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Castiel took his time. He always did.
That was the kind of power he had over Dean, getting him strung up and crazy with the desire to be touched, yet never laid a hand on him. Strung up he was too. Dean's naked body stretched the length of the bed with his wrists tied to a single bedpost. Despite not having been touched yet, the longer Castiel made him wait, the higher his flushed cock grew along his belly. He felt it curving upward and filling with such a desperate ache but he couldn't crane his head down enough to look at the vulnerable state in which Castiel had him.
"Awfully eager tonight, hm?" questioned Castiel, though they hadn't spoken in a few minutes. Those were the rules. Dean spoke when he was addressed.
"We won the city," Dean said.
"Hmm, indeed." With a thoughtful nod, the general continued meandering slowly around the room striking matches to the homemade candles they always found in the Confederacy since the blockade. Hw purposefully took his time, amber light brightening the room one by one, and it drove Dean to the point of begging. Castiel merely spoke conversationally as his aide-de-camp lay on the bed with a prominent red erection curving along his belly. "Going into the fight has a bewitched you again. Remember the last time? It took a full night to run it out of you."
Run it out of him. The corner of Dean's mouth threatened to curl upward and betray the stoic appearance he wanted to convey. The words of their private language fluttered around his chest, butterfly wings beating against his heart and demanding to let Castiel in behind the walls.
The general's eyes traversed the peaks and valleys of Dean's naked body as he abandoned the candles and stripped out of his drawers. Here it came--the moment--finally. Even Dean's cock knew it as a tightened pulse surged through him. Castiel knelt on the end of the bed and waited for obedience without verbal command, just the way he wanted it. A good aide-de-camp must predict his general's wishes, after all. Dean's legs splayed open, drawing up at the knees and Castiel drank in a long moment admiring strong, parted thighs with a velvety pilar risen and pleading to be touched. His pelvis curled languidly at the air but a lightning bolt of warning shot through Castiel's features and brought Dean crashing back to earth. He hadn't been given leave to move.
After a few minutes, refusing touch, Castiel settled between Dean's legs and skimmed a palm along his inner thigh from knee to the heat of his groin. Stuttering, subtle breath hung in Dean's throat. The relief of simple skin-to-skin contact tugged at his cock again. Liquid seeped from the swollen and agitated head, and he knew--he just knew--it would be a struggle not to come before he was allowed.
Strategy. Always strategy plotted out in Castiel's mind and bled through his features. Rather than a map of terrain, Dean recognized a map of his own body in that general's eyes as he planned the conquering of Major Winchester.
"You're especially beautiful when the fight dies away in you and you surrender to me," said Castiel in a low tone, peeling away the harsh gravel from his words and giving the reward of tenderness. "Even your body lets go. The surrender is the moment I await the most, Dean. I see the slack in my sash around your wrists there and I know you could slip out of the restraint if you wanted. You could escape. You could leave me here and request a new command. The surrender is here though--" his hands rubbed long slow paths over Dean's inner thighs, gave his cock a painfully languid stroke up over the head to the base again, and returned down his thighs, "--and this surrender tells me you want to be here as much as I want you here."
Speaking didn't seem possible even if Castiel required a response. It took everything Dean had not to let his pelvis buck up into those strong hands and make those fists pump him into a quick release. He kept still, though, choosing instead to release the buildup of tension with a breathy, needy moan.
General Novak rose up on his knees with his hands planted in the mattress over Dean's shoulders. Commanding blue eyes filled his field of vision and his ordinarily full lips thinned out as he delivered a set of orders. "Major Winchester, close your eyes and listen to the celebrations downstairs. Do you hear the laughter? The drinking? Listen to the voices. One of them might be General Grant himself celebrating the fall of Jackson right now just below us. Do you hear them?"
"Yes, sir," murmured Dean with his eyes closed and his senses alive.
"If we can hear them through the floorboards, then they can hear us," Castiel said. He bent and drew a wet line over Dean's collarbones with sloppy kisses. "You shall not make a sound, Major Winchester, no matter what I do. If you do, I shall stop. No touching. No kisses. No relief. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," murmured Dean again.
