DCBB Black Glass pt.12
Part 11
Gabriel let Sam know when they were a few miles south of the Basilica the details of their escape. Due to the level of freedom afforded to them, Gabriel had been able to secure liaisons with the men he mentioned earlier, and their escape would take place at the main gate. They were already in the Empire, had been for some time now, and Sam could already see the effects of Michael’s reign. Men, women, and children alike lay withering and dying in the streets. A man laid naked, rotting in a gutter, and the people walked around the body as if it were a bothersome house pet or a piece of furniture. Bread peddlers battled for street space with weapons sellers and packs of mercenaries that prowled like wolves.
Everything was black and blue. The stones, the fabrics, the streets, the people bruised and battered. The banners flying along the fortress walls were a black field trimmed in blue with a blue five-pointed star in the center, flanked by two blue olive branches. Olive branches meant peace in the Empire, according to his books, but Sam knew it had been a long time since the Empire last saw peace. The main gates loomed large in front of their caravan, and Sam was steadily growing aware of shifty eyed mercenaries walking in tandem with the Empire guard and their captors. Gabriel kept close to Sam, pressing him closer to the center of the caravan, easing between two loaded carts-filled with grain and wine, Sam thought-where he began to pick at his cuffs with a small bit of wire.
“Those are our men,” Gabriel murmured, keeping his voice low and their heads down. Sam nodded, rubbing his wrists when Gabriel wrestled the iron shackles away and tossed them in the cart next to them. The men circling their wagons were dark skinned and dark of hair, with blue markings the likes of which Sam had never seen. They were almost upon the gates, when suddenly-after some unheeded call-the men fell upon the soldiers like wolves, slicing, breaking and tearing their way through their armor and flesh like butter with animalistic battle cries. Gabriel pulled him away by the arm when a soldier fell to the ground next to them, bleeding out and screaming. He had no left arm, just an empty, bloody socket. Sam fought to breathe, but Dean and Cas had been the ones more prone to violence and gore, and he spewed bile onto the road, half onto the dying man. Gabriel grimaced and pulled him to two startled horses without riders.
“Come on, Sam, we’ve only got one shot at this!”
Sam nodded dumbly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and he mounted the horse, pulling it around and galloped after Gabriel. Chaos surrounded him. Black was still black, but blue ran red, spattered with gore and bile and bone, the blood of innocents and guilty all the same, none were saved.
“To the west!” Gabriel shouted over the sound of screams and beating hooves, and soon they were flanked by more riders, bloodied, but not wounded. Sam chanced a glance behind them and saw only the road. No one had dared to follow them. He saw the gates of the Basilica grow distant, then gone behind a wall of dust. He had been close to his brother, for the first time in years, so close, yet too far away. Sam couldn’t have possibly saved him. He was a prisoner, just like Dean, and stood as much of a chance of escaping on his own as saving his brother from Michael. He bit his lip and gripped the reigns tighter, urging his mount to keep up with Gabriel and the tanned riders. Where they were going-Sam thought-he would settle down and think of a proper plan to save his brother.
Dean woke immediately when Michael barged into their rooms. After the morning’s bath and dressing, Dean had aired out the linens and had decided to take a nap it seemed in the sunny balcony high above the ground, away from the noise and the stink of the city. He was dressed only in his underclothes, the only pair afforded to him, due to the extreme warmth of the day and the sun, giving Michael a view he very much appreciated. A simple cloth covering, it did little more than cover his genitals and the line of his ass, and Michael thought that small amount of skin covered to be more gratifying than full nakedness. He could appreciate a clothed slave, from time to time.
“Come,” Michael commanded, and Dean arose gracefully from his seat on the balcony, striding forward into Michael’s waiting arms. Dean smelled of their bath oils, and the salt of his sweat, and the burnt, cloying smell of heat and sunlight. Michael inhaled deeply, licking at his neck and clavicle. He very nearly forgot his anger, but upon seeing the plume of smoke from his window he snarled and slammed the balcony doors shut, flinging Dean down onto their newly sheeted bed. Dean whimpered, but obediently did not move. Good. His slave had learned well. But there was one thing Michael had put off for far too long.
