Such an Almighty Sound (Dean/Castiel)
Title: Such an Almighty Sound
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Voice play, grace play, mild bondage, language, PWP, low-grade consent issues if you care to read it that way, and seriously inappropriate use of Dostoyevsky.
Spoilers: set after 4.10, contains general spoilers for early season 4 and spoilers specific to that episode.
Word Count: 1008
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: After the events of 4.10, an irate Castiel ties Dean to a chair and gives him a lesson in angel-powers using his voice, his grace, and Russian literature.
Author's Notes: One of the many awesome prompts given to me in my kink request post was Dean/Cas voiceplay - Dean getting off to Cas reading him a menu or the paper or something. I decided to go with "or something".
- the first quote is from page 1, the second from page 3, the third from page 11, and the fourth from page 42.
The last thing Dean remembered before waking up tied to a chair in Bobby's panic room was the flutter of wings and the brush of fingertips against his forehead.
When Dean came to, he saw Castiel standing a few feet away, next to a table piled high with books, looking at him with wide, unblinking eyes. The room was silent, save for the soft whump-whump of the ceiling fan and the rhythm of Dean's heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Scratchy rope dug into Dean's wrists, bound tightly enough to hold him secure against the wooden slats without causing too much discomfort; he flexed against the knots, hoping to find a weak point, but only succeeded in rubbing the delicate skin half raw.
He swallowed down the nervous anger rising in his chest and glared at the angel.
"What the fuck, Cas?"
The impassive set of Castiel's features shifted, turning dark and dangerous.
"I battled through the armies of the Pit to save you, Dean. I pieced together your broken soul with shreds of my own grace and wove your flesh with my wings and my song. I spared Sam's life, and have defied my brothers for you.
In return, you have offered me only blasphemies and disrespect.
Anna is nothing more than a fallen shell of an angel who has done nothing to deserve your reverence, and yet you joined with her and sang my Father's name to the sky in her arms."
Castiel strode towards him, drawing closer until Dean could feel the heat of his vessel.
He bent down, his full lips mere inches from Dean's as he fixed the man with burning cobalt eyes.
"Did she give you pleasure, Dean," he asked, his breath warm on Dean's skin.
"Did it feel good when that burnt-out husk touched the mark I left behind when I raised you from Perdition?"
All Dean could do was stare.
Castiel cocked his head, flinty gaze searching Dean's face.
"I've done so much to teach you loyalty and gratitude, and you've ignored all of it. You've left me no choice but to impart this lesson using the only method you seem to understand."
The angel walked back to the table and studied the pile of books, scanning the titles repeatedly as Dean looked on in confusion. After a long minute, he selected The Brothers Karamazov, cracking open the thick tome and beginning to read.
"Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a landowner well known in our district in his own day..."
The rich gravel of Castiel's voice hummed with divine energy that travelled through Dean's body, kindling sparks of pleasure beneath his skin. They pulsed sweet-sharp in his neck, washed smooth and silky over his nipples, and danced over the taut planes of his stomach; Dean could feel his dick swelling as wave after wave of sensation surged through him, heat and blood pooling in his groin.
Dean squirmed, blushing furiously. The book was the sort of shit that made Sam cream his nerdy little pants, and the fact that he was getting turned on by an angel of the Lord reading fucking Russian literature aloud made Dean want to curl up and die.
"... And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must suppose, for a brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his parasitic position, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that progressive epoch..."
Every phrase and nuance of inflection was heavy with grace, the ebb and flow of power through Dean shaped by Castiel's will.
Without warning, spikes of lust would shoot down his spine, radiating through him before fading away to nothing, leaving his nerves aching for more and his senses reeling in the wake of the assault.
Dean sank his teeth into his lips, desperately fighting back the moans that threatened to pour from his mouth as each new rumble of Castiel's vocal chords took him higher.
"... it turned out to his amazement that he had nothing, that it was difficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of his property in sums of money from Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even in debt to him..."
Dean's cock was straining at the front of his jeans, throbbing with the grace that coursed along its length, squeezing and stroking like a velvet glove.
He struggled against the bonds that held him, feeling the rough fibers chafe and pierce the skin of his wrists; he needed to free his hands, needed friction and relief from the relentless, teasing torment of the voice that was driving him mad.
Try as he might, though, the ropes held, leaving Dean helpless and praying for mercy as Castiel slowly lit every inch of his flesh on fire.
"In the same way, if he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once have become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the labour question, it is before all things the atheistic question..."
The cadence of Castiel's words never changed, staying steady even when Dean began to jerk violently, screams tearing from his throat as a dark stain spread between his thighs.
Castiel continued to speak until Dean's hips stilled and his cries died away, leaving him limp and boneless in the chair.
With a soft thud, Castiel closed the Dostoyevsky, setting it down and turning his full attention to Dean.
The man was wrecked, his chest heaving as he sucked in ragged gulps of air.
Blown, shocked green eyes fluttered open to look at the angel, awe and disbelief written plainly across Dean's features.
The voice that slipped through Dean's bite-bruised lips was little more than a hoarse whisper, a question and a plea carried on the syllables that met Castiel's ears.
"C-Cas?"
"Oh, Dean," Castiel said, running his elegant fingers along the spine of an ancient copy of War and Peace, "we're just getting started."
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: hard R
Warnings: Voice play, grace play, mild bondage, language, PWP, low-grade consent issues if you care to read it that way, and seriously inappropriate use of Dostoyevsky.
