Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The storm had knocked out the power again. Dean hated these nights — not because of the dark, but because of what the dark did to his brother.

Well. Stepbrother.

Sam had always been strange, but ever since the incident at that abandoned church, he hadn’t been the same. He’d come back colder. Sharper. Hungrier.

And he looked at Dean like he knew things he shouldn’t.

Tonight, the house was dead silent except for the steady creak of the hallway floorboards. Dean’s pulse ticked up. He knew that sound. Knew who it was.

The door to his room swung open, slowly.

"Dean," came Sam’s voice — but it was deeper now. Slick with something unholy. "You awake?"

Dean sat up in bed. “What do you want?”

Sam stepped in, shirtless, body carved with shadows. His eyes shimmered faintly red, like embers. Not completely human. Not completely him.

“I just came to check on you,” he said, lips curving. “You always get… twitchy when the lights go out.”

“You’re not yourself.”

The thing inside Sam grinned. “Oh, I am. Just more honest now.”

He stalked closer, slow, like a predator. The air grew thick, heavy with heat. Dean’s breath hitched as he tried to look away, but the demon inside Sam had this pull — an aura that crawled under the skin and whispered filthy little invitations.

"You ever wonder why he always watched you?" the demon purred, kneeling on the edge of the bed. "Your precious brother? He wanted you. Dreamed of you. And now…" He leaned in, mouth grazing Dean’s ear. "I do too."

Dean’s back hit the headboard, caught between fear and arousal. His sweatpants were betraying him. “This isn’t right…”

“But it feels right,” the demon murmured. “Doesn’t it?”

A clawed hand — or was it still a hand? — trailed down Dean’s chest.

"You're shaking," the demon said, amused. "Should I stop? Or are you going to let me show you just how deep this connection runs?"

Sam's breath ghosted over Dean’s neck, hot and tinged with something unnatural. Dean’s fists clenched in the sheets, every muscle tight. His skin buzzed from proximity, from the wrongness of it — and how right it felt beneath that.

“You smell like you’ve been thinking about this,” the demon murmured through Sam’s voice. “Thinking about me.”

Dean gritted his teeth. “You’re not him.”

“No,” the demon said, smiling against his throat. “I’m more. And I know every filthy little thought he had about you. Every time he looked at you when you were wet out of the shower. Every time he thought about your mouth.”

“Shut up,” Dean whispered, voice raw. His cock twitched, straining against the thin fabric of his boxers.

“Oh? That get you hard?” The demon chuckled darkly. “You can’t lie to me, Dean. Your body speaks louder than you ever could.”

Sam's hand — still his hand, but more commanding, more precise — traced the edge of Dean’s waistband. “Say the word and I’ll stop. But if you don’t… I’ll take care of you in ways your brother never had the guts to.”

Dean’s heart pounded so loud it drowned the storm outside. His mind screamed for restraint, but his hips betrayed him, bucking just slightly into Sam’s hand. His lips parted around a shallow breath.

“…Fuck it,” he said. “Do it.”

That was all the invitation the demon needed.

In one fluid motion, Sam slid his palm down the front of Dean’s boxers, fingers curling possessively around his hard cock. The heat of his grip made Dean gasp, hips jerking up into it. It wasn’t just the touch — it was the feel behind it. The demon didn’t just want him. He knew him. Knew how to stroke him just right, how to tease the slit with the pad of his thumb, how to curl his fingers until Dean’s legs were trembling.

“Good boy,” Sam purred. “I knew you’d feel better with your brother’s hand on your cock.”

“Stop calling him my brother,” Dean groaned, biting his lip.

“But that’s what makes it wrong,” the demon whispered, mouth sliding down Dean’s chest, licking a slow trail to his navel. “That’s what makes it so fucking hot, isn’t it?”

Dean barely managed a breath before Sam tugged down his boxers, exposing him fully. The air hit his slick head and made him twitch — and then Sam’s mouth was on him.

Warm. Wet. Devouring.

Dean threw his head back with a strangled moan. “Fuck, Sam—”

Sam hummed around him, tongue swirling in lazy, confident circles. His eyes glowed faintly as he looked up — not pleading, not shy — but possessive. As if Dean already belonged to him.

And in that moment, with pleasure flooding his veins and shame drowning beneath it, Dean let him have it. Let the demon take him, guide him, claim him with every sinful flick of his tongue.

Sam’s tongue curled around the underside of Dean’s shaft like he was savoring something forbidden — slow, methodical, maddening. Dean’s back arched off the bed, hands tangled in the sheets like lifelines. Every time the heat coiled low in his stomach — every time his thighs started to tremble and his moans grew desperate — Sam stopped.

Pulled back, licked his lips, and smirked.

“You're so fucking easy to read,” the demon said, voice thick with amusement. “So needy. But we’re not done playing.”

Dean growled, breathless. “Why do you keep stopping—?”

“Because he never got this far with you,” the demon said, crawling back up Dean’s body until they were face to face. “And I want to draw out every second of what he’s only ever imagined.”

Dean blinked, dazed. “Sam… thought about this?”

The demon’s grin spread slowly, deliberately. “More than you know. Want to hear what he wanted? The first time was in the pool. You were sixteen. Wet. Laughing. The way the water clung to you… He couldn’t stop staring.”

He slid a hand between Dean’s thighs again — warm and practiced — and began stroking him with unbearable control, just enough pressure to make him twitch, but never enough to tip him over.

“He used to jerk off to the idea of your mouth,” the demon purred. “Wished you’d catch him. Fantasized about what you’d do if you liked it. You ever wonder why he always walked in on you changing?”

Dean’s moan broke halfway through, half frustration, half arousal. “You’re… a sick fuck—”

The demon chuckled and dragged his tongue up the side of Dean’s cock. “He is the sick fuck. I’m just finally giving you both what you wanted.”

His mouth engulfed Dean again, slow and deep — but just as the pressure rose again, just as Dean's toes curled and his hips bucked and his whole body screamed for release — Sam pulled off. Again.

Dean let out a strangled cry, thighs trembling. “Please—”

“Not yet,” the demon said, lips brushing Dean's wet, aching tip. “You don’t get to come until you beg. Until you admit you’ve wanted this too.”

His hand pumped slowly, cruelly. “Say it. Tell me you’ve thought about your stepbrother’s mouth. Tell me you wondered what it would feel like to let him ruin you.”

Dean’s whole body was on fire, straining on the edge of orgasm, but denied — over and over — and it was driving him insane.

He swallowed hard, shame and lust fighting in his eyes. Then: “I thought about him. I fucking wanted him.”

The demon stilled, eyes glowing brighter.

Dean groaned, grinding up into the demon's grip. No. Sam's grip. He looks down and found the demon staring back at him, Sam looking at him with lust clouding his eyes. He knows it's the demon, but at this point, he doesn't care. “I used to jerk off thinking about his hands. His voice. His mouth.”

Sam’s smile turned feral. “Good boy.”

He went back down — and this time, there were no more interruptions.

Dean came with a broken gasp — hips jerking up, hands scrambling for anything to hold as his entire body locked and shuddered. Hot pulses of release spilled over Lucas’s tongue, but the demon didn’t stop. He moaned around him, dragging out every spasm, sucking gently until Dean whined, twitching from the over-stimulation.

It was too much. It was perfect.

“Fuuuck, stop—” Dean gasped, but his voice was weak. Pleading, not commanding.

Sam pulled back just enough to speak, his lips slick, his eyes dark with something primal and inhuman.

“Oh, no,” the demon murmured. “You said you wanted him. You admitted it. You thought that would be the end?”

His tongue flicked out again — teasing the head, slow and deliberate. Dean’s entire body jolted. His cock was still hard. Still aching.

“I haven’t even shown you what I can do yet.”

Dean moaned, a trembling, helpless sound. His brain was foggy — the orgasm had hit him like a freight train, but the demon’s touch didn’t let the high fade. Instead, it built again. Turned sharp. Needful. His skin felt too tight. His breath too shallow.

“How…?” he whispered.

“Because I’m not just in his body,” the demon said, dragging his hand down Dean’s chest. “I’m in his mind. I feel everything he buried. Every filthy, aching thought he had about you.”

He leaned in, pressing his lips to Dean’s jaw.

“He used to dream about this. Waking up in your bed. Slipping under your sheets. Pretending it was a mistake when you moaned.”

Dean’s hips bucked up involuntarily. His cock was already twitching again — aching to be touched, teased, ruined.

“I know you dreamed too,” the demon whispered. “You thought about your stepbrother wrapping his lips around your cock. Didn’t you?”

Dean nodded, dazed, breathless. “Yes… yes…”

Sam nodded with Dean, his mouth grazing Dean's jaw. “You wanted his hands on you. Wanted him to break the rules. Cross the line.”

A single finger traced along Dean’s slit — feather light and torturous. “You were both cowards. Until now.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered, overwhelmed and turned on beyond reason. “Please… don’t stop.”

Sam— or the thing inside him — grinned like sin itself.

“Oh, baby,” he said, voice velvet and fire. “We’re just getting started.”

He slid back down, mouth open, tongue ready to pull Dean into another round — and this time, he didn’t tease. He devoured.

And Dean? He didn’t want it to stop.

Dean lost track of time. It stopped mattering. All that existed was touch, heat, and the wet, relentless pull of Lucas’s mouth.

