Archive of Our Own ^beta

Dean is an intelligent man. More so than he’d like people to believe. Of course, sometimes he’s also unbelievably stupid.

Dim, even.

Like that time when Sam kept saying ‘I love you’ and ‘I’m yours’ and Dean kept hearing ‘Look, Dean, I remembered the pie!’ and ‘Hey, man, let’s skip the bar and watch some Game of Thrones, instead.’

To his credit, it only takes Dean a couple months to connect the dots this time around. Not like the handful of years he needed to decipher that whole Sam thing. Plus, Dean totally knew there were dots to connect after, like, a week and a half.

Okay, a month. Tops.

When Dean looks back it all seems so clear. Hell, he should have had it worked out in a day or two. Not like that Sam thing, though. Sammy can be a sphinxlike little bitch when he wants to, but that’s neither here nor there.

Dean can pin the moment the whole crazy thing started to a lazy Tuesday afternoon in the library – the one a little over a week before Thanksgiving. Again, not the Sam thing. That’s not crazy. That’s just them.

Whatever.

The whole thing starts to spin out that Tuesday afternoon. Late. Dean is so hungry he’s seriously weighing the merits of going out for a burger against the immediate reward of week-old frozen pizza leftovers. Pizza takes the lead as the front legs of Sam’s chair crash into the ground, yanking Dean unceremoniously from his reverie. The dull thump of Sam’s book landing on the table is lost under the hammering of Dean’s heart.

He’s opening his mouth to bitch his brother out when he notices the beads of moisture chasing each other down the lines of Sam’s throat.

A different kind of hunger sweeps through him as he takes note of Sammy’s skin, flushed under the damp strands of hair pasted to his cheeks and curling at the base of his neck. The pizza sits in the fridge, forgotten as Dean sweeps his eyes down to his brother’s chest, imaging how Sammy would moan against Dean’s neck as he peeled that sweat-damp fabric off and –

“Is anyone else really hot right now?” Sam asks as he plucks at his t-shirt.

Dean can’t decide if he should go with the obvious response – “I’m always hot, Sammy” – or steer Sam back to his room and show him just how hot he can get. Dean adjusts his dick and opens his mouth to say –

“Why don’t you take off your shirt?”

Wait, what?

Dean looks at Cas with wide eyes, not quite believing his ears. Totally forgot the guy was there.

Any thoughts of Sam bent over the table while all those little drops of sweat patter against the polished surface are long gone, replaced by wonder that the former angel could say something so absurd that it finally manages to short-circuit Dean’s brain.

Sam must be having the same problem, because all he can do is mumble something about going for a run.
Dean stares at Castiel until the echo of the front door fades behind his brother, but Cas remains as inscrutable as ever.

***

A few days later, it’s Dean’s turn to sweat bullets. Always is, when he rounds the corner and finds the monster-of-the-week tracing its nails over his baby brother’s throat in a sick parody of his own.

Perspiration breaks out at the base of Dean’s spine. Dampens the sleeves of his undershirt. It has nothing to do with the heat of the sewer and everything to do with the way his heart constricts painfully in his chest.

A flash of steel, soft squelch of bloodied flesh, and one speedy drive to the bunker later, Sam is whimpering underneath him, back where he’s meant to be.

Dean answers with a slow, dirty grind. There are still too many layers of cotton and denim keeping them apart, but it doesn’t matter. Dean aims to draw this out now that he has Sammy safe and sound and all to himself. He’s got one hand fisted in Sam’s hair – shoving his face into the mattress, reminding him who he belongs to – when the door to Dean’s room swings open and Cas strolls in.

Sam goes stiff beneath him, and not in a fun way.

“Goddamn it, Cas! Fucking knock, why don’t you?” Dean barks.

“Wrestling!” Sam shouts at the same time. “We, uh – we were just wrestling.” And for a guy who once lied his way into an evidence lock-up by convincing the guard he was Selena Gomez’s twin brother, Sam couldn’t be more transparent.

There’s no way Cas is going to believe that shit.

Except he does.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Cas says and – so long as Dean doesn’t move – he’s reasonably certain Cas isn’t going to notice the enormous boner he’s sporting.

