Dean's lying at his feet, mouth wet with blood, eyes pleading more eloquently than his mouth had for mercy.
A prayer. To him. Castiel's fist is clenched, a rock, anger and disappointment surging inside him like waves, beating mountains down into sand.
Dean swallows, stares up at him. "Do it. Just do it."
And they've been like this before, a broken voice, a wet, swollen mouth begging him for mercy, but Dean was naked then, sprawled out, his body tense and quivering, needing release, a touch.
Castiel lets his fist become a remembered shape, cupped, curved, holding mercy.
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