll know, everyone will know. "I was hoping I could leave her name and have a key provided for her when she arrives."

There was a beat pause.

"She's not a prostitute," Castiel added pointedly.

"Of course not, sir." There was relief in the man's voice. "If you leave her name, we can make the arrangements. Please inform her that she'll be expected to show ID."

"Thank you, I will." Castiel hung up without waiting for a reply. All he wanted to do was slump down in place and wait until Charlie arrived, lose himself in dark thoughts and recrimination. The worst part, he kept circling back to, was that he'd enjoyed it. No, more than that, he'd loved it. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good.

Leather strips bound Castiel's hands, his arms stretched over his head; metal cuffs bound his ankles, his legs spread-eagle, held apart by a bar and affixed to the table on which he lay. His arms, his thighs, his belly, his chest, all were decorated with small colorful plastic balls, the heads of pushpins that Naomi had placed with careful deliberation, slowly, one by one, embedded in his flesh in a pattern he couldn't fathom. Beads of blood tracked from each wound, a dozen, two dozen, three dozen, he'd lost count.

He wasn't supposed to lose count.

Terror swamped out the pleasure that each pinprick had bestowed, fear as euphoric as bliss in its own way, and as addictive. There was no point in apologizing. Naomi didn't care if he was sorry, she only cared if he obeyed.

"Tsk, tsk," Naomi scolded with false gentleness. "This is precisely what I mean, Castiel. You try but you are not good enough, not nearly good enough. When I think of the effort I've invested in training you, it breaks my heart to see you fail again."

That wasn't true. She didn't have a heart.

"We'll just have to go over the lesson again," she flicked one of the pushpins, driving it deeper, pain flickering red around Castiel's vision as his cock leaked.

When she's finished training me, I won't be broken any she's finished training me, I'll be fixed. I'll be healthy. I'll be normal.

He wasn't sure he believed that any longer. No matter how long they were together, how much they did, Castiel stayed broken. He continued to enjoy even the most sadistic punishments she concocted. There'd only been one time she'd pushed him too far, one time he'd used his safe word. She'd been so disappointed in him. A pushpin ground into the sensitive flesh of his nipple and he bit hard into his cheek to keep from screaming. He wouldn't disappoint her again. He wouldn't.

"Cas!"

Castiel wasn't sure who had spoken. There were two other doms present, friends that Naomi had invited to observe his training. Like all the observers who had seen him over the years, they wouldn't speak unless Naomi told them to, wouldn't become involved without express permission. Even other doms deferred to Naomi.

"Cas! Come on, Cas!"

Shuddering rippled pain through his torso, strained his wrists and ankles against his bindings, caused every pin to tear and judder at his flesh agonizingly. "Are you ready to behave, Castiel?" He didn't respond. She didn't want him to. She wanted him to lie still, to contain his pain and pleasure, to be open and prepared for whatever she wanted. If he was very good, maybe she'd let him inside her. It had been so long. "Excellent. You've got so much yet to learn but sometimes you are able to perform adequately." A flush of happiness suffused him, causing his cock to twitch involuntarily and pearl with early release. "Zack, he's all yours."

"Shit…Stay with me."

No, no, no, please Naomi, I want you, please, don't let him fuck me, please…

One of the observers came towards Castiel, a leer on his face as he reached between Castiel's legs and roughly fingered his dry hole, and Castiel knew no prep was going to be involved in the sex to come. "I know you'll be such a good boy for my friend, won't you, Castiel? Don't embarrass me, now..." Through sheer force of will, Castiel kept from squeezing his eyes closed, kept from twitching his legs in a futile attempt to close them, kept from showing how little he wanted what was about to come. He could be good for Naomi. He had to be good for Naomi.

"Please, Cas, come back…"

Dean.

With a groan, Castiel shook off the memory. Nausea choked his throat with bile; he was on his knees, his forehead pressed against the edge of the desk, fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms. Ever since he'd started scening with Dean regularly, he'd been plagued by the past he'd tried so hard to repress. Even so, the intensity of this flashback was beyond anything he'd experienced before.

"Speak to me, Cas, please buddy."

Dean is not Naomi.

