Castiel’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from a great distance away. It’s a little hard to focus on, but Dean blinks slowly and concentrates as much as he can.
There are fingers on his cheek, caressing, thumb smoothing back and forth across his cheekbone. Blue eyes swim into view. Dean inhales, deeply, just to feel the bite of the ropes, then nods.
“Good boy,” Cas whispers, and the fingertips skate downwards. They trail over the column of his neck to his collarbone, then over the first of the ropes crossing Dean’s torso. His breath hitches – it feels amazing – but other than that, he doesn’t react.
Castiel’s fingers trace his handiwork across Dean’s body in the intricate weave of the hemp; across Dean’s chest, down his arms to his bound wrists and over his thighs. Every time Cas brushes a little more firmly against the rope, Dean sinks further and further into his floaty headspace. Even the press of the floor against his knees has dulled to a faraway sensation.
Dean blinks, slowly, then closes his eyes. He trusts Cas, with every fibre of his being.
Fingers brush against his cock, hard and unattended, and he makes a soft sound in the back of his throat but doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.
“So good, Dean,” come Cas’s words, and Dean holds onto them, wraps them over his body; another layer atop the rope. “So good for me. So beautiful.”
Cas’s ropes are an extension of Cas’s hands, and Dean leans into the embrace, dropping his head and submitting completely.
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