Spoilers: set after 4.10, contains general spoilers for early season 4 and spoilers specific to that episode.
Word Count: 1008
Disclaimer: Supernatural and all characters therein are the property of Eric Kripke and the WB/CW, I'm just borrowing them for my own nefarious purposes.
Summary: After the events of 4.10, an irate Castiel ties Dean to a chair and gives him a lesson in angel-powers using his voice, his grace, and Russian literature.
Author's Notes: One of the many awesome prompts given to me in my kink request post was Dean/Cas voiceplay - Dean getting off to Cas reading him a menu or the paper or something. I decided to go with "or something".
- the first quote is from page 1, the second from page 3, the third from page 11, and the fourth from page 42.
The last thing Dean remembered before waking up tied to a chair in Bobby's panic room was the flutter of wings and the brush of fingertips against his forehead.
When Dean came to, he saw Castiel standing a few feet away, next to a table piled high with books, looking at him with wide, unblinking eyes. The room was silent, save for the soft whump-whump of the ceiling fan and the rhythm of Dean's heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Scratchy rope dug into Dean's wrists, bound tightly enough to hold him secure against the wooden slats without causing too much discomfort; he flexed against the knots, hoping to find a weak point, but only succeeded in rubbing the delicate skin half raw.
He swallowed down the nervous anger rising in his chest and glared at the angel.
"What the fuck, Cas?"
The impassive set of Castiel's features shifted, turning dark and dangerous.
"I battled through the armies of the Pit to save you, Dean. I pieced together your broken soul with shreds of my own grace and wove your flesh with my wings and my song. I spared Sam's life, and have defied my brothers for you.
In return, you have offered me only blasphemies and disrespect.
Anna is nothing more than a fallen shell of an angel who has done nothing to deserve your reverence, and yet you joined with her and sang my Father's name to the sky in her arms."
Castiel strode towards him, drawing closer until Dean could feel the heat of his vessel.
He bent down, his full lips mere inches from Dean's as he fixed the man with burning cobalt eyes.
"Did she give you pleasure, Dean," he asked, his breath warm on Dean's skin.
"Did it feel good when that burnt-out husk touched the mark I left behind when I raised you from Perdition?"
All Dean could do was stare.
Castiel cocked his head, flinty gaze searching Dean's face.
"I've done so much to teach you loyalty and gratitude, and you've ignored all of it. You've left me no choice but to impart this lesson using the only method you seem to understand."
The angel walked back to the table and studied the pile of books, scanning the titles repeatedly as Dean looked on in confusion. After a long minute, he selected The Brothers Karamazov, cracking open the thick tome and beginning to read.
"Alexey Fyodorovitch Karamazov was the third son of Fyodor Pavlovitch Karamazov, a landowner well known in our district in his own day..."
The rich gravel of Castiel's voice hummed with divine energy that travelled through Dean's body, kindling sparks of pleasure beneath his skin. They pulsed sweet-sharp in his neck, washed smooth and silky over his nipples, and danced over the taut planes of his stomach; Dean could feel his dick swelling as wave after wave of sensation surged through him, heat and blood pooling in his groin.
Dean squirmed, blushing furiously. The book was the sort of shit that made Sam cream his nerdy little pants, and the fact that he was getting turned on by an angel of the Lord reading fucking Russian literature aloud made Dean want to curl up and die.
"... And a pliable imagination persuaded her, we must suppose, for a brief moment, that Fyodor Pavlovitch, in spite of his parasitic position, was one of the bold and ironical spirits of that progressive epoch..."
Every phrase and nuance of inflection was heavy with grace, the ebb and flow of power through Dean shaped by Castiel's will.
Without warning, spikes of lust would shoot down his spine, radiating through him before fading away to nothing, leaving his nerves aching for more and his senses reeling in the wake of the assault.
Dean sank his teeth into his lips, desperately fighting back the moans that threatened to pour from his mouth as each new rumble of Castiel's vocal chords took him higher.
"... it turned out to his amazement that he had nothing, that it was difficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of his property in sums of money from Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even in debt to him..."
Dean's cock was straining at the front of his jeans, throbbing with the grace that coursed along its length, squeezing and stroking like a velvet glove.
He struggled against the bonds that held him, feeling the rough fibers chafe and pierce the skin of his wrists; he needed to free his hands, needed friction and relief from the relentless, teasing torment of the voice that was driving him mad.
Try as he might, though, the ropes held, leaving Dean helpless and praying for mercy as Castiel slowly lit every inch of his flesh on fire.
"In the same way, if he had decided that God and immortality did not exist, he would at once have become an atheist and a socialist. For socialism is not merely the labour question, it is before all things the atheistic question..."
The cadence of Castiel's words never changed, staying steady even when Dean began to jerk violently, screams tearing from his throat as a dark stain spread between his thighs.
Castiel continued to speak until Dean's hips stilled and his cries died away, leaving him limp and boneless in the chair.
With a soft thud, Castiel closed the Dostoyevsky, setting it down and turning his full attention to Dean.
The man was wrecked, his chest heaving as he sucked in ragged gulps of air.
Blown, shocked green eyes fluttered open to look at the angel, awe and disbelief written plainly across Dean's features.
The voice that slipped through Dean's bite-bruised lips was little more than a hoarse whisper, a question and a plea carried on the syllables that met Castiel's ears.
"C-Cas?"
"Oh, Dean," Castiel said, running his elegant fingers along the spine of an ancient copy of War and Peace, "we're just getting started."