(no subject)

[elinorwise]

О, вот такой Дестиэль мне нравится 

Dean flinches and stifles a curse. John Winchester could use a belt as skillfully as he could any other weapon, but Castiel has just raised it to a whole other level. The swats are efficient, precise and incredibly strong. His dad had never whipped him this hard, but to be fair, he was a kid back then; fine, he's willing to admit there might have been a time or two – no more than three, anyway – when he was of legal age when he had his ass handed to him, not that it's anybody's business, thank you very much.



But now, not only is he an adult, and a seasoned hunter at that, there's also an all-powerful angel working the damn belt, and it fucking hurts. Dean can take pain. He can take a considerable amount of pain any day of the week and twice on Sunday. He can get beaten up, thrown against tombstones, kicked, burned, punched and stabbed. And every time he'd get back on his feet, spit the blood from his mouth into the face of his opponent and grin. But he can't take this kind of pain.



Because it's not just the pain. It never was. It's knowing that he had let down somebody who cared about him. That he had hurt them. That he had disappointed them. That he had fucked up colossally. And that somebody should have just turned their backs, walk away from him and never return; but they didn't. Despite everything he did, everything he was, they stuck with his sorry ass, and they were willing to help him atone, to deliver torment until the physical pain could overcome the pain in his heart.



Castiel saw it in his memories, in his soul. And the sonovabitch is going all in.

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