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It’s intoxicating to have Dean pliant and moaning beneath him, pulling him closer for desperate kisses. It makes Castiel want more, to push harder, wring every ounce of pleasure he can out of Dean, leave him a spent, shaking mess. Those thoughts alarm him sometimes, always aware of the otherworldly strength he possesses, constantly fighting to keep it in check.
“Shit, Cas,” Dean says afterwards, voice shaky. “You sure like throwing your weight around, huh?” he mutters, pressing tentative fingers to his hips, his delicate neck, already mottled with purple from Castiel’s overeager mouth.
Dean will have marks because of him, has them already, blooming bright on his smooth skin. This is exactly what Castiel was worried about.
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