Belle's night had narrowed to three sensations: the bite of wooden pews against her knees, the weight of her dark curls falling forward as she bowed her head, and the burning need that wouldn't let her rest.

The empty chapel air pressed down on her, heavy with incense and unspoken desires. Her fingers twisted together so tightly her knuckles had gone white. The stained glass cast shadows in crimsons and purples, painting her shame in holy colors.

This wasn't a proper prayer—she knew that. But she'd tried proper prayers, tried meditation and fasting and every other prescribed method of purging these thoughts from her mind. Nothing worked. The desires remained, burning beneath her skin like a fever.

"Gabriel," she whispered, her voice barely disturbing the sacred silence. "I… I need…"

The words caught in her throat. How did one confess such things to an archangel? How did you tell a being of divine power that you were drowning in wants so human, so base, that they consumed your every waking thought?

"Most people usually lead with 'hello' before laying their deepest desires at my feet."

The voice came from behind her, rich with amusement. She didn't dare turn around, but she could feel his presence—electric, ancient, yet somehow warm with mischief.

"Though I have to admit," he continued, footsteps echoing as he circled the pew where she knelt, "it's refreshing to skip the small talk."

Gabriel appeared in her peripheral vision, dragging one finger along the polished wood of the pew. He moved with a casual grace that seemed almost at odds with what he was—one of heaven's most powerful beings, wrapped in a vessel that carried itself with the swagger of a man who knew exactly how charming he could be.

"I…" she started again, but shame closed her throat.

"Let me guess," he drawled, coming to a stop directly in front of her. "You're expecting fire and brimstone? A lecture about virtue?" His lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Sweetheart, if Dad was handing out punishment for lust, humanity wouldn't have made it past the first century."

She finally dared to look up at him. His eyes caught the dying light, hints of gold swirling in their depths. He studied her with an expression that held both amusement and understanding, like he could see right through every layer of guilt and shame to the raw need beneath.

"Did you know," he said, his voice softening as he stepped closer, "that I was there when humans were first created? When you were given these desires, these…" his smile turned playful, "urges you're so afraid of?" He reached down, one finger tilting her chin up further. "They weren't a mistake."

The touch sent a shiver through her entire body. His skin was warm—warmer than human. "But they feel like sin," she whispered.

Gabriel's laugh was low and rich, filling the chapel with its resonance. "Oh, sweet thing. The real sin would be denying yourself something so fundamentally human." His thumb brushed across her lower lip, feather-light. "Especially when there are much more interesting ways to find… absolution."

She caught her breath at his touch, her pulse quickening beneath his fingers. The sacred space around them seemed to grow smaller, more intimate, the shadows in the pews drawing closer to witness this moment.

"I shouldn't want this," she breathed, even as she leaned into his touch. "Shouldn't want you…"

"And yet here you are," Gabriel murmured, his other hand coming to rest at the nape of her neck. "Calling for me in the dark, wearing your desperation like perfume." His fingers tangled in her hair, gentle but commanding. "Tell me what you want. No prayers, no metaphors—just truth."

The request hung between them. She could feel his gaze boring into her, the ancient power beneath his casual demeanor waiting for her response.

"I want…" Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I want to stop feeling ashamed of these thoughts. Of wanting…" She swallowed hard. "Of wanting to be touched. To be taken. To feel…"

"To feel what, sweetheart?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher, though that amused glint never left his eyes. His grip in her hair tightened just enough to make her gasp. "Divine intervention?"

A small whimper escaped her lips at his words, at the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the chapel, wrapping around her like a snake.

"Your angels," he continued, leaning down until his breath ghosted across her ear, "the ones who judge, who condemn—they've never understood humanity the way I do." His free hand traced down her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath his fingers. "They see sin where I see…" he paused, letting the tension build, "release."

She could barely breathe, caught between his touch and his words, between sacred and profane. "Will I fall?" she whispered. "For wanting this?"

His answer came not in words but in the press of his lips against hers—gentle at first, a question more than a demand. But when she gasped against his mouth, fingers clutching at his jacket, that gentleness gave way to something hungrier. Gabriel kissed like he spoke—playful and dangerous all at once, his touch carrying traces of ancient power that made her dizzy with want.

He tasted of sweetness and storm clouds, of promises and sin. His hand at her throat slid up to cradle her jaw, thumb pressing against her pulse point as if measuring her desire in heartbeats. When he finally broke the kiss, she was trembling, lips parted and eyes glazed.

"Consider that…" he murmured, thumb brushing across her lower lip, "a preview of absolution." His smile held wicked promises as the chapel air shimmered around them. "Call for me again when you're ready for the full sermon."

