obstinatrix (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
obstinatrix) wrote2011-01-25 09:44 am
obstinatrix) wrote2011-01-25 09:44 am
Entry tags:
- dean/castiel,
- fic,
- fps,
- rating: nc-17,
- slash,
- spn
Fic: The Beating of His Hideous Heart (Dean/Castiel, NC-17)
Title: The Beating of His Hideous Heart
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Lies. In this case, extremely alternate-universe lies.
Prompt: 'Dean is the charming sociopath and Castiel is the fresh-faced prison chaplain, dub-con. With Dean, after weeks of working Cas over, finally getting his hands on him after a careless guard leaves them alone. Posted here.
Warnings: The dub-con is extreme. YMMV sufficiently that you might read it as non-con. Also, note 'sociopath'. 'Ideas may disturb', shall we say.
The orange jumpsuits, Castiel thinks, are unbecoming; that, after all, is the very point of them, and it isn't right that Dean Winchester should fill his out so neatly, broad in the shoulder and narrow in the waist. But then, Dean Winchester's list of convictions is unbecoming, too, and yet his smile is not - is white-toothed, open-faced; his eyes are green as glass.
Castiel tries to imagine that soft-mouthed smile, splitting over the body of the fifteen-year-old girl that Winchester, D, so expertly dismembered. He imagines the pink pull of lips over teeth, and the blood-spatters recede at the image, the two things unable to exist simultaneously. Dean is a beauty, befreckled and clean-lined and young. Perhaps, Castiel thinks, his stains all show up somewhere else - on a portrait in the attic; in the lines on his hands; or, perhaps, on his skin, there under his clothes. Perhaps he keeps his darkness under his shirt, gaping in his chest like a wound.
Perhaps this man is not who they think he is.
Castiel becomes fascinated quickly - it has always been a flaw in him, never teased out through any amount of either coaxing or cruelty. Dean Winchester, a court said, has killed no less than fourteen women, none of whom he ever loathed or loved - none of whom, even, he violated sexually. There seemed no motive there but malice - but, perhaps Dean is easily fascinated, too. When Dean was caught, he was crouched over the loose-limbed spill of what once had been his brother, his best-beloved. His name was Sam, and his heart was in Dean's hand.
"Why?" Castiel asked him once - it was one of his first questions, after he had finally been able to force himself to stop staring.
"He was mine," Dean said, and languidly crossed his arms. "I wanted to keep him." And he'd grinned at Castiel, like it was nothing. "Hey, you wouldn't have a stick of gum, wouldja? Promise I won't try to hang m'self with it."
From that moment, Castiel was pinned as fully as if he had been one of Dean's broken girls, cut up limb by limb like paper dolls. Dean smiles at him every morning, now, all wide soft eyes and brows that inscribe perfect arches over them, and Castiel wants all of him, wants to know him, wants to save him.
"Got something to tell you, Chaplain," Dean says, and spreads his hands, and Castiel wants, God, he wants to hear all of it. His collar feels tight, his breath short, at the thought.
"Leave us," he says to the guard, immediate and curt.
"But, Father - " the guard protests. Castiel draws his brows together and frowns. It is as if he is moving through some sort of fluid dream.
"He's all right," he insists, casting his eyes back over to Dean. "Aren't you?"
"Sure thing," Dean says, and smiles his smile of angels. Even the guard is powerless to resist it.
Alone with him, Castiel feels his heart pounding in his chest. He thinks, for a moment, of that boy's heart beating in Dean's hand, heavy muscle pulsing out, relentless, between his fingers. He thinks of Dean wanting, Dean taking; thinks of Dean's fascination.
For a second, he wants to call the guard back, but then Dean smiles at him, and the moment passes.
"So, Father," Dean says, slow smile mesmerising. Castiel feels his tongue go dry as he watches it spread and spread. Dean's fingers go to the buttons of his jumpsuit, and the dryness emerges as a short sound, stoppered by the thickness in Castiel's throat.
"You wanted to see me," Dean says, as if Castiel had asked. As if Castiel had told him, about the hole he'd once imagined as a crater in Dean's chest where he keeps his sin. Castiel has never told him, and he does not tell him now, but only watches as Dean shrugs the suit off his shoulders, showing his chest, for the most part smooth. There are scars criss-crossing it, here and there, and over his heart is a symbol of some kind, probably, as far as Castiel can determine, Satanic. It is somehow not surprising.
