God I love this film, the 'using fat to extract scent' thing is from the movie...it's not just my sick mind.

Castiel hovers over the bound man on the dusty brick floor.

He's a field hand, one of the pickers son's who drives wagons full of flowers to the perfumery. Castiel knocked him out and dragged him here, tied him with rough ropes and cut his clothes from his body with a sharp pair of iron sheers.

With quick, broad palms he spreads cool animal fat across the naked chest of the man, watching the pale paste cover up the freckles on his deeply tanned skin, clotting the fine hairs on his hide.

As the man begins to wake he moans in confusion and discomfort. The rag in his mouth muffles the sound.

Castiel continues with his work.

It's easier when the men are dead, but in this case...the man is too beautiful to waste.

His eyes widen in pain and recognition as he looks at Castiel, another sound of fear muffled into the cloth between his teeth.

Castiel spreads the fat over the man's strong arms, his broad shoulders and down over him, his abdomen.

The man struggles and snarls angrily as Castiel's slicked fingers glide over his groin, lightly working a palmful of white grease into his genitals before beginning on his thighs, shins and the soles of his feet.

The man struggles against his ropes but the knots hold and he cannot get free. Castiel pays his sounds of anger and fear little mind. He will clothe him in grease, scrape it back into his pot and take it away to distil. This man's scent will belong to him forever. He will only possess his body for a short time however, and he intends to map it to memory, each soft curve and strong flat place, images to accompany his beautiful scent.

He rolls the man onto his belly, ignoring his grunt of protest, laying him out on the muslin sheet and slicking his back with more fat, smoothly covering him. He takes a blade to the man's medium locks of brown hair, cutting them slowly, close to the scalp, running his soft, slipper fingers over the rough stubs of shorn hair soothingly.

The man whimpers into his gag.

Castiel palms more grease over the backs of his legs, cupping and smoothing the buttocks with it until the man is blanketed in grease. He rolls him back over, ready to take up his curved blade and scrape the fat free of the man's skin for collection.

The man's eyes are closed, his breathing quick and shallow against the cloth. Bound on his abdomen, his hands shift uneasily, fingers moving. His toes curl and his legs move against each other restlessly.

He's hard. His cock strains a hard line against his grease thick stomach. The skin that clothes the shaft has pulled back a little, the head shined with softening fat.

Casitel swallows. This is unexpected.

The man opens his eyes hazily, then blinks them closed again, soft words muffled by the gag. Castiel reaches numbly to pull it free. The unintelligible words reveal themselves to be 'OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod...' quiet and rough and over and over.

Castiel has never felt less like a God than he does at this moment.

He pauses, thoughts of collection and distillation still at the forefront of his mind.

He lets them fall away.

Castiel stands to remove his clothes, settling back down on the floor with a knee between the man's slick thighs. His captive moans softly and moves, trying to press the aching hardness between his legs against Castiel's skin.

Castiel lowers himself onto the slick, sticky body and rubs against it until his cock, hard, which surprises him, slips between the man's legs and nudges between his buttocks.

The man goes silent, but his body urges up rhythmically, begging to be filled.

Castiel pushes into him and the man makes a choked cry, arching and almost sobbing in relief when Castiel touches his erection, sticky with melting grease and pre-come.

He ruts into him until they're both clothed in fat and sweat. Until his eyes are squeezed shut and he's moaning, groaning like an animal as the man's flesh parts for him, catching with a hot, wet hitch as he pulls out and thrusts back in. The man writhes beneath him. The muslin grown saturated with melting grease and sweat.

Castiel fills the man with slickness and pulls away, leaving him twitching and unsatisfied, moaning in frustration. He relents, wrapping a hand around the man's erection and tugging him a little rolling the flesh in his palm until the man wets him with a growl, pearly fluid gathering on his sticky, greased palm. He wipes it on the muslin, then picks up his scraper.

The fat comes off easily, and he has to scrape himself clean as well, his scent mingling with the man's in the air, darkening it, making it coarse and common. But Castiel collects it anyway. He wants to remember this, to remember what it was like to have this man consent to him, to let him in willingly.

When he is done with the scraping, setting aside his tools and reaching for his clothes, the man speaks.

"Are you going to..."

Kill me. Castiel thinks. They always ask that, providing he has let them live long enough.

"...leave me?" says the man, and Castiel looks at him with new curiosity, he has been surprised.

"Don't...leave me." The naked, bound man asks of him, and Castiel can see in his eyes that just as he was drunk on his scent before, now the man is intoxicated with the scent of them, both of them, together.

What choice does he have but to accept?

They are kindred spirits now, the high and low note of their own personal reliquary of scent.