“Where are you from, slave?” Michael asked coolly, fingering the small vial of herb potion tucked away in his pocket. His healers assured him that one drop of the liquid in Dean’s drink would have him spilling his deepest secrets, all at a command from Michael. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, and if he did, he hoped he asked the right questions.
“F-from the Middle Lands, m’lord…south of the Empire’s borders.” Dean answered quickly with his head bowed. He had learned the hard way that Michael didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“The name, slave, the name of your town, I would have it.”
Dean shuddered and stammered, “I-I did not live in a town, your grace. I lived ten miles from one, in a cabin with my parents and brothers, by a frozen lake. I do not remember the name of the town, m’lord.”
“You never traveled west, then? Ever? Even during any hunting trips?”
Dean furrowed his brow in genuine confusion, it was almost endearing.
“No, there’s nothing west for hunting. North’s the way to go.”
“Ah,” Michael drawled, “forgive me. The intricacies of hunting are quite lost on me, I’m afraid.”
Dean’s cheeks blazed, but he kept his head down. Michael tilted his head and walked forward, rubbing his slave’s neck and cheek. Dean leaned into the touch easily, eyes fluttering as he sighed.
“And your family,” Michael snapped, drawing his hand away, “you said you had brothers, and a mother and father. Tell me about them.”
“Two younger brothers, m’lord. M-My father was originally from the Empire, he, he was a Saint.”
Michael quirked his brow, but did not interrupt.
“My mother was from the east, a healer…last I saw of her though she was ill in health, both of mind and body.”
“And your father?”
“Dead. Many years ago, from a wolf attack on our house.”
“And your brothers? Tell me about them.”
“Um, Sam, he’s tall, light of hair, and so smart…he could read books all day if you let him,” Dean’s eyes dimmed, he was looking somewhere far away, lost in a memory with a faint smile, “he never liked hunting, said he wanted to leave soon as he was old enough but…but with our mother the way she was that didn’t happen.”
“And your other brother?”
Dean’s expression clouded, and his sharp green gaze fell on Michael’s. For once since Michael had brought him here, he felt truly threatened.
“Dead. Died with father by the wolf.”
“His name, slave.”
“Um, A-Adam…”
Michael sighed and turned away from Dean, to their platter of lunch foods. He didn’t want to resort to treachery to glean information from his own slave, but Dean was hiding something. Inconsequential or not, slaves do not lie to their masters. Michael poured them both a small cup of wine, taking care to place a drop of the potion into Dean’s, before he turned and found Dean sitting up, regarding him warily.
“Is that why you have such scars?” Michael asked, taking care to pump in every ounce of false sincerity he could muster. Dean nodded and accepted the offered glass, taking a small sip after Michael took his first.
“I would normally have them covered, but I…”
“They disgust you?”
“They are merely memories…of a day I’d rather forget.”
“Wouldn’t you rather talk about it? I find that speaking of what displeases me, or saddens me, makes everything better.” Michael coddled when Dean finished his wine, he must have been thirsty sitting out in the sun all day. Dean frowned down at his glass but set it on the floor.
“It was a day like any other, cold and dark. Those days were bad, in the dead of winter anything could happen and we would all be dead, anything. We were cut off from the town, we were alone. When the wolves came we…” Dean’s eyes clouded again, as if he were seeing the phantom beasts before him, even now, “we barricaded ourselves in the basement, me and Sammy and momma…The wolves got to dad first, reckon he was dead before he even hit the ground, and A-Adam, he had been knocked down by one of them. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but we heard shots, then we opened the door. They were both dead and the wolves had gone.”
