Dean showed Castiel how each weapon and restraint tool worked in the Impala's trunk. When Castiel saw old handcuffs buried in the pile, he yanked them out, and a wicked smile made Dean a bit nervous. But he didn't dread it. The nerves rooted themselves in anticipation, he realized, as they exchanged a silent glance. Was it going to be easy or difficult this time?
"Turn around," Castiel said.
"Cas, c'mon."
"Turn around or I'll turn you around myself, Dean." Though he smirked, his deep blue eyes turned darker.
The idea spoke to Dean's body and he fell still, relishing in that sensation caught between rebellion, submission, and imagining what could happen. He stared Castiel down from the corner of his eye and folded his arms squarely over his chest. It was a challenge and Castiel knew it by the way he tilted his head. They had been through this dance many times before, and Dean instantly got hard whenever he reminisced on how well Castiel delivered orders. He'd never tell anyone about it, of course, but there was a certain freedom in the trust required between them to play such games.
"Have it your way then," the former angel replied to the silent challenge as he slammed the trunk shut.
Castiel grabbed Dean's upper arm, jerked him around, and shoved him down on the trunk of the Impala just the way a cop would have wrestled him for resisting arrest. The cold metal pressed into Dean's chest and face as he felt stern hands tugging his wrists behind his back. A little smirk and a glint of excitement brightened his eyes. And Castiel sure as hell made certain he shoves his pelvis tightly against Dean's ass, bent over the Impala, as each handcuff loop snap and lock around his wrists.
"Are you going to behave for me, Dean?"
"Yes," he replied.
The pressure of Castiel's pelvis backed away and Dean instantly missed the physical contact. He leaned back, searching, but Castiel shoved him into the trunk by a fistful of his shirt.
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, my love." Dean's eyes squeezed shut. He hated that part. Well, the macho part of his brain hated it, but their rules were clear and designed to push him into expressing himself. He could only verbally express it when Castiel had control, when he felt that safety. Sir was never good enough. Sir meant nothing. My love meant everything.
"Good boy." Reward followed. Castiel's hips ground into Dean's ass.
Anyone could have driven by that old country road and witnessed the game they played. Once it began, though, they always had to see it through.
Castiel yanked him upright by the chain connecting his handcuffs. "Get in," he ordered as he came around front to open the back door.
"My love-" Dean struggled to say it. It'd get easier the more Castiel broke down his defenses though. "-where'd you learn cuffs and takedowns?"
"I learned a lot from the pizza man, but he wasn't the only one I watched. Now get in and stop talking unless I speak to you first."
When the hell was Castiel watching porn, for hell's sake? Dean's mind spun as he was fed into the back of the Impala, hands painfully crammed behind his body and the seat. The metal cutting into his wrists grounded him and kept him focused on everything Castiel required of him. Oh, yes, there would be requirements. There always were. And Dean's jeans constricted tighter just thinking about it.
Hopefully, nobody drove by that country road for a while.
Meticulously, Castiel undressed and passed his folded clothes into the front seat. With Dean, though, there was nothing meticulous or calm about the way he ripped his shirt and yanked his jeans. Dean felt like a toy just there for Castiel's amusement. He bit his lower lip, but being so manhandled and unable to fight back sent blood rushing to his cock.