The world shifted, and suddenly she was home—alone in her bedroom, the ghost of his kiss still burning on her lips. Only the lingering scent of ozone and caramel suggested she hadn't dreamed it all.

Dean's reality had narrowed to three things: the copper taste flooding his mouth, the cold stone beneath his knees, and the sweet melodic call of surrender.

The dim lighting flickered overhead as his body sagged with exhaustion. The metallic taste of the air reminded him of what they'd taken from him. What they kept taking. The stone floor beneath him was cold enough to send shivers through his bones, but he barely noticed anymore. His mind was static—white noise

—radio silent.

His arms hung uselessly at his sides, each heartbeat sending a dull throb through his veins.

Empty. So empty.

He perked up as the click of heels against stone drew closer—deliberate, unhurried. The vampire moved like smoke, her leather-clad figure cutting through the shadows as if they belonged to her. When she crouched before him, her crimson eyes caught the light, reflecting an ancient hunger.

"You fought so hard in the beginning," she mused, tracing his jawline with ice-cold fingers. "And now look at you—trembling at my touch, craving it." she tilted his face up, soaking in his glazed expression.

Dean stared back at her through half-lidded eyes, exhaustion and anger warring in his expression. But beneath it all, buried under layers of denial, lurked something even worse—something that looked too much like need.

"I'm not your pet," he spat, but the words felt hollow—mechanical, like he was reading from a script he'd long forgotten the meaning of. His body betrayed him, too weak to match even this small defiance. Too weak to pretend.

She smiled—that knowing, predatory smile that made his stomach twist with fear, hatred, …and something else… Her fingers traced along his jaw, and he hated how he leaned into the touch. Hated how his body sought the comfort his mind still tried to reject.

"Oh, but you are, Dean." She carded her fingers through his hair, gentle—always so gentle now. Like he was something precious. Something worth preserving.

"The great Dean Winchester, brought low. A hunter turned… sustenance." Her voice dipped lower, intimate. "Isn't that poetic?"

His jaw clenched, muscle jumping beneath her touch. The fight was there—somewhere—buried under layers of fog and need and confusion. Days bled into weeks, marked only by the rhythm of feeding and recovery. Of meals he couldn't refuse, rich with flavors he'd never allowed himself before. Of attention he'd never thought he deserved.

He was starting to forget why he should refuse any of it, and wasn't that just fucking perfect?

She leaned closer, her breath cool against his ear. The scent of her—leather and copper and something sweet he couldn't name—made his head spin.

Or maybe that was just the blood loss.

"You're strong enough to keep going," she whispered, "but not strong enough to resist. That's what makes you perfect." Her nails scraped lightly against his scalp. "You can't fight me anymore, can you?"

A shudder ran through him—pleasure or revulsion, he couldn't tell anymore. Didn't want to tell. Part of him screamed to fight, to rage, to remember who he was. But that voice grew fainter with each passing day, drowned out by exhaustion and a desperate, shameful need for the strange peace he'd found here.

She wasn't just his captor anymore. She was his anchor in this fucked up yet heavenly existence—this place where he didn't have to be strong, didn't have to save everyone, didn't have to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The leader rose, her absence leaving him cold. "Rest now, my little hunter. You've earned it." With a wave of her hand, the other vampires melted away into the shadows, leaving Dean alone with the weight of his surrender.

He slumped against the wall, head falling back as his eyes fluttered closed. Somewhere out there, Sam and Cas were searching. He knew they were. The thought should have given him strength, should have fueled his resistance. Instead, it felt distant—like a fairy tale.

Because here, in this prison that felt less like a cage each day, he wasn't running. Wasn't hunting. Here, he was simply… existing.

And the worst part?

The part that made him dig his nails into his palms until they left crescents of pain?

He was starting to prefer it this way.

or maybe that was just the blood loss.

The thought of you as my servant, my acolyte, my willing thrall…makes my blood boil, sends my mind reeling with visions too sinful, too profane to voice aloud. To have you kneel before me, your eyes wide and worshipful, your body trembling with the force of your need…it is a temptation beyond all measure, a unfathomable fantasy that haunts my every waking moment.

I'd like to own you. I want to swallow you whole, to make you a permanent part of who I am. I want to fully melt into your spirit and body till I can't distinguish where you start and I finish. I want to empty myself there so I can go to the deepest recesses of you.

Castiel leans down to rest his forehead against yours, taking a deep breath.

But I am afraid. Afraid of these feelings, these desires that threaten to eclipse everything else in my world. Afraid that in giving in to them, I may lose myself entirely, may forget the higher purpose to which I have devoted my existence.