"Dean," Castiel says, soft and hesitant, and far, far too late.
"I know," Dean says, and takes a step towards him, the shirt part of his jumpsuit now hanging below his waist like the overalls of some casual country farm-hand. "I know, Father," he says, cupping his hands around Castiel's face, and Castiel doesn't know why he doesn't stop him; why he can't.
"It's going to be all right," Dean says, pressing the palm of his hand flat over Castiel's mouth. Castiel wonders, as Dean closes finger and thumb over his nose, whether that was the hand that held Sam's heart - whether, perhaps, it had taken both hands to hold.
"It's going to be all right," Dean tells him, and Castiel realises, as if through a haze, that he is struggling, making soft sounds of protest that Dean catches in his palm as his other arm comes up like a band around Castiel's body, pinning both of his hands to his sides. It's strange, this sudden sensation of an unreal distance as the darkness crashes over him like waves.
"I've got you," Dean says, in the gentlest voice Castiel has ever heard. "I'm not gonna leave you." And then it's dark, but Castiel can feel that Dean is keeping his promise.
He swims back to clarity staring up at the striplight on the ceiling, the skirt of his cassock rucked up around his waist. He cries out, the moment he has the breath, and reaches for Dean's hands, but Dean only laughs and closes his hand around Castiel's cock. It hardens, treacherous and sinful, and Castiel swallows, eyes groping anxiously for Dean's.
"Ssshh," Dean tells him, laying a finger over his lips. "Wouldn't want to be caught taking advantage of a prisoner, wouldja?" He strokes, fingers open, then closed, and Castiel bucks up with a hitched little gasp that makes Dean smile and sound his approval.
"That's it, Father; I got you. C'mon, sweetheart. Feels good, don't it, huh?"
And, God help him, it does feel good, Dean's fingers clever and quick, fisting Castiel's cock, coaxing the fiercest of sparks right out of him as it slicks up and down, speeding up as Castiel's hips rock unconsciously into it.
"Dean," he gets out, in a moment of isolated clarity, "Dean, you must stop - Dean, please - "
Dean only grins, and presses a kiss to the tip of Castiel's cock, and Castiel's clarity is gone.
His mouth might have been made for this, wide jaw and soft pink lips pulled tight, and Castiel is drowning in the heady heat of it, eyes clenched shut as Dean sucks and licks, pressing his tongue to the vein along the underside, pulling up to flick the point against the tip. Castiel can hear himself whimpering as he thrashes on the ground, cement and striplights and this murderer's tongue taking him higher, lifting him until his head spins with it.
"Dean," he whimpers, "Dean, please - " and then Dean sucks at him hard, and Castiel is coming, spurting copious and quick over Dean's clever tongue.
Afterwards, the ground seems harder, and his head is pounding, at once light and dark as Dean rises to his knees. "Dean," he manages weakly, "Please don't. Please don't."
"I'm no rapist," Dean tells him, brows drawn close, and for a moment, it is almost as if Castiel has genuinely offended him. Castiel blinks at him - furrows his own brow.
"Gorgeous thing like you," Dean says, and then he's fumbling for his cock, drawing it out heavy and hard from within the still-buttoned lower half of his jumpsuit. "Why'd you gotta go and be a priest for, huh?" His breath shortens, fingers closing over himself, and Castiel can see his slickness glistening, see it smearing as he strokes. "God, you coulda - coulda been something, coulda - "
He bites his lip, shock of white on pink, and God, Castiel can't help thinking, but he's beautiful, long throat working as he shivers and comes. He's beautiful, caustic and compelling and insane, and Castiel can't think, cannot piece the afternoon together, his mind gone loose within the confines of his skull.
"Hey," Dean shushes him, and the tone of his voice says it's all right, it's all right.
Castiel believes him, that's the thing. Castiel believes him.
When the guard returns, they are both of them seated at the table, clothes reassembled, conversation bled to a halt. Dean glances up at the guard, and then says, "See you tomorrow?"
