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Another crappy motel, another conversation with Cas that is going nowhere. Cas is standing across the room by the door with his rumpled trenchcoat and his messy tie, wearing that long-suffering impatient look that he’s never seen without these days, the air of someone who has better things to do. He’s standing stiff as a fencepost, as though standing within reach of the door even makes a difference when he’s not going to use it when he leaves.
“Will you just sit your ass down while we’re talking? Have a beer or something, man.”
Cas frowns and doesn’t budge, but that’s when the bathroom door opens with a loud creak of rusted hinges, letting out a billowing cloud of soap-scented steam and dragging Dean’s attention away. The only light in the room comes from under a yellowing lampshade on the bedside table and for a moment all Dean can see is Sam’s silhouette, backlit from the harsh neon light flooding the small bathroom. Cas says something in the background, but hell if Dean knows what it is because Sam is standing there, towelling his stupid girly hair with just a towel around his waist.
“Oh, hey Cas, I thought I heard your voice,” Sam says pleasantly, all casual like he’s not practically naked, the towel low on his hips leaving little to the imagination. The threadbare fabric clings to his wet body like a second skin, and goddamn it, Sam’s half-hard under there. For a second, Dean kind of wants to punch him. The fucker was probably jacking it in the shower while Dean was just on the other side of that thin wall, trapped in another serious conversation about a Heavenly war. It doesn’t seem fair.
Sam used to do stuff like this all the time, back when he didn’t have a soul, but it was deliberate then. He’d walk around the room with his Greek God body on display, naked and wet from his shower or from a recent workout, would dress and undress slowly with Dean right there in the room, each gesture calculated to draw his attention. And yeah, Dean would look. Of course he would look, he’s only goddamn human and this was still Sam’s body, tall and fit and smooth, the body that Dean had watched grow and change, the body he’d patched up a million times and had memorized every dip and groove of, with tongue and lips and fingers. The spike of lust at the sight was hardwired into his brain, and Dean had long ago given up trying to explain it.
But back then, whenever Robo-Sam would catch Dean watching, there would be something so fucking smug in his dead eyes, something sharp and cold like a knife in the flash of his teeth, and it would send an icy shiver of wrong wrong wrong down Dean’s spine, more effective than any cold shower. Whatever stirrings he’d felt for that Sam would screech to a halt like slamming on the breaks and would invariably leave him angry rather than turned on. Stop looking at me with your creepy sex offender eyes, Dean would spit out, and Sam would just smirk, shrug, and try the same routine again the next day with the same result. And how much did that say about Dean’s fucked up psyche that it was when his brother stopped being his brother that Dean stopped wanting him?
But this Sam, recently re-souled and made whole (well, minus a year’s worth of memories, but they’re not talking about that), this Sam just looks startled when he catches Dean staring. He looks down at himself and fucking blushes, his dimples appearing in a rueful smile, and damn if that doesn’t ratchet up the flare of lust coiling in Dean’s stomach. He clears his throat, meets Dean’s eyes with what is probably meant to be a quelling look, and glances significantly over Dean’s shoulder at where Cas is still standing.
Don’t look at me like that when your angel is in the room, Sam’s eyes say. Aloud, he stammers, “I, uh. I’ll get dressed.”
Truth be told, Dean had kinda forgotten that they had company. And that’s the thing with Cas -- when you’re not looking right at him and talking to him, when you’re not staring into his grave eyes, it’s easy to forget that he’s there. He disappears right at the edge of your vision as though he’d never even been there at all, just a figment of your imagination. Humans and monsters and even ghosts or demons, they all have a presence; even if you can’t see them or hear them there is always something, like a weight in the air or a smell or just some kind of charge in the molecules around them that will make the hairs at the back of Dean’s neck stand up. Not Cas. Whatever it is that makes up all his parts, whatever particles he draws together to create the shape of Jimmy Novak when he materializes out of thin air, it leaves no trace, no discernible feeling. It’s how he always manages to catch Dean unaware, even with his hunter’s instinct and reflexes, even after a lifetime of trying to see things that don’t want to be seen.