Every time he came, he thought it would be the last — that surely his body couldn’t take more. But the demon didn't let him rest. Each orgasm was stolen from him, teased out with cruel perfection. His mind shattered in waves of pleasure, rebuilt only to break again.

The demon’s tongue lapped up every drop with reverence. Like worship. Like fuel.

Dean trembled uncontrollably, sweat-soaked and overstimulated, mouth open in a silent cry as his cock spasmed again — untouched this time — brought to the brink by words alone.

“That one,” the demon said, licking his lips. “Was from when Sam watched you jerk off through the crack in your door. He wanted to walk in and make you finish in his mouth.”

Dean whimpered, his thighs quivering. “He… he saw that?”

“He watched all the time.” A low chuckle. “Touched himself while imagining you begging for it. Just like this.”

Another orgasm ripped through him — sharp, brutal — and the demon moaned as if feeding from it. His body glowed faintly at the edges, and the room felt charged, like lightning had settled in the walls.

Dean was ruined. Raw and desperate, his mind fogged by lust, pain, longing.

The demon kissed his stomach, then his chest, crawling up until their foreheads touched.

“I can feel him now,” the demon whispered. “Sam… He’s awake. Watching. He wants to stop, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered. His hips still rolled, seeking more friction, more of that unbearable pressure. “I… want him.”

“I know,” the demon purred. “I’ve tasted the way his name breaks on your tongue. You want him now. Not me.”

His fingers wrapped around Dean’s cock again — and this time, he stroked it like he meant to ruin him for good.

“Then call to him.”

Dean moaned, louder now, unable to hold it in. His body shook as another climax crested, but this one came with something more — a pull. A weight in his chest that opened and ached and burned.

“Sam—” Dean gasped.

The demon’s grin faltered. Just for a second. As if the name struck somewhere deeper than flesh.

Dean arched off the bed, crying out, “Sam, please—!”

And as he came again — harder than before, nearly blacking out from the force of it — something cracked.

A flicker behind those glowing eyes.

A voice. Shaky. Human.

“...Dean?”

Chapter Text

“...Dean?”

The voice was different this time.

Softer.

Human.

Dean’s eyes cracked open, his body limp and trembling from release after release. Everything was raw. Overstimulated. Slick with sweat. His lips were parted, chest heaving, eyes glassy with the high the demon had stretched out of him.

He blinked again — and for the first time in what felt like hours, he saw Sam.

Not the grin twisted by demonic lust.

Not the glowing eyes.

Just Sam.

And the look on his face?

Wrecked. Horrified. Wanting.

“Shit,” Sam whispered. “Dean, I—I didn’t mean…”

But then Dean reached for him. Not out of fear. Not to push him away.

He pulled him closer.

Sam froze, breathing hard. His hands hovered above Dean’s body like he was afraid to touch him — afraid he’d snap him in half.

“You’re back,” Dean murmured, voice hoarse. “But you… felt everything, didn’t you?”

Sam didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. His eyes said everything.

Dean nodded just as his hand slid down, finding Sam’s and guiding it back to his oversensitive, still-hard cock.

“I don’t want it to stop,” he whispered. “Not if it’s you now.”

Sam closed his eyes and groaned, low and helpless, and leaned down, brushing their foreheads together.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he breathed. “I used to lie awake at night just thinking about what your skin would feel like against mine. And now… seeing you like this—”

Dean shifted beneath him, hips rolling into Sam’s palm. A whimper spilled from his lips. “Then touch me.”

That was all it took.

Sam surged forward, kissing him — not with the demon’s hunger, but his own. Tender, aching, desperate. His hand began to move again, stroking Dean with trembling precision, like worshiping something holy he thought he’d never be allowed to have.

Dean moaned into his mouth, legs falling open instinctively. The kiss deepened, their bodies aligning, slick and electric.

Sam broke the kiss only to murmur: “I felt everything the demon did to you. Every time you came, I wanted to stop it — and I couldn’t. I wanted to be the one to…”

Dean’s hips bucked again, his voice a raw gasp. “Then be the one. Finish what he started. Please.”

Sam’s eyes darkened — not with possession, but desire. Pure and unfiltered.

He dropped between Dean’s thighs, pressing soft kisses to the inner flesh, tongue dragging slowly up the length of Dean’s overstimulated cock. Dean jolted, gasping, fingers tangling in Sam’s hair.

“I’m gonna make you come,” Sam whispered. “And not because he told me to. Because I need to.”

He wrapped his lips around him — and this time, it was different.

Not taunting. Not teasing.

Just Sam, finally giving in to everything he’d ever wanted.

And Dean, ruined and hungry and honest now, gave himself over completely — this time not to a demon, but to the boy he’d wanted all along.

Dean was a mess beneath him.

Eyes half-lidded, lips parted, flushed from head to toe — so sensitive he could barely breathe without shivering, but still aching for more. Sam could feel it. The way Dean’s hips twitched up, silently begging. The way his hands trembled where they gripped the sheets, too wrecked to do anything but feel.

And Sam — he was starving for it.

“Look at you,” he whispered, brushing his lips across Dean’s hip bone. “You’re still hard. After everything. After him.”

He licked slowly up Dean’s cock, just the tip of his tongue — barely there, yet maddening. Dean gasped, his legs twitching.

“I’ve dreamed of doing this right,” Sam murmured. “Not like that… not something stolen. I wanted you to want me.”

“I do,” Dean breathed, voice cracked and needy. “God, I do, Sam.”

That broke something in him.

Sam moaned softly, his fingers sliding under Dean’s thighs to lift and spread him just slightly — tender but possessive. His mouth returned, and this time there was no hesitation, no demon, no mask — just Sam, burying his face between Dean’s legs like it was his first taste of heaven.

He licked deeper, slower. He savored him.

And when Dean writhed, broken little whimpers falling from his lips, Sam backed off just enough to let the pleasure fade again. Not cruel — intentional. Controlled.

“You don’t know how many times I thought about this,” Sam whispered, voice hoarse with want. “All the nights I couldn’t sleep because I wanted to taste you. Hear you.”

He ran a single finger up the slick underside of Dean’s cock, slow as sin.

“Touch you like you’d fall apart under me.”

Dean arched, toes curling, hands flying to his own chest, clawing at it like he didn’t know where to put the need. “Sam, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” Sam nodded as he said, his voice like velvet. “You’ve already given yourself to me. Let me give you something back.”

He kissed the base of Dean’s shaft, then up — a trail of heat and reverence — until his lips circled the tip again, just enough to tease. His tongue flicked, curled, swirled. The pressure was perfect, maddeningly gentle, like he knew exactly how to hold Dean on the edge without ever letting him fall.

And Dean was on the edge — tears at the corners of his eyes, chest rising in shallow bursts, his voice caught in his throat.

Sam looked up at him, eyes burning with love and want. “I used to wonder what you’d sound like if I took my time. Made you beg to come.”

Dean whimpered. “I’m begging now—”

Sam smiled. “Not yet. You begged for him. I want you to beg for me.”

He gripped Dean’s cock again and began stroking — excruciatingly slow, with his mouth grazing just beneath the head, wet and warm.

Dean’s whole body was trembling. Quaking.

“I wanted to pleasure you,” Sam whispered, his voice thick with passion. “But more than that… I wanted to be the one you needed like this.”

Another slick stroke of his tongue.

Another cruel, perfect pause.

“You do need me, don’t you?”

Dean’s voice cracked as he finally said it: “Yes—Sam-f-fuck—I need you—please—”

Sam didn’t stop this time.

He took him in deep, mouth and hand working in tandem, slow and overwhelming. There was no tease now. No demon. Just Sam, giving Dean everything he’d been denied, everything they’d both wanted.

And when Dean finally came again — body arching, voice broken in a sob of pleasure — Sam held him through it, every drop swallowed like worship.

He stayed there long after, mouth still warm and lips still pressing reverent kisses along the softening curve, as if he never wanted to let go.

Sam held Dean gently, hands trailing through sweat-soaked hair, kissing his trembling thighs as the last waves of climax faded. He was so still for a moment, so soft and quiet that Sam almost thought he’d passed out — until Dean let out a sound.

A moan. Low. Hungry.

Sam pulled back, confused.

Dean’s eyes were still half-lidded — but the look in them had changed.

His lips curled slowly into a smirk, his breath unsteady but deliberate.

“That was good,” Dean whispered, voice velvety, thick with afterglow. Then his tongue slid slowly across his lower lip. “But it’s not enough.”

Sam blinked. “Dean?”

Dean’s hand moved down between them again, gripping Sam’s wrist. “I need more. I want to taste you.”

Sam’s throat went dry. The hunger in Dean’s voice wasn’t just physical now — it was deeper. A craving. Unnatural.

“You don’t have to—”

“I do.” Dean’s eyes burned into his. “I want your cock in my mouth. I want to feel you twitch on my tongue. I want to swallow you down while you look at me and realize I’m yours.”

Sam’s breath caught.

It was… everything he’d imagined. Every filthy secret desire. Sam, wanting him back, begging for more. But something was wrong. His movements were too smooth. His words too precise. Like someone had studied his fantasies and was now playing them back at him.

And then Dean’s hand slipped down Sam’s chest, trailing heat behind every touch.

“You felt what it was like,” Dean purred. “All that power inside you. You loved it. You didn’t stop because you cared… you stopped because he did. But I don’t want you to stop.”

Sam’s heart pounded. “...What did you say?”

Dean leaned up, lips brushing his jaw, voice a sultry whisper:

“He never left.”