Nothing about Dean’s story seemed disingenuous, and the man seemed close to tears upon remembering it, but Michael still wasn’t so sure. Perhaps the potion needed longer to take effect. Dean blinked blearily up at him when Michael pushed him down into the cushions, crushing him with his body weight as he tore away his slave’s meager clothing, sliding into him with minimal resistance. He fucked into him quickly, startling quick huffs from the smaller man upon every thrust. Dean’s eyelids drooped till they were barely open, and soon soft moans issued from his swollen lips. For the first time in a long time Dean began to writhe against him, pushing his hips up to meet Michael’s thrusts, and Michael grabbed onto his thighs to gain purchase, fucking him harder. Dean’s moans turned practically to shouts of pleasure, and Michael was beginning to wonder if his healers were wrong and had given him an aphrodisiac instead. Michael was close, so close, leaning over Dean’s face, rutting as fast as he could, when Dean thrust his hands around Michael’s back and sunk them into his plumage. Dean had never commented on Michael’s wings, though Michael knew they wouldn’t be a common sight for someone from the middle lands. He groaned in surprised pleasure at the sensations shooting down his spine, echoing in his bones and feathers.
“Cas…”
Michael ceased his frantic rutting, mouth hanging agape. Dean whined and pulled harder at the down closest to Michael’s back and he hissed. Dean’s hands drew back as if he were burned.
“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m sorry…won’t do it again, just fuck me please…oh god…”
Michael looked down at Dean’s face and saw the man’s face flushed with pleasure, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He was panting and rolling his hips, trying to get Michael to move inside of him. Michael grunted when he felt Dean’s insides spasm in a way he was most unfamiliar with, and Dean chuckled darkly.
“C’mon, Cas, c’mon…”
Dean flipped them with a savage strength Michael knew he possessed but never saw him use. He was mesmerized by the sensual grinding of Dean’s hips and the velvety wet heat that was squeezing his cock like a vice. Whenever Michael fucked Dean it wasn’t like this, never this personal, or downright dirty. Dean was uttering a steady stream of filth the likes of which Michael had only heard in the lowest of whore houses, interspersed with the name Dean said earlier, Cas. Had the potion been a hallucinogen? Did Dean think he was with this Cas at the moment? Michael, of course, couldn’t help but think of Castiel, his long lost older brother…But surely his luck couldn’t be that fortunate, could it? After endless years of searching the answer lay, literally, right in front of him.
“Been so long, Cas…so long…Been hurting here without you…” Dean gasped and his body arched and locked and he rode Michael even harder, practically bouncing on his hips with his cock buried deep inside, hitting that sweet spot that made lights dance underneath his closed eyelids. Dean’s hands found his and fumbled with them, forcing them onto his hips to hold on, bucking and moaning.
“Please, Cas, fill me…breed me…”
Michael moaned and flipped them again so he could control the pace, slamming into the slave with renewed fervor. Dean’s cries echoed around their rooms, and they had probably garnered an audience at their locked doors, but privacy and modesty were the last two things on Michael’s mind as he drove into his slave, grunting and moaning through his release when he finally rammed deep into Dean’s fucked out hole and spent inside of him, marking his walls with his seed. Dean moaned, low and long, and he too spent over their stomachs, his seed mixing with their combined sweat.
“Fuck that was good,” Michael murmured into Dean’s neck, nosing at the sweat slick hairs at the space behind his ear. Dean froze, and then immediately bucked and screamed from beneath Michael, spitting and clawing like some sort of wild cat. Michael laughed in startled surprise, making a game of keeping Dean’s wrists pinned down to the bed. Dean’s normally quiescent face was contorted in livid rage, fury blazing in his evergreen eyes.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Michael chortled, keeping Dean pinned by his wrists and his hips, cock still buried inside of him. He was growing hard again at the sight of his usually pliant slave; his chest was heaving and splotches of angry red covered his flesh, almost every muscle in his body was bunched tight in aggression, including the muscles in his ass that gripped Michael’s cock so tight he grimaced, deciding to pull out for his own sake. Dean snarled and spit in Michael’s face, and Michael released one of his wrists to slap him, dazing him for a moment.
“Just what was that all about? Who is Cas?” Michael demanded, and abruptly Dean’s demeanor changed, turning confused and almost vacant, falling lax in his grip though Michael wasn’t fooled.
“Cas is…he is my brother.” Dean stated as if it were the most obvious fact in the whole world.
Michael wrinkled his nose in disgust. Incest wasn’t exactly common, though not unheard of, but to think that the man that had held Dean before Michael had been his own brother was…interesting.