So Dean straightens up in his chair and turns and looks back at Cas, half-expecting him to resume the conversation that was interrupted by Sam’s entrance. Instead he finds that Cas is staring at Sam, too. That in itself is not unusual because staring is what Cas does, in that slightly unnerving, unblinking way of his, but there is something else in his eyes now. Something almost like curiosity.
But the thing is, Dean knows that Cas has seen Sam naked before. He’s also seen Dean naked before. Hell, he’s seen every inch of them from pretty much every angle possible, and there was a time, before Sam tossed himself in the pit, when Dean had almost become used to Cas showing up at the worst possible moment.
The first time it happened was in a truck stop restroom somewhere outside Baton Rouge.
“Cas!” Dean had shouted in surprise, his knuckles clenching tight on the rim of the grubby sink. Behind him, Sam raised his head from Dean’s neck, lips detaching from where they’d been sucking at Dean’s pulse and shot him such a bitchy death glare in the bathroom mirror that Dean almost laughed, like Sam actually thought Dean was yelling someone else’s name in the throes of passion. But then Sam’s eyes locked in on the angel standing right behind them and he froze, his sour expression melting away into a look of pure horror.
“I see you are busy,” Castiel had said calmly. “Call on me when you’re ready to talk, I have news of some importance.” And then he vanished.
Sam’s subsequent meltdown had been enough to turn Dean’s own mortifying embarrassment into near hysterical laughter.
“Oh God oh God oh God we are never doing that again. I swear, Dean, I can’t, no way. No more sex. No more inappropriate touching. I’m not even looking at you ever again in my entire life.”
“Calm down, he didn’t seem to mind. Hell, maybe he enjoyed it. We made a pretty hot sight. Trust me, I know, I was watching us in the mirror.”
“Dean! An angel of the Lord! A... a holy agent of Heaven! Walked in on us having gay incestuous sex! Stop laughing, Dean!”
“Well, Sammy, if he didn’t smite us on the spot, maybe we’re not trying hard enough,” Dean had said with a lewd smile and a waggle of his eyebrows, because no way was he getting cockblocked by an angel, and Sam had moaned and hid his face in his hands and said, “Jesus. I’m gonna be sick.”
After that time it happened so often, in motel rooms and in dark alleys, in the Impala’s backseat and in rest stops, that even Sam had to get over it. It barely took him a month to go from complete panic to plain, mild annoyance at each of Cas’s surprise visits.
“Not now, Castiel,” he’d gritted between his teeth and Cas just nodded like this was nothing, like maybe Sam was just busy reading the newspaper or baking a cake and not in the middle of fucking his brother’s mouth in the bathroom of a cheap motel.
“Very well. I’ll wait outside,” Cas had said before he disappeared, and Dean laughed around Sam’s cock and tried not to choke when the resulting vibrations tipped Sam right over the edge. His hand was wrapped tight around the back of Dean’s neck as he unloaded so deep in his throat that Dean didn’t even get to taste it.
So yeah, over time Cas has seen everything there is to see about Dean and his brother, all of the messed-up shit that no one should ever have to see. And of all of the times that it happened, Cas never even batted an eyelash, never looked at them differently, never stared too long or looked uncomfortable, never told them it was wrong. He never seemed to judge. He never even seemed to care.
And while it’s been a while since his last interruption, he certainly never looked at either of them like this, or unconsciously licked his lips like he’s doing now.
“Cas,” Dean says, feeling the corners of his lips turning up, “are you checking out my brother?”
Behind him, Sam coughs in surprise. Cas doesn’t startle, not exactly, but he jerks back a fraction and flicks his gaze back to Dean. There’s something like guilt in his eyes, in the tilt of his eyebrows.
“You totally were!” Dean crows, getting to his feet. “I gotta say I don’t blame you. If you’re gonna be perving on humans, you could do a lot worse than a Winchester.”
“Dean!” Sam protests, but Dean ignores him for now, just advances on Cas. This rabbit in the headlights look is a lot more fun than the harried businessman expression he’s been sporting of late.
“And Sammy here, well, no one can resist him. Not demons, not werewolves, heck, not even his own brother. So hey, don’t beat yourself up if you want to take a good long look. It’s only natural.”
“Jesus, Dean, leave him alone.”
“You know, you always used to vanish before, when Sammy and I got busy. Heck, until that pizza man porn, I thought sex wasn’t really your thing.”
Sam’s still protesting in the background but he hasn’t retreated to the bathroom or started getting dressed yet, so he can’t be that bothered. Cas doesn’t say anything, but the look in his eyes is telling. Sure enough, when Dean takes a step back, hooks his fingers into the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it off, Cas tracks the motion, stares openly when Dean’s fingers land on his belt buckle to tug it open. Dean chuckles, warm all over, feeling a rush of blood straight to his dick.
It’s not that he’s never thought of Cas that way -- 'cause let’s face it, the vessel Cas has chosen is pretty fucking good looking and Dean is not blind -- but Cas had never shown an interest before, so he’s never really let himself consider it seriously. Not long ago, Dean asked Sam if he thought Cas and Balthazar had ever fucked because he sorta got that ex-lovers vibe off of them sometimes. Sam had gone over all pensive and serious, said stuff about true forms and energy and metaphysical connections and maybe sex for them is something completely different, until Dean regretted bringing it up and had to distract him with a blowjob just so he’d shut up. “Nothing metaphysical about this, huh, Sammy?” he’d said afterwards, and Sam, ever the ungrateful bitch, had pushed him out of bed.
Dean backs up another step only to collide into a warm wall of Sam, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed him coming closer and no one that fucking massive should have the right to be so stealthy. His big hands close over Dean’s shoulders, and Sam’s warm breath tickles his ear.
“Dean,” he murmurs, “what the hell are you doing?”
Dean pushes back against his brother and, yep, he’s definitely hard under that flimsy bath towel. Sam likes to pretend that he’s the reasonable straight-laced boy scout, but Dean knows him, knows that Sam’s the one who always seems to get off on fucking in semi-public places. He’s gonna be up for this, there’s no question about that. It’s Cas that he’s not so sure about.
Dean ignores his brother for now and keeps his eyes on Cas, who still hasn’t moved by a hair. “You still a virgin, Cas?”
Cas blinks, his gaze travelling from where Sam’s hands are still gripping his shoulders back to Dean’s eyes and he manages to find his voice at last, though it seems to require some effort of concentration. “In the sense that you mean, yes.”
Sam makes a small huffing sound behind him, and Dean just knows that if he were to turn around, he’d find that bratty I-told-you-so look on his face.
“Yeah, I don’t mean New Age spiritual connections or whatever the crap you guys get up to up there, prancing around in the clouds. I mean human sex. Fucking. Animal and real and messy.”
Cas frowns, looking mildly insulted. “I know about human sex, Dean. I have observed humanity for a long time. Long enough to understand that sex motivates a worrying percentage of your actions.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Sam snarks behind him, but Dean just elbows him in the ribs.
“Why the sudden interest, then, Cas?” Cas seems to consider that seriously for a moment, but when he doesn’t answer, Dean presses on. “Did that cheap porno you watched give you some ideas? Did all of this time in a human vessel finally start giving you some sinful urges?”
Cas just stands there, expression unreadable, but there's something in his posture, or the way he's lingering when the conversation has strayed so far from the Holy war. He should be a memory by now, a blast of wind and an empty space where he’s still standing. His presence alone makes Dean's next question, he thinks, the obvious one.
"You wanna watch us?"
Almost imperceptibly, Cas nods. It sends a sharp thrill through Dean’s veins, a charged shiver of electricity. This isn’t something they really do, him and Sam. Maybe they don’t care if strangers see them, and they’ve never really been exclusive (they’re not boyfriends or anything ridiculous like that), but they don’t normally share this thing that they have between them. This is different, though. This is Cas, who’s seen them at their best and at their very worst, who observes without judging, and there's just enough hunger in his blue eyes to make Dean want to give him this, to want to share this with him, just this once. Dean turns around to face Sam and isn’t surprised to find all those thoughts mirrored in his brother’s expression.
“You know, this is pretty depraved even for you. Making an angel watch.” Sam is smirking, though, and his hands are already busy opening Dean’s jeans so he can stick his hand inside, palming Dean’s cock through his boxers.
Dean groans, pushing into the touch. “I’m not making him do anything, Sammy. There’s no burning ring of holy oil. He can leave whenever he wants.”
Sam looks like he has more to say but Dean’s had enough of talking for the moment so he grabs the back of Sam’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. He feels Cas’s gaze on them like a caress, an extra layer of arousal, and maybe Sam’s feeling it too because he lets out a choked moan against Dean’s mouth. Dean licks at Sam’s lips until he opens up and kisses him long and deep, chasing the minty taste of toothpaste lingering on Sam’s tongue. He doesn’t even notice that Sam has turned them around until the small of his back slams against the dresser, rattling the drawers, and he realizes with a jolt that Sam’s done it to give Cas a better angle on the two of them.
“This is really turning your crank, huh, Sammy?” he says against Sam’s lips, but Sam ignores him in favor of divesting him of his jeans and his boxers. Sam’s towel, that ridiculously small rectangle of terrycloth that started this whole thing, is the last piece to go. “Bed,” Dean says, shoving at Sam’s chest so he stumbles backwards a step. Sam looks like he’s going to protest for a second, but then he glances over at Cas, nods, and moves towards the bed closest to the bathroom. He strips it of its lumpy comforter and reclines across it, waiting. He leans back on one elbow with his legs spread, lazily stroking his big dick in long, loose pulls, looking like sin personified with his miles of tanned skin on starched white sheets. Shit. No wonder even Cas has taken an interest in sex with a sight like that in the room.
Speaking of Cas, Dean turns to find him still standing where he left him, his back rod straight and his arms at his sides. Dean can’t help but laugh, a bit breathless, and rubs a hand over his face.
“Christ, Cas.”
Dean pushes off of the dresser and grabs the lube from his duffel, tosses it at Sam who catches it one handed, then circles around behind Cas, puts his hands on his shoulders and pushes him towards the middle of the room. “You’re gonna have to sit down, man. 'Cause I’m all for giving you a little show, but you standing there like a stiff is a bit creepy.”
Cas clears his throat. “I... yes. I’m sorry.”
If Sam is bone and sinew, sculpted muscles under smooth skin, then Cas is granite and marble, beautiful in his own right but unyielding. His pale skin is blood-warm under his coat, but Dean knows that there is the strength of nothing human in those limbs. As pliant as his body is, as easily as he lets himself be manoeuvred to the empty bed, there is something like a weight to him that makes it impossible to forget what he is, what strength he has. Cas could be as immovable as a mountain if he wanted to be, but he allows Dean to push him down until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, facing Sam. His blue eyes flick from Sam to Dean and then to Dean’s cock, level with his face and so fucking close, and fuck, even without the way his mouth opens slightly, it’s impossible not to imagine how Cas’s full lips would look like stretched around him.
Dean freezes between the two beds, his mind flooding with images, until Sam shifts forward on his bed. His hand lands on Dean’s hip, pulling him backwards, snapping him out of it. A good thing, probably, because while he’s more than willing to fuck his brother while an angel is watching, having an actual threesome with his brother and an angel might be a little more than he’s prepared to contemplate right now.
Sam backs up until his back is against the headboard, pulling Dean by the hand and Dean climbs over his lap. But Sam wants him even closer, his hand flat against the small of Dean's back, until Dean's knees hit the headboard on either side of Sam's waist, and Dean leans in, forehead resting against Sam's when he rolls his hips, setting a slow, filthy rhythm, their dicks grinding together, trapped between stomachs already damp with perspiration and dribbles of pre-come.
Sam shuts his eyes with a stuttered moan, his hands falling on Dean’s ass to keep him close (as though Dean would even think of going anywhere) and lands blind, open-mouthed kisses all along Dean’s jaw, his cheekbone, tongue rasping against stubble and making Dean shiver. He licks down to his neck, his throat, laps at the sensitive skin right under Dean’s ear, until Dean tangles a hand in his hair and pulls him back where he wants him, tilting Sam's head back until it bumps against the wall, stifling Sam’s soft noise of protest with his mouth.
Sam is an awesome kisser. Dean doesn’t know if it’s because he learned it all from Dean (and fuck, that idea really shouldn’t turn him on so much) or if he’s just a natural, but he kisses with the same thorough, focused intensity that he approaches anything with, throwing everything he has into it. He bites and sucks and licks, sometimes forceful, sometimes tender, claims Dean’s mouth with his own and then surrenders to him in turn, until Dean is dizzy and breathless and dangerously close to coming just from making out and grinding together like teenagers -- like they did for years, in guilty stolen moments in the dark, until they worked up the nerve to go further. They kiss until Dean has almost forgotten about their spectator. Almost, but not entirely. Dean forces himself to still his hips, pulling back just enough to admire the sight of Sam’s shiny, kiss-swollen lips.
“Any particular requests, Cas?”
Cas hasn’t moved from where Dean put him, his hands folded over his lap. He looks a bit shell-shocked and it takes him a second to answer. “I... no. Anything. Whatever you want.”
“Yeah?” Sam and Dean say simultaneously, and Sam cracks up, raises his head off the wall to lick at Dean’s lips again.
“Okay, so how do you wanna do this?” Sam asks, even though they don’t normally discuss the mechanics of sex. I wanna fuck you, that okay? Is about as far as either of them usually get. Dean shrugs, arches an eyebrow, and sits back, putting a bit more distance between them. He closes his right hand into a fist and rests it against his open palm, a familiar challenge.
Sam laughs but he goes with it, his hands mirroring Dean’s. “Seriously? 'Cause you know what’ll happen.”
“Two out of three, Sammy. Come on.”
Sam wins the first two rounds like he always does and he snorts out a laugh. “Always with the scissors, Dean, it’s like you want to lose.” And maybe Dean does, maybe that’s the whole point, but he doesn’t have the time to say as much before Sam flips them over so Dean ends up flat on his back, his head hanging down the end of the bed. Normally he’d bitch a bit about Sam manhandling him like some girl, but Sam’s already kissing his way down Dean’s chest so it doesn’t seem worth it to put up a fight. Dean shifts a little, shuffling back up the bed so he’s lying more or less perpendicular to Cas and Sam moves with him, kneeling at his side and pushing Dean’s legs apart to make sure not to obscure the view. Dean leans up on his elbow and pushes Sam’s hair behind his ears as Sam bends down and sucks the head of Dean’s cock into his mouth.
Sam doesn’t waste a lot of time with teasing, and Dean’s grateful for that. He’s not in the mood to draw it out, not when he’s been ready to come since Sam first stepped out of the bathroom. Sam blows him loosely, wet and sloppy, not enough to get him off but just enough to distract him as he lubes up his fingers and pushes two in at once. Dean groans and spreads his legs a bit wider, torn between wanting to meet Cas’s eyes and the need to watch Sam’s lips and his face, the way the head of Dean’s dick pushes against the inside of his cheek. More than anything else they do together, it’s this, the sight of Sam’s mouth wrapped around Dean’s dick, that still sends a shiver through him even after all these years, a shocking thrill at the taboo of taking something that he shouldn’t want.
Sam presses another finger against his rim, meeting resistance for a second and then sliding right in with the others. Dean gasps, pushing back into it, and Cas’s answering indrawn breath makes Dean laugh, hitching and open-mouthed and ridiculously turned on. Sammy was right, this is depraved even for him, letting Cas watch him get fingered open like this, with Sam’s mouth hot and wet and wonderful around him, drooling down onto his balls and onto Sam’s fingers, mingling in with the lube.
“How does that feel?” Cas says, and he sounds casual enough but there’s a breathlessness to the question. There’s nothing clinical in the way he’s looking at them, in the way his eyes are riveted on the sight of Sam’s fingers scissoring in and out of Dean’s ass.
“Fucking awesome,” Dean groans. “You oughta try it sometime.”
Sam apparently takes that as his cue to move things along because the words are barely past his lips when he pulls his mouth off with a wet sucking sound and shuffles backwards a little. He slips his fingers out and uses them to jack himself a couple of times, wipes spit off of his chin with the back of his other hand. “Hands and knees,” he says, voice rough, and Dean arches an eyebrow but is quick enough to comply.
More often than not they do this face to face because Sam’s a big sentimental girl who likes to stare in his eyes and cradle his face in his giant hands and kiss him until he’s out of breath (and okay, maybe Dean likes that part too, maybe he likes to comb his fingers through Sam’s hair, maybe he whispers all sorts of sappy shit in Sam’s ear that he’d never admit to even under torture, but that’s all in the heat of the moment and he won’t be held responsible for that). This is different, though, less about expressing all the crap that they can never say out loud and more about putting on a show, about having a little fun. As easy as it usually is to forget Cas’s presence, there’s no forgetting about him now. He’s only a few feet away, almost close enough to touch, and Dean is big enough to admit to himself that he’s always been a bit of a show-off.
This is about performing for an audience, and Sam will probably deny it later but he’s definitely doing it too. He prods at Dean until he’s got him where he wants him, on all fours and facing Cas on the other bed, shoves Dean’s knees apart and lines up his dick, pushing in with a slow, deliberate thrust. The hot burn is familiar but still shocking even after all this time; little Sammy is big and Dean never got used to this part, can feel every inch of Sam opening him up wide and can’t quite stifle a moan that is half-pleasure, half-pain, embarrassingly loud in the small room. Cas’s eyes are fixed on his, so blue and intense and unfathomable, and Dean can’t tell what he’s thinking, what he’s seeing in Dean’s face. It makes his stomach flip over, makes him feel overstimulated and oddly vulnerable, like some blushing virgin. The weight of his gaze feels too intimate now, more than he’d bargained for. Dean braces his shoulders and shuts his eyes tight, feeling blood rushing to his face.
“Fuck,” he grits between his teeth, pushing his forehead into his forearm and willing himself to relax, but then Sam is there, stroking his sides, his back, his thighs, pressing light kisses all over his shoulders and the back of his neck. He holds still otherwise, giving Dean more time to adjust than he normally needs to. Dean would probably feel irritation at the way he’s being treated like a China doll if there was room for that through the rushing roar of affection for his brother. Fucking Sam, too perceptive for his own good. He keeps it up, kissing and petting and soothing with his lips and hands until Dean relaxes, until the tension in his shoulders loosens and he starts rolling his hips back onto Sam’s cock, until the hot licks of pleasure drag him out of his own head and back into the present.
“Alright?” Sam murmurs, and Dean nods his assent, no trusting himself to speak. “God, you feel good,” Sam groans, and sets up a slow rhythm, each stroke steady and deep and amazing. When Dean opens his eyes again, he finds Cas still watching raptly, with his dilated pupils and parted lips, his face flushed like Dean’s never seen it. It reminds him of why he wanted to do this in the first place, and this time he manages to maintain eye contact. When Dean moans, Cas breathes out harshly. When Sam picks up the pace with a grunt, Cas’s hands tighten into fists in his lap.
Sam wraps an arm around Dean’s chest and pulls him up on his knees, thighs spread achingly wide over Sam’s lap. His thrusts are shallower this way but the angle is just right, each push pressing the head of Sam’s cock against his prostate. Dean’s eyes roll back in his head and he sags back against Sam’s chest, grateful for Sam’s arm holding him upright because he’s not sure he could manage it himself. His thighs are already trembling when Sam wraps his free hand around his leaking cock and Dean moans, feeling open and wet and filthy and really fucking slutty, with Sam all around him and deep inside him while Cas watches them like they’re the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. “Harder,” Dean says, his voice wrecked, and covers Sam’s hand with his own over his cock, tightening his grip, “Come on.”
“You’re beautiful,” Cas murmurs, to Dean or to Sam or to both of them, barely audible above their heavy breathing. He’s sitting so close, right at the edge of the other bed, and Sam has them angled in such a way that Cas would only need to shift forward a bit and lean over the gap between the beds to touch them if he wanted to. He’s staring at them an intensity bordering on awe, like he wants to catalogue every tiny detail.