Sam’s stomach twisted. He pulled back, just enough to see Dean’s face — and what he saw wasn’t entirely Dean. Not anymore.

There was something in the eyes. A faint glow. A knowing smile that was too confident. A presence that wasn’t just aroused — it was devouring.

“You let me in,” the voice said softly, still wearing Dean’s tone like silk. “Now I’m yours. Just like he always wanted to be.”

Sam swallowed hard. “You possessed him.”

“I gave him what he couldn’t admit he wanted. You. All of you.” Dean’s lips kissed down his chest. “And now, I’m going to take what you want to give.”

Sam trembled. He should’ve pushed him away. Should’ve fought it.

But when Dean — the demon — looked up at him, eyes wide and mouth parted, his voice desperate and drenched in lust, Sam couldn’t.

“Please,” Dean whimpered. “Let me have you. Let me taste you.”

And God help him, Sam gave in.

He let Dean push him back against the bed, let him crawl between his thighs with a hunger so intense it stole the breath from his lungs.

Dean licked his lips again, this time with something feral beneath the surface.

“I want you to remember this,” he said. “Because when I make you come, it won’t be him you thank. It’ll be me.”

Then Dean took Sam into his mouth — slow, deep, possessive — and Sam moaned like a man lost.

And maybe he was.

Sam’s breath hitched the moment Dean’s lips wrapped around him.

Warm. Wet. Perfect.

It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t slow.

It was practiced, deliberate — the way someone would suck you if they knew exactly what made your eyes roll back. Like they’d studied you.

Dean’s mouth sank deeper, his tongue pressing flat beneath the shaft as he swallowed around him, humming low in his throat like he was tasting something sacred.

Sam’s head dropped back against the pillow, a long moan escaping his lips. “Fuck, Dean—”

But it wasn’t just Dean.

It was the demon — and Sam knew it. He could feel it in the confidence, in the heat in Dean’s eyes when he looked up at him mid-suck, lips stretched wide and glistening, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth.

Drool spilled out, shameless and unchecked, sliding down Sam’s cock and lower — past his base, to his balls, dripping between them, soaking the skin beneath.

It was filthy, obscene. And Sam couldn’t stop shaking.

Dean moaned again, sending vibrations through every inch of him. He bobbed his head, building a rhythm that was slow but devastating — taking Sam all the way in, until his nose brushed the soft hair at the base, inhaling his scent just before pulling back with a wet slurp that left his shaft glistening in the low light.

Every sound — every slick, hungry drag of tongue and throat — fed something dark and molten inside Sam’s chest. Something he’d buried. Something he’d once been ashamed of.

But now?

He gave in.

His hands tangled in Dean’s hair, guiding him, not forcing, just holding — needing.

Dean moaned in approval, one hand cupping Sam’s balls with exquisite care while his mouth never stopped moving. Never slowed. The drool kept flowing, messy and decadent, coating everything, and Sam loved it.

“This is what you wanted,” the demon murmured around him, voice low and laced with heat. “You wanted it sloppy. Wet. Worshipful.”

Sam groaned, hips bucking helplessly. “God, yes—”

“Leave God out of this. I'm the one giving you this. You need this. You need me. You used to touch yourself thinking about this,” Dean whispered, pulling back just long enough to speak. “Me like this. Mouth full. Drool soaking your thighs. Begging for your cum.”

Sam couldn’t form words anymore. His body was too close, too tight, too full of need.

Dean’s mouth returned, faster now, more eager — moaning like he needed Sam’s release as much as he needed air. His cheeks hollowed with every suck, spit dripping down to his chin, making everything wet and raw.

Sam couldn’t stop himself. He didn’t want to.

He cried out, voice breaking as his orgasm surged, cock twitching violently inside Dean’s mouth. The demon swallowed him down — all of it — groaning through it, like he’d just fed off something divine.

And Sam saw stars.

The pleasure ripped through him like fire — thick, electric, endless.

When he finally opened his eyes, Dean was licking his lips slowly, eyes glowing faintly again. Possessive. Satisfied.

“I told you,” the demon whispered, voice low and breathy. “You wouldn’t thank him.”

Sam could barely breathe. Barely think.

And he didn’t, because it was true. He didn’t thank Dean.

He just stared at him.

And whispered: “More.”

Sam didn’t expect the smile.

But there it was — stretched across Dean’s face, lazy and smug, his lips still shiny with spit and cum. The glow behind his eyes pulsed faintly, hunger coiling beneath the surface.

“You’re starting to understand,” the demon whispered. “This isn’t just about you taking what you want.”

He licked his fingers — deliberately, messily — coating them in the same spit that now slicked Sam’s cock, thighs, and lower.

“This is about me giving you what you’ve always been too ashamed to ask for.”

Sam’s eyes widened just as the demon’s hand slid lower — past his softening cock, past his balls, until those spit-slick fingers grazed the sensitive flesh beneath.

Sam jolted, a shocked moan leaving his throat.

“Sensitive, aren’t we?” the demon said, grinning wider. “He wondered about this, too. Wondered if you’d ever let him touch you here.”

Sam’s breath stuttered. “I didn’t—he wouldn’t…”

“Oh, he did,” the demon murmured. “He imagined licking you open. Slowly. Carefully. Making you beg for it.”

His fingers circled the spot — slow, teasing pressure. Not pushing in. Not yet. Just testing.

Sam tensed, but didn’t stop him.

The demon leaned forward, kissing the inside of his thigh, soft and reverent. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, Sam. I know you. I’ve felt you. You don’t want control. You want to be undone.”

His fingers pressed again — firmer now, massaging the entrance in slick, wet circles, letting the drool do its work. Sam let out a shuddering breath, muscles twitching, his head sinking back against the sheets.

“God…” he whispered. “This is so fucked.”

“And you love it,” the demon purred.

Sam didn’t argue because he did. He loved it and wanted more. So, so much more.

And when the first finger slid in — smooth and deliberate, coated in spit and desire — Sam’s back arched, hips jerking up into the air like his body had been waiting for it.

The moan that escaped him was broken, filthy.

Dean — or what wore his body — moaned, too, watching him with hunger. “That’s it… take it. Just like that.”

He pumped the finger in and out slowly, curling just enough to make Sam gasp.

Then another joined it.

Slick. Warm. Perfect.

Sam whimpered, thighs falling further open.

“You’re feeding me, Sam,” the demon whispered, licking at the base of his cock again while his fingers moved inside him. “Every time you give in… every time you stop pretending… I get stronger.”

Sam was panting now, lost in sensation — his cock half-hard again, twitching with every slow, deep press of the demon’s fingers.

“I know what you want,” the demon breathed, his hot breath against Sam's cock. “You want to be taken. Filled. Owned.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered as he looked down, his breath hitched as glowing eyes looked back at him. “Yes…”

“And you want him to do it.”

That was the final blow — not the demon's tongue, not the fingers curling inside him — but the truth.

Because it was true.

Sam wanted Dean. Had wanted him forever. Had imagined this very moment, alone, in silence, in shame.

And now that it was happening — corrupted, perfect, real — he let it happen.

He gave the demon what it wanted.

He gave Dean what they both had always craved. Before Sam, he whispered the words:

“Don’t stop.”

Sam was lost in it now.

The heat. The pressure. The dizzying way Dean — or the thing that now wore him — moved inside his body and mind like it already belonged there.

When Dean's cock slowly pushed in, it wasn’t with violence or cruelty — it steady and devastatingly deep. Like the demon wanted Sam to feel every inch. To know that this was more than lust. It was claiming.

Sam’s back arched, a cry ripping from his throat as his body stretched to take him. He trembled, overwhelmed by the fullness, the intimacy, the need that had been denied for too long.

And the demon?

The demon was ecstatic.

“Ohhh, you feel that, Sam?” it moaned, rolling its hips as Dean’s cock slid in to the hilt, wet and hot. “He’s still sensitive. Still wrecked. He's inside your ache, and he loves it.”

Sam’s hands gripped the sheets, knuckles white. The stretch, the drag, the slick glide of Dean’s body moving inside him — it was everything he had never dared ask for. He was being filled, fucked, opened, and it was too good, too much, too perfect.

Dean groaned above him — but it was layered, warped. The demon’s voice laced through it. “You were always going to be mine. You know that, right?”

Sam couldn’t speak. He only nodded.

“Then take what comes with it.”

The thrusts deepened — slow but brutal, unrelenting — and the room shifted. The air thickened. Sam’s body lit up from within, heat crawling beneath his skin like a thousand kisses pressed just below the surface.

And then he felt it. A burning — low on his abdomen.

He gasped, eyes snapping open. “W-what is that?”

The demon’s hand slid over his lower belly, splayed possessively, thumb stroking the rising heat just above his cock. “A mark,” he purred. “A brand. For those who give themselves willingly.”

Sam tried to lift his head — but as he looked down, he saw it forming in the flush of his skin: a faint outline, black and rising from beneath the surface like ink in water. A sigil — elegant, spiraled — feminine in its curves but sharp at its heart.

A succubus seal.

“You belong to me now,” the demon growled, thrusting harder, his voice hitching as Dean’s body clenched with overstimulated pleasure. “Body, mind, soul — and want.”

The mark pulsed as Sam moaned, another orgasm creeping up far too soon. His cock throbbed untouched, the sensation magnified by the demonic magic weaving through his nerves.

