Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7798738.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Castiel/Dean_Winchester, Dean_Winchester/John_Winchester_(implied)
  Character:
      Castiel_(Supernatural), Dean_Winchester, John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Blasphemy, Dean_Winchester_as_Lolita, Dubious_Consent, Castiel_is_unsure,
      Catholic_Guilt, Dubiously_Consensual_Blow_Jobs, Oral_Sex, Anal_Sex, Age
      Difference, Unhealthy_Relationships, blink_and_you'll_miss_it_Dean/John
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-08-17 Words: 1643
****** Sanctity ******
by luxybaby
Summary
     An exploration of Castiel's moral decline.
Notes
     Ok, this is not a feel-good fic. This is my first public smut attempt
     and blood offering ficlet to the Coven of Depravity, to whom I owe my
     soul. Be gentle with me, please. I'm uncertain about my smut writing
     ability.
Castiel Novak was a pious man. When his lips brushed against one another in
whispered prayer, his thoughts hardly ever strayed from the cross before him.
He was well known, well liked. A parent once referred to him as her faith in
humanity. Pride welled in his chest, but being one sin of seven, Castiel’s
humble response was to have faith in the Lord and Him alone. Heart breakingly
handsome, the Sunday School Single Mothers, dressed up and painted like
powdered tea cakes, cooed and fawned over him as they checked the children in
and out of daycare, fanning themselves as they spoke to him.
Castiel Novak was a holy man. And he had a secret.
His secret had long, needing fingers and bony kneecaps. The whole of his secret
was dappled in sweet freckles more divine than the stars his God hung by hand.
His secret had eyes wide and greener than the Garden of Eden itself, lips
decadently plush and gnawed red, and oh Castiel could just see them dripping a
nectar sweeter than the proverbial forbidden fruit. And he knew he was a bad,
bad man. He asked for forgiveness every night before he went to bed. The
Confessional found him once a week, “Forgive me Father for I have sinned.” The
words were so familiar and damning, redeeming, they were etched into his being,
ingrained into his soul like a raw brand.
It had started innocent enough. Every child in his care had been given a copy
of his address and the promise of a safe place in any circumstance, so he was
only a little surprised when Dean Winchester, cheeks flushed and eyelashes
matting with tears, manifested onto his front porch, begging to be let in.
Castiel was a holy man, but he was a man nonetheless, flawed.

His little mouth was salvation when it whispered an uncertain, “Please, Mr.
Novak. I just need a place to stay for the night.” And what was Castiel
supposed to say?
He didn’t say no to the whimpering, shivering boy at his door. He didn’t say no
when that sweet, quivering mass asked to use the shower. He didn’t say no when
those wet lashes bat at him, asking to borrow some pajamas. He didn’t say no
when those bony knees met his mattress and that froggy voice cut through his
will, “Please, Mr. Novak. I can’t be alone right now.”
Castiel’s bed was big enough for the two of them, but he wasn’t sure there
would be room for the enormity of guilt that hung around him like a cloud. Lust
was his second sin and his studies taught him that sin called for repentance
and he knew his atonement was due. Squeezing his eyes shut, he couldn’t bring
himself to look at the boy as he slithered closer under the covers, little hand
feverishly warm as it tried for casualness, draping over Castiel’s cock,
already half hard inside his pants. It was as if Dean willed Castiel’s pants
around his thighs because it was only a breath between having them there on his
hips and not. Shaking his head in the inky dark, he reached. Long fingers met
sandy blonde tresses, still baby soft and, Father forgive, he wanted.
He didn’t stop Dean as he wrapped his lips around Cas’s throbbing cock, but he
did refuse to watch. The Ark of the Covenant. A sinner unable to cast his eyes
on the glory before him. The tears bit at his eyes and he could feel the weight
of his convictions sitting upon his shoulders. He couldn’t look down. The
sensation was heavy and indulgent on his solid length and gluttony as his third
was just as punishable as any capital vice, but still he didn’t abstain.
Forgiveness. Castiel knew that was the only way. He was just a man. A man of
flesh, and flesh bled. Flesh desired. Said desire coursed through his mortal
confines sweeter than vice he had ever known. Squeezing his eyes shut tighter
against the black of his bedroom and soul, he began his penitence.
 
Hail Mary, full of Grace.
 
His heart was hammering in his throat, faster than anything he had ever known
as the boy’s whines echoed in his ears. The juvenile mouth was practiced,
however clumsy with excitement, the scrape of teeth like penance for his
transgressions. It ached and stung and it was a paradise laced with sweet
burning hell fire as the head of his cock dragged along the ridges of his
palate, bumping its way down to his throat. Castiel groaned as if it had been
punched out of him.
 
Our Lord is with thee.
 
Pink. The world was pink. Pink like Dean Winchester’s lips. Pink like the
blushing head of his cock. Pink like the rose scented candles he lit to beg his
forgiveness. Pink like the color of his guilt and redemption. His universe
burned down to a sharp point of fiery pink, focused in on the livewire
sensation of that peony mouth. The feeling of his pink esophagus attempting to
close around his member and failing had Castiel’s head reeling. Pink like the
flush of his skin, blood struggling between his rigid dick and his bride
blushing cheeks.
 
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.
 
He didn’t have the slightest idea as to when his eyes fluttered open, but he
was under the impression their gazes had been locked for sometime. Those
viridescent eyes were blurred with tears that welled thick to the brims as the
boy gagged delicately. On a moan, Castiel’s mouth hung open in awe. Little Dean
slapped his thigh before popping off with a crude noise to giggle. “It’s rude
to stare,” his prepubescent hetaerae teased cruelly, a long rope of saliva
connected those petal lips and his cock.
 
Jesus.
 
Jesus had forgiven Mary Magdalene of her sexual deviance and Castiel prayed to
the altar before him for the same variety of mercy. Dean rose to meet Castiel’s
face, wiping his mouth in a way that was so innocent it was obscene. “You gonna
sit around and gape all night like a dull bulb, or are you gonna fuck me?” The
words spilled out with a mirth that seemed out of place in the bedroom of a
holy man. They were well practiced and easy on Dean’s skilled and sinful
tongue. It was indecent with the way he giggled and waggled his eyebrows as if
the whole scenario was a game that Castiel was losing.
 
Holy Mary, Mother of God.
 
The tiny slip of a boy rid himself of his borrowed sleepwear to reveal white
boxer briefs that Castiel found more appealing than any lingerie he’d ever been
tempted with before. With a grace akin to newborn deer, he produced a small
tube of lube to open himself up. Pink little pucker exposed to Castiel’s heavy,
mannish eyes as if his gaze could pry him open further than those two little
digits already digging deep. Again, his too large, too old hands caressed skin
that was still silky with youth and he wanted it all. He wanted more than he
had been offered. He wanted to keep this boy, own him. Greed saw his fourth
cardinal vice.
 
Pray for us sinners.
 
He hadn’t the slightest idea what came over him, but as if by seraphic force,
his flannel pajama bottoms were lost at the end of the bed. Embarrassingly and
shamefully stiff despite himself, the skinny child straddling his waist. As
much as he wanted to call it off, the first fall of the boy onto his length was
divine and there was no going back. Dean moaned an animal noise like the seven-
headed steed belonging to the Whore of Babylon. Castiel’s finger dug into the
boy’s hips, plush with a childish softness that clung to him like the haze of a
Botticellian cherub. Dean bounced on him without hesitation,moving with a
practiced ease that answered the question of John Winchester’s infinite
protectiveness. The mothers of the church saw the oldest Winchester as
admirable and fiercely endearing, but Castiel knew better. A wild, uninhibited
anger shot through him, heady veins of envy directed at Dean’s father, five
then six sins of seven, at the fact that he wasn’t the one to deflower the boy.
He knew no expiation could spare his damnation.
 
Now and at the hour of our death.
 
Castiel’s hands roamed up over the flesh of the boy, illuminated and glowing
milk-pale by the moonlight, bruising and pulling at silken boyish skin. Unable
to hold himself back and fully acceptant of his wickedness, he took what he
truly wanted. Flipping the boy onto his back he began to thrust into him
brutally. Dean’s lewd moans vibrated down to Castiel’s soul as his hips worked
as a piston, bordering sadistic with his lack of finesse. The weight of his
actions, the wrongness of it all had Castiel nearing the finish sooner than he
wanted it to end. Those pink lips uttered a soft noise that resembled Castiel’s
name in a broken, quiet croak and that was all it took for Castiel to spill
everything he had to offer into the child’s hole, a vice in itself.
The wetness between them let Castiel know that Dean had finished himself and it
was all he same as Castiel had no intention of moving. Yes, it was just the
beginning. Castiel would come to own this boy. Own him down to the marrow of
his bones. However, for the moment, his eyes were falling closed, ignoring
Dean’s soft requests for a washcloth to clean up. Drifting off while there was
work to be done and heavy talks to be had, made sloth his final iniquity.
Shoving Dean into a position he found suitable, he fell asleep.
 
Amen.
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