I Will Give You All My Keys

by newbluemoon

Castiel had been in chastity for three weeks. Written for a prompt at spnkink meme. Dean/Cas slash. Warnings for D/s, chastity, bondage, dirty talk & more- full list inside. Reviews appreciated.

Warnings: Brace yourself- D/s, chastity, light feminisation, dirty talk, hole spanking, orgasm denial, hair pulling, manhandling, collars, leashes, painplay, assplay, buttplugs, humiliation. References to panties!kink, erotic asphyxiation, flogging and fisting.
Summary: Written for a prompt on spn_kinkmeme that asked for Castiel in chastity, with "dirty talk, spanking and lingerie. Have Dean call Cas' ass a pussy/cunt as well at some point and I will basically devote myself to you forever." I think I covered all of that. Basically, Castiel's in chastity. And kink ensues.
A/N: Thank you to archangelimpala for the beta clean up.

...

I will give you all my keys/You shall be my châtelaine/You shall enter as you please.

...

Castiel had been in chastity for three weeks. Three weeks to the exact day, and if he had still been an angel, he'd know the duration of time he'd spent locked in the little device down to scant minutes, seconds and less. But Castiel wasn't an angel any more. He was just a man.

More importantly, he was Dean's.

When Dean had brought the topic up, it was with a hand on the back of his neck, eyes averted as he'd mumbled his request. Castiel had paused. Not out of trepidation, or concern, but out of curiosity.

"You wish me to...be chaste?" Castiel asked, his eyebrows creasing into a frown, mind drifting over whether or not Dean wanted to put a stop to their sex life. Dean had quickly shushed his worries, explaining the topic to him in a little more detail, with flushed cheeks and awkward pauses and even more neck scratching. Castiel didn't think he liked watching Dean so uncertain.

"It's... a cock cage," Dean explained, showing him various pictures of little devices on his laptop, watching Castiel intently as he surveyed each one with a slightly tilted head.

"It means you won't get hard. At all."

The notion had never occurred to him before and it seemed foreign, complex, but no less intriguing. On the surface, Castiel could find no sense in it. He'd learned that sex was intended for pleasure and reproduction, and given that they both lacked the parts necessary to bear offspring, that left pleasure as the only viable option. If that was stripped away, then what was sex?

But still, there was a certain allure to the concept that Castiel couldn't quite define.

"You don't gotta decide right now," Dean had muttered, placing a comforting hand on Castiel's thigh, "But if you choose to do this, I want it to be for you. Don't do this just for me, okay?"

Castiel had agreed with a nod, because it seemed important to Dean and that had been that. Dean had given him time to consider it, and although Castiel thought it highly unnecessary, he'd already decided his answer would be yes. He'd rarely denied Dean anything, least of all in their private life, and he had been loath to consider that he might refuse him something so simple.

Though after a while, a day or two perhaps, Castiel had learned to appreciate the temporal gift Dean had given him. It meant that he was able to truly consider what was being asked of him.

Dean had made it clear that, should he choose to do this, their sexual relationship would progress as normal. They would continue to have sex, the usual rules and expectations would still apply and Dean would, of course, still take charge of things as he had from their first time onwards. Castiel was relieved by that part. They both knew control rested with Dean between cheap sheets and coiling ropes, and they both liked it that way.

If they were going to do this, nothing would change, aside from Castiel's ability to achieve an erection. He'd pondered that for long minutes, dissecting the concept, trying to deduce the meaning and the intent behind the whole idea.

From what he could tell, it meant many things.

It meant, most obviously, that Dean would fuck him, but he would not be able to orgasm as he usually might from the act, though Dean would still find the same satisfaction in his body that he always seemed to. In effect, it meant that in those moments, he would exist only to bring Dean pleasure, and anything else would be considered secondary, if they were to be considered at all.

Castiel had been surprised by the warmth that balled in his middle at that idea, even as he stared at a patch of grimy-looking, discolouration on the wall of the diner opposite from where he sat. At the time, Sam had glanced up and commented on the blushed colour that had apparently spread over Castiel's cheeks and really, that didn't help things very much at all.

Secondly, Castiel had decided, it meant that Dean would be completely in control of his orgasms, or lack thereof. That had been an aspect of their relationship for a long time. Dean liked to deny Castiel relief while they were engaging in sexual acts, and Castiel liked the frustrating, dizzying sensation that came when he was forced to hold back.

Some days, Dean would place a ring around his testicles and the base of his penis, working to prevent climax, to keep him on the edge of that delicious, terrible apex. That made things easier. Other times, he was expected to hold off by himself. If he failed, he would be punished. If he complied with Dean's wishes, he'd be rewarded. It seemed simple.

Castiel had taken great pleasure in those moments, obeying Dean's orders, even the ones that brought him discomfort and pain. Perhaps, especially those. He knew Dean relished testing how far he would be willing to bend for him, how much he was willing to take. Castiel often wondered if Dean would ever come to understand that there was no limit to how much of himself he'd give, that Castiel already existed entirely for him alone.

Once, a long time ago, the same could have been said about Castiel's obedience for God. But there was no God to be found here, in the slick sheets of their bed. There was only Dean, and that was enough now. Had been enough for years.

He'd found other reasons during his analysis of Dean's request, things ranging from aesthetics to eroticism to simple reassurance. In the end, Castiel decided that, as with most things Dean had enlightened him to, he'd never understand it in full until he'd experienced it himself.

And, with that in mind, he'd approached Dean with his answer.