“So Adam is not real…?”
“Cas is real, I know no one named Adam.”
It would seem that the potion was finally taking effect, though the earlier hallucinogenic side-effect was rather unorthodox.
“And who is Cas, exactly?”
“I remember finding him in the woods-no-my father found him in the woods, with a dead man with flaxen hair. Cas was so little, but so heavy. He had wings, like yours, but his are larger. Much more to grab onto…” Dean trailed off, cheeks coloring as he licked his puffy lips. “He had little black shoes with him, made of glass. Useless things tore at his skin from the cold. He has scars now.” Michael was sure to make a mental note of it. Dean trailed off and his eyes cast downward, demure, though this time Michael could notice the sincerity of it.
“The first time he touched me we had been wrestling, like all boys do. It was the summer of his seventeenth year, and I was already so much older than him, over a decade more…But a lot of things didn’t mean much to Cas, age bein’ one of ‘em…He kissed me when we rolled into the lake, lying in the shallows when everyone else had gone home to wash up for supper. Cas wasn’t much for words, never did speak to me before, or to anyone, but…that kiss said more than any words could. He wanted me, and I was ready to give myself to him, if’n that’s what it took to keep him.”
“Is he Castiel? Is he the Unholy Prince?” Michael asked, heart in his throat. Dean looked up at Michael with tears in his eyes.
“The last time I touched him we were holding hands in a tent. Just holding hands, nothin’ more. Girl was there beside me; she had crawled away from him, around the fire to sit with me. Stupid child,” Dean smiled grimly and a tear tracked its way down onto his lips, hanging tremulously as he stammered before he licked it away, “just like her daddy…”
“But is he Castiel?!” Michael roared, not daring to strike Dean now, fearing it would break the spell.
“Not even the night before the old woman told me that my Cas was a bastard prince, unwanted by his own kingdom, hunted like the spawn of the devil.” Dean forced out between sobs. Michael released Dean and sat back, feeling faint and short of breath. Dean didn’t move any more than to curl in on himself, hugging his shoulders and sobbing into his arms. To think, all this time the answer had been laying in the slave quarters, in his own bed…Michael could scarcely wrap his mind around it.
“You’ve lied so prettily,” Michael chuckled, thumbing at Dean’s lips. He pulled his hand away when Dean tried to bite him. He smiled ruefully. “This was all an act, wasn’t it? The sex, even your personality, all fake.”
“Damn right,” Dean growled, his voice thick with tears and emotion, as he burrowed away into the blankets and cushions. Michael was ill inclined to retrieve him, not up for any more altercations for the evening.
“You were protecting Castiel all along.”
“Had to, but good luck finding him now. You should count yourself lucky, one more day of this shit and I woulda tore your head from your neck…whoever gave you whatever it was you used on me knew what they were doing…”
Michael chortled and eased down onto the edge of the bed, wary of Dean now that he was…different.
“All of your reactions to the drugs, all faked as well?”
“Of course,” Dean snorted, “who do you take me for? Some city whore? I’m a forester; I’m immune to almost anything you put in me.”
“But not this,” Michael stated, smiling. Dean frowned and turned away, obviously finished speaking for the day.
“I will enjoy breaking you, truly this time,” Michael hissed in Dean’s ear, giving it one last lick before standing from the bed.
“By the way,” Michael said as he paused by the door, “the sounds and smoke from earlier, which you undoubtedly noticed…they were from a caravan from the middle lands. It would seem that more traitors have been captured. Gabriel, and…oh, who was it? Some lad named Sam.” Michael smirked when he saw Dean stiffen on the bed. His informants had been right. Now it was only a simple matter of tracking the other Winchester down. Wherever he headed, Castiel was bound to be close by. He left to the sound of Dean’s sobs, and he reminded himself to visit his healers and congratulate them for finding an effective means to control the mutt, and to order them to pursue more foreign herbs and remedies, couldn’t hurt to be prepared. He locked the door behind him, and the click of the lock echoed down the empty hallway with a definite sense of finality.