“I can feel how badly you want this,” the demon snarled, hips crashing into him with supernatural force. “How long you’ve needed him — needed this. And now, he’ll never be free of you. Just like you’ll never be free of me.”

Sam cried out, his body jerking under Dean’s, every nerve ending alight with fire and pleasure and belonging.

He didn’t resist the brand.

He didn’t want to.

Because for the first time, he had everything he wanted:

Dean.

And something far, far darker claiming them both.

The sigil on Sam’s abdomen pulsed — a living thing now, thrumming with heat that spread through his core like a second heartbeat. As Dean moved above him, still buried deep, still thrusting with aching precision, Sam accepted it. The mark. The claim. The submission.

And the demon felt it.

“Ohhh… yes,” it moaned through Dean’s lips, voice warping between two tones — one human, one ancient and wrong. “He accepts it. You accept it.”

Sam whimpered, his hips rocking back instinctively, chasing the rhythm even through the burn. “I do…”

The demon’s hands slid lower — curling around Sam’s cock, already hard and throbbing again. The first stroke was slow, deliberate — timed perfectly with the next thrust.

Dean shuddered just as Sam gasped.

The next stroke matched another thrust. And another.

The pleasure built again — faster this time, hotter, desperate. Every push inside, every slick pull of fingers sent sparks flying behind Sam’s eyes. The sigil pulsed with every heartbeat, burning with need, soaking in the friction, the surrender.

Above him, Dean's moans started to crack — high and breathless, his overstimulated body clinging to the demon’s command, caught between unbearable sensitivity and insatiable hunger. His cock throbbed with every thrust, twitching inside Sam’s tight heat.

And Sam?

Sam sang with sound — gasping, crying out, his voice filled with want, pain, submission.

The demon fed on it all.

“Both of you…” the voice rasped, breath catching as Dean’s thrusts grew erratic. “You’re close. You’re mine. Every cry, every clench — it all belongs to me.”

Sam and Dean moved together now — bodies slick and shaking, breath coming in broken waves.

Sam writhed under them, his cock slick in the demon’s stroking hand, his thighs trembling. “Please, please—” he choked out, barely forming words.

Dean cried out behind clenched teeth, his voice strained, helpless. “I can’t— I’m gonna—”

“Do it,” the demon growled. “Come for me. Both of you. Feed me.”

And as Sam’s body tensed, stars sparking behind his eyes, and Dean thrust one final time — deep, full, breaking —

The room pulsed with unnatural heat.

The sigil flared.

And they came together, voices overlapping in a moan that sounded less like pleasure and more like worship.

The demon groaned between them — not from effort, but ecstasy — fed and filled from the brothers' releases. Dean collapses onto Sam as they both try to catch their breath. Sam could feel the presence of the demon is gone, however too groggy to say anything.

"What have we done?" Dean groans into the hollow of Sam's neck. Sam ignores Dean's question, assuming it was rhetorical. Sam's eyes flutter before he looks down and notice that the sigil is still on his lower abdomen. A glimmer of worry crosses his mind before a small smile appears on his face.

"Nothing we regret, I hope," Sam whispers, his cock still twitching, wanting more.

Chapter Text

It started after the third night.

Three nights since Dean had collapsed into Sam’s arms, breathless and drenched in sweat, branded by the kind of pleasure that didn’t fade with time — the kind that left scars in places you couldn’t see.

Three nights since Anael had whispered through their mouths, pulled moans from their throats, fed off their bodies like they were made for it. For her.

Sam hadn’t spoken much since. Not about that night. Not about the way his eyes had rolled back while Dean writhed beneath him. Not about the sigil still etched faintly into his skin, humming beneath his clothes.

And Dean? He hadn’t asked.

Because if he did… he might admit how much he’d wanted it. Still wanted it.

That was the worst part — not the possession, not the shame. The ache. The emptiness that came after. The feeling of being split wide open and left there, waiting.

And that’s when the dreams began.

It began with fog.

Not cold, not damp — just there, heavy and still, stretching into forever. The world around him was gray and gold, hazed like dusk caught in a breath. There was no ground, no sky. He stood barefoot on something that didn’t exist, but held him all the same.

He felt watched.

But not in fear.

In anticipation.

A presence pressed against the edge of the dream like a tide about to rise. And Dean, despite himself, didn’t move. He only breathed — shallow, measured — as the stillness grew heavy enough to weigh on his chest.

Then a voice came, curling against his ear like a whisper slipping through smoke: “You’ve been left open, Dean.”

Dean turned.

There was a man behind him.

No — not a man. Something wearing one.

He stood tall, ethereal, skin lit faintly from beneath like a dying star. His hair was dark and loose, falling just past his jaw. And his eyes — God, those eyes — shimmered like oil over water, catching colors that didn’t belong to this world.

The stranger smiled. Not wide. Not cruel.

Just… like he already knew him. “She took from you,” he said, voice low and smooth. “Anael. That was her name, wasn’t it?”

Dean didn’t answer, but the silence was enough.

“She pulled you into the dark,” the man continued, stepping closer, each movement soundless. “But she didn’t finish it. Not really. She opened something inside you… then left it starving.”

Dean’s throat worked. “This is a dream.”

The figure — the demon — tilted his head.

“Of course it is,” he said, as if that made it more real.

He moved closer, circling — not threatening, not touching, but somehow more intimate than either. Dean could feel the heat of him, radiating with every pass, like gravity drawing him in.

“She touched your body,” the demon whispered, now behind him. “But I… I’ve come for the rest.”

A shiver crawled down Dean’s spine.

The demon breathed in deeply, as if tasting the air between them.

“You’re not afraid,” he observed. “Not really. You’re ashamed of how much you miss it. How much you want to feel that again — but this time with someone who won’t leave you aching and confused.”

A hand — barely more than a shadow — passed near Dean’s chest, not quite touching, but close enough to make his skin tingle.

“You want to know what it means to be kept,” the demon said softly. “Not just taken.”

Dean closed his eyes. “Who are you?”

There was a pause — like the dream had stopped breathing.

Then, a name.

“Castiel.”

When Dean opened his eyes again, Castiel stood in front of him, eyes gleaming with heat that felt older than time. A hand lifted — still not touching — and hovered just above Dean’s lower abdomen, where Anael's influence once burned through Sam's touch.

“This is where she nearly marked you,” Castiel murmured. Dean almost felt a tinge of jealousy through those words. Possessive almost. “But it didn’t take. You weren’t hers. Not then.”

His hand lowered slightly — enough that Dean felt the heat, the pressure of something dangerous and sacred — but still no contact.

“You could be mine, though. If you want.”

Dean swayed, breath catching. His lips parted, but he had no answer. No resistance.

Castiel leaned in, not quite kissing, not quite touching — his mouth a breath from Dean’s, and smirked.

“This is only the beginning. I’ll come again. When you’re ready.”

Dean woke slowly, breath shallow, heat pooling low in his body.

The sheets were twisted around his waist, damp with sweat. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, but his heart thudded like he’d run a mile. The room was dim — early morning light filtering through the motel blinds in stripes across his skin.

For a moment, he lay still, unwilling to move.

The dream clung to him.

Not Anael this time. Not Sam.

Castiel.

Even now, his name felt dangerous in his mouth — like saying it would summon something he wasn’t sure he wanted gone.

Dean exhaled shakily and sat up, running a hand through his hair. His body still tingled where Castiel had been. Where he almost touched. Where heat had gathered, just shy of pain. Just shy of pleasure.

Then he felt it — an ache low in his stomach.

He glanced down.

The hem of his shirt had ridden up during the night, and just beneath his navel, something dark curled against his skin. A symbol. A shape he didn’t recognize, but that felt familiar in his bones.

It looked like ink. A thin, elegant spiral etched in black — like a sigil, but less jagged. More fluid. Almost beautiful.

Dean reached out, brushing the tips of his fingers across it.

It didn’t hurt. But it warmed under his touch, like something alive. And when his hand passed over it again, it vanished — like it had sunk beneath the surface of his skin.

He blinked and it was gone.

“Tch, just a dream,” he muttered.

But he didn’t believe it.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood. His body felt… off. Not weak, not sore — just aware. Like every inch of him had been woken up while he slept. Like he’d been touched without ever being touched.

Dean swallowed hard and crossed to the bathroom mirror. He stared at himself — at his lips, his throat, the hollow of his collarbone. Everything looked the same.

But he leaned forward anyway… and pressed a soft, uncertain kiss to his reflection, his fingers lingering on the sigil below his navel.

Exactly where Castiel had hovered.

The heat bloomed again, faint and aching.

He backed away from the mirror, heart hammering.

A knock at the motel door made him jump.

“Dean,” Sam called from the other side. “We’ve got something. Demon track lit up about an hour north. We leaving soon?”

Dean took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes, steadying himself.

“Yeah,” he called back. “Be right there.”

The Impala rumbled down the two-lane highway, tires humming against the pavement like background static to the silence between them. Trees blurred past in the windows, early morning sun slicing through the windshield in golden stripes. Dean decided to let Sam drive this time, he needed to process his dream of Castiel.

Sam kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping rhythmically against his thigh. Focused. Calm. At least on the surface.

Dean sat beside him, arms crossed, head tilted slightly toward the window — but not really looking at anything.

They hadn’t spoken much since leaving the motel.

The lead they were chasing wasn’t urgent — just a disturbance in a town called Alder Hollow. Possible possession, strange behavior from a local pastor. Nothing they hadn’t seen before.

