LUST|| Supernatural

Castiel In Cuffs [Destiel] (Part 4)

Author: rosie_berber

Castiel's throat heaves as he swallows all the pleas his heart wants to shout out. The gulp echoes through the emptiness of the dungeon. Pull yourself together, he commands shaking fingers and uneven breath as he tries to muster up the strength to endure the dizzying pain of denial. Fly away to your happy place, his mind thinks on instinct. And then it hits him: not what he feels, but what is absent. The heft he should feel at his shoulderblades that isn't there. Because even though they had now long ceased to be any good for flying, Castiel could always still feel the weight of his wings, broken though they may be, as he made his way through the world. He should feel that vague disappointment flow through him when he stretches them outright, all bone and no feather. Except when Castiel tries to recall his wings from that nearby plane of existence where he keeps them in storage, he feels nothing. In fact, in this moment, he feels utterly human.

Shifting what little he can as the rope burns at his chest, the cold steel at his wrists, Castiel realizes that these handcuffs might have been more effective than he bargained for.

Being left to simmer in his own frustrations was hardly unfamiliar for Castiel. Sometimes it seemed that life was little more than a ceaseless string of kidnappings and interrogations. But though he had been left at the, for lack of a better word, mercy of some truly despicable creatures, no one had ever thought before to torture Castiel with pleasure. That is, not until Dean. As Castiel does everything in his limited power to ignore the pain of his unfilled gratification, pulling in the long, lamaze-like breaths, counting the seconds since Dean has abandoned him, Castiel is suddenly thankful for that oversight.

It has been two thousand and sixty four seconds since Dean left him when the sound of shifting shelves forces Castiel out of the trance he has forced himself into.

"Hello, Dean," he greets his captor, his voice ragged and wrecked by the difficulty of walking himself away from was promising to be a thoroughly enjoyable orgasm.

"Hello, Castiel," Dean mutters back. The formality of the name's fullness speaks to the hunter's seriousness. As much as he curses his wretched body for doing so, Castiel feels himself perk up at the utterance. "Ready for round two?"

The angel wants to throw every vulgarity and expletive in every language Dean's way, still reeling from his reckless abandon. He wants to tell Dean he's an asshole, that he will have his revenge, that payback is a bitch. He wants to remind Dean of his power, to slam him against a wall, to put him in his place. At least, he thinks that is what he wants. Because while all of those thoughts float through Castiel's head, he doesn't act on them.

Instead, he nods, finding himself longing for whatever Dean's will has in store for him next.

As it turns out, one of the things Dean wants is a change of scenery. He unties the angel, leaving only the handcuffs intact, marching a nearly nude Castiel throughout the bunker to Room 11.

"Go to the bed," Dean demands.

Castiel practically trips over himself to oblige.

Dean grabs Castiel by the cuffs, unlocking them. Castiel could use the opportunity to flee, but as he looks at the intensity of Dean's eyes, suddenly there is no part of him that wishes to partake in that option. Dean's fingers graze across the metal, pulling the handcuffs towards a chrome ring that has somehow found itself adorning the wall just above the headboard of Dean's bed. While Dean attaches the handcuffs through the ring, Castiel turns his head to the right, noticing an electric drill atop Dean's dresser. Dean's whereabouts of the past half hour are suddenly a bit easier to account for.

Castiel feels two sensations in contrast - hands forced to press against the hardness of the brick wall while his knees sink into the softness of Dean's mattress. They are suddenly met by a third, as Dean's body presses its weight against Castiel's back.

"We know these things can hold up against someone under mental duress," he whispers, his lips lingering next to the skin of Castiel's ear. The angel shudders at the regained touch. "Next step is to see how they handle distress of a different sort." Dean's lips graze the top of Cas's cheekbone, his words promising pain while his touch reasserts the experience won't be wholly unenjoyable. "Think you can handle that angel?"

The question has no sooner dripped from Dean's mouth than Castiel feels the hard smack of a calloused hand against the cotton of his boxer briefs, whelping his response into the wall.

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Hi.

mk Bye ._.