The man had blasted Led Zeppelin the entire six hour ride to their next location, a grin on his face for most of it. The warmth in Dean's eyes when he caught them in the rear view mirror had made Castiel certain already he'd made the right choice.

...

It had been strange at first, when Dean had slipped the plastic casing around his soft penis, locking him in with gentle fingers and caring touches, the man's green eyes softened to a hue Castiel had rarely seen them glint with outside of the occasional honeyed moments they spent lying sweaty and panting in the after times. Castiel had found he liked that look a lot.

The first day he'd worn the cage, Castiel had been so focused on Dean's obvious happiness at his decision that he barely noticed anything else, didn't register very many sensations at all, other than the blissful thrumming contentedness he felt at Dean's small smile when the man had fastened the padlock attached to the device.

"There we go," Dean had said, patting Castiel's now trapped penis, that same softness in his eyes, although this time it had been garnished with lust. Dean had kissed him then and it felt like a reward.

"What does it feel like?" Dean asked him when they had separated once more and Castiel had felt half giddy with simple pleasure as Dean toyed with the contraption.

It felt like... well, like plastic. It offered no real temperature, it was hard, though not rough and solid enough that Castiel knew instinctively he wouldn't be able to fool it into letting him get hard even if he wanted to. Incidentally, he did not.

"Strange," Castiel had finally settled on, which was true, and perhaps as far as his experience with it could detail at the time, but Dean's huff of fond laughter seemed appeased by the short explanation, and they'd continued to inspect the device.

There was a hole at the bottom of the shaft part of the cage, allowing him to urinate without the need to remove the thing. It didn't seem terribly hygienic, but Dean had promised him that the device could be properly cleaned and maintained with daily showers and washes. This had put aside the last, shredded slithers of Castiel's few concerns before Dean had finished speaking.

He trusted Dean like he had never trusted another being, truthfully not even the Lord. There had been moments even when Castiel was at his most devout that he questioned his father's judgement, only to be punished and shunned and chastised for it by his brothers and sisters.

After that terrible, barren year, Castiel knew he would never question Dean's judgement again. The man had shown himself time after time to be more than worthy of his trust. His simple re-acceptance of Castiel into his life, his allowance for Castiel's redemption had earned Dean that.

Honestly, Castiel had never felt safer than in the clutches of this mortal man. And if there was deeper meaning to that, he couldn't find it.

Dean had fucked him surprisingly tenderly that first night, in slow, long thrusts that filled Castiel up slowly, inch by inch until he felt like he could melt away from the heat inside of him, leaving him so stretched open and so full that the swelling sensation became near rapture beneath his flesh.

The hard part, though, came when Dean's careful rhythm pressed into his prostate in a way that made his balls fill and ache when the blood was squashed back down, with nowhere else to go. It had been a surprising feeling, an almost-pain, but it had kept Castiel from falling away into the nonsense place he was heading to under Dean's attentions, the sharp edge of the dull throbbing keeping him all too aware of what was happening, and what couldn't happen.

Dean's breathy, staggered words had been littered with proud endearments alongside the usual obscenities though and Castiel had felt a distant peace begin to take root, even while the skin he wore protested and tingled with angry frustration.

But Castiel had been a creature without skin for time longer than this earth had existed and had been a being of worship for longer. It was easy to ignore his body for the first night. And the second. But ease had never lasted for Castiel.

And indeed, it did not, of course, stay that way.

The first week had been the hardest. Dean had taken to doing things to him, things that in the past would have excited Castiel into full arousal barely a few minutes after their initiation. He wasn't sure if the man was testing him, if he was being cruel or if he was simply oblivious. But then, Dean was never oblivious when it came to sex.

Once— Castiel thought it was on the fourth day, but it was possible that he was wrong, time seemed too fluid to track at that point— Dean had kept him restrained to the foot of their bed. His legs were tucked underneath of him, his ankles held in place by a spreader bar, while his arms, also bent at Dean's instruction behind his back, were bound tightly to the bar by a set of sturdy cuffs. A graceful chain had connected the thick collar around his neck to one of the bed posts, keeping him entirely in position, unable to squirm away from the vibrating toy Dean had slipped in side of him, nor the metal clamps biting into the buds of his nipples.

Dean had left him like that for hours.

By the time he'd returned, Castiel had been exhausted in a way he couldn't ever remember being, every inch of him feeling drained and ruined. His throat felt sore and hoarse from moaning around the gag Dean had slipped between his lips, his eyes were stinging and wet from the tears that had seized control of him and spilled from the treacherous little ducts, and his hole ached from the constant openness.

But worst of all had been the consuming burn in his groin, the frustration of it long since having bled into utter agony. His balls felt raw and ballooned with the want of release, but Castiel had no means of achieving it, and Dean still possessed the key.

That night, after Dean had let him free, there had been hurried arguments and refused pleas and bargains that would have angered Castiel if he hadn't known that this was his decision and that in him doing this, Dean was pleasured, and by that, in some round about way, so was Castiel.

"You can safe word if you want to stop," Dean had told him sincerely after a deep sigh, and Castiel knew all he had to do was agree and this would have been over. But he would have failed.

"No."

There had also been many kisses and embraces after their voices fell back down to reasonable levels and Castiel had tucked himself in as close to Dean as possible, sinking into the irrational security those firm arms offered him. He fell asleep with a possessive hand stroking soothing circles into the plains of his tired back. Somehow that hadn't made it easier.

It went on like that for a while, Castiel feeling so sick with want that he became angry with himself, a harrowing sense of failure slamming through him. He had been an Angel of the Lord for eons, for time more complicated than he could now fully understand with the limits of his all too human brain.