Sam immediately tries to foil Dean’s plan by rolling out from under him. Does a great job of looking like a beached whale while he’s at it. Honestly, Dean is surprised he can get it up for Sam at all, the fucking Yeti.

Dean pinches Sam’s side when he nearly succeeds in bucking Dean off and settles more heavily onto his brother’s ass, making a mental note to invest in some new doorknobs. Ones with locks, since angel warding doesn’t seem to do a goddamn thing when there’s no grace around.

Luckily, Sam still works the way he’s supposed to and quits his squirming. Good thing, too, because no way is Dean’s dick going to wilt with Sam rubbing his perky little ass against it like that.

“So you interrupted. What for?” Dean asks.

“I was wondering if you wanted to watch Breaking Bad. This sleep you humans are so fond of seems to be rather elusive.”

Well, shit.

Dean knows a cry for help when he hears one. Worse, so does Sam. And Sam won’t ignore someone’s needs just to get his rocks off. Dean doesn’t even try convincing him. “Yeah, uh. Give us a couple minutes,” he says, instead. Maybe if he gives a good enough excuse, Cas will fuck off long enough that he can get Sammy to blow his load. Preferably somewhere in Dean. “We just need to finish this –”

“Wrestling match!” Sam interjects and Christ, he still sounds guilty as fuck, but at least he’s dialed it back a few notches.

“Yeah. Sammy here doesn’t seem to understand the concept of not fucking with my stuff. Why don’t you go make some popcorn and we’ll be right there?”

It may not be his smoothest cover, but if Cas didn’t notice the flashing red ‘LIAR’ sign over Sam’s head, Dean doesn’t really need to worry about bringing his A-game. Bonus: trying to figure out the ancient popcorn maker should keep Cas busy long enough for Dean to get off, too.

Dean sighs with relief when Cas backs out of the room – dude has the worst fucking timing – and flips Sam over onto his back. He has his brother’s boxers around his knees as soon as the door clicks shut. Somehow, Sam’s still hard enough to pound nails despite Cas looming over them for so long and Dean has him shooting down his throat by the time the smell of popcorn hits their nostrils.

Wait.

Popcorn?

Sam half-heartedly paws at his head until Dean looks up. “Sorry, man,” he says and thumbs a dribble of come from Dean’s chin back up to his mouth. “Taught him how to make it last week.”

“Course you did,” Dean grumbles.

He ends up settling for the promise of wake-up sex and a filthy kiss. Lets Sam chase the taste of himself around Dean’s tongue and tries to will his erection away.

It doesn’t do much good.

***

Dean wakes up slow and easy to Sam grinding against him, cock half-hard at the small of his back. A nice, leisurely morning fuck would almost make up for Castiel’s intrusion the night before.

Almost.

Dean arches back against his brother’s chest, tries to tip his ass up into Sam’s thrusts and let him know Dean’s on board with where Sammy’s driving this train.

Sam groans low in his ear and shifts so his dick is rubbing along Dean’s crack in a sweet promise of things to come. Sam’s hand burns a trail along his flank and confidently grips Dean through his boxers. Cocky motherfucker.

It’s all Dean can do not to rip Cas’s head off when his brother’s door slams open and the little cockblocker elbows right the fuck on in. Sam drops Dean’s junk like it’s on fire, but Dean’s too busy trying to murder Cas with his mind to give it much thought. It’s cool though, ‘cause he forgets about his own dick completely when his brain gets stuck between the scent of freshly-cooked bacon and Sam’s suddenly rock-hard cock nuzzled right on up against his asshole.

“Jesus fuck, Cas!” he finally manages.

“I made breakfast,” Cas says, setting a tray near Sam’s feet before turning to Dean. “I’ll go get your tray. I set it outside your door when you failed to answer.”

Dean stares. His brain is still darting from bacon to Sam’s cock and back again.

Cas must interpret it as a question because he helpfully reminds, “You instructed me to knock prior to entering your room.” And then he’s gone.

Sam shucks the blankets and tucks himself back in while he has the time. He’s even nice enough to slide Dean’s boxers back up for him.

And oh. Okay, then. Thinking comes a lot easier when he only has bacon to distract him.

Looks like he and Sam are going to have to sit Cas down for yet another discussion on personal space. Maybe spell out the little fact that he should knock before entering anyone’s room, regardless of who asked and what room they were in at the time of the asking. The thought leaves his mind when Cas returns and Dean discovers that he gets pancakes and a side of bacon with his bacon instead of some nasty egg white omelette like Sam.

They can always pick up where they left off after breakfast, right?

***

Except they can’t, because it slips Dean’s mind somewhere between his second helping of fried pig fat and the case Cas sets down in front of him. The guy might be a baby in a trench coat when it comes to field work, but he rivals Sam when it comes to finding an interesting case.

True to form, Cas sends them on one hell of a hunt. It’s five days and three new scars later that Dean finally has time to think again. Another hour before he actually wants to.

He’s sitting at a truck stop diner when it happens, two towns over and still damp from the shower he stole while Sam torched his bloody, slime-encrusted clothing in the empty lot behind the motel, and the only thing he cares to think about is how the rising sun hitting Sam’s face like that makes his brother look so much younger, softer around the edges and not quite the blade he’s become.

Dean knocks his foot against his brother’s instep before inching his foot higher. He can’t help it if the lack of sex makes him sentimental. Besides, Sam always was a sucker for a nice game of footsie, giant girl that he is. Dean is totally right, of course, and scoots a little higher when Sam hides his smile behind his newspaper and spreads his legs wider.

Dean is almost to his prize – only another foot to go – when Cas comes back with their coffee and promptly dumps not one, but two of them in Sam’s lap. Dean’s foot hits the floor with a thud as Sam leaps to his feet.

“Jesus, Cas!” Sam shouts as he holds the burning fabric away from his crotch.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Cas says and hooks his fingers into Sam’s belt. “I sincerely hope I did not scald your genitalia.”

Sam’s squawk of indignity as Cas finishes with the belt and makes to unbutton his jeans is fucking priceless. It only gets funnier as Sam bats at the former angel’s insistent hands. It draws a lot more attention, too.

Dean almost loses it at Sam’s first desperate “Dean?!” but manages to keep it together until Sam turns his attention back to Cas and yelps out a panicked, “Stop helping!”

The guy seems to have gotten past the troublesome button and has Sam’s zipper halfway down by the time Dean wrangles in his laughter long enough to draw a full breath. He can’t help but think that Cas is getting more action from his brother than Dean is going to get today – probably for the next week or so, given the death glare Sam is shooting his way while he plays tug-o-war with his pants.

***

A few hours later, Dean does a double take as he angles past Cas in the hall. Cas is making a bee-line for the Men of Letters’ shower room, where Sam has been trying to scrub the coffee from his pores since they got home. “Wait, Cas. Sam is still –”

– And too late.

Sam is clutching the towel already wrapped around his waist and trying to further cover himself with a second – probably the one he was rubbing through his hair – while Castiel stands just inside the door. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d say his friend looked almost disappointed as he stumbled over yet another apology about the coffee.

“You are certain your manhood is undamaged?” Castiel asks.

Dean stamps down on his urge to cackle at his brother’s expense as crimson creeps across Sam’s cheeks and scrambles down his throat to play across his chest. Even his abs are lighting up under Cas’s unwavering attention.

And suddenly, Dean doesn’t feel like laughing anymore.

Sam’s embarrassment looks an awful lot like the sex flush that brightens his skin whenever Dean does something particularly kinky. The one that tells Dean he’s dangerously close to busting a nut.

“No, uh – I’m good,” Sam stammers while he glares at Dean.

And, yeah. Dean gets the message. He’s not getting any for a month if he so much as cracks a smile. It’s not like laughing is on Dean’s ‘To Do’ list at the moment. He’s been pretty preoccupied with keeping his kneerection in check since that first glimpse of scarlet blazing across Sam’s torso.

It’s not like Sam’s threats really mean anything, anyway. He caves like a flan in a cupboard within a few hours whenever Dean sets his mind to it. Dean’s got a fake Scottish accent that will earn him a quarter chub no matter how pissed Sam is – kid’s a total freak – and if he stretches just right, Sam will get a glimpse of Dean’s stomach that has him rubbing half-mast against Dean’s thigh within a few minutes. And nothing gets Sammy from zero to –

This is not helping.

He should stop.

In the end, Dean does the only thing he can. He takes a step back and lets the door fall shut behind him. He’s halfway down the hall with a hand on his dick when the scene in the shower room flashes back across his mind. The whole thing is a hell of a lot funnier when his brain isn’t twisting Sam’s mortified blush into his Fuck-Me-Now Flush.

Dean tucks his chin tight against his chest as a grin stretches across his face.

What Sammy can’t see won’t hurt Dean’s libido. Much.

***

“What about Jell-O wrestling?” Castiel asks as he sets his coffee down with a slight grimace.

Dean can’t figure out why he continues to drink the stuff – and black, no less – when he obviously doesn’t have a taste for it. For that matter, Dean can’t figure out what Jell-O wrestling has to do with taking a few days off, either. “Huh?” he asks, and glances at Sam to see if his brother is doing a better job of following Castiel’s train of thought.

He’s not.

Sam’s eyebrows haven’t climbed up into his hairline just yet, but they definitely look like they’re thinking about it.

“I mean we could try it. The wrestling in the Jell-O,” Cas clarifies.

And oh. Yep. There go Sam’s eyebrows.

“We? You want us to Jell-O wrestle?” Sam asks, apparently still not quite convinced he’s really hearing what he thinks he’s hearing.

Dean could say the same. That, and he can’t stop flashing back to that stoned-out hippy freak his friend had turned into last time he was human, when Zachariah went all Back to the Future on Dean’s ass to show him exactly what would go down if he didn’t throw the angels a bone.

Maybe the dude just doesn’t do so well with being human.

Maybe this is how it starts.

Maybe he’s high.

“Are you high?” Dean asks.

Cas flicks his eyes over at Dean for a second before returning his gaze to Sam. “Or we could swim nude in the lake.”

“You want to go skinny dipping?” Dean puzzles.

“It’s the middle of December,” Sam says at nearly the same time.

“I’ve never felt water against my unclothed flesh,” Cas explains.

“What about showers?” Dean asks, and yes. He is fully aware that he sounds like an overly inquisitive seven-year-old. He casts the knowledge aside and wonders if that is Cas’s reasoning behind the whole Jell-O thing, too. Oh, Dean, I’ve never had Jell-O smeared all over my unclothed flesh. He snickers.

Castiel pins him with squinted eyes, corners of his mouth tucked down in a tiny frown. It’s a look of distain even his brother would be proud of.

“Jesus, Cas. You’ve gotta stop watching Sam so much.”

Cas stammers for a moment and looks a little constipated. Doesn’t even see the perfect bitchface Sam shoots Dean’s way. Little shit could have learned something.

“Uh, yeah. I was thinking we’d just stay home,” Sam says. “I could certainly use a few days of relaxation after that last hunt.”

Dean perks up at that. He can name at least a couple dozen ways to relax his brother off the top of his head. Luckily, almost all of them result in Dean getting relaxed, too. And it’s been far too long since any mutual relaxation has occurred. “Yeah, man” he says and rubs his foot against the back of Sam’s calf. “You go get on with your bad self. We’re just gonna stay in and take it easy.”

Honestly, he can’t say he’s sad to see Cas go.

***

“Fucking finally,” Dean says as he lets Sam’s mouth go long enough to yank his brother’s shirts over his head.

Sam snarls in response and shoves Dean onto the bed so hard he bounces. Twice. Then Sam’s on him again and Dean can’t really complain. Fuck, Sammy needs this just as bad as he does.

Nineteen days. Nineteen days of Cas barging in unannounced, sandwiched in between hunts that don’t give them a chance to breathe.

They make it all the way to Sam’s belt buckle before Cas bursts in with an urgent case.

Maybe they should have tried Jell-O wrestling. Given the little guy something to do other than surf the internet for freaky shit.

Maybe then they wouldn’t be on their way to hunt down a werewolf with a taste for runaway teens.

***

“I mean it, Cas! No more cases for at least a week,” Dean says. The cranky, “Not like you can heal us anymore,” is drowned out by the slam of the motel door behind him.

His bluster fades when his eyes land on his brother. Sam knows how hard it is on Dean when he loses a kid. It’s written all over his brother’s face. Dean wants to be angry, wants to keep tearing himself up like that wolf tore up that boy, but Sam’s puppy eyes are his goddamn undoing. Nothing left to really be mad at now anyway. Dean took one wolf down – too late, always too late – before the second one took him down. Sam got that one before it got more of Dean than he could handle. End of story. Case closed.

But he should’ve been faster. Should’ve –

“Stop,” Sam says, and skates his thumb along Dean’s purpling cheekbone. “You did everything right,” he murmurs as he presses gentle kisses into Dean’s neck.

It’s girly as fuck, but it’s working. Dean lets Sam lead him to bed. Raises his arms so Sam can work his shirts over his head and goes easy when Sam guides him down to the mattress. Doesn’t so much as twitch when Sam washes out his claw marks with silver solution and tapes a gauze pad over them.

Dean thinks he should crack a joke. Something about Sam’s ovaries setting his little feminine heart all a flutter over a couple of scratches, but his heart just isn’t in it.

He lays there staring at the ceiling while Sam puts the first aid kit on the nightstand and starts in on Dean’s boots. Barely lifts at all when Sam undoes his pants and slides them over his hips.

Dean rolls over onto his side when the light clicks off and he hears Sam’s pants hit the ground between their two queens. The mattress jostles and creaks as his brother sidles up behind him and worms a giant hand into where Dean’s curled up on himself.

“Not tonight,” Dean says into the darkness.

“No, Dean. Not tonight,” Sam says into Dean’s hair. And when Sam kisses his neck and hugs him tighter?

Yeah. Dean lets him do that, too.

***

Dean spends the first four days of their self-mandated break in a bottle. Sam doesn’t like it – never does – but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything more than run a reassuring hand across Dean’s shoulders whenever he passes by.

Hell, not even Cas bothers him.

It takes a while shove the afterimage of that poor kid’s torn up body down with the rest of the of them, but Dean manages the trick just fine. He’s had a lot of practice. He’s had a lot of whiskey, too. So when Sam’s hand glides along his back and slips down his arm for the umpteenth time that day, Dean catches his brother’s wrist before Sam can move away. Slides his tumbler across the table and gives Sam a look that says, ‘I’m gonna fuck you up.’

And Sam? Sam just smiles a wicked little smile and says, “Bring it,” before he does an about face and heads back the way he came.

Dean follows. Of course, he does. And Sam is on him the second his bedroom door closes behind them, shoving him up against the wall like he owns him. Sam just gives Dean what he needs, even when Dean has no idea what it is. When he isn’t even aware he needed anything to begin with.

“Fuck,” Dean groans as Sam rucks up his shirts and bites at his stomach. A jolt of electricity runs from his brother’s mouth straight down to Dean’s stupid, slutty dick. He goes from six to midnight in three seconds flat and knows he’s going to die if Sam doesn’t get his mouth on him right. The fuck. Now.

And Sam does. Sucks him down with a little graze with his teeth, the way he knows Dean likes it. Makes quick work of him but the little shit won’t let him come. Oh, no. That would be too easy.

Dean’s fucking had it.

This so isn’t the time for Sam’s games. He grabs hold of his brother’s hair and takes what he wants. Manages to fuck Sam’s face for a few hard thrusts before Sam yanks his head away and clamps a vice-like fist around the base of Dean’s cock. Dean snarls in frustration, but comes back to himself when he catches the tears glistening at the corners of his brother’s eyes.

Fuck, Sammy.

“Sammy, I’m –”

Sorry. So, so sorry. I can’t –

“Shhh, Dean,” Sam hushes, and catches Dean’s hand where it’s trying to wipe away the moisture clinging to his eyelashes. “Want you to fuck me, Dean. Fuck me like you were just fucking my throat.”

Jesus Christ, his brother is going to be the death of him.

He can’t be mad about Sam pulling off at the last second. Can’t even angst over maybe hurting his brother when Sam’s gonna go and throw a filthy offer like that on the table. Sam doesn’t often care to bottom, and Dean heaves him to his feet and tosses him on the bed before he has the chance to change his mind.

Sam is moaning like a whore in heat as Dean works his way down his body and shoves his thighs up toward his chest. So yeah, he’s downright confused and – okay, not gonna lie – a little more than pissed when Sam’s giant knee comes out of nowhere and knocks him to the ground only seconds after he gets his tongue on Sammy’s hole.

It isn’t until he hears Cas’s voice over the ringing in his head – motherfucker kneed me in the ear, what the fuck?! – that Dean understands what’s happening.

Again.

Except Cas isn’t bringing breakfast or tempting them with a Breaking Bad binge. He’s straight-up asking for help. Has some big problem that only Sam can fix. And yeah, it’s getting a little difficult not to toss the former angel out of the bunker on his ass for constantly cockblocking him, but he’s going to fucking try since it isn’t often that Cas outright asks for a hand.

Of course, after he’s cowered on the floor long enough for Cas to leave and for Sam to get his pants on, plus an extra five minutes or so, just to keep their friend from figuring them out, the rage comes out full force.

Because now Dean knows what Cas needed help with so urgently. Now he knows what’s more important than watching Sam ride his cock into Valhalla. And he’s going to kill that fucking –

“Dean,” Sam says, voice full of warning as he tightens another bolt. His face echoes the tone of his voice, and Dean does his best to rein it in.

Sam’s shoulders relax, and he returns his attention to the task at hand when Dean shuts his mouth. Apparently, Sam is perfectly content to let him glare at the ex-angel just so long as he doesn’t say anything. It’s not like he’d be in the wrong here. Who the fuck makes someone abandon a nice hot tongue in their ass to go do some home remodeling?

“Is that a stripper pole?” Dean blurts out.

“I’m told they’re good for building strength,” Sam says, amusement brightening his voice as the bitchface fades.

Dean sees red. It’s all he can do to keep from tearing the partially fixed pole out of the ceiling and beating his former friend to death with it.

Sam must sense the danger. “One more bolt and then you’re good to go, Cas,” he says and holds out his hand while Dean holds in his breath.

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel says as he passes Sam the last of the hardware. “It is quite fortunate that you are a statistical outlier when it comes to human height. I would not have been able to set this up so swiftly without your assistance.”

“Uh, yeah. No problem,” Sam says as he steps down from the chair he’d been standing on. He doesn’t let Dean out of his sight for a second. Must still be worried about Dean doing something rash.

“You are free to use it any time you like,” Cas says, pausing for a moment before adding, “As a token of my gratitude, I took the liberty of booking you a deep tissue massage for this afternoon. I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been looking quite tense these past weeks.”

Dean must have been about to throttle the little bastard, because the next thing he knows, Sam’s hand is on his chest and he’s being not-so-gently showed out of the room while his brother says over his shoulder, “Thanks, Cas. That’s really… thoughtful.”

***

“But it isn’t fair!” Dean bitches as soon as Sam shepherds him back into his room. The sheets are still messed up from the way they had left them before Castiel’s most recent ill-timed appearance. “I’m the one who’s tense! I haven’t gotten laid in, like, a month!” Dean accuses as Sam closes the door and spins Dean back against it.

“Oh, stop being so dramatic. In case you missed it, Dean, I haven’t exactly been getting laid, either,” Sam points out as he makes quick work of Dean’s belt buckle.

“Bullshit,” Dean spits out as he widens his stance to accommodate Sam’s giant hand in his pants. “I blew you the other day,” he moans and slams his head back against the door. “Besides, you’re like some sort of freaky-ass sex camel.”

“Dude, that was two weeks ago. Just because I hide it better than you” – Sam bites at his neck – “doesn’t mean I’m ‘some sort of freaky-ass sex camel.’” He jacks Dean hard, possibly for emphasis, as he yanks Dean’s shirt aside and sucks a deep bruise into his collar bone. “Anyway, you just want your dick massaged. You couldn’t give a shit if you get a real massage or not.”

Dean moans and bucks his hips up into Sam’s tight fist. “Want my dick massaged by your ass, Sammy,” he says, and it comes out a lot less sexy than he had intended. More like he’s a five-year-old on the verge of throwing a tantrum, if he’s being honest. He rolls with it. Whines, “You promised,” and clamps his teeth down on Sam’s shoulder to stifle the sound of the orgasm that’s trying to claw its way out of his throat.

“See, Dean, you don’t even care about a massage,” Sam says and pulls his hand out of Dean’s pants, sucks two fingers into his mouth.

Jesus Fucking Christ, Dean can’t even think when Sam does that shit. “Fuck you, Sam,” Dean snarls. “You owe me an orgasm.”

“Pretty sure I just gave you one,” Sam says with a smirk and further exaggerates the motion as he licks another bead of come from his hand.

“You owe me a real orgasm” Dean bitches as he kicks off his jeans and fumbles out of his sticky boxers.

He’s almost free of them when Sam leans down and purrs, “Don’t worry, baby. When I get back I’m gonna hold you down and spilt you open on my fat cock until you’re begging me to stop.”

Dean makes a horrible little sound in the back of his throat as his dick struggles to fill again. Sam just licks the shell of his ear and turns him loose. Playfully bats at Dean’s partial on his way to the door.

“Enjoy your fucking massage, asshole,” Dean growls as Sam makes his way down the hall, sadistic chuckle echoing in the air.

***

Sam is strangely withdrawn when he returns a few hours later. Cas shadows him while he ambles around the kitchen, aimlessly opening and closing cabinets like he isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for. Either that was the best massage ever, or something is bothering Sam and he can’t quite put his finger on it. The kid’s typically only so unfocused when his mind is in a galaxy far, far away. Or, you know, something less nerdy.

“Did you know there’s a Game of Thrones drinking game?” Castiel asks, as out-of-the-blue as ever.

Dean barely registers Sam’s startled jump or the bang of a cupboard before he’s lost in his train of thought again. Game of Thrones is way better than Star Wars. Hell, maybe he could get Sammy to that nice state of almost-drunk where he’s all handsy and –

“We should play,” Cas says.

This time, Dean takes more than a passing interest when Sam twitches and casts a sidelong glance at the former angel. “You want to play a drinking game?” Dean asks, unable to hide the surprise coloring his voice.

“I have yet to partake in this tradition,” Cas says and stares at Sam outright.

Sam’s eyes dance around the room.

Interesting.

“How ‘bout it, Sammy?” Dean asks, and takes the half-hearted shrug Sam manages as consent, if not outright enthusiasm.

***

They’re all pleasantly buzzed by the end of the second episode. Luckily, Dean had the foresight to keep Cas strictly on beer when he and Sam graduated to whiskey. Otherwise, Cas would probably be three sheets to the wind right now.

“We should play Truth or Dare,” Cas says, his eyes startle-wide and words slightly slurred.

Okay, so maybe he’s a little past tipsy.

“I’ve never played,” Castiel says, like anyone would be surprised.

Sam, however, catches Dean off-guard when he says, “Neither have I.”

Dean makes a conscious effort to close his mouth and runs through a lifetime of dusty backroads and murmured conversation. Assuming Sam never played at college, he’s right. Hell, Dean hasn’t played either. They played plenty of car games while they were pressed together in the back seat, but Truth or Dare never one of them. There are some things you just don’t want your father to know.

Later, when Sam was back in his rightful place and Stanford was fading in the rear-view mirror, there had been too much grief huddled in the seat between them for such silliness. Too much to put right.

Later still, the truth was too dangerous.

Now though…

“Well, that settles it then. Let’s play,” Dean says and clicks the television off. “Since you suggested it, Cas, you can go first.”

“I don’t know how to play.”

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters under his breath and catches his brother’s eye for a bit of commiseration before breaking it down. A quick outline of the rules and Dean offers to go first. You know, show him how it’s done. “Okay, Cas. Truth or dare?” Dean asks, and passes him another beer.

“Dare.”

“Okay. We’ll start out easy. I dare you to stand on one leg until it’s my turn again. Now you go.”

Cas stands up and lifts his left foot. “Truth or dare, Sam?”

“Truth,” Sam says, and promptly sprays whiskey across the room when Castiel asks: “How often do you masturbate?”

“Uh,” Sam splutters and looks to Dean for backup.

Dean can tell from the flash of annoyance in his brother’s eyes that it doesn’t take more than a glance to establish that Dean will be absolutely zero help. Hell, Dean narrowly avoided shooting whiskey out his nose when Cas popped the question. Just a few seconds earlier and he wouldn’t have been so lucky.

“Uhm, a couple times a week,” Sam mumbles into his glass as a color spills across his cheekbones.

Fuck, he’s gorgeous like that.

“Truth or dare?” Sam asks, and the promise of retribution in his eyes makes Dean say “Dare,” without hesitation. Whatever Sam decides to make him do won’t be near as bad as some of the humiliating truths he could drag out of him. Besides, Sam’s not nearly drunk enough to come up with anything truly creative. Yet. Dean knows he made the right choice when Sam’s shoulders cave in on themselves. Now he just has to make it through this pansy-ass dare and distract his brother until Sam forgets whatever question he was planning or tormenting him with.

***

Something starts niggling at Dean’s brain roundabout the third minute he’s sucking on his own big toe. It starts to take form somewhere between the time Cas asks Sam how big his dick is and dares him to do as many pushups as he can. Naked.

“I – I can’t do that, Cas. You gotta pick something else, man,” Sam splutters. He looks cagey as hell.

“Why not?” the former angel asks, and he doesn’t seem nearly as drunk as he should be.

Sam flops a hand in Dean’s general direction. “Because my brother. He doesn’t want to see – you know.”

Cas scoffs and Dean’s brain implodes on the verge of epiphany.

Castiel’s words ricochet around his brain like a bullet in an iron chamber: everyone knows you and your brother fornicate like rabbits.

Jesus.

Everyone knows?

“Yes, Dean. Heaven. Hell. Everyone knows, and nobody cares. Except perhaps Crowley. He’s always harbored un unhealthy fixation toward you, Dean.”

And oh my god, he said that out loud.

“Yes, Dean. You are still speaking,” Castiel says before he turns his attention back to Sam, beautiful Sammy, who looks like he’s trying not to throw up in his mouth. “Sam, I believe you were dared to remove your clothing and perform physical exercise.”

It takes him a moment, probably freaking out just as much as Dean is to be called out as co-captain of the HMS Brother Fucker, but eventually Sam stammers out, “No. No, I changed my mind. Truth. I pick truth.”

Cas rolls his eyes, and if Dean weren’t still reeling from the knowledge that the entire fucking universe is aware of him both frequently and vigorously shtupping his sibling, that might have surprised him. As it is, his brain is too preoccupied flashing through all the various compromising positions Sam has had him in – and vice versa – to pay much attention when Cas says, “Fine. Would you ever have a threesome?”

It takes a second to register the question, but then that forgotten epiphany comes crashing down full-force. Every time Cas slammed into the room when they had been about to rip each other’s clothes off, Castiel’s frantic struggle with Sam’s coffee-drenched pants and his later visit to the shower room, Cas’s eyes never straying from the thin strip of flesh peeking out between Sam’s shirt and jeans as his brother fastened the stripper pole to the ceiling: it all blazes through his mind in perfect clarity as Sam stumbles over his answer to whatever truth he was supposed to be spilling.

Hell, Castiel’s new little obsession even explains why the bunker has been so goddamn hot lately. The devious little shit probably cranked up the heat in hope of catching Sam wandering around in his boxers.

“What the fuck happened during that massage?!” Dean blurts out, because it had to be something. Maybe even something big, to have Sam acting so off when he got home.

Sam falters in his non-answer, stuck between one apparently shameful truth and another. In the end, he abandons Castiel’s question in favor of Dean’s, blushing furiously as he mumbles, “It was a couple’s massage.”

Cas sheds additional light on the subject, calmly stating, “Sam was too embarrassed by his erection to enjoy the experience.”

And what. The. Fuck?

If Dean thought he understood before, it’s nothing like the knowledge that hits him now, warm and heavy in the pit of his stomach.

Because Sammy? Yeah. Sammy wants it, too.