With his trench coat it’s impossible to tell if he’s hard but Dean aches to find out, wants to push his hands aside and drag down the zipper of his sensible Jimmy Novak trousers and pull his cock out through the slit, wants to lean forward and put his lips around it while Sam keeps on pounding into him from behind. And fuck, if that’s what sends Dean right over the edge, the idea of being spit-roasted between his brother and his angel, well, that’s between him and his conscience, and his conscience has always been a filthy bitch. Like flipping a switch, the hot fizzing pressure in his balls breaks and Dean comes with a strangled shout, thick and hot over his and Sam’s hands.
His brain short-circuits in a white haze of pleasure that seems to last forever, his stomach spasming almost painfully, too far gone to complain when Sam starts pushing him around like a rag doll, rolling him onto his back so they’re perpendicular to Cas again, Dean’s head falling heavily onto one of the pillows. He hooks an arm under Dean’s knee and shoves right back in, sloppy and easy, and then he’s fucking him so hard that Dean has to brace a hand against the headboard to save himself from cracking his skull open. “Come on, come on, come on,” he grunts on every exhale, curling his other leg up around Sam’s waist to hold him closer. There’s only room in the world for Sam and him now, just the two of them as Sam stares at him so intently and fucks into him with deep, erratic thrusts, setting off sparks of agonized pleasure at the base of his spine. “Come on, Sammy. That’s it, baby, come on,” he babbles, a string of stupid breathless encouragements until Sam grits his teeth and pushes in one last time, burying his face in Dean’s neck as he comes with a shudder that rocks his entire body.
By the time the fog clears in Dean’s mind, Cas is gone. The only reminder of his presence is the wrinkle in the comforter where he’d been sitting, but Dean doesn’t really mind. He’s too fucked out to worry or be offended, to wonder about whether or not the whole thing was a mistake. It doesn’t feel like one. Cas will be back eventually, and they can worry about the aftermath then.
“So. That was pretty hot.”
Sam laughs and makes no move to roll off, even though he weighs a fucking ton. “I should’ve known. You’ve always been a filthy exhibitionist.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I remember that time in Toledo. I think we traumatized that lady.”
“Are you kidding? She was practically drooling. We’re just providing a lucky few with the hottest goddamn porn they’ll ever see in their lives. That’s just being altruistic, if you ask me. Now get off.”
“Already did,” Sam says with a smirk that Dean doesn’t need to see to recognize. Dean punches him lightly on the shoulder and Sam pushes himself up on his elbows. His cock slips out with a squelching sound and Dean grimaces as Sam rolls off and slumps onto his back, lying shoulder to shoulder with Dean. It’s probably good for Cas that he vanished when he did, or Dean might’ve been tempted to ask him to go get a washcloth from the bathroom. Or hell, maybe he could snap his fingers and the mess of lube, spit, sweat and come would vanish, leaving them fresh as daisies. It’s an appealing idea.
“D’you think he could do that?” Dean says, after he’s voiced the idea out loud.
“I don’t know but I’m not asking him, and neither are you.”
“Always a spoilsport, Sammy,” Dean says. He stretches lazily, runs his fingers through the mess of come on his stomach. Pretty soon he’s going to cool off and he’ll feel gross, but he can’t make himself move just yet.
“D’you think Cas is alright?” Sam says, after a moment of silence.
“He’s an angel, Sam. He’s been around since the dawn of mankind, I’m sure this doesn’t even make the top hundred of fucked up shit he’s seen.”
“I guess.”
“Hey Sammy?”
“What?”
“I think that next time, you should blow him while I watch.”
Sam laughs, loud and genuine, the way he so rarely does anymore, and it makes Dean smile. “You’re such a pervert, Dean.”
Says the guy who just fucked his brother, Dean almost says, but that would just earn him an epic bitchface and an eyeroll, so he just rolls onto his side for a lazy kiss. Sam didn’t say no, and he’s counting that as a victory.