But now, he was reduced to this house of flesh, this skin that had begun to feel more like a cage than the plastic one he wore around his genitalia.

Sexual urges had been easy to ignore and repress when he still possessed a modicum of now lost grace. But this body wanted, and it wanted so much, and every time his instincts fought and struggled against his desires to be good for Dean, to please the man, Castiel felt spiteful shame crawl up his spine.

He should have been able to conquer the urges his body seared with, to rise up to meet Dean's instructions with gratitude at being given the opportunity to prove his devotion to him.

But the body that had become his own physical form had not agreed and Castiel's cock had continued to swell fruitlessly within in its confines while the rest of him continued to burn with the ache of denial and sting with the bitterness of disgrace.

And Dean had asked for a month of this.

But eventually, the days trickled together and started to seep into some kind of intangible stream, and it started to seem as though time had become airy and unattainable and, after what would probably determined to be a mere week by people more lucid than Castiel, he had begun to feel incorporeal again himself.

It struck him with astonishment one day, as Dean played with his cassette taps and Sam bickered fondly with him over the music and Castiel was still very much under lock and key, that he had begun to find it surprisingly liberating to give control over such a base, raw bodily function to Dean, to let him decide what to do with it.

He'd slowly realised that he felt alleviated of the burden of choice, to be able to forsake the heavy, unnatural brand of will that Dean had shown him he could have for his own all those years ago. For these private moments with Dean, Castiel could revert to his natural state, he could just simply float in the gentle warmth of knowing all he had to do was obey.

But it was so much sweeter than before, when he was under God's, Michael's, Zachariah's orders. When he was a hammer, a machine. Because Castiel was not a machine here, and neither was Dean. They were men, of flesh and minds and hearts and he'd chosen this, chosen to give Dean this control over him, because Dean deserved it.

And now Castiel had found himself wanting it as well.

The lightness he had felt after coming to this conclusion was akin to the barrelling waves of flying through Jupiter's great storms, feeling the force of them whip against the beams of his grace like lashes biting into bodies and Castiel had felt free, had tasted freedom on his tongue in each and every moment that he didn't have to wonder about messy choice, knowing it no longer rested with him.

And that was release more potent than any orgasm could offer.

...

Half way through the second week, Castiel had been spread out on a sofa, Dean curled possessively around him, fingers tracing soporific little patterns over his naval, the simplicity of touch and the quietness of birds outside lulling him away to sleep. Almost, anyway.

"Don't you mind it?" Dean had asked quietly, sounding so genuinely curious that Castiel had to pay attention, "Not feeling pleasure, not getting off?" Castiel had considered it for less time than it took him to yawn.

"No."

"Why not?" Dean sounded like he was frowning, so Castiel had craned his neck around to verify. He was, of course. It wasn't annoyance that had drawn out the little creases though, but confusion, puzzlement, like he couldn't quite work Castiel out.

"I feel pleasure, Dean," he'd assured him, looking earnestly up at his eyes, jumping in when Dean was about to argue, "I feel pleasure because you do, because I know I'm doing as you asked, because you're happy, and I'm useful and I'm cared for." He'd paused there for a beat, "I feel pleasure because I'm good for you and...and I like that. Being good, being what you need."

Really, he'd thought almost restlessly, willing Dean to understand. But Dean had looked set to voice his opinion again, so Castiel had kissed him quickly to quieten him. He did want to sleep, after all.

It was all very true, though.

Pleasing Dean had been Castiel's utmost priority since they'd started their sexual relationship. At first, it had seemed simply like an extension of their ordinary interactions. Castiel had strived to please Dean for years, whether his efforts had been acknowledged or not. It had indeed been for him. All of it had been for Dean.

To take that to their bed just seemed... logical.

It ran deeper than that though, he'd come to understand, and Castiel had soon recognised the need in himself to obey when Dean began to exhibit a sort of dominance, a flavour of aggression that excited Castiel more than anything they had yet done.

In turn he'd seen it reflected in Dean, fortunately, and things had progressed from there.

Castiel had found it comforting to not have to be the one who held the reins, to not be expected to know exactly what he was doing. With Dean, he could just be, and wonderfully, Dean had given that liberty to him enthusiastically.

But in the situation Castiel had chosen for them now, (one he was reminded of with every tug of the cage against his sensitised skin) he was more acutely aware of Dean's pleasure than he could have possibly been before.

It was his only focus, the only real anchor he had left to link him to reality in those breathless meetings, the sole responsibility he still possessed— to bring pleasure to Dean.

They'd played games with this idea, of course they had— Dean was extraordinarily inventive in all matters, especially those of the flesh.

Castiel could admit in hushed tones when there were only inches between their bodies where no one else could hear that their ventures into games of humiliation had been his favourite.

He wasn't sure why he enjoyed that, enjoyed Dean ignoring his comfort and his needs as the man pounded furiously into him. Why he enjoyed Dean pulling him around by the leash that was attached to the collar around his throat like an animal, the harsh whispers in his ear that told him he was 'nothing but a fuck toy, just a hole needing to be used'. It was like gratifying acid singeing into his skin, giving him the satisfaction that Dean's hands would not.

The words were crude and Dean's actions were cruder still, but Castiel had thrived on them. He had reached a point where his mind fell away to the place where things stopped working in languages, even without orgasm, and the only thing that still held meaning was the chanting tattoo of DeanDeanDean pulsing through his body.