But the real demon had been in the room three nights ago.

And they both knew it.

“You’ve been quiet,” Sam said finally, eyes still on the road. His tone was casual — too casual.

Dean didn’t respond right away. “So have you.”

A beat passed.

Sam’s fingers drummed again. Then stopped. “You been sleeping okay?”

Dean’s jaw flexed.

“Depends on what you call ‘okay.’”

“Nightmares?”

“Not exactly.”

Sam shot him a glance, brief but sharp. “You’ve been having something, though.”

Dean shrugged, but it was stiff. “Just dreams. Nothing new.”

Sam didn’t buy it. He looked like he was about to press harder — then pulled back. Instead, his grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly.

“I’ve been thinking about the other night,” he said.

That did it.

Dean’s head turned, sharp. “Don’t.”

“Why not?” Sam said, glancing at him again. “It happened, Dean. We can’t just pretend it didn’t.”

“I’m not pretending,” Dean snapped, then paused, forcing a breath. “I’m trying to move on.”

Sam was quiet for a moment.

“Did it feel like us?” he asked softly. “Or like something else wearing us?”

Dean swallowed, the weight of that question sitting in his chest like stone. “I don’t know Sam,” he said. “Both, maybe.”

Sam nodded once, slowly.

“That’s the part that gets me,” he murmured. “Because even when Anael was in control… I wasn’t fighting it. Not like I should’ve.”

The silence returned — heavier this time.

Dean’s fingers curled into his sleeves. “We were possessed. That’s not on us.”

“Isn’t it?” Sam said, eyes still on the road. “Because it felt like it was something already there. Just… unlocked.”

Dean looked away again, jaw tight.

He didn’t answer, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he agreed.

What felt like an eternity later, they've finally arrived to Alder Hollow. It was a quiet town.

Alder Hollow looked like every other middle-of-nowhere place they’d been — sleepy, two blocks wide, tucked into a valley with a chapel at its center and a diner that hadn’t changed its menu since the ‘60s.

Sam pulled the Impala into the gravel lot beside the church. The building rose above them in faded white planks and a rusted iron steeple that pointed at the overcast sky like a blade. A few crows scattered as the engine cut off.

Dean stepped out of the car and stretched, trying to shake the stiffness from the long drive. His shirt shifted up just slightly — and for a heartbeat, he thought he felt heat bloom over his lower stomach.

The mark. He ignored it.

Sam then grabbed his duffel from the trunk and glanced at the church. “Pastor went quiet last week. Started acting weird in his sermons. Locals say he’s still in there, but won’t come out. Smells like possession.”

 Dean nodded. “Guess we’ll see.”

They approached the church steps, boots crunching over dead leaves. The front doors loomed ahead — heavy oak, half-shadowed by the overhang.

Dean hesitated.

It was faint, but he felt it — the tiniest ripple under his skin. Like static. Like breath at the back of his neck. His hand brushed over his abdomen instinctively.

“You’re thinking about me again.”

The voice slithered through his mind like silk — not a sound exactly, but a feeling. Cool and amused. Close.

He stopped walking.

Sam turned back. “You good?”

Dean blinked. “Yeah. Just… dizzy.”

Sam frowned, studying him. “Eat something. You're pale.”

Dean nodded, forcing a breath. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t, not really.

He felt too warm again. His pulse fluttered just under his skin. And in the space between heartbeats, he heard it again — low and teasing:

“You've touched the mark I left. Do you want to know what I’ll leave next?”

Dean’s breath hitched.

He didn’t answer — couldn’t.

Because Sam was still looking at him. Because this was real. Because he couldn’t afford to let the wrong thing slip.

But Castiel wasn’t asking for answers.

He was planting seeds.

Inside the church, the air was thick with dust and silence. The heavy doors creaked shut behind them, sealing out the weak daylight.

Sam swept the flashlight across the pews — no signs of recent use, save for a few cracked hymnals tossed on the floor. The altar was still intact, but something about the space felt off.

Wrong, but in that quiet, crawling way.

“Basement, maybe?” Sam whispered, eyes narrowing toward the side stairwell. “If he’s still here, he’s hiding.”

Dean nodded. He wanted to agree. He should’ve agreed. But the pressure in his chest had started to build again. A warmth curled behind his ribs, low and slow, dragging his thoughts sideways.

“He doesn’t see the way your fingers twitch when he speaks your name.”

The whisper wasn’t in his ears — it was under his skin.

Dean froze, gripping the edge of a pew as a shiver ran up his spine.

“He doesn’t hear the way your heart beats faster when he gets too close. But I do.”

“Dean?” Sam’s voice cut through the haze. “You good?”

Dean blinked — forced a nod. “Yeah. Just—air’s stale.”

Sam watched him for a second too long, fidgeting with the flashlight before turning his attention back toward the altar. “Keep an eye behind us. If it’s a trap, he’s gonna wait for a corner.”

Dean swallowed hard, focusing on the grip of his blade, on the scuffed floorboards, on anything but the heat rising through his abdomen.

“He touches your shoulder, and you pretend it doesn’t matter. But it burns, doesn’t it?”

Dean’s breath caught.

He wanted to snap — to tell Castiel to shut up, to leave him alone — but Sam would hear.

So he bit the inside of his cheek. Focused. Moved forward.

The stairs down were narrow and winding, creaking underfoot. The lower level opened into a storage space — shelves, broken statues, a few scattered candles still flickering faintly, though no flame had touched them in hours.

Sam’s light caught something — a smear of black across the stone floor. Dried blood.

“Found something,” Sam said, kneeling to examine it.

Dean crouched beside him, forcing his mind to stay sharp.

“He’s on his knees,” Castiel whispered, voice low and thick. “And still, he doesn’t realize he’s always been beneath you.”

Dean’s jaw clenched.

Not now. Not here.

“Soon,” Castiel breathed. “You’ll want to know what it feels like when I don’t stop whispering. When I start touching.”

Dean stood too fast — staggered slightly.

Sam looked up. “Dean?”

“I need air,” Dean said tightly, voice hoarse.

He turned and climbed the stairs quickly, heart thundering, sweat beading at the base of his spine. The mark below his navel burned now — as if reacting to Castiel's. growing proximity.

And deep in his mind, beneath all the resistance, a small voice whispered back:

Then touch me.

Dean leaned against the side of the church, lungs heaving in the cold air. His hands were braced on his knees, his pulse thudding against his ribs like a warning he couldn’t decipher.

He wanted to scream. To claw the whispers out of his skull.

“You’re shaking, Dean.”

The voice didn’t come from inside his head this time.

It came from behind him.

He turned — and Castiel was there.

Not as a vision. Not in shadow. But real.

He leaned casually against the church wall, dressed in black that shimmered like oil under the overcast sky. His presence folded into the world like he belonged there, like the shadows had shaped themselves around him just to please him.

His eyes glowed faintly — not bright, not blinding — just aware.

Knowing.

“I was wondering how long you’d last,” Castiel murmured, voice like silk-wrapped heat. “I thought maybe you’d pretend a little longer.”

Dean’s throat worked. He backed a step away, but didn’t speak.

Castiel followed — slowly. No urgency. Just confidence.

“You’re tired,” he said. “And hungry in ways you don’t understand yet. You think it was Anael who started this?”

He stopped just a breath away.

“She just woke you up," he whispered.

Dean trembled — with fury, confusion, and something far more dangerous: want.

Then Castiel reached out — not to touch — but to let his fingers hover just over the faint spot below Dean’s navel. The mark flared to life in response, heat flooding outward in a wave that stole his breath.

“I left my name on you,” Castiel said softly. “And now I’ve come to claim it.”

Dean didn’t move.

Castiel stood close — too close — like the heat of him had weight. Like just being near him made it hard to breathe.

And it did.

Dean’s back was to the wall now. Cold stone pressing into his spine, rough and grounding. Castiel stood in front of him with that same unbearable calm, eyes flickering with hunger that wasn’t violent… but inevitable.

“Look at you,” Castiel said, voice smooth, pleased. “Running from a whisper, but walking straight into my hands.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “I didn’t run.”

Castiel’s grin was slow and sinister. “No. You just needed air. How pathetic.”

He leaned in — not touching, but close enough that Dean could smell him. Smoke, heat, something faintly sweet beneath it, like burnt vanilla or crushed violet.

“You think I came to tempt you?” Castiel asked, tilting his head. “No. No, Dean. I came because you were already tempted.”

Dean’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “I’m not yours.”

Castiel’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it softened. “That’s the part you can’t say like you mean it.”

His fingers lifted, hovering just beside Dean’s face — not quite touching, but the electric pressure of it made Dean’s breath catch.

“Tell me something,” Castiel murmured. “When you kissed your own reflection… were you thinking of me?”

Dean didn’t respond.

“Or were you thinking of him?” Castiel whispered. “Your brother. The way he moaned when Anael took control. The way you wanted him long before that.”

Dean turned his face sharply away — but Castiel shifted with him, staying near, like gravity itself was twisted. He quickly grabbed Dean's chin and forced him to look back at Castiel. Dean struggled to maintain eye contact, those eyes he wanted to drown in but refused to admit.

“You didn’t fight her because it was easier to blame the demon than admit it was already inside you,” he continued. “That ache… that hunger... was never hers.”

Dean’s throat was tight, breath uneven.

“It was mine,” Castiel whispered, voice a thread of velvet wrapping around his neck. “And now it’s yours too.”