Gabriel let Sam know when they were a few miles south of the Basilica the details of their escape. Due to the level of freedom afforded to them, Gabriel had been able to secure liaisons with the men he mentioned earlier, and their escape would take place at the main gate. They were already in the Empire, had been for some time now, and Sam could already see the effects of Michael’s reign. Men, women, and children alike lay withering and dying in the streets. A man laid naked, rotting in a gutter, and the people walked around the body as if it were a bothersome house pet or a piece of furniture. Bread peddlers battled for street space with weapons sellers and packs of mercenaries that prowled like wolves.
Everything was black and blue. The stones, the fabrics, the streets, the people bruised and battered. The banners flying along the fortress walls were a black field trimmed in blue with a blue five-pointed star in the center, flanked by two blue olive branches. Olive branches meant peace in the Empire, according to his books, but Sam knew it had been a long time since the Empire last saw peace. The main gates loomed large in front of their caravan, and Sam was steadily growing aware of shifty eyed mercenaries walking in tandem with the Empire guard and their captors. Gabriel kept close to Sam, pressing him closer to the center of the caravan, easing between two loaded carts-filled with grain and wine, Sam thought-where he began to pick at his cuffs with a small bit of wire.
“Those are our men,” Gabriel murmured, keeping his voice low and their heads down. Sam nodded, rubbing his wrists when Gabriel wrestled the iron shackles away and tossed them in the cart next to them. The men circling their wagons were dark skinned and dark of hair, with blue markings the likes of which Sam had never seen. They were almost upon the gates, when suddenly-after some unheeded call-the men fell upon the soldiers like wolves, slicing, breaking and tearing their way through their armor and flesh like butter with animalistic battle cries. Gabriel pulled him away by the arm when a soldier fell to the ground next to them, bleeding out and screaming. He had no left arm, just an empty, bloody socket. Sam fought to breathe, but Dean and Cas had been the ones more prone to violence and gore, and he spewed bile onto the road, half onto the dying man. Gabriel grimaced and pulled him to two startled horses without riders.
“Come on, Sam, we’ve only got one shot at this!”
Sam nodded dumbly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and he mounted the horse, pulling it around and galloped after Gabriel. Chaos surrounded him. Black was still black, but blue ran red, spattered with gore and bile and bone, the blood of innocents and guilty all the same, none were saved.
“To the west!” Gabriel shouted over the sound of screams and beating hooves, and soon they were flanked by more riders, bloodied, but not wounded. Sam chanced a glance behind them and saw only the road. No one had dared to follow them. He saw the gates of the Basilica grow distant, then gone behind a wall of dust. He had been close to his brother, for the first time in years, so close, yet too far away. Sam couldn’t have possibly saved him. He was a prisoner, just like Dean, and stood as much of a chance of escaping on his own as saving his brother from Michael. He bit his lip and gripped the reigns tighter, urging his mount to keep up with Gabriel and the tanned riders. Where they were going-Sam thought-he would settle down and think of a proper plan to save his brother.
Dean woke immediately when Michael barged into their rooms. After the morning’s bath and dressing, Dean had aired out the linens and had decided to take a nap it seemed in the sunny balcony high above the ground, away from the noise and the stink of the city. He was dressed only in his underclothes, the only pair afforded to him, due to the extreme warmth of the day and the sun, giving Michael a view he very much appreciated. A simple cloth covering, it did little more than cover his genitals and the line of his ass, and Michael thought that small amount of skin covered to be more gratifying than full nakedness. He could appreciate a clothed slave, from time to time.
“Come,” Michael commanded, and Dean arose gracefully from his seat on the balcony, striding forward into Michael’s waiting arms. Dean smelled of their bath oils, and the salt of his sweat, and the burnt, cloying smell of heat and sunlight. Michael inhaled deeply, licking at his neck and clavicle. He very nearly forgot his anger, but upon seeing the plume of smoke from his window he snarled and slammed the balcony doors shut, flinging Dean down onto their newly sheeted bed. Dean whimpered, but obediently did not move. Good. His slave had learned well. But there was one thing Michael had put off for far too long.