Dean's attentive care of Castiel afterwards and the close attention paid to him as the man checked that he was okay and still as happy once he'd come back down from the no-where place was a welcome, treacled softness that just made all of it that much better.

That was the other part that Castiel loved about this experiment of theirs. It was selfish of him, he knew, but Dean was very firm in his insistence about taking care of Castiel, about ensuring his health, safety and peace of mind at all times.

He checked Castiel's cage several times a week, made sure he was clean and that his circulation was fairing well, and Dean's touches in the quieter minutes when they weren't playing any more were almost too gentle, as if Castiel was something precious, something delicate and important.

Castiel tried to hate the hedonism filling him when he'd realised that he felt important, but he couldn't hate anything that came from Dean, least of all something that made him feel so safe, so secure. He felt protected and cared for and loved, knowing with certainty that Dean would look after him, that he was safe in those arms.

The tranquillity that knowledge offered was like sitting cross-legged atop of the highest natural peak of his Father's creation, listening only to the swirling howl of the winds and the quiet murmurs of Tibetan villagers whispering into the snow miles of the distance. Castiel was happy and he was free, even in lock down. He'd never imagined that giving up a part of himself so completely would reveal to him so many other doors.

But then, Dean Winchester always had surprised him.

...

Three weeks in, and Castiel's face was warm, pressed down into rough, coarse cotton that scratched against his cheek. He liked that feeling, that impression of being held down, even when he wasn't. But then, all Dean really had to do was look at him and Castiel would feel as though he was in bondage all over again.

He wouldn't tell Dean that though. The man did have a wicked streak, after all.

Castiel could hear Dean moving around behind him, quiet shuffles of bare feet over cheap carpet, the creak of an arthritic bed, moaning in protest at the extra weight as Dean shifted somewhere next to him.

His heart was thundering in his chest, the anticipation of this like the promise of a high, those moments where you simply waited for the rush to kick in. But that was another life, another time and another Castiel. He could still hear the echoes of the possibility like a stamp on the crust of the universe, but Dean had prevented that future, had given him an entirely different addiction.

He wondered which one would be more fatal.

Castiel sucked in a breath as he felt the coolness of Dean's fingertips glide down the arched curves of his spine, but the shiver they pulled from slick skin felt more like fire. There was so much contrary about the two of them, so many half-senses, and non-senses, and things Castiel could never seem to reach full analysis of, no matter how hard he pondered them.

It was as though they existed to be opposites, even when they were a single whole, moving as one body. Most of the time now, however, Castiel didn't try to find reason in how his body reacted to Dean. He didn't try to rationalise things as a higher being might.

He was a man now, and men had the option to simply feel. So he did.

His hands were bound behind his back in cuffs, simple leather, though the craftsmanship was sound and somewhat impressive, as Castiel had decided upon his first inspection of them. He moaned softly when they shifted against his skin, the slide of the cool material summoning tense bliss to break into a shudder along the surface of his body.

Castiel liked leather a lot. Liked the feel of it, the smell, and when given the chance, the taste. It reminded him of a righteous man, a father's jacket and an important vehicle. It was familiar and safe. Castiel had lost his home a long time ago, but that was okay. This could be his home. The earthy scent in his nostrils, the warmth of a body he knew better than his own behind him. This was his home.

"Spread your legs for me," Dean murmured from somewhere over Castiel's shoulder and his blood pumped a little faster as he shifted to obey, opening his legs wide for Dean. Castiel groaned under his breath when the plug Dean had placed inside of him hours ago shifted along with him to brush against that wondrous gland he couldn't help but praise his Father for the creation of, even as his body stuttered on arousal that had no where to go.

Eventually, it would swirl into a mess like car fumes in his skull, confusing the air with the density of a different kind of pleasure, but they were not at that point yet. They were no where near.

Dean's hand was on his behind, the roughness of an exploring thumb like sandpaper over one of the welts healing on Castiel's skin from a previous flogging session and his flesh sang with the sharp gratification of the pain.

Castiel had wondered if, when he'd taken this body something had rewired in its nerves, in all its receptors and chemicals, like some kind of power surge short circuiting everything else. Perhaps his vessel simply did not work correctly now. He knew most people did not react to pains as he did, and he was sure that Jimmy Novak had not enjoyed these things, so then, was this just Castiel?

He supposed it must have been. The same way Dean's enjoyment of inflicting harsh punishments and then watching Castiel writhe with the effects of them might have been attributed to the man's time spent in Hell by people who did not know better, or simply could not understand, but that wasn't it at all. Hell did not create, it merely seized potential and the potential for this in Dean had been birthed alongside his body. This wasn't Hell in Dean, but simply his nature.

But Castiel couldn't tell if the knowledge of that would make Dean feel at ease in his wants, or feel sick because of them, so he neglected to bring it up.

Dean reached through Castiel's open legs and found his soft cock, still trapped in its little cage and palmed it, toying with it almost fondly. Castiel's cheeks heated up into colours he thought attractive when Dean wore them, but nuisances when they crept along his flesh instead.

In the dredges of that first week, those blushes might have stemmed from ludicrous embarrassment, of self consciousness he'd never have felt if he was still an angel. Human flesh had too much pride seared into the cells, and Castiel had declared this to Dean several times over. But this flush over his skin was merely quotidian pleasure and, yet again, pride. Pride that he could do this for Dean, that Dean liked it, liked to look at him that way, found him appealing like this.

Castiel wanted Dean to like looking at him for as long as possible, but he wasn't sure if he could blame that level of vanity on his vessel or if it was his very own sin.