For a moment, Castiel sees something dark flare in his eyes, and then die just as swiftly.
"Yes," he says, before he can stop to think why. With Dean Winchester, there is no such thing as reason. "Yes," Castiel says. "Of course."
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Lies. In this case, extremely alternate-universe lies.
Prompt: 'Dean is the charming sociopath and Castiel is the fresh-faced prison chaplain, dub-con. With Dean, after weeks of working Cas over, finally getting his hands on him after a careless guard leaves them alone. Posted here.
Warnings: The dub-con is extreme. YMMV sufficiently that you might read it as non-con. Also, note 'sociopath'. 'Ideas may disturb', shall we say.
The orange jumpsuits, Castiel thinks, are unbecoming; that, after all, is the very point of them, and it isn't right that Dean Winchester should fill his out so neatly, broad in the shoulder and narrow in the waist. But then, Dean Winchester's list of convictions is unbecoming, too, and yet his smile is not - is white-toothed, open-faced; his eyes are green as glass.
Castiel tries to imagine that soft-mouthed smile, splitting over the body of the fifteen-year-old girl that Winchester, D, so expertly dismembered. He imagines the pink pull of lips over teeth, and the blood-spatters recede at the image, the two things unable to exist simultaneously. Dean is a beauty, befreckled and clean-lined and young. Perhaps, Castiel thinks, his stains all show up somewhere else - on a portrait in the attic; in the lines on his hands; or, perhaps, on his skin, there under his clothes. Perhaps he keeps his darkness under his shirt, gaping in his chest like a wound.
Perhaps this man is not who they think he is.
Castiel becomes fascinated quickly - it has always been a flaw in him, never teased out through any amount of either coaxing or cruelty. Dean Winchester, a court said, has killed no less than fourteen women, none of whom he ever loathed or loved - none of whom, even, he violated sexually. There seemed no motive there but malice - but, perhaps Dean is easily fascinated, too. When Dean was caught, he was crouched over the loose-limbed spill of what once had been his brother, his best-beloved. His name was Sam, and his heart was in Dean's hand.
"Why?" Castiel asked him once - it was one of his first questions, after he had finally been able to force himself to stop staring.
"He was mine," Dean said, and languidly crossed his arms. "I wanted to keep him." And he'd grinned at Castiel, like it was nothing. "Hey, you wouldn't have a stick of gum, wouldja? Promise I won't try to hang m'self with it."
From that moment, Castiel was pinned as fully as if he had been one of Dean's broken girls, cut up limb by limb like paper dolls. Dean smiles at him every morning, now, all wide soft eyes and brows that inscribe perfect arches over them, and Castiel wants all of him, wants to know him, wants to save him.
"Got something to tell you, Chaplain," Dean says, and spreads his hands, and Castiel wants, God, he wants to hear all of it. His collar feels tight, his breath short, at the thought.
"Leave us," he says to the guard, immediate and curt.
"But, Father - " the guard protests. Castiel draws his brows together and frowns. It is as if he is moving through some sort of fluid dream.
"He's all right," he insists, casting his eyes back over to Dean. "Aren't you?"
"Sure thing," Dean says, and smiles his smile of angels. Even the guard is powerless to resist it.
Alone with him, Castiel feels his heart pounding in his chest. He thinks, for a moment, of that boy's heart beating in Dean's hand, heavy muscle pulsing out, relentless, between his fingers. He thinks of Dean wanting, Dean taking; thinks of Dean's fascination.
For a second, he wants to call the guard back, but then Dean smiles at him, and the moment passes.
"So, Father," Dean says, slow smile mesmerising. Castiel feels his tongue go dry as he watches it spread and spread. Dean's fingers go to the buttons of his jumpsuit, and the dryness emerges as a short sound, stoppered by the thickness in Castiel's throat.
"You wanted to see me," Dean says, as if Castiel had asked. As if Castiel had told him, about the hole he'd once imagined as a crater in Dean's chest where he keeps his sin. Castiel has never told him, and he does not tell him now, but only watches as Dean shrugs the suit off his shoulders, showing his chest, for the most part smooth. There are scars criss-crossing it, here and there, and over his heart is a symbol of some kind, probably, as far as Castiel can determine, Satanic. It is somehow not surprising.
