“Are you touching yourself?” The elder Winchester’s husky voice broke over a moan, his breathing heavy on the other end of the receiver.
Asmodeus rolled his eyes, pulling holding the phone a good three inches from his face but it did nothing to quiet the noise. “Yes, Dean,” he said in the borrowed baritone of Castiel’s voice, “I miss you so much.”
“God, baby, me too,” Dean nearly whispered before yowling like a wounded cat.
Really, Asmodeus wasn’t sure who he was torturing anymore, Castiel, who sat in the cell not ten feet away, mortified, or himself.