"Good boy. Such perfect obedience," Castiel whispered against his skin. "Keep your eyes closed."
Not being able to watch Castiel's face as they played their game irritated Dean until the general bit the meat of his chest and he realized the blackness heightened his senses. He understood then, and again surrendered. In his mind's eye, he imagined the pink flesh marked by the bite--Castiel enjoyed marking him in various ways--and a few more little love bites dotted his throat. Each time Castiel bent down, the familiar weight of his cock bobbed against Dean's thigh. Sensation. So much sensation. He struggled to separate the tangled mess of his nerves as if all of them rushed to enjoy the general's favor. Starvation and gluttony absorbed his body all at once.
"Shh," General Novak reminded him.
For a moment, nothing. And then a wet set of fingers slid under Dean, making him realize Castiel had sucked and licked his own hand. A circling around his opening brought Dean's thighs further apart, straining his hip joints, trying to seek the kind of immediate release that Castiel purposefully denied. His rebellious nature tested the general, circling his hips against those strong fingers, and offered himself up to the intrusion, to the stretching that prepared him for more.
"Biting your lip already, Major?" teased Castiel. "My, my, my. Eager."
Dean didn't realize he bit his lip but he dissolved into the physical so deeply that he couldn't think. He only felt. His eyes flashed open against his will, securing squarely on the face hovering over his body. Immediate coldness narrowed Castiel's eyes in return and he pulled his hand away. The warning spoke clearly without an uttered syllable. If he disobeyed again, he faced perhaps days without relief from the hot tension boiling through his gut. So he obeyed, quite reluctantly, and dove into the black waters of physical sensation without watching it happen. Swollen lips met swollen lips in a kiss meant to convey reward for obedience.
Withdrawing his hand having apparently decided he couldn't wait anymore, Castiel hooked an arm under Dean's knee and folded his leg against his body. Slick, soft, yet pointed and ferociously rigid, the head of Castiel's cock slid teasingly up and down the cleft of Dean's ass. The general sucked in a staggered, harsh breath as their bodies joined in such torturously slow increments. That was the general's way, advancing slowly and deliberately to ensure total and unconditional surrender.
At least he was allowed to voice his pleasure, though wickedly muffled into Dean's chest. Dean soaked in the rewarding night as Castiel's pelvis curled and let go, curled and let go, gaining momentum as his desire possessed him. He often built games and delivered orders around his own pleasure and Dean derived pleasure from him, yet he'd pleased his general that day and enjoyed the rewards of that great man's full attention. The scarlet sash tied to Castiel's waist every day bound Dean's wrists to the bedpost over his head and his meaty fists gripped it tightly, hoping the fabric cutting into his flesh would keep him grounded enough to stay silent. He pulled the sash taught and arched his body toward the general.
Castiel's rhythm grew erratic as Dean's hips began snapping against him of their own accord. The burn of opening blended seamlessly with the pleasure of friction until neither stood in command. They moved together, quicker, quicker, racing toward the moment of perfect surrender. Yet the orders burned into Dean's brain roared back at him--do not lose control without permission. He drew back his soul, clutching that moment close to his chest.
Then it became a game of how expertly he could drive Castiel to the brink without hands and without sight. His heels dug into the mattress. Awareness of his surroundings opened and candlelight bled through his eyelids. He smelled homemade wax melting and dripping into candleholders. Then he trained his attention on Castiel as they instinctively rocked against the other. Dean's hips angled up in his rhythm, giving Castiel a deeper shot, which in turn, sucked the breath from his lungs with the bursts of electricity coursing through his limbs. He bit his bottom lips hard then, stifling a loud series of moans.
It spurned Castiel on like a horse in the last moments before it broke. His body snaked against Dean's chest, his neck, and wound up around him as if holding on for dear life. The silence truly became something erotic in itself. Only slick skin pounding slick skin broke through that silence and, in the last moments, Castiel rose up on his hands to drive himself to the hilt. The force of his commanding thrusts had the headboard bumping the wall but nothing could stop him.