"Still can't believe you've let me do this to you," Dean was whispering, and Castiel could feel hot puffs of breath against his rear, the muscles in his backside clenching anxiously, "To your body."

Foolish man, he wanted to say, but didn't dare to because Dean still embarrassed so easily, this body is yours.

That thought thrilled him, it always had, ever since their relationship had started down this path and Castiel had begun to acknowledge those darker wants in him, the idea of giving the only thing he had left of his own— this vessel— up to Dean, of presenting to him complete control over his flesh.

Castiel felt safe and right in the warmth of this human's authority in a way he hadn't experienced since he'd ripped himself from heaven's womb and had started a rebellion with the cord still attached.

Truthfully, if he could, Castiel would relinquish absolute control to Dean, let him decide every facet of his life, because free will was still so complicated and confusing that if he had to have it, he'd prefer to use it to shift choice to Dean instead.

Castiel desired so much for that, like drowning lungs burning for oxygen, he craved it. But he could never ask for it. Their lifestyle couldn't accommodate that kind of longevity and Castiel was always reluctant to place undue pressure on Dean. Instead, Castiel was content with what they had, and when he truly considered it, how could he ask for more when he had this?

"Love you like this," Dean continued, and Castiel snapped back to the present as teasing fingers raked agony over his bound testicles, but the painful sensation only brought Castiel delight now and he mewled with it.

"Love your soft little cock, how vulnerable and pretty it looks for me." There was a kiss placed to his buttocks and Castiel's already blitzed nerve endings churned in response.

"So fucking hot like this, Cas, you don't even know."

His lungs felt heavy and sore like he'd breathed in glass shards and the air between them seemed lumpy with anticipation. Castiel had been here for hours, and though he'd always wait for Dean no matter how long the man went away for, there were still strands of impatience thread through his being that cried out for touch, for something, anything now.

After Castiel had grown use to wearing the cage, it had become apparent to him that his perceptions had distorted slightly. He was still hungry for contact between the two of them, still wanted to feel Dean's flesh against his, but pleasure, release was no longer his primary goal.

He simply liked to feel Dean's closeness, the heat of his body, the distant murmur of his soul that, grace or no, Castiel still felt like a siren song looping in his skull. Castiel had become so much more attuned to simplistic touch, so much more sensitive to Dean's hand that he felt like he might crumble should Dean choose not to give it him.

Fortunately, Dean seemed to like touching him just as much.

The man shifted minutely, Castiel could tell from the groan of the mattress, and then a large, steadying hand was splayed out on his ass and Dean was pulling the plug out of Castiel's hole with a surprising gentleness and a kind of care that wasn't really needed.

Castiel had been wearing the toy, still so very slicked with the diligent amount of lubricant Dean had used on and in him, since the morning, and his entrance was stretched open enough to allow harsher movements, even if Dean thought it best to be careful.

But then Castiel felt his hole flutter and instinctively clamp down hard on the withdrawing toy, and he understood Dean's reasoning to be sensible, though some lewd part of him still waited for the rougher treatment that never came. Perhaps it would later.

Castiel felt two of Dean's fingers slip inside of him and moaned low, deep in his throat, squirming and pushing back as best as he could, always eager for more of those fingers, more of those touches, more of Dean inside of him.

He felt like he was being slowly, methodically pulled apart, the little strings of his essence plucked one by one, unravelling him at his basest instincts, and Castiel quivered with the incessant torment, but he was already on a fast moving train and it wouldn't stop for him, it would only get faster, plowing through him with no mercy and no pause. It would consume every inch of him until Dean decided to put him back together and start all over again.

Castiel decided he was glad he was on that train.

"Fuck, Cas," Dean hissed behind him, running his fingers through the lube Castiel still held inside of him. There was a tension in Castiel's spine that thrummed at the gravelly, low sound of Dean's voice, the heat of it revealing him to be just as affected as Castiel, if not more so.

"Look how wet your pussy is for me," Dean continued, flexing his digits, sounding almost awed, "Such a slutty, eager little hole, just sucking my fingers right in."

Castiel groaned and flushed with Dean's obscenities, his still soft, always so soft, cock straining to get hard, pressing against the unyielding plastic futilely, pulsing a few times before wilting back into the brilliance of flaccidity, a violent frustration that Castiel had come to appreciate as a unique flavour of sensation unlike any other.

Dean's fingers thrust into him a few times, curling up and brushing over his prostate ruthlessly, but before Castiel had time to sink into it, Dean was pulling out and Castiel moaned in protest, his hips bucking backwards brattishly in a way he should have thought better of by now.

Dean's hand came smacking down against his sensitive, stretched out hole, the loud slap of flesh like a bullet in the silent room and Castiel bit down on the cry that wanted to fall from his lips, but Dean didn't give in, spanking his swollen, raw entrance repeatedly in admonishment.

"Slut," Dean chastised, though Castiel knew the word to be affectionate, even as the man corrected his conduct and Castiel whimpered into the pale sheets, his body burning with a spoiled concoction of unidentifiable emotions, "I've kept you all sloppy and full of fake cock all day, and that's still not enough for you, is it?"

No, because it isn't you, Castiel wanted to reply, but he kept quiet. He didn't think he could spare the energy to speak right now anyway. Everything was focused on keeping exactly still, on controlling the quaking of his limbs that threatened all too often to collapse on him.

Dean's words were filth, lewdness he should have recoiled away from, but Castiel was not that angel anymore and the vulgarities merely inspired him to want to press closer, to beg for more of those sleazy sounds.