His hand lowered to the mark he left below his navel, and it flared with heat under his shirt, sending a pulse of pressure that rippled deep, low, dangerous. Castiel watched the emotions dance across Dean's face and lazily traced a finger along his waist.

Dean hissed between his teeth, one hand pressing against the stone wall behind him to steady himself.

Castiel finally leaned in, lips just beside Dean’s ear.

“Let me remind you what it means to be worshipped,” he said, flicking his tongue against his ear. That alone made Dean's knees buckle but Castiel's grip held him steady. “Not used. Not toyed with. Wanted.”

A crash echoed from within the church — the sound of glass, of growling, of something monstrous roaring.

Dean tensed — ready to move, but Castiel didn’t block his path.

He just smiled, voice rich with knowing.

“Go save him,” he said, stepping back into shadow. “But you’ll come back to me. You always do.”

And then he vanished — like smoke curling from flame.

Dean stood frozen for a beat, chest rising and falling fast, skin still tingling, the mark burning like it remembered every word.

Then he turned and ran, slamming through the church doors into chaos.

Dean burst through the church doors, blade drawn, lungs already burning from the sprint and from something deeper—Castiel's heat still clawing at his skin.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped, cold and wrong.

The air was thick with ash and ozone. Candles had all gone black. The altar had shattered into splinters across the pulpit. Glass glistened across the floor like scattered stars.

And in the center of it all—

Sam.

Pinned against the wall, blood running from a cut across his temple, blade still clutched tight in one hand. The other was stretched out to the side, holding back the creature with a warding sigil carved into a jagged piece of stained wood.

The thing that had been the pastor no longer resembled a man. Its limbs bent like broken sticks. Its jaw unhinged as it screamed at Sam — a high-pitched sound that wasn’t pain or rage but hunger.

“Sam!”

Dean didn’t think — just moved.

He charged forward, sliding across the floor, blade catching the edge of the demon’s shoulder. It shrieked, reeling back with unnatural speed — but not before swiping at Dean’s side.

Claws grazed his ribs, hot pain blooming.

He stumbled, rolled, and came up facing it — eyes wild, breath ragged.

“You smell like another," the demon hissed, its voice rasping through broken teeth, “He’s been inside you.”

Dean staggered for half a second.

The mark below his navel pulsed — sharp, hot, alive. His knees nearly buckled.

Sam slammed the demon from behind, gritting his teeth. “Where the hell were you?” he shouted, breath heavy. “I needed you in here!”

Dean didn’t answer, his pulse roared in his ears. Castiel’s voice echoed in his mind.

“Go save him. But you’ll come back to me.”

The demon lunged again. Dean twisted, blade cutting across its chest. His body moved on instinct — no hesitation, no fear.

Like something else was guiding him. Or watching, feeding.

With a guttural growl, Dean ducked low, came up behind the demon, and drove his blade into the base of its skull.

It screamed — a crackling, splitting sound — before collapsing in a heap of smoke and broken limbs.

The church fell silent, save for their breathing.

Sam leaned against a pillar, blood sliding down the side of his face, his eyes burning as he looked at Dean.

“Where were you?” he asked again, quieter now. Hurt. Furious. “I had that thing’s claws in my chest, and you were just—gone.”

Dean couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I… stepped out. Just for a second.”

Sam scoffed, shoving his blade into its sheath. “A second’s all it takes to get someone killed.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Dean clenched his jaw, turned away.

And deep beneath his skin, the mark burned softly, like it was enjoying this.

The body had been burned.

Or what was left of it.

Salt, fire, holy oil — the routine always came easy after the kill. But this time, Dean had moved like a machine. Eyes down. Words tight. Avoiding Sam’s gaze.

The drive back to the bunker was nearly silent.

Night had fallen hard by the time they hit the open road. Wind rustled through the cracked windows, and the radio stayed off. Sam was behind the wheel, jaw locked, the blood at his temple dried to a rust-colored smear.

Dean sat in the passenger seat, his fingers twitching restlessly against his thigh.

“You should tell him the truth,” Castiel’s voice murmured in his ear — quiet, close, intimate.
“Tell him how you trembled when I whispered your name. Tell him how your knees buckled when I touched the mark.”

Deans’s hand balled into a fist.

Sam glanced at him. “You’re bleeding.”

Dean looked down. His shirt was torn at the ribs where the demon’s claws had caught him. He hadn’t even noticed.

“Let him worry. Let him fuss. He’s good at pretending he doesn’t care.”

“I’m fine,” Dean muttered.

Sam didn’t reply.

The lines around his mouth had deepened since the fight. Frustration, fatigue… and maybe a little fear.

Dean hated that he’d caused it.

“He hates being vulnerable in front of you,” Castiel continued, tone syrupy and amused. “And yet you keep giving him reasons to be.”

“Maybe part of him liked what Anael showed him. Maybe part of you did too.”

“Shut up,” Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam glanced at him again. “What?”

Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

Castiel chuckled — the sound a soft vibration in the back of Dean’s skull.

“You’re unraveling so beautifully, Dean, and I'm going to be there when you finally stop pretending you hate it." 

Back at the Bunker

The garage door groaned open.

Sam parked the Impala and killed the engine. Inside, the lights buzzed to life, illuminating the dusty metal tables, scattered books, and weapons hanging on the walls like a museum of monsters.

Sam stepped out without a word and headed toward the med kit.

Dean lingered by the car, eyes closed, grounding himself in the familiar silence of the bunker.

But even here—Castiel was with him.

“You brought me home.”

Dean flinched, breath catching.

“And I’m not leaving.”

Dean didn’t speak as he walked past Sam, blood crusted on his shirt, tension simmering just beneath his skin.

“I’ll take care of it,” he muttered, already halfway to his room.

Sam raised an eyebrow, holding the med kit. “Sure, just let the infection handle it for you.”

Dean didn’t stop. Behind him, Sam scoffed under his breath and snapped the kit shut, tossing it back onto the metal shelf with a clatter. His boots echoed down the hallway toward his own door.

Another silence.

Another door closed between them.

Dean’s room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bathroom light spilling through the open door.

He stripped out of his shirt first — the dried blood cracking as the fabric peeled away from the wound. The slash across his ribs was red and raw, but shallow. Manageable. He hissed as cool air hit the skin. Next came the rest — the jacket, the boots, the sweat-stuck shirt, leaving him in nothing but dark, low-slung jeans. His body was flushed and tight, every nerve still buzzing from the fight… from Castiel.

Especially from Castiel.

The mark below his navel pulsed with a slow, aching warmth.

He didn’t want to look at it. But his eyes were already there — drawn to it like gravity.

“You keep pretending you’re in control.”

The voice brushed against the base of his neck.

Dean froze.

He turned slowly toward the bathroom — steam was already curling out from behind the slightly ajar glass shower door. He hadn’t turned it on, and he wasn’t alone.

The moment he stepped inside, the heat hit him — not just from the water.

Castiel was in the shower.

Naked. Unapologetic. His body wreathed in steam and shadow, his back turned, head tilted slightly like he’d been waiting.

And he had.

“You left the door open,” Castiel said, his voice low and sinfully warm. “I took it as an invitation.”

Dean’s breath caught in his throat. The light reflected off the drops running down Castiel’s spine, the water curling around him like it obeyed him, not gravity.

“Or maybe,” Castiel added, finally turning his head, eyes glowing faintly in the steam, “you just wanted someone who wouldn’t lie to you about what you really are.”

Chapter Text

Castiel didn’t move. Water coursed down his body, steam curling around the sharp lines of his frame, as if even the heat wanted to cling to him. He stood confidently within the narrow confines of the shower. Dark, carved, unearthly, and yet so painfully human in form it made Dean's skin buzz.

“You left the door open,” Castiel said again, more softly this time. “Wasn’t that what you wanted?

Dean's throat worked.

“I didn’t ask you to come in.”

Castiel tilted his head, lips curving.

“But you didn’t ask me to leave.”

A shudder rolled through Dean's chest. The mark below his navel pulsed, a thrumming heartbeat that didn’t belong to him. Dean hesitated.

“You’re still fighting,” Castiel murmured, eyes scanning Dean's bare chest. Dean could sense anger in his voice. “Still clinging to guilt, shame… fear. That’s not strength, Dean. That’s hesitation dressed up as honor.”

Dean took a breath, unsteady and hot. He stepped forward, stopping just at the edge of the tile, where steam kissed his bare torso.

“What do you want?” he asked, already knowing the answer. Castiel’s smile deepened. Not cruel, but knowing.

“I want what’s already mine.”

He took a single step back in the shower, the water cascading around him in arcs of heat and light. His hand lifted, slowly — inviting. Tempting.

“But I want you to come take it.”

The bathroom was thick with heat and pulse and the low hum of something ancient and electric. Dean’s body was tense, trembling, but it wasn’t fear anymore. It was something closer to anticipation. He stepped forward. Just one foot onto the tile until he stops, his eyes never leaving Castiel's.

Steam curled around his hips.

“There you are,” Castiel said, voice velvet and wicked. “My beautiful contradiction.”

Dean licked his bottom lip as he reached for the waistband of his jeans.

The jeans hit the tile with a soft rustle, heavy with steam. Dean stepped fully into the shower. Heat enveloped him instantly. A weight, a press, a flood. The moment the water hit his skin, it felt like something inside him unlocked. His muscles relaxed against his will. His breath caught.