"Dean!" he hissed, whispering through gritted teeth, but he really wanted to shout.
As the violent, perfect surrender of release jolted General Novak's body, Dean committed every second to memory. Keeping himself withdrawn let him have that moment, yet he clawed at his sense of control in spite of needing, craving that same release.
Patient. Be patient.
Dean stole a glimpse at General Novak in the aftermath. The great man leaned back on his haunches, his squared shoulders gleaming in the candlelight. Summer nights in Mississippi hung thick and stuck to their naked bodies. Dean peered at Castiel as he leaned back, panting and calming his rush after the fall to earth, his face tipped toward the ceiling. Dark stubble rounded his jaw and Dean, if he hadn't been restrained, would have devoured that squared jawline and strong throat. He sat up in his mind and pinned Castiel to the bed. The fantasy spun.
"Mmm," hummed the general as if sampling delectable pastries.
Quickly, Dean shut his eyes again. Castiel never realized he stole that glimpse and the rebellion within bathed in that little victory. Weight shifted on the bed and Castiel's kisses trailed up the center of Dean's chest to his mouth.
"You are good to me," he murmured. "I hardly feel pain in my arm at all anymore."
Without having leave to speak or open his eyes, Dean's lips quirked up into a pleased little smile. But Castiel took him by surprise as his fist latched around Dean's neglected cock, thickened with the urgent desire for relief. Heavy Mississippi air sucked in between his teeth as the rhythm commenced and the general's expert grip twisted and turned at all the right places. They'd been together so long that they knew each other's body better than military maps. If pressed, they could make each other erupt in their blue wool trousers in a couple of minutes off in a quiet moment in the swamp. Well-placed palms rubbing hard cocks through wool always brought about shuddering, quick releases in races before they got caught.
Thinking about stolen moments in the swamps as Castiel mouthed his neck and stroked him simultaneously swamped Dean's senses. The tightening grew intense and painful as he again arched into that fist. Only the words faster and harder registered in his mind but he couldn't order his own commander.
Jaw hanging open, eyes squeezed shut, and head thrown back into his pillow, Dean's brain burst forth in a white exploding star as his cock spurted powerful ropes over Castiel's hand. Forced silence stretched the moment until his body involuntarily panted hard--he hadn't been breathing, it seemed. The scarlet sash cut into his wrists and left pink marks as his body clenched and released days' worth of pent up frustration and fear for Castiel's life.
"Such a good boy," cooed the general.
"Mmm," Dean mimicked his afterglow, his voice thick.
His eyes opened slowly and fell on Castiel's faint, satisfied smile. They peered at each other contentedly as his loose hand milked Dean through delicious little aftershocks.
"Tell me," Castiel murmured, requesting rather than delivering an order.
The hazy night made it easier for Dean. He whispered, "I love you, Cas," without so much as looking away.
Castiel's mouth spread into a gentle smile. "I love you, Dean," he whispered as he reached up and untied the sash.
Freed, Dean wound a hand around his wrist and still felt the imprint in his skin. Good. He wanted those pink marks to be there even the next day as they resumed their official duties. As he sat upright against the headboard, Castiel leaned on an elbow beside him and took his hand.
"Let me see," he whispered. Tender care came to the pink lines with kisses along Dean's wrist. No matter how their games went, Castiel always cared for any marks or bruises left behind. And came the inevitable question, "Are you happy?"
"Yes," Dean assured, nodding.
Castiel eyed him across their pillows in contemplative silence for a time. "I want you to stay," he said suddenly.
"Stay?"
"With me," he elaborated. "After the war's decided, come to New York with me. There's a whole world there you've never seen. There are people like us hidden in plain sight. We could be happy there, Dean. We don't have to say goodbye."
"Cas, I...."
It hadn't been the first time they talked about it. Sometimes they even argued about it. Everything in Dean wanted to go to New York with Castiel.
Everything, that is, except missing his brother, Sammy.
Everything, that is, except knowing Castiel had a wife.