Words were meaningless by themselves, but it was the lilt of Dean's voice, his intent behind them that made them into weapons, each one crafted with design to pierce Castiel's flesh and stab into that ever-growing ball of unnecessary want pooled inside of him.

He liked the things Dean called him, liked the throaty, harsh hisses of insults and things that, should they be spoken outside of these four walls, would scandalise. Nobody was allowed to hear Dean speak like that but Castiel. No one would receive the contrary pleasure of those words but him, and that brought a selfish rush of gratification to his body that he wanted to burrow deep down into.

It was just another layer of complex security. Dean's voice, when it was curved into that particular pitch and silkened as much as the roughness of its edges would allow, belonged only to Castiel, and though he might have been keen to be possessed, that had never righted the secret layer of his own possessiveness that he kept hidden from Dean. And from himself, if he could help it. But in times like this, Castiel convulsed with his greed for Dean, right into the honest core of himself, where the fervour became undeniable.

Dean's deft fingers traced the inflamed brim of his hole again and Castiel's breath punched out of him in desperate little huffs, snagging on the hitches in his throat. He wanted to squirm back again, wanted to feel Dean's hands on him, in him, everywhere all at once, because Castiel could feel so much, and he wanted it all.

He couldn't come, couldn't find release in those touches, but that somehow made him covet them even more. Castiel despaired with the thought that Dean would stop touching him all together though, so his hips were forced into stillness even as his muscles roared with the need to shift, the tension in them clenching his thighs over like he was riding out pain.

Perhaps that's what this entire thing was intended for.

But Castiel couldn't for the life of him stop his entrance from squeezing down against the pressure of Dean's fingertips circling the rim, and he tensed up for a moment, expecting another smack, but it never came.

Dean simply bowed over his body, soft lips resting against the base of Castiel's dampened spine, the tawny little strands of hair tickling against Castiel's over-sensitive skin as Dean slipped three fingers back inside of him without warning, and Castiel's hands fisted into tight bunches in their restraints.

"Such a greedy little fuck hole," Dean commented with truth into his flesh, either not noticing or not caring about the shivers that racked through Castiel, each and every one rearing a new shade of need in him.

"Bet you'd let me put my fist in here, wouldn't you? You'd let me fuck you with my hand, fill your little cunt up completely if I wanted it." Dean's fingers hit that spot once more, and Castiel actually yelped as his thighs shook with the rippling effect of it

"Oh," Castiel breathed, when Dean's words registered, his eyes fluttering with the images, needy blood screaming with want for it, wrenching into outright howls when Dean pulled back, taking his fingers with him.

"Yes, Dean, please."

He'd though about that long and hard in the past, ever since he'd first heard the idea— what it would feel like to take so much of Dean into himself, to be spread wide and open on the solid weight of Dean's fist inside of him, feeling as helpless and raw as when he'd first faced an Archangel for Dean. Always for Dean.

"Not today, Cas," Dean declared, his voice thankfully sounding a little more ragged than before, spitting saliva— or at least that's what the warm liquid felt like— lewdly over Castiel's quivering hole, "I want to keep you tight for my cock."

There was a flare of disappointment, but it paled in comparison to the brilliant, stark onslaught of thrills that promised him one day. One day, Dean would take him like that, fill him up so entirely that it would feel like there was no space to move, no space to breathe. And maybe there wouldn't be.

That thought was dangerous and it surprised him, but still Castiel found himself picturing one of Dean's hands curved into a fist inside of his ass, the other curled around his throat, preventing oxygen, and he was grateful— and not for the first time either— for the cage's existence, because otherwise he would have certainly just disobeyed the rule that stated he could not come without permission.

Snapping himself back to reality, lest he lose himself in the fantasy, Castiel focussed on Dean's other words, on the promise of being filled now, on the slick wetness of Dean's saliva running down his anus, the filthiness of it causing his stomach to knot up with desire.

Castiel felt, as Dean shifted to his knees behind him, the beautiful press of his thick cock head brushing over Castiel's hole and he could have wept with joy. His neck stretched upwards, as far as his position would allow, the long column of it lengthening, bearing his pulse for Dean, still wishing quietly for fingers holding down on his windpipe, removing his option to breathe, taking him to that dizzying place where things stopped being lucid and sharp and wetted away into the peace of acceptance and trust and drunken pleasure.

He was begging, slurring out pleas he himself could barely hear or recognise as the sound of his own voice, muffling them into the bedding. Castiel wouldn't be allowed to reach orgasm today, or tomorrow and perhaps not for a while, but he was all the more desperate because of it.

He wanted to be put to use like that, for Dean to find pleasure in his body, knowing the only sensation he'd feel in kind was the exquisite burn of Dean's erection spearing through him and the deep, body seizing satisfaction at knowing he'd pleased Dean.

Dean's hands— hands that Castiel had re-crafted himself— gripped onto his hips, so tightly there would be welcome purple stains marring the skin there soon, fresh, dark bruises over older marks that Castiel would trace with reverence.

His mind was spinning now, adrenaline and endorphins like aerosols in his head, the throb-throb of his pulse deafening in his ears. Castiel knew his body was drenched and flooded with rosy blood that should have been directed towards his groin, but he didn't care. He felt wild and unhinged and free, so very free, even as Dean gripped the chain binding his cuffed hands together, his other digging marks into his hip bone and wrenched him forward, jolting his body in a harsh snap as he slammed into Castiel's waiting ass.