And Castiel was there. Not lunging. Not touching. Just standing with him. Watching him. Wanting.

“Look at you,” Castiel murmured, voice slick with reverence. “You walk through blood, pain, fire… and still, this is what undoes you. Heat. Touch. Being seen.”

He stepped closer. Close enough for water to cascade between them. His fingers hovered over Dean’s ribs — just shy of the healing wound. Steam rose between their skin like smoke rising from a ritual.

“You’ve been touched before,” he whispered, “but never kept. Never worshipped.”

His palm finally met Dean’s chest.

And it was like a spark went off beneath his skin. Power, not just warmth. It pulsed through Dean in waves, blooming outward from Castiel’s touch. He felt the mark over his lower belly ignite. Not with pain, but with heat. Pleasure. Claim.

“I could give you everything you’ve never dared ask for,” Castiel said, voice low and velvet-thick. “Not just pleasure. Not just escape.”

He leaned forward, lips brushing Dean’s temple — soft, careful, intentional.

“I could give you the feeling of being the center of someone’s need. The only mouth worth kissing. The only body worth begging for.”

The water beaded down Dean’s chest, his skin trembling under Dean’s fingertips.

“I don’t want to use you, Dean,” Castiel said, his eyes full of promise. “I want to want you. Over and over. Until your name is holy in my mouth.”

Dean’s breath stuttered just as his knees nearly gave. Castiel shifted in that moment, just enough.

Wings unfolded behind him — black as oil, shimmering with heat and smoke. Not fully there, not fully corporeal, but visible for just a second. Power spiraled off of him in waves, surrounding Dean like a storm coiled tight around his frame.

It didn’t frighten Dean though. It made him ache.

Castiel pressed his forehead to Dean’s, both of them standing in the narrow light of the shower, the hiss of water the only sound.

“Say it,” he pleaded. “Say you want to be wanted. Tell me you want me to worship you." Castiel carefully trailed his fingers down Dean's stomach, tickling his waist. He smirked just as he noticed how hard Dean was, making his own cock twitch. Dean let out a whimper. 

"Say it Dean," Castiel whispered into Dean's ear before slowly drawing back, taking one of Dean's hands into his own, guiding it to Castiel's chest. 

Castiel's breath feathered against Dean’s lips, his eyes glowing faintly beneath the curtain of steam. His voice lowered to something raw, edged with darkness, edged with heat. A warning.

“But I won’t wait forever, Dean.”

His hand slid slowly from Dean’s chest to the curve of his waist, firm, steady, possessive. The heat of him pressed into Dean’s skin like a brand, as though the mark wasn’t enough. As though this was the true claim.

“If you don’t want this, say it now.”

But Dean didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to. Instead, he leaned in slowly and deliberately. He pressed his mouth to Castiel's. There was no hesitation. No fear. Just need.

The kiss was quiet at first — soft lips parting, water sliding between them, a slow melting of resistance into something inevitable. Castiel didn’t push. He didn’t seize. He received it, hands cradling Dean’s face with surprising reverence. Then it deepened, heat surging like a dam breaking.

Dean’s fingers curled into Castiel’s back, muscles tight, holding on like he might fall. But there was nowhere to fall to, only him. Only this.

Castiel groaned softly into his mouth — not just from pleasure, but from something deeper. Satisfaction. Power. Recognition.

You chose this.

You chose me.

And Dean had. He remembered just for a flicker of a moment what Castiel was. A demon or angel. Ancient. Wanting. Capable of corrupting and consuming.

But right now?

He didn’t care.

Because no one else had ever touched him like this. Had ever wanted him this way, like he was sacred, not broken. Like he was the prize, not the pawn.

Their bodies pressed together, heat flooding every inch of skin. The mark between Dean's hips glowed, pulsing brighter now, as if reacting to the kiss — to the agreement.

Castiel broke the kiss only to press his mouth to the hollow of Dean’s throat, lips brushing the pulse there before he brought his lips against Dean's again.

“Mine,” he claimed in a promise. “And I’ll prove it.”

Dean’s breath trembled against Castiel’s mouth as their kiss broke, barely, just enough to suck in air that felt hotter than the steam around them.

His body was already flushed, chest rising and falling like he’d been running for miles. But it wasn’t exhaustion that shook him. It was being seen.

Castiel didn’t lunge or tear or rush. He moved like someone granted access to something sacred. His hands trailed down Dean’s chest, fingertips slow and reverent, brushing each muscle like he was committing the shape of him to memory.

“You don’t even know what you are,” Castiel murmured, mouth brushing along the edge of Dean’s jaw. “How rare it is to burn like this and not break.”

His lips found the hollow of Dean’s throat again, pressing there with something gentler than hunger — more devotion than desire.

The steam made everything soft. Golden. Every drop of water down Dean’s body shimmered like sweat under starlight.

Castiel kissed lower.

His lips mapped a path over Dean’s collarbone, pausing at the scratch left by the demon — the torn skin now slightly raw, vulnerable.

He kissed it.

Carefully. Like a promise.

Then continued slowly. Ever so slowly, his hands gliding over Dean's waist, thumbs sweeping dangerously close to the glowing mark carved just above his pelvis.

Dean's eyes fluttered shut. His breath hitched.

“You’re not used to this,” Castiel whispered, sinking lower, his voice a caress. “Not being taken. Not being revered.”

He knelt in front of him — not in submission, but in worship. Dean looked down to Castiel, his eyes glossed over with admiration and want.

Steam rolled around them in thick waves now. The tile was slick beneath Dean’s feet, but Castiel’s hands on his hips anchored him — strong, steady, like he was grounding all that rising pleasure. Dean could feel the powerful strength through the grip of Castiel's hands on his hips. That alone made his cock twitch with a longing ache. He thought about his hands wrapping around his length, his mouth around the head, suckling.

Castiel tilted his head, mouth barely brushing over the mark he had left — the sigil glowing softly in response, reacting to every breath, every whisper of contact.

Dean whimpered — low, involuntary — and Castiel smiled against his skin.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s not me pulling pleasure from you… That’s you drawing it out of me.”

His mouth moved again, trailing up the inside of Dean’s hip, his hands stroking reverently along the backs of his thighs, then upward again, until every inch of Dean’s skin felt claimed. Kissed. Adored.

“You could destroy me,” Castiel breathed. “And I would thank you for it.”

The confession hung heavy in the air, water dripping between them like a second heartbeat.

Deans’s hands sank into Castiel’s damp hair, the tension in him melting, surrendering — not to weakness, but to worth.

To being seen as desirable. As wanted.

And when Castiel rose again, pressing their bodies fully together beneath the falling water, Dean didn’t shy away.

He leaned in. He let himself be held.

Because for once — in all the mess of demons, desire, and confusion — he didn’t feel consumed. He felt worshiped.

Castiel’s touch was already electric, but then it shifted. Dean felt it like a pulse beneath his skin, sudden and warm, not pain, not quite pleasure either, but a charge. Like his body had been unlocked, every nerve tuned to a higher frequency. He gasped.

The sensation rolled over him in waves — the heat of the shower, the curve of Castiel’s hands, the feel of lips brushing skin, all of it suddenly magnified, like he could taste the air, feel the pressure of every droplet sliding down his chest as if it carried intention.

“There it is,” Castiel murmured against his skin. “Feel what I feel when I look at you.”

Dean’s knees buckled slightly, and Castiel caught him with ease, guiding his back against the slick tile wall. The contact was cold, but it only made everything else burn hotter.

“You think you know pleasure?” Castiel whispered, mouth trailing lower, voice a dark thread wrapping around his ribs. “You’ve only known what’s mortal. What’s half-filled.”

Castiel pressed closer, bare skin to bare skin, and Dean felt it all: the sharp contrast of temperature, the strength in the demon’s hold, the wet drag of Castiel’s breath as it ghosted across his throat.

“I can make you feel everything,” Castiel said. “All at once.”

He kissed the center of Dean’s chest.

And Dean cried out — not from pain, but from how much it was. The kiss itself was soft, but what it unleashed inside him was dizzying — pleasure like heatwaves, rolling through his limbs and coiling low in his spine, his stomach, the mark that still pulsed brighter with every moment.

Castiel’s hand slid along his thigh, slow and torturous, while the other cradled the back of his head, holding him steady — keeping him grounded as his senses threatened to overwhelm him.

“You taste like heat and need,” Castiel murmured, licking a trail up to his throat. “I want to know how your soul sounds when you come undone.”

Dean’s hands scrambled for something to hold onto — Castiel’s shoulders, the wall, himself — but nothing steadied him the way Castiel did. The demon’s body pressed in, hips flush, breath warm, his magic humming just beneath the skin like static before a storm.

And then, the pleasure rose again — sharper this time, cresting like a wave that didn’t crash… just built. And built. And built.

“You’re not going to fall,” Castiel promised, his voice dark silk. “Not unless it’s into me.”

He kissed him again — this time on the mouth.

And Dean finally let go.

The second their mouths met, something inside Dean shattered.

Not in pain. In release.

He gave in — fully, freely — letting his hands clutch at Castiel’s shoulders, dragging their bodies together with a desperation he no longer tried to hide. Their kiss deepened instantly, wet and breathless beneath the pounding of the shower.

And that’s when it happened. The sigil burned.

Not sharp — but blazing with heat, with magic, with intention. It glowed against Dean’s skin like a brand drawn in moonlight and fire, curling tendrils of light that spread like veins across his lower abdomen.