“Where are you from, slave?” Michael asked coolly, fingering the small vial of herb potion tucked away in his pocket. His healers assured him that one drop of the liquid in Dean’s drink would have him spilling his deepest secrets, all at a command from Michael. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, and if he did, he hoped he asked the right questions.
“F-from the Middle Lands, m’lord…south of the Empire’s borders.” Dean answered quickly with his head bowed. He had learned the hard way that Michael didn’t like to be kept waiting.
“The name, slave, the name of your town, I would have it.”
Dean shuddered and stammered, “I-I did not live in a town, your grace. I lived ten miles from one, in a cabin with my parents and brothers, by a frozen lake. I do not remember the name of the town, m’lord.”
“You never traveled west, then? Ever? Even during any hunting trips?”
Dean furrowed his brow in genuine confusion, it was almost endearing.
“No, there’s nothing west for hunting. North’s the way to go.”
“Ah,” Michael drawled, “forgive me. The intricacies of hunting are quite lost on me, I’m afraid.”
Dean’s cheeks blazed, but he kept his head down. Michael tilted his head and walked forward, rubbing his slave’s neck and cheek. Dean leaned into the touch easily, eyes fluttering as he sighed.
“And your family,” Michael snapped, drawing his hand away, “you said you had brothers, and a mother and father. Tell me about them.”
“Two younger brothers, m’lord. M-My father was originally from the Empire, he, he was a Saint.”
Michael quirked his brow, but did not interrupt.
“My mother was from the east, a healer…last I saw of her though she was ill in health, both of mind and body.”
“And your father?”
“Dead. Many years ago, from a wolf attack on our house.”
“And your brothers? Tell me about them.”
“Um, Sam, he’s tall, light of hair, and so smart…he could read books all day if you let him,” Dean’s eyes dimmed, he was looking somewhere far away, lost in a memory with a faint smile, “he never liked hunting, said he wanted to leave soon as he was old enough but…but with our mother the way she was that didn’t happen.”
“And your other brother?”
Dean’s expression clouded, and his sharp green gaze fell on Michael’s. For once since Michael had brought him here, he felt truly threatened.
“Dead. Died with father by the wolf.”
“His name, slave.”
“Um, A-Adam…”
Michael sighed and turned away from Dean, to their platter of lunch foods. He didn’t want to resort to treachery to glean information from his own slave, but Dean was hiding something. Inconsequential or not, slaves do not lie to their masters. Michael poured them both a small cup of wine, taking care to place a drop of the potion into Dean’s, before he turned and found Dean sitting up, regarding him warily.
“Is that why you have such scars?” Michael asked, taking care to pump in every ounce of false sincerity he could muster. Dean nodded and accepted the offered glass, taking a small sip after Michael took his first.
“I would normally have them covered, but I…”
“They disgust you?”
“They are merely memories…of a day I’d rather forget.”
“Wouldn’t you rather talk about it? I find that speaking of what displeases me, or saddens me, makes everything better.” Michael coddled when Dean finished his wine, he must have been thirsty sitting out in the sun all day. Dean frowned down at his glass but set it on the floor.
“It was a day like any other, cold and dark. Those days were bad, in the dead of winter anything could happen and we would all be dead, anything. We were cut off from the town, we were alone. When the wolves came we…” Dean’s eyes clouded again, as if he were seeing the phantom beasts before him, even now, “we barricaded ourselves in the basement, me and Sammy and momma…The wolves got to dad first, reckon he was dead before he even hit the ground, and A-Adam, he had been knocked down by one of them. I didn’t know if he was alive or dead, but we heard shots, then we opened the door. They were both dead and the wolves had gone.”
Nothing about Dean’s story seemed disingenuous, and the man seemed close to tears upon remembering it, but Michael still wasn’t so sure. Perhaps the potion needed longer to take effect. Dean blinked blearily up at him when Michael pushed him down into the cushions, crushing him with his body weight as he tore away his slave’s meager clothing, sliding into him with minimal resistance. He fucked into him quickly, startling quick huffs from the smaller man upon every thrust. Dean’s eyelids drooped till they were barely open, and soon soft moans issued from his swollen lips. For the first time in a long time Dean began to writhe against him, pushing his hips up to meet Michael’s thrusts, and Michael grabbed onto his thighs to gain purchase, fucking him harder. Dean’s moans turned practically to shouts of pleasure, and Michael was beginning to wonder if his healers were wrong and had given him an aphrodisiac instead. Michael was close, so close, leaning over Dean’s face, rutting as fast as he could, when Dean thrust his hands around Michael’s back and sunk them into his plumage. Dean had never commented on Michael’s wings, though Michael knew they wouldn’t be a common sight for someone from the middle lands. He groaned in surprised pleasure at the sensations shooting down his spine, echoing in his bones and feathers.
“Cas…”
Michael ceased his frantic rutting, mouth hanging agape. Dean whined and pulled harder at the down closest to Michael’s back and he hissed. Dean’s hands drew back as if he were burned.
“I’m sorry, Cas, I’m sorry…won’t do it again, just fuck me please…oh god…”
Michael looked down at Dean’s face and saw the man’s face flushed with pleasure, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He was panting and rolling his hips, trying to get Michael to move inside of him. Michael grunted when he felt Dean’s insides spasm in a way he was most unfamiliar with, and Dean chuckled darkly.
“C’mon, Cas, c’mon…”
Dean flipped them with a savage strength Michael knew he possessed but never saw him use. He was mesmerized by the sensual grinding of Dean’s hips and the velvety wet heat that was squeezing his cock like a vice. Whenever Michael fucked Dean it wasn’t like this, never this personal, or downright dirty. Dean was uttering a steady stream of filth the likes of which Michael had only heard in the lowest of whore houses, interspersed with the name Dean said earlier, Cas. Had the potion been a hallucinogen? Did Dean think he was with this Cas at the moment? Michael, of course, couldn’t help but think of Castiel, his long lost older brother…But surely his luck couldn’t be that fortunate, could it? After endless years of searching the answer lay, literally, right in front of him.
“Been so long, Cas…so long…Been hurting here without you…” Dean gasped and his body arched and locked and he rode Michael even harder, practically bouncing on his hips with his cock buried deep inside, hitting that sweet spot that made lights dance underneath his closed eyelids. Dean’s hands found his and fumbled with them, forcing them onto his hips to hold on, bucking and moaning.
“Please, Cas, fill me…breed me…”
Michael moaned and flipped them again so he could control the pace, slamming into the slave with renewed fervor. Dean’s cries echoed around their rooms, and they had probably garnered an audience at their locked doors, but privacy and modesty were the last two things on Michael’s mind as he drove into his slave, grunting and moaning through his release when he finally rammed deep into Dean’s fucked out hole and spent inside of him, marking his walls with his seed. Dean moaned, low and long, and he too spent over their stomachs, his seed mixing with their combined sweat.
“Fuck that was good,” Michael murmured into Dean’s neck, nosing at the sweat slick hairs at the space behind his ear. Dean froze, and then immediately bucked and screamed from beneath Michael, spitting and clawing like some sort of wild cat. Michael laughed in startled surprise, making a game of keeping Dean’s wrists pinned down to the bed. Dean’s normally quiescent face was contorted in livid rage, fury blazing in his evergreen eyes.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Michael chortled, keeping Dean pinned by his wrists and his hips, cock still buried inside of him. He was growing hard again at the sight of his usually pliant slave; his chest was heaving and splotches of angry red covered his flesh, almost every muscle in his body was bunched tight in aggression, including the muscles in his ass that gripped Michael’s cock so tight he grimaced, deciding to pull out for his own sake. Dean snarled and spit in Michael’s face, and Michael released one of his wrists to slap him, dazing him for a moment.
“Just what was that all about? Who is Cas?” Michael demanded, and abruptly Dean’s demeanor changed, turning confused and almost vacant, falling lax in his grip though Michael wasn’t fooled.
“Cas is…he is my brother.” Dean stated as if it were the most obvious fact in the whole world.
Michael wrinkled his nose in disgust. Incest wasn’t exactly common, though not unheard of, but to think that the man that had held Dean before Michael had been his own brother was…interesting.
“So Adam is not real…?”
“Cas is real, I know no one named Adam.”
It would seem that the potion was finally taking effect, though the earlier hallucinogenic side-effect was rather unorthodox.
“And who is Cas, exactly?”
“I remember finding him in the woods-no-my father found him in the woods, with a dead man with flaxen hair. Cas was so little, but so heavy. He had wings, like yours, but his are larger. Much more to grab onto…” Dean trailed off, cheeks coloring as he licked his puffy lips. “He had little black shoes with him, made of glass. Useless things tore at his skin from the cold. He has scars now.” Michael was sure to make a mental note of it. Dean trailed off and his eyes cast downward, demure, though this time Michael could notice the sincerity of it.
“The first time he touched me we had been wrestling, like all boys do. It was the summer of his seventeenth year, and I was already so much older than him, over a decade more…But a lot of things didn’t mean much to Cas, age bein’ one of ‘em…He kissed me when we rolled into the lake, lying in the shallows when everyone else had gone home to wash up for supper. Cas wasn’t much for words, never did speak to me before, or to anyone, but…that kiss said more than any words could. He wanted me, and I was ready to give myself to him, if’n that’s what it took to keep him.”
“Is he Castiel? Is he the Unholy Prince?” Michael asked, heart in his throat. Dean looked up at Michael with tears in his eyes.
“The last time I touched him we were holding hands in a tent. Just holding hands, nothin’ more. Girl was there beside me; she had crawled away from him, around the fire to sit with me. Stupid child,” Dean smiled grimly and a tear tracked its way down onto his lips, hanging tremulously as he stammered before he licked it away, “just like her daddy…”
“But is he Castiel?!” Michael roared, not daring to strike Dean now, fearing it would break the spell.
“Not even the night before the old woman told me that my Cas was a bastard prince, unwanted by his own kingdom, hunted like the spawn of the devil.” Dean forced out between sobs. Michael released Dean and sat back, feeling faint and short of breath. Dean didn’t move any more than to curl in on himself, hugging his shoulders and sobbing into his arms. To think, all this time the answer had been laying in the slave quarters, in his own bed…Michael could scarcely wrap his mind around it.
“You’ve lied so prettily,” Michael chuckled, thumbing at Dean’s lips. He pulled his hand away when Dean tried to bite him. He smiled ruefully. “This was all an act, wasn’t it? The sex, even your personality, all fake.”
“Damn right,” Dean growled, his voice thick with tears and emotion, as he burrowed away into the blankets and cushions. Michael was ill inclined to retrieve him, not up for any more altercations for the evening.
“You were protecting Castiel all along.”
“Had to, but good luck finding him now. You should count yourself lucky, one more day of this shit and I woulda tore your head from your neck…whoever gave you whatever it was you used on me knew what they were doing…”
Michael chortled and eased down onto the edge of the bed, wary of Dean now that he was…different.
“All of your reactions to the drugs, all faked as well?”
“Of course,” Dean snorted, “who do you take me for? Some city whore? I’m a forester; I’m immune to almost anything you put in me.”
“But not this,” Michael stated, smiling. Dean frowned and turned away, obviously finished speaking for the day.
“I will enjoy breaking you, truly this time,” Michael hissed in Dean’s ear, giving it one last lick before standing from the bed.
“By the way,” Michael said as he paused by the door, “the sounds and smoke from earlier, which you undoubtedly noticed…they were from a caravan from the middle lands. It would seem that more traitors have been captured. Gabriel, and…oh, who was it? Some lad named Sam.” Michael smirked when he saw Dean stiffen on the bed. His informants had been right. Now it was only a simple matter of tracking the other Winchester down. Wherever he headed, Castiel was bound to be close by. He left to the sound of Dean’s sobs, and he reminded himself to visit his healers and congratulate them for finding an effective means to control the mutt, and to order them to pursue more foreign herbs and remedies, couldn’t hurt to be prepared. He locked the door behind him, and the click of the lock echoed down the empty hallway with a definite sense of finality.