Castiel cried out, his body gyrating under Dean like an animal, forgetting to keep still, but Dean gave an answering sound and a responding quiver, and Castiel was grateful for it, for the knowledge he was not alone.

He panted into the sheets, soaking up the sensation of Dean's warmth surrounding him, his thick cock sliding inside Castiel's depths, hot breath lapping at his back where Dean's head must have dropped forward.

Castiel could see, if he shifted enough, the outline of Dean's form, the edges of ruin on his face and he wanted to move around and take in his expression entirely, so he could see exactly what he was doing to the man. But tonight was not one of those nights and Dean had placed him on his front, so he would stay there.

It was not as though he could force the issue anyway— he was much weaker than Dean now.

That should not have thrilled him like it did.

Dean began fucking into him, muttering audible sex through the sweaty air between their bodies, the fleshy thickness of Dean's cock pounding into his ass with such a slick, alarming ease that Castiel scrambled to tighten his anal muscles up on instinct, clamping down like it was his only objective in life, and right then, it was.

He needed to be as tight and as perfect as he could make himself for Dean, as perfect as the angel he wasn't any longer, and the relief that came with Dean's hissed out expletives and praise was like the caress of redemption over his bones.

"That's it, Cas," Dean moaned behind him, the length of him plowing into Castiel's hole with a little more vigour, Castiel's body going lax as though accepting getting fucked was its only purpose, "Fuck, what do you do to me?"

Castiel could have asked him the same thing, every cell of his vessel vibrating with this restrained, intoxicating need that he couldn't have for himself, a want that backed up and melted like liquid fire in him, drugging every part of Castiel's form and coaxing him into this docile mess of limbs where cognition would start to fail soon.

He thought that maybe this was better that climax,. It certainly lasted much longer.

"Can't get over how much you like this, how excited you get, just taking it in here," Dean confessed, a finger stroking around the wide stretch of Castiel's hole, but he couldn't find the words to ask Dean to slip it inside as well, the sound failing into a feeble moan. "It's like you don't need anything else."

Dean cursed roughly, his hips rolling up like he loved that idea too, and when he spoke again, his words were fragmented, breathless things.

"One day I might even teach you to only come from dick in your pussy, not with your little cock. Think you'd like that?"

Castiel whimpered, a high, strung out sound bursting in his throat, his body quivering with the concept Dean was presenting to him, that even without the cage around him he'd only come from Dean's pleasure and not his own.

It was maddening and consuming and Castiel wanted it. He didn't know if it was possible for his body to be trained to respond in that manner, if male humans possessed that ability.

He knew he could find a kind of release from anal stimulation, Dean had shown him the process at the beginning of Castiel's chastity, how given the right stimulation to his prostate, he could coax his seed through his still flaccid penis.

The first time Dean had done that to him, Castiel's body had been overcome with an almost painful sensation of relief coupled with raw, blazing agony. He'd felt the shocks of it throughout his entire being, into his innermost matter, his flesh tingling and burning, even as his cock still ached in its small cage.

But he'd been so grateful to Dean that first time, had felt so safe and cared for and ruined that he'd passed out with worship still forming on his tongue. Dean 'milked' him twice a week now, for safety purposes, not pleasure, though Castiel had begun to see the sessions as rewards. They certainly felt that way.

It was still quite unlike a penile orgasm, though, but Castiel was certainly eager to see if he and Dean could achieve those effects the man spoke of. He hoped he could with a uprising of want that shocked him.

This new discovery of anal orgasm had also inspired Dean to experiment with feminisation, though Castiel didn't quite understand that. He'd enjoyed the activity and the lingerie he was made to wear, and the satisfaction Dean drew from the act, but he couldn't quite tell why pretending to be female was supposed to be arousing.

He was male now, but if he had taken a woman as his vessel, he'd have been female. Castiel had never possessed a gender of his own, and Dean's apparent eroticism of the notion seemed strange and incomprehensible. He supposed it was simply one of those things he would never understand.

He had enjoyed the dirty words Dean called him though, and later, Dean had joked that he'd found Castiel's 'kryptonite', and somehow the references to female genitalia stuck. Castiel couldn't quite decide why he enjoyed those either, but he knew he liked having a cunt, liked to hear Dean's filthy descriptions of his 'pussy' when it was freshly fucked, leaking come and 'all pink and puffy'. It was his vice of vanity again, he was sure.

Castiel tried to voice his agreement with Dean's words then, that yes, he wanted that, but his tongue would not cooperate and instead he whined, high and desperate like an animal which, going by Dean's throaty chuckle, seemed to get his point across just fine.

"Good boy," Dean said, a hand reaching down to pet at his hair and it felt like praise. Castiel bloomed with it, nuzzling his head up like a greedy house cat towards the touches, his body rocking up with each thrust inside of him, shifting higher and higher up the bed until Dean's hands came dragging him back down into place again.

He ran that word through his head on repeat as his reared instincts to please and serve and obey flared aggressively, almost taking him down with them, but he could centre himself, knowing that Dean thought he was good, that Castiel had done something good.

His useless, soft cock bounced underneath him with the impact of Dean's fucking, but he didn't pay it much mind. Castiel could find pleasure in this— it was simple when Dean pistoned into him, found his prostate effortlessly, the white-noise ecstasy of each pounding like going blind.

Even Dean's touches over Castiel's antsy, restless skin brought wave after wave of delicate, tingling sensations that booted Castiel up a little higher towards the pinnacle he couldn't reach.

But it was more than that. With every thrust inside of him, every scratch of blunt nails over his flesh, the endless weight of Dean leaning on him like something holy, Castiel felt owned, claimed by this man, by Dean, and he was safe and protected and more content than at any other period of his existence.

It should have repelled him, the idea of giving himself up, subjecting himself to ownership to any being other than his Father. But if he could have dragged Dean closer and pulled him deeper, until Dean snapped and honoured him with a return branding on Castiel's body, he would have.

This wasn't intended for him. Castiel had never been meant to enjoy this kind of bond, he was never meant to worship another creature other than the Lord. But Dean was a righteous man, and a holy man, and a worthy man, and Castiel honestly wondered why he'd ever bothered worshipping God when there had been Dean.

The movements of Dean's cock inside him had long since begun to speed up, the force of it drilling into him with a gorgeously painful insistence, but Castiel could feel the stutter in those hips, the snag in Dean's already harsh breathing, the way his hands, previously claiming became clinging and he knew that this was almost over.

Dean's fist grappled in Castiel's sweat-curled hair, pushing his head further into the sheets, and Castiel's breath grew ragged and excited with it, his obstinate cock yet again desperately trying and failing to get hard at the manhandling. The torture made only the taste sharper now.

Some nights Castiel would be content to let his mind wander until it floated off during these moments, to let Dean take his fill of his body and simply let cognizance stop existing for a while. It was nice. But tonight was not one of those nights and Castiel wanted to be aware enough to feel every part of this.

"Gonna make me come, Cas," Dean proclaimed, his voice a scratched, jagged noise and once Castiel might have envied him for it, but he didn't any longer. That sound was beautiful.

"Please," Castiel encouraged, clenching his hole around Dean in rhythmic pulses, instantly rewarded for his efforts with a snarl and a faster, frenzied stabbing into his prostate, the sensation of it spiking his air with narcotics as he braced himself, gasping out half words in a language that wasn't a language at all, his knees aching with the pressure of holding their weight up.

"So fucking perfect," Dean panted, and if Castiel could see him, he'd have felt swamped with awe at the image he made; unhinged and commanding and utterly beautiful, "You don't even know do you? Christ, you're—"

Castiel never got to find out what Dean was going to say, though it was something apparently important enough to warrant blasphemy (but then, this was a temple of a kind, and to Castiel, words dropping from Dean's mouth were more divine than anything else could hope to be, so it was excused).

Any frustration Castiel felt with the cut of sentence, though, melted quickly away as his abused ass was filled with liquid warmth, Dean's breathless vulgarities cursed between them as he found release in Castiel's flesh, delivering to him a reverence deeper than prayer.

Castiel sighed deeply, a choked sound in his mouth, grateful whispers breathed away into soundless air. Dean was still moving slowly inside of him, but Castiel was more focused on the wetness of the man's release, filling him up like a blessing.

Castiel wanted to run his fingers through the mess inside of him, to feel exactly what he'd brought to Dean, how much he'd pleased him, wanted to feel the proud beam of soaked completion for himself. A dirtier part of him wanted to slick his fingers up with Dean's seed and smear it over the deprived flesh of his swollen, neglected balls, a tormenting self-reminder of what he could not have and what he existed to provide.

There was something gorgeous about the contrast of virile semen against the ache of self-imposed flaccidity, a perfect symbolisation of his current role, an embodiment of the fact that his pleasure wasn't important, only Dean's was. Castiel's body trembled with excitement at the idea.

Perhaps he would do both those things later, looking to Dean through shy eyes for the approval he knew would come as he painted himself in sticky, white fluids. It would excite Dean, Castiel knew— the man loved to watch him play with himself.

Maybe Dean would even fuck him again, if he did it well enough.

Now though, Dean was slumping over him, his touches slow and gentle again, a kiss pressed to Castiel's neck. Soon everything would settle down to a place where they could be simple men, simple lovers for the time existing between now and sleep.

Dean's arm wrapped around his elevated waist and a shaky hand came back to caress over Castiel's bound penis just as it had when they'd started, possessive and protective in a way that thrilled Castiel all over again, even as his body worked to calm its overflow of chemicals that struggled to balance out without the usual means of release.

Castiel's body ached, and protested with pain and exertion, the sore stretch of his hole sending pulsing echoes of torture through his circulatory system, the wetness of Dean's come leaking out of him in a filthy line down his leg, all while his flesh was still arid of climax or release. Castiel felt debased and used, and it was a good feeling.

He hummed softly, nuzzling his head up towards Dean, enjoying the owning hand covering his genitals, though he supposed he shouldn't think that. It wasn't his cock any more. It belonged to Dean, and the cold metal of the padlock brushing against his skin made that apparent even more than the man's grip on the cage.

Castiel was simply not in control of his penis any more, of his baser functions, of his orgasms. He would come when Dean decided he was worthy enough, when he deserved it, and not a moment sooner.

Castiel closed his eyes, a tiny smile on his lips, his body still shuddering under Dean's as it continued its fight to find a way to come down from the quickly strangled high, the solidness of the man against his back and the lips resting behind his ear somehow finally making it easier.

Dean had asked him for a month in the cage, a month of this agonising chastity before he'd finally be allowed to let go and have the relief of climax take him over. A month of tormenting limitations where he could act as little more than a sex toy for Dean's fulfilment and his use and Castiel could only hope Dean would change his mind about the duration.

He wanted to wear the cage much longer.

End.

...

Quick note: I'm on a Dean/Cas kink writing binge right now, so if you guys have any ideas/prompts, send me a message and I'll see what I can do. :)