Dean would not punish him for needing. Dean would not hurt Castiel unless Castiel consented to be hurt. Dean asked about Castiel's limits, was genuinely interested in his answers, would not push past where Castiel said stop. They talked about their scenes, they talked about Castiel's willingness to be cut open, they talked about safe words and subspace and drop and punishments and rewards and praise and choice.

"I'm coming, Dean," Castiel called, forcing himself up, forcing himself to movement, forcing himself to face his dom despite his fears.

They never talked about Naomi, and they never would.

"I called Charlie," Dean explained as Castiel came back into the room. Panic thrummed beneath Castiel's skin again and he collapsed in front of the toilet struggling not to vomit, glad that he was enough in Dean's sight to ease his worries, enough out of Dean's sight not to add to them. "She said where you're staying is close to her house, she should be there in a few minutes. Gilda is with her – is that okay?"

"Yes," croaked Castiel.

"Are you alright, Cas? What happened when you went in the other room?" asked Dean. There was fear in his voice, fear for Castiel's safety and health; the concern helped Castiel fight through his own fears. Dean didn't hold all the power in their relationship, Dean didn't own him or control him. Castiel had chosen to do this scene, whatever the consequences, and Dean would help him face those consequences.

"I'm…" Stomach settling, Castiel turned so that Dean could see his face, taking a moment to tug the toy cock from the floor and toss it negligently in the sink. "I'm fine."

"Cas," Dean sighed, "you don't need to tell me but please don't lie. I know you're not fine."

"I'm not fine," Castiel agreed. "But I don't want to talk about it, not right now."

"I understand," said Dean. Castiel resisted the urge to say whatever he had to, anything to get the clouded, sad look off of Dean's handsome face. "We'll talk tomorrow, okay?"

"Yes, of course." It wouldn't be an easy conversation, but Castiel had come to understand how essential such talks were. Even if he couldn't bring himself to explain why he hurt so much, he needed to tell Dean how he'd reacted, how quickly the glow had faded, and they'd need to consider if it was safe to indulge in similar scenes in the future. The thought of not doing so left him feeling strangely bereft. As scared and upset as Castiel grew when he allowed his masochistic side free license, he felt even worse when he denied it completely.

"For now, please just listen to me," Dean continued. "I've got you, Cas, and I'm not going anywhere, okay? I'll never do anything without your consent, I'll never hurt you unless you wish me to, I'll never restrain you without your permission. Whatever has happened to you in the past, whoever hurt you before, I'm not that person and I will do whatever I must to prove that to you, as many times as you need me to. You're an amazing sub, and…"

Castiel let his eyes slip shut listening to the calming litany of Dean's words. Dean had said similar to him before, many times, but hearing the reassurance and praise never ceased to be a comfort. As long as Dean continued to speak, Castiel could lose himself completely. There was nothing but Dean, nothing but the comforting reminders that Castiel had done nothing wrong, that he was allowed this, that he'd allowed himself this.

A knock interrupted Dean.

"Cas, is it okay if we come in?" Charlie spoke louder than she had to in order to be audible through the door. Castiel's stomach dropped again as he realized how thin the walls were. When he was crying out – when he screamed – everyone must have—

"That Charlie?" Dean asked.

"Yes – yes, come in," Castiel said. Breathing deeply, Castiel tried to keep calm. Whatever others heard or didn't hear was irrelevant, it was too late to do anything about it now. His ribs ached with undissipated tension, his back stung as his body flexed around his expanding lungs. There was a click as a key was inserted in the lock, a louder click as the knob turned and the door opened. Through the open bathroom door, Castiel could see the slow, hesitant way that Charlie stepped in, Gilda on her heels. Both women were dressed in their pajamas, Charlie's red hair done in pigtails, Gilda's in a long braid down her back; despite Charlie's attempts to move quietly, a large duffel bag draped over her shoulder rattled as she moved.

"Hello, Charlie," Castiel said, meeting her eyes with difficulty. She won't judge me. I have nothing to be ashamed of. She smiled warmly, which made him more embarrassed than if she'd condemned him.

"Hey Cas – hey Dean," she replied brightly. Gilda made a concerned noise as she surveyed the damage to Castiel's back and the blood splattered on the surfaces of the otherwise pristine white-tiled bathroom. "We got ya covered, you can head out now."

No!

"No," Dean said sharply, a perfect echo to Castiel's distressed thought. "No, I'm staying." Charlie nodded as if she'd expected nothing else and set about unpacking her bag, using the counter of the bathroom as a staging area. As she worked, Gilda helped Castiel get comfortable. Eying the bleached bathroom towels with an irritated frown, she took two towels that they'd brought and made a cushion of them, helping Castiel to sit in a position that wouldn't aggravate his wounds. He couldn't see how badly cut up his back was but every movement hurt and he trickles of blood flowed whenever his movements cracked the new-formed scabs. When she was sure Castiel was as comfortable as the situation allowed, Gilda disappeared into the other room, and though Castiel didn't know what she did, he could hear a rustle of fabric that made him think it had something to do with the bed.

"Thanks for today, Cas," Dean spoke while Charlie worked. "I feel like a broken record, telling you again how fuckin' fantastic you were – don't want you to think I don't mean it just cause I say it often...seriously, I mean it, and you're fantastic." He kept speaking as Charlie settled behind him and gently saw to his wounds, applying antiobiotic cream, placing bandages, soothing away the pain with a deft, tender touch. He'd never had someone care for him after a scene, not like this. From the first brush of fingers on his aching skin, his dark thoughts dissipated, skittered to the shadows of his mind and lurked there temporarily forgotten. Charlie's hands on him were divine, the only thing better would be if Dean himself were there to help.

No, I can't have that…right?

There was a distinct shift in Dean's tone of voice as Castiel settled into ease and accepted the relief that Charlie offered. The good feelings that Castiel had thought gone returned somewhat. It had been a great scene, for all that it had left him bloodied and hurting and stretched open. "So fucking strong," said Dean reverently. "Fuckin' 40 strokes, Charlie, he did 40 strokes himself!"

"Wow, Cas." Charlie's cheerful voice was subdued and kind, a perfect match to her delicate touch. "That's fricken badass."

"Done more before," Castiel murmured. He nearly giggled at how blissed out he sounded. Even the massages that Dean had arranged for him hadn't been like this. The touch had been nice, of course, but it wasn't the same. Those people didn't know, couldn't understand, and Castiel had always feared he was being silently judged even though he knew, intellectually, that there was no way the massage therapist could know the twisted behaviors Castiel engaged in that led him to his pained joints and rope burns. Charlie knew, she knew that Castiel's injuries were self-inflicted, knew that Castiel had whipped himself bloody at Dean's behest, because Dean had said he deserved to be punished and Castiel agreed, she knew that Castiel had gotten off on it, had casually used a washcloth to wipe semen from his leg and from the floor. Charlie understood all of that, and she didn't treat him like he was twisted, didn't treat him as unclean even as she cleaned him. There was easy acceptance in every touch of her fingers, in every word she said, in the gentle way she moved his body and scrubbed him clean of come and spit and sweat and tears and snot and blood.

"No falling asleep yet, Cas," Charlie reprimanded him. Startled, Castiel jerked his head up, eyes flying open, and groaned as the sudden movement jolted through his back. "Sorry, sorry! It's just, I don't think Gilda and I can carry you to the bed, so you gotta hold on a little longer, okay?"

"How're you feelin', Cas?" Dean asked. Blinking fatigue from his eyes, Castiel realized his lids no longer felt heavy with gunk; at some point, Charlie had wiped his face. Gilda stood at the sink, washing the lube-covered dildo.

"Embarrassed," Castiel muttered, blushing. Dean laughed, and Castiel's shame gave way to happiness. He couldn't help but smile; Dean's warmth was infectious. "Better," Castiel continued. "Much better. This was a really good idea. I'm sorry for the inconvenience."

"No worries," said Charlie brightly. "We wanted to help."

"I'm very glad we were available to do this for you, since Dean can't," Gilda agreed.

If Castiel hadn't been looking at Dean, he'd have had no idea how Gilda's words affected him. As it was, he couldn't look away. Dean flinched, colored, scowled, his brow furrowed. When he realized that Castiel was watching, he forced a smile on his face but looked away, refusing to meet Castiel's eyes.

"Are you alright, Dean?" Dean's pain felt like Castiel's pain, cut him as deeply as the belt buckle had dug into his back.

"I'm fine," Dean said evasively. Castiel managed to give him a stink eye – a surprising effort, he was more tired than he realized, drained by the exertions of the scene and the sudden crash into stress and anxiety he'd experienced afterwards – and Dean responded with a wan smile. "Guess I'm shit at following my own advice, huh?" Castiel quirked an eyebrow at him. "I'm not fine, Cas, but I don't want to talk about it yet, either. We'll talk tomorrow when you're done with work, okay?"

"Are you leaving?" asked Castiel, alarmed. Charlie made a calming noise in his ear, rubbing his arms reassuringly.

"Not 'til you fall asleep," Dean promised. Castiel let out a relieved sigh. "Come on, let's get you to bed."

With Charlie's help, Castiel got to his feet. The pain in his back had faded to a dull throb and his thoughts remained wonderfully quiet. Gilda grabbed the laptop and carried it out into the other room, Castiel and Charlie trailing behind. Determined to walk under his own power, Castiel shook off Charlie's supportive grip but she continued to hover around him as if she expected him to keel over at any moment, as if there was anything she could do to catch him considering her head barely came up to his chin. The bed had been transformed while Castiel lingered on the bathroom floor, the blankets pulled free, additional pillows produced from who-knew-where, and a set of pajamas were laid out for him. Carrie flopped among the pillows, precisely where Castiel had left her when he'd unpacked the day before upon his arrival in Dallas. Shame was starting to intrude again – he was standing naked before two virtual strangers. He'd grown friendly with both women over Skype over the past few months, but their friendship couldn't encompass this degree of intimacy. He'd allowed them to clean up his blood and come, allowed them to wash his dildo and sponge off his crack, allowed them to bandage and pamper him, and now he had no choice but to allow them to help him in to his pajama bottoms, because his balance was too shot for him to put them on himself. The embarrassment brought with it tension, and tension brought pain that shivered through his torn back.

"It's okay, Cas, you're okay," murmured Charlie bracingly, her hands surprisingly strong against his side and arm.

"You're staying, right?" he asked hesitantly. The original plan for the evening had been that, after the scene, Castiel would go to Charlie and Gilda's home and spend the night with them. He'd been nervous – about accepting care from them, about being an imposition, about the suggestion that they'd all share a bed as a way of giving him comfort – but he'd suspected that the beating would be brutal and the crash afterwards had the potential to be worse. Both had proved true, and now that he was here he didn't want to lose the human connection that had been forged when Charlie cared for him. He was frightened and ashamed, but he was also desperate.

"We're all staying," said Dean. Gilda and Charlie nodded their agreement; Gilda climbed into the bed and held the blankets up for Castiel. "We've got you. You're a fricken miracle, Cas, and you deserve all the care and comfort we can give you." With a shy smile, Castiel climbed into bed, grabbed Carrie, snugged a couple pillows about his shoulders and curled up on his side. Gilda laid a tentative hand on his waist, waited for him to shift his arm, and then pulled closer to him. She was thin and bony but her skin was soft; she exuded warmth and smelled faintly of flowers. Behind him, he felt the bed shift as Charlie curled up at his back, close enough that he could feel her heat, far enough that she didn't put any pressure on his wounds. Tears pricked at Castiel's eyes.

I'm not supposed to want this. I'm not supposed to get it. The lashes were my punishment. Caring for me afterwards only softens the blow, raises the danger that the punishment won't take. How can I learn to adjust my behavior if the punishment isn't enforced after the fact?

Dean didn't bring Charlie and Gilda here as a demonstration of how a properly trained submissive behaves. Dean isn't trying to train me. Dean isn't trying to change me. Dean thinks I'm fine just the way I am. He punishes me for my actions, not for being who I am.

"You doin' better now, Cas?" asked Dean.

"Yes," he murmured tiredly. "Thank you. Thank you all."

Sleep came quickly, the loss of emotions leaving him empty and exhausted, and Castiel surrendered to it with a happy sigh.

Endnote: I've got part of the next chapter written already; I'm going to try to get it up by end-of-day Saturday. I'm guessing this story will be around six chapters total, but it might be longer.