"Dean," Castiel says, soft and hesitant, and far, far too late.
"I know," Dean says, and takes a step towards him, the shirt part of his jumpsuit now hanging below his waist like the overalls of some casual country farm-hand. "I know, Father," he says, cupping his hands around Castiel's face, and Castiel doesn't know why he doesn't stop him; why he can't.
"It's going to be all right," Dean says, pressing the palm of his hand flat over Castiel's mouth. Castiel wonders, as Dean closes finger and thumb over his nose, whether that was the hand that held Sam's heart - whether, perhaps, it had taken both hands to hold.
"It's going to be all right," Dean tells him, and Castiel realises, as if through a haze, that he is struggling, making soft sounds of protest that Dean catches in his palm as his other arm comes up like a band around Castiel's body, pinning both of his hands to his sides. It's strange, this sudden sensation of an unreal distance as the darkness crashes over him like waves.
"I've got you," Dean says, in the gentlest voice Castiel has ever heard. "I'm not gonna leave you." And then it's dark, but Castiel can feel that Dean is keeping his promise.
He swims back to clarity staring up at the striplight on the ceiling, the skirt of his cassock rucked up around his waist. He cries out, the moment he has the breath, and reaches for Dean's hands, but Dean only laughs and closes his hand around Castiel's cock. It hardens, treacherous and sinful, and Castiel swallows, eyes groping anxiously for Dean's.
"Ssshh," Dean tells him, laying a finger over his lips. "Wouldn't want to be caught taking advantage of a prisoner, wouldja?" He strokes, fingers open, then closed, and Castiel bucks up with a hitched little gasp that makes Dean smile and sound his approval.
"That's it, Father; I got you. C'mon, sweetheart. Feels good, don't it, huh?"
And, God help him, it does feel good, Dean's fingers clever and quick, fisting Castiel's cock, coaxing the fiercest of sparks right out of him as it slicks up and down, speeding up as Castiel's hips rock unconsciously into it.
"Dean," he gets out, in a moment of isolated clarity, "Dean, you must stop - Dean, please - "
Dean only grins, and presses a kiss to the tip of Castiel's cock, and Castiel's clarity is gone.
His mouth might have been made for this, wide jaw and soft pink lips pulled tight, and Castiel is drowning in the heady heat of it, eyes clenched shut as Dean sucks and licks, pressing his tongue to the vein along the underside, pulling up to flick the point against the tip. Castiel can hear himself whimpering as he thrashes on the ground, cement and striplights and this murderer's tongue taking him higher, lifting him until his head spins with it.
"Dean," he whimpers, "Dean, please - " and then Dean sucks at him hard, and Castiel is coming, spurting copious and quick over Dean's clever tongue.
Afterwards, the ground seems harder, and his head is pounding, at once light and dark as Dean rises to his knees. "Dean," he manages weakly, "Please don't. Please don't."
"I'm no rapist," Dean tells him, brows drawn close, and for a moment, it is almost as if Castiel has genuinely offended him. Castiel blinks at him - furrows his own brow.
"Gorgeous thing like you," Dean says, and then he's fumbling for his cock, drawing it out heavy and hard from within the still-buttoned lower half of his jumpsuit. "Why'd you gotta go and be a priest for, huh?" His breath shortens, fingers closing over himself, and Castiel can see his slickness glistening, see it smearing as he strokes. "God, you coulda - coulda been something, coulda - "
He bites his lip, shock of white on pink, and God, Castiel can't help thinking, but he's beautiful, long throat working as he shivers and comes. He's beautiful, caustic and compelling and insane, and Castiel can't think, cannot piece the afternoon together, his mind gone loose within the confines of his skull.
"Hey," Dean shushes him, and the tone of his voice says it's all right, it's all right.
Castiel believes him, that's the thing. Castiel believes him.
When the guard returns, they are both of them seated at the table, clothes reassembled, conversation bled to a halt. Dean glances up at the guard, and then says, "See you tomorrow?"
For a moment, Castiel sees something dark flare in his eyes, and then die just as swiftly.
"Yes," he says, before he can stop to think why. With Dean Winchester, there is no such thing as reason. "Yes," Castiel says. "Of course."
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