It was cruel.
30 years of torture under Hell's most experienced (and effective) painsmith could not have prepared him for this.
Soft whimpers were escaping his mouth as though he was trying to muffle them but was failing and, every so often, a hitched grunt slipped out.
It was painful to watch.
His eyes were half lidded. Blurry vision gazed upon crimson pools and rivulets of vermilion. Tan was crumpled, cut, torn, mercilessly ripped open to get to the sanguine beneath.
And Dean was watching it all, like a car crash.
He watched as scarlet ran down his chin. Stared as ruby flowed over his fingers...
"Cas..." It was a plea. He wasn't ashamed to beg.
It was Cas' fault.
It was him who made the first cut, slicing so. Very. Slowly.
It was him who let the first drops of red bleed out and it was him who looked at Dean, eyes dark and merciless, and said, "you could partake."
It was almost too much.
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"There's still some left,"
"No there isn't,"
The angel's tounge darted out across his lower lip, "not for much longer, anyway."
Dean had had enough. "Fine," reaching over, he took the seraph's chin in his hand. His thumb swiped at some of the sweet ruby he found there and claimed the other's lips as his own.
The hunter pulled away from Castiel, slowly.
"The next time you have pie, you're sharing." He commanded.
"You know," the angel had a wicked glint in his eyes, "if that's the result, I don't think I will."
Groak
Verb: To stare silently at someone while they are eating, in the hope that they will give you some of their food.