Castiel hummed into the kiss — low and pleased — like a musician feeling a note resonate through bone.

“That’s it,” he whispered against Dean’s lips. “You feel that, don’t you? That thread pulling us tight.”

Dean gasped as the warmth from the sigil radiated outward — up his spine, down his thighs, into his chest. It wasn’t just a mark anymore. It was a tie. A binding. An invitation made eternal.

And he wanted it. He needed it.

Dean’s hips bucked forward, grinding into Castiel with a hunger that no longer pretended to be subtle. He pressed closer, arching, pleading silently through touch — the way his fingers curled around Castiel’s back, the way he tilted his mouth to kiss deeper, to pull more from him.

Castiel exhaled sharply, like even he hadn’t expected how good it would feel — Dean not only surrendering, but craving.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Castiel murmured, voice hoarse, reverent. “Open. Needy. Mine.”

Their bodies moved together in the steam — a rhythm born of instinct and bond. The sigil between them pulsed in time with Dean’s heartbeat, syncing them, harmonizing their need. Dean’s lips grazed Castiel’s throat, then his shoulder, then lower — desperate and hungry for skin, taste, friction.

“Please,” he whispered, mouth trembling against Castiel’s collarbone. “I want… I want—”

Castiel cradled the back of his neck and gently pressed their foreheads together.

“Say it,” he breathed, power curling beneath every syllable. “What do you want, Dean?”

The water streamed down around them like a curtain drawn closed — sealing the moment in heat and shadow.

Dean didn’t speak at first.

He just moved — grinding into Castiel again, fingers digging into his hips, his thighs, his waist.

But when he finally found his voice, it came out ragged, raw, and true.

“I want to feel you everywhere.”

Castiel smiled — not cruelly, but with something close to awe.

“Then hold on to me,” he said, pressing his mouth to the mark once more.

“And I’ll make you feel everything.”

Dean barely heard the water anymore — just the sound of his own breath, ragged and fast, and the rush of something ancient building around him.

Castiel’s hands moved like scripture — reading him, rewriting him.

He touched Dean lower, slower — fingers brushing the length of his twitching cock. Dean moaned — sharp and unguarded — and Castiel shuddered in response.

“That sound,” Castiel whispered, lips pressed hot against his temple. “Say it again. Give it to me.”

Dean arched into him, helpless against the slow roll of Castiel’s hand, the drag of breath against his skin. It was gentleness dipped in something darker — something older. Like being handled by a god who knew exactly how to unravel him.

But the gentleness didn’t last. Not when Dean moved his hips again, not when he begged silently for more.

The air between them had turned molten.

Castiel’s teasing — his whispers, his near-touches, his slow, reverent pace — had Dean strung tight as a bow. Every breath, every stroke, every flicker of magic danced just on the edge of unbearable.

Dean’s patience snapped. With a growl — low and instinctive — he surged forward. His hands caught Castiel’s wrists and slammed them against the tile, pinning him hard to the wall. The water still thundered down around them, but it felt like background noise now — like the only sound that mattered was the breathy hiss that escaped Castiel’s mouth.

Dean pressed in, chest flush to Castiel’s back, mouth at his ear, breathing rough.

“You think you’re the only one who knows how to take?”

Castiel laughed — dark and delighted, the sound curling like smoke in the steam.

“There he is,” he breathed. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to stop begging and start owning.”

He ground back against Dean with slow, deliberate pressure, offering himself with the kind of fluid grace only something not quite human could manage.

“Come on then,” Castiel whispered. “Claim me like you mean it.”

The sigil on Dean’s lower abdomen blazed, heat pulsing from it like a second heartbeat — his power, now. Not just Castiel’s gift. Not just submission. It was mutual possession. A sacred fire shared between them.

Castiel tilted his head, baring his throat even against the wall, mouth curled into something between a smirk and a promise.

“You’ve been aching to let go,” he said. “Now show me what it looks like when you don’t hold back.”

Dean growled again — but it was different this time.

It wasn’t a loss of control. It was a decision. And as he pressed his body against Castiel’s, mouth grazing the demon’s shoulder, teeth scraping — a symbol of hunger, of want — the air thickened again. Magic hummed at their skin like a storm circling above them.

The walls themselves felt like they might crack from the pressure between them. But neither pulled away. Because this wasn’t a fight anymore.

This was a ritual.

Dean’s breath hitched as he pressed flush against Castiel, his palm dragging across the heat of Castiel’s body with purpose — not tentative now, but driven by something deeper. His hand moved lower, possessive and slow, earning a shuddering hum from the demon pressed to the tile.

“That’s it,” Castiel breathed, voice thick with approval. “Don’t hold back now. Not when we’re this close.”

Dean’s touch was raw, guided by want — but intensified by the supernatural pulse still threading through his nerves. Everywhere their bodies met, the sensation spiked: too much, too good, too fast. His head tilted back as pleasure rolled through him like a wave, sharp and breathless.

“You feel everything I feel,” Castiel moaned as he ground his ass against Dean's aching cock. “Because you opened yourself. Because you let me in.”

And Dean had.

Every brush of skin sent fire crackling beneath the surface. Every grind of his hips became a desperate prayer, met with Castiel’s eager, grinding return — the incubus feeding on his desire not with violence, but with hunger wrapped in praise.

“You don’t even realize,” Castiel whispered, his voice slipping into Dean’s thoughts, “how starved I’ve been for someone like you. Someone who wants to be wanted.”

Dean gasped, his body already trembling beneath the weight of the sensations — the pressure, the heat, the tension just below the surface. And still, he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. Castiel’s presence, his magic, his need — it called to something in Dean that had been buried, silenced, denied for too long.

“Give me everything,” Castiel breathed. “And I’ll give you more than pleasure. I’ll give you power.”

The room felt like it was spinning — not in chaos, but in ecstasy drawn from shadow, a ritual of bodies, bond, and unspoken vows. Dean didn’t know if he was leading or being led anymore — only that he didn’t want to stop.

The sigil between them glowed brighter, heat pulsing in time with every breath, every motion. And as Dean gave in, letting his body speak where his voice could not, Castiel fed — not on weakness, but on Dean’s freedom.

And in return, he gave Dean everything.

The dream broke like steam slipping through his fingers.

Dean woke with a ragged inhale, his chest rising fast beneath the thin sheet. The room was dim, washed in early morning gray, shadows still heavy along the ceiling beams. His skin was damp — sweat clinging to his collarbone, his temples, his lower back. The memory of hands, of fire, of breath hot against his neck lingered like ghosts just beneath the surface.

His heart hammered. Not from fear. From the absence.

He reached for something — someone — that wasn’t there. Fingers grazed the sheets beside him as if they might still be warm.

“You gave yourself to me.”

The voice — velvet, low, undeniable — brushed the edge of his thoughts like a kiss behind the ear. Dean’s breath caught. Castiel showed Dean a glimpse, an image of Castiel laying down in Dean's bed, legs spread over so slightly, stroking his own cock. His hips thrusting into each stroke.

“And I haven’t fed yet.”

He sat up slowly, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. His lower abdomen still tingled — right over the mark. The sigil. It wasn’t glowing now, but it pulsed faintly beneath the skin, like a secret heartbeat. He glanced around the room, his chest tight with the weight of being watched.

“Castiel…?” he whispered. “Are you still—?”

Movement. He froze. There — at the foot of his bed, just off to the side, was Sam.

Dean’s blood turned molten.

Sam stood half in shadow, one hand pressed against the wall, the other wrapped around his cock, lazily stroking. His breath came slow, almost measured, but his brow was furrowed — not in pleasure, but in conflict. He wasn’t looking at Dean, but through him — as if he didn’t even realize he was being seen.

“Sam—?” Dean croaked. Sam flinched, eyes snapping up — wide and hazy, like he wasn’t quite present. His hand froze, guilt flickering across his face, but there was something else underneath it. Something deeper.

“I— I didn’t mean to…” Sam began, voice thick, his chest rising fast. “I’ve just been feeling—needy. Ever since that night with her. With Anael. I can’t—can’t shake it.”

The room felt suddenly suffocating. Dean’s pulse thundered in his throat.

“He’s feeling it too,” Castiel’s voice coiled around his mind like smoke. “That hunger. That heat. It’s not just you, Dean. You’re both unraveling...”

Dean’s skin prickled. Sam was standing there — vulnerable, confused, aching — and somehow, Castiel was feeding off it all. Or maybe not feeding… maybe waiting. Maybe watching.

“Why are you in my room?” Dean asked, barely managing to sound steady. Sam blinked, as if realizing only now where he was.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice hoarse. “I just… ended up here.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with tension, with breath, with the memory of a bond still glowing under Dean’s skin.

“You opened the door, Dean,” Castiel whispered. “How long until he does too?”

Chapter Text

The silence in the room felt alive. Dean sat frozen at the edge of his bed, pulse racing, breath shallow — as if waking from a dream that hadn't quite ended. The air still carried the weight of Castiel’s voice, but it was fading now… replaced by the sound of soft footsteps. Sam. He was moving toward the bed. His hand lingered near the edge of the nightstand, fingers twitching like he didn’t know what to do with them. His eyes were dark, glassy with something between exhaustion and need. The space between them crackled — not with words, but with something unsaid. Something growing.

“He doesn’t even know what he’s asking for,” Castiel’s voice whispered inside Dean’s mind, silk against steel. “But you do. You’ve seen it. You’ve felt it. