SPN fic: Into Temptation 3/3 (Dean/Cas, NC-17 PWP smut AU)

[the_diggler]

Title: Into Temptation [3/3]
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Genre: AU, angst, smut, Plot? What Plot? It's paper-thin and borderline blashphemous.
Warnings: sadomasochism, flogging, orgasm denial, improvised sex toys, anal play, oral sex, rimming, masturbation, bottom!Dean, jealous!Cas, inaccurate representations of 18th century lifestyle and religious practices/thoughts.
Word Count: apx 4.3 this part. 11.3k all up.
Summary: In a small provincial chapel in the 18th century, a young lord obsessed with the writings of Marquis de Sade comes to Father Castiel for help.
A/N: It's Halloween again! Sorry for the ridiculously long wait on this last chapter, but this year hasn't really been conducive to writing smut :(
Disclaimer: Supernatural ain't mine. I just borrow for smutography.



[ previous chapter]

~

“Forgive me Father, for I cannot stop sinning.”

A sob leaps into Castiel’s throat at the sound of Dean’s voice.

“I cannot stop. Nor do I want to.”

Castiel quickly shoves his fist into his mouth, stifling his cry of pain as he presses hard on his thigh, the metal prongs of the cilice there digging into his skin.

His old tools are no longer of any use. The Discipline, the strap, his rosary, even prayer itself bears no respite, his thoughts entirely consumed with Dean. So his only recourse has been to start wearing a cilice – a chain of metal around his skin with prongs turned inward, strapped with enough pressure to cinch the flesh and create constant discomfort. If he moves too quickly or accidentally stumbles into something, the stab of pain teaches a fast, sharp lesson in constant vigilance.

The ever-present pinch of metal against his thigh has been the only distraction from the ever-present sickness of his thoughts. But now, with Dean here, again… Castiel wants to dig the cilice so far into his flesh that he bleeds, that he may rid himself of the fever burning in his veins, or at least that the pain may grant him coherence long enough to speak.

“…Dean,” he croaks, and immediately snaps his mouth shut, cursing himself. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all. But he cannot even remember what he’d meant to say. It’s as if Dean has stolen his very words as well, along with his thoughts, his mind, his soul… He is ruined. Cursed. Damned.

“Father,” Dean whimpers softly, his voice so close, his face must be pressed against the screen of the confessional. “I cannot stay here any longer. I fear my only option is to… abandon this country all together.”

“What?” Castiel gasps. “Where will you go?” he blurts, stricken.

“Overseas. To the colonies. There is much opportunity there, and I already have contacts, means to start a new life,” Dean explains.

A cold dread begins to press on Castiel at the thought of Dean’s leaving, sinking into the pit of his stomach and pressing on his lungs until he can’t seem to catch his breath.

“I cannot marry Lady Braeden,” Dean continues. “You see, I haven’t been entirely honest with you Father,” he confesses. “The truth is… I’m in love with a man.”

“…what?” Castiel whimpers, a small and broken sound ripped from his lungs.

“I cannot stop thinking about him,” Dean plows on, unheeding. “And I touch myself all the time, thinking about it, about him – taking myself in my hand, thrusting my fingers inside myself – but sometimes my fingers simply aren’t enough,” Dean groans. “I must resort to using candles, the handle of my riding crop – anything I can find!”

Castiel clutches the beads of the rosary at that, once again in its rightful place around his neck. He had cleaned the rosary and the Discipline as best he could with soap and boiling holy water, though the urge to simply throw them into the flames was strong. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead he often found himself staring at the objects, for long minutes at a time, pondering what it was in Dean that made him desire to seek pleasure with them.

Now he knows. It is not the objects themselves, but the desire of another man.

“Oh God, Father. The things I would l let him do to me,” Dean moans, and Castiel hears movement on the other side of the screen then, the rustling of cloth. With a sinking dread in his gut, he recognizes the rhythmic sound of skin upon skin. The sound of Dean’s hand on his own flesh. “I would let him use my mouth, my ass – I would beg him to sodomize me, even though I know it is a sin!”

Castiel chokes down another sob, reaching down to press against the cilice. But his aims errs, and he finds himself pressing between his legs instead, palming the aching hardness there.

“And how can I ask that of him, when to even touch such filth as I am would tarnish the purity of his soul?” Dean adds quietly.

Castiel whimpers. Suddenly the rosary around his neck feels like it’s choking him, the beads bruising his palm in his too tight grasp.

“I am damned, Father. I am damned for even thinking it. But I know, that even when my soul burns in Hell, I will still want him.”

Castiel can take no more.

He jumps to his feet with a growl, throwing open the door of the Confessional and hurling himself out of it, nearly pulling the door on Dean’s side off its hinges in his haste open it. Dean yelps in surprise, hastily re-fastening his pants, but Castiel grabs Dean’s wrist away, dragging him to the antechamber with rough yanks on his arm. It’s well after mass, so the church is quiet and empty, but even if it wasn’t Castiel would not care. He is consumed with fury and fire, and it demands to be slaked.

He throws Dean into the antechamber before him, bolting the door shut before stalking towards the altar. “Undress!” he orders as he crosses the room, grabbing the half-empty bottle of ceremonial wine, and drinking from it with deep, desperate gulps. Then he grabs the edge of the altar cloth, and yanks, with one vicious pull, chalices and cups and cloths falling to the ground with a clatter.

When he turns around again, the look on Dean’s face is startled, wary, confused and a bit afraid – but Castiel can no longer think to care, because Dean is completely, perfectly naked, skin flushed and glowing in the firelight, cock straining at full mast and glistening with his arousal.

Castiel strides forward, grabbing the back of Dean’s head, and crushing their lips together. There is still wine in his mouth, that he’d forgotten to swallow when confronted with the sight of Dean’s naked flesh, and he fills Dean’s mouth with it, groaning into the violent press of their lips. Dean drinks it greedily, sucking on Castiel’s tongue with needy moans, probing deep inside Castiel’s mouth for every last drop.

“Get on the altar,” Castiel rasps, chest heaving as he tries to reclaim his breath.

“… On the altar, Father?” Dean asks, confused.

“Sit!” Castiel barks, pointing at the altar.

Dean jumps in startlement. “Yes, Father!” he answers, hurrying across the room to comply.

It is much warmer in the antechamber compared to the chapel, the heat of the fire almost stifling. But the stone of the altar is must still be cold, as Dean hisses sharply when he slides his bare skin over it, squirming as he sits. This small reaction, however, only serves to fan the fire within Castiel, his length throbbing with urgency inside the confines of his pants. He raises the bottle to his lips once more, drinking deep, but the taste of Dean still lingers on his tongue, the shape of Dean’s mouth still burning hot against his lips. He doubts anything could erase the memory now. Castiel growls, slamming the bottle down on the edge of the altar as he picks the altar cloth off the floor, ripping it into strips.

“Arms up,” he orders, removing the heavy cross above the altar and exposing the large hook used to hang it on the wall. Without a second thought he drops the cross on the remnants of the altar cloth, heaped on the floor, and ties the strips he’s torn off onto the hook. Dean raises his arms, wrists hand just below the hook, and Castiel ties the hanging ends of the strips to them, binding Dean to the wall.

With his wrists tied the way they are, Dean is forced to lie back across the small altar, and he automatically lifts his legs to accommodate the position, planting his feet on the end of the altar to brace himself better. But the position also forces his legs to splay open, displaying himself for Castiel, and Castiel can’t help the pleased rumble that escapes his throat at the sight. He is so pleased by it, he picks the rest of the altar cloth up off the floor, tearing the remains into two last strips, slinging them under Dean’s knees and tying them to the hook as well, keeping Dean in that position.

In order to reach the hook, though, he has lean closely over Dean’s body, in between the inviting splay of those legs. And as he does, Dean strains up towards him, desperately trying to press himself against Castiel, to kiss his lips again. It is then that Castiel realizes how aroused he is, when he finds himself nudging – no – rubbing between Dean’s legs, unable to resist the wanton invitation of Dean’s body.

Snarling, Castiel rips himself away, only to be confronted with the sight of Dean’s entrance, open and grasping as he squirms his hips, begging to be filled. Grabbing the wine again, Castiel splashes it across the clenching pucker, as if he could douse the fire of its desire. But Dean only moans in response, his body collapsing at the sensation, limbs going lax as the cool liquid drips down his heated skin.

For a long moment, Castiel is transfixed, arrested by the sight of the dark fluid disappearing into the pink mouth of Dean’s hole, then dribbling back out of it, curving a slow trail down the mounds of Dean’s rear. But soon Dean begins to squirm again, already greedy for more. So wanton.

With another growl, Castiel yanks his rosary off his neck, striding forward to stuff the beads into that sinful maw. They go in easily, all the way to the end of the cross, as if Dean had fingered himself open just before. With a start Castiel remembers Dean’s confession, realizing that’s exactly what he must have done, thinking of that man.

“This is what you desire?” Castiel huffs angrily. “To have your hole filled? Fucked? Used? That wicked, filthy hole?”

“Yes, Father! Yes!” Dean wails, writhing around the beads.

Castiel finds himself tearing his hair at the response, stalking towards the closet where the Discipline is stored. In the next instant he is lashing at Dean’s skin, raining blows down Dean’s thighs as Dean arches and screams, every cry lewd and shameless with pleasure. Arousal begins dribbling down the length of Dean’s cock, the skin of it pulsing dark and thick, jutting straight to the heavens between Dean’s legs. Even the dark rosebuds of Dean’s nipples look painfully tight, and Castiel cannot help but strike them also – left, and then right, and then over again, until Dean is arching his chest into every blow, startled cries choked in his throat. It’s as if he does not feel the pain at all – no – it’s as if he feels any stimulation, no matter what kind, as pleasure. The harder the stimulation, the more pleasure.

It is the sickness, surely. A fevered delirium caused by the infection in Dean’s mind and body. It is almost as if Dean is possessed. The way he thrashes on the altar, the almost inhuman sounds he makes, it certainly reminds Castiel of the cases he’s read of. But no demon would be able to set foot on holy ground, let alone withstand the touch of a holy relic. Not so intimately. Even as Dean tosses and writhes, the cross of Castiel’s rosary still hangs between Dean’s legs, swaying and jumping with every movement – as if mocking Castiel for its desecration.

Anger rising within him again, Castiel reaches for the cross, grasping it in his hand to yank it out. But as soon as he begins to pull, Dean’s entire body goes taut with a choked off gasp, and Castiel suddenly remembers what happened last time.

He stops pulling. Instead, he begins pushing, slowly, carefully, reinserting what little he’s pulled out. And with every bead that disappears inside him, Dean’s body spasms, soft hitching gasps escaping his slack-jawed lips.

Suddenly, Castiel realizes - if Dean does not respond to pain as he should, then perhaps Castiel should use pleasure as his tool instead.

When all the beads are inside Dean’s body once more, Castiel begins to pull them out again. One by one. So very slowly. Every now and then pushing a few back inside, before pulling them out again. And all the while, he continues his strikes with the Discipline, all along the insides of Dean’s thighs, down to his bottom. He cannot strike Dean with as much force at this close distance, but as he plays with the beads in Dean’s anus, Castiel can read the success of his efforts written in the tight lines of Dean’s body, the wide-eyed and gasping shock on his face. Dean is in a torment of sensation.

This is the way.

Castiel stands back with a satisfied huff, surveying his work with a smirk. But as he leaves Dean there, squirming and whimpering helplessly on the altar, Castiel’s own aching hardness makes itself known again, throbbing insistently within the confines of his pants, and he finds his throat painfully dry.

“Hold this,” Castiel orders, shoving the handle of the flogger between Dean’s lips as he reaches for the bottle of wine. Dean obediently bites down on it, his mewls becoming all the more desperate for being gagged, and Castiel finds he simply cannot resist, reaching down to play with the rosary again as he drinks his fill – never too fast, not enough to bring Dean to climax – just enough to prolong his torment.

For a moment, he considers strapping Dean again. It would be useless, though, Castiel knows. But as he fingers the little piece of leather in his pocket, he thinks perhaps it might be better to use it on himself instead. He is so achingly hard. And he is not ready for this to be over yet.

Decision made, he parts the robes of his cassock, undoing his pants to release his length. Dean’s eyes go wide at the sight of it, and as Castiel hastily straps himself, Dean’s mewls become frantic, his cock visibly twitching between his legs.

Growling, Castiel grabs the Discipline from Dean’s lips, and strikes it.

Dear God, the sound Dean makes then – a strangled, wailing thing that is suddenly loud compared to his gagged whimpers before. He strikes it again, and again, to more sobbing groans, and Dean’s cock becomes even more turgid than before, blood rushing to his length until it is almost purple with it. And when Castiel strikes Dean’s balls, drawn close and tight to his body, Dean’s cock jumps and twitches until Castiel cannot help but strike it again.

And of course, now that Dean’s body begins to react more forcefully, the rosary between his legs begins to dance again, taunting Castiel. He does not have the patience to play with it anymore. He reaches down to grasp it again, and as soon as it’s free of Dean’s body, he lashes the Discipline across that cursed hole as well.

If he thought Dean’s cries were loud before, now they are agonized things – wild, animalistic howls as Dean bucks and rears on the altar, legs kicking and flailing with every strike. And yet, even as the skin of Dean’s entrance begins to turn an angry red, it still gapes and clenches, wanting more.

Madness. Whatever sickness has infected Dean, the fever has surely driven him to madness.

Or perhaps Dean has been bewitched, cursed, that his body should respond so.

More likely, he was sent to bewitch Castiel. Because suddenly, he can feel the begging clench of Dean’s entrance, against the very skin of his cock! And when he looks down, he finds himself rubbing against Dean again, smearing his arousal across that hot and swollen entrance. As if his body has been compelled.

But again, what evil could stand the touch of a holy man? If that is what Castiel is anymore. How can he pretend purity when he has craved the touch of Dean’s skin? Known the pleasure of Dean’s mouth? How can a rosary be sanctified when it has been buried in the depths of Dean’s sinful body? And how can a church be sacred when the very air has been filled with Dean’s pleasured screams?

A sob wrenches out of Castiel’s throat as he rips himself away, shoving the Discipline into Dean’s mouth again. He grabs blindly for the bottle of wine, but instead of drinking from it, he finds himself pressing the lip of the bottle to Dean’s still-wet entrance, shoving it deep into that greedy furl.

Dean takes it with almost no resistance, his cries muffled through the Discipline as Castiel grinds the bottle deep. The last of the wine sloshes into Dean’s channel, and when it is all gone, Castiel begins thrusting the bottle, in and out of Dean’s body, the movement eased by the liquid vintage.

It doesn’t take long after that. Almost immediately Dean begins thrusting back onto the bottle, eyes rolling so wildly that Castiel can only see the whites of them. He is far past being able to make noise anymore, gagged though he is, panting around the Discipline’s handle as he furiously works his hips to take more. He has lost himself completely. Before long, his climax begins to burst from his cock, from no other touch than the bottle buried within him.

And before Castiel knows what he’s doing, he’s leaning down to capture it in his mouth, closing his lips around Dean’s beautiful, spitting cock, and swallowing as much as he can. It’s salty, and bitter, but Castiel cannot stop himself, cannot stop licking every last drop from Dean’s soft, warm skin.

When Castiel finally raises his head again, it is to the sight of Dean’s flushed cheeks, lips full and dark around the handle of the Discipline, and eyes so dilated they are almost black under his curling lashes, glistening thick with tears.

He is so beautiful.

Castiel pulls the bottle from Dean’s body, hurling it into the fire. As it shatters against the stone of the fireplace, so does the last of Castiel’s sanity. Because one second he is watching the slow trickle of wine from between Dean’s legs, and the next, he is falling to his knees between them, lapping at the spill from Dean’s hole.

He knows what he’s doing is filthy, wrong. But Dean was made for this. To feel pleasure. To be pleasured. And be it sickness or curse or bewitchment that has made Dean so, it has finally driven Castiel to madness as well, because he simply cannot see the sense in denying Dean any longer.

With a groan, his lips close around that dribbling furl, tongue soothing that hot and swollen skin. He wants to drink from the chalice of Dean’s body forever, wants to kneel and worship every inch of his beautiful skin and fill his ears with nothing but the prayer of Dean’s rapturous moans. Why would God create such beauty, such joy, and call it evil? Why would He deny His children such bliss, charge them to resist? And if Castiel cannot resist, what man could? None.

Not even this man that Dean has fallen in love with.

A sob rises again, unbidden in Castiel’s throat, and he has to pull away, heaving great gulps of air to force it down. Dean is not his. Dean’s heart belongs to someone else. There will be no forever.

But the way Dean strains towards him, cock full and ready again, eyes pleading for more… Castiel is so tired of denying himself. In this moment, here, Castiel has Dean’s body, splayed open and begging, for him, and him alone. If he cannot have Dean, then he will have this one moment.

Pulling himself together, Castiel stands, smoothing his palms down the insides of Dean’s thighs as he steps between them. Dean’s whines become frantic when he feels Castiel lining up against him, thrusting his hips up to try and take him in his hole, still loose and dripping with wine and Castiel’s saliva. But Castiel forces himself to thrust slowly. So slowly. Taking in every agonizing sensation. He wants to remember every moment of this perfect ruination, carry it with him to the fires of Hell and hold it close for the rest of eternity.

He nearly cries with the beauty of it, the velvet heat enveloping him, the way Dean’s walls grasp and milk at Castiel’s throbbing member. He expected Dean would be screaming by now, thrashing and wailing in incoherent ecstasy, but instead Dean stills himself, keening softly around the worn wood of the Discipline’s handle. He looks like he might even be trying to form words, but if Dean truly wanted to speak he could simply drop the handle from his lips. More likely, the movements of his mouth come from imagining another cock in his lips instead, sucking it, licking it – what insatiable lust. At the very least, the effort of holding the handle seems to be keeping him present, watching Castiel with wide eyes as he gently works his hips to meet Castiel’s deep, careful thrusts.

But the way Dean watches him… Castiel is accustomed to the respect and gratitude of his parishioners, the companionship of his brothers and sisters, but never has anyone looked at him with such sheer adoration. Never has anyone made Castiel feel so alive and alight with such a fire of passion and desire and sensation. How could any man withstand that look and not swear his undying devotion and… love.

Castiel sobs, openly now, unable to hold back any longer. If he is doomed to love Dean, to the eternal pits of Hell, then he is going to make damn well sure that Dean forever remembers the man who first took him. He begins thrusting harder, faster, grabbing onto Dean’s hips for desperate purchase. And as his movements become more forceful, Dean begins to thrash in his bonds again, straining to meet Castiel’s thrusts. His moans grow louder, building to a crescendo, until finally, Dean cries out, the Discipline tumbling from his lips as his climax overwhelms him.

Castiel cannot withstand the onslaught – the euphoria of Dean’s moans filling his ears, the writhing grasp of Dean’s body on his cock, the sheer, shocked ecstasy in Dean’s eyes – it breaks him apart, completely, thoroughly, helplessly, endlessly, spilling every last drop of himself as he cries out Dean’s name.

There is nothing left of him afterwards. Nothing but madness and rage and the hot brand of sin, splashed across the front of his cassock, dripping thick and white from between Dean’s legs.

Castiel tears at the strips of cloth binding Dean to the wall, shredding them in his fists and setting Dean free, though to do so makes him ache with despair. But when he is done, he finds himself still ripping, still clawing, at the cloth of his own robes now, filthy and ruined forevermore. Wrenching the tattered remains from his body, Castiel heaves them into the fire with an anguished roar.

“Father?” Dean’s voice comes from behind him, scared and uncertain, and Castiel whirls around in rage.

“Don’t call me that!” he wails. “No one can call me that anymore, least of all myself! I have defiled myself! I am made unholy!” he cries, collapsing to his knees. He wraps his arms around his body, trying to hold himself together as he shivers in his underclothes, broken and bare. “Tell me who is this man? I beg you, I must know! This man who for loving has driven you to such madness, as surely as you have driven me to mine?” he sobs. He wants to know this man’s name, this man’s face, how it looks as he roasts in the pits of Hell, right alongside Castiel.

“Fath-- Castiel… Surely you must know?” Dean replies softly. “It has always been you.”

Castiel laughs.

He laughs and laughs, until his laughs turn to sobs. Until his chest begins to ache and tears stream down his face. Until Dean approaches him, carefully, cupping his face in his hands, and leaning down to kiss his lips.

It is nothing like Dean’s kiss before, frantic and desperate with hunger and need. It is a gentle kiss, a reverent kiss, though no less claiming. With it, there is no more madness, no more rage or despair. Only Dean’s lips, and Dean’s love, its clarity like a ray of light, breaking through the heavens.

“Come away with me,” Dean whispers, still cradling Castiel’s cheek against his palm as he gazes down at Castiel. “We will start a new life together, in the colonies, you and I,” he says.

“Yes,” Castiel replies without hesitation, to everything Dean promises. “Yes. Yes!” he repeats, over and over like a prayer, worshiping Dean’s skin with kisses from where he kneels at Dean’s feet. He does not care where they go, or what plans need to be made, he only needs to hear one thing, one promise above all

Castiel reaches down into the opening of his pants, unfastening the cilice from his thigh. Its pain has been long forgotten, lost in the pleasures of Dean’s body. Now, he no longer has need of it.

But it can serve a new purpose.

Castiel reaches for Dean again, binding the cilice around Dean’s strong, naked thigh.

“As I am yours, you will be mine,” he says, caressing the ring of metal around Dean’s flesh.

“Yes,” Dean promises.

Castiel nods, satisfied.

Though they both may be damned, for all eternity, at least they will be damned together.

~ fin

I may try to clean this up a bit more later, but I havn't been well and I just wanted to post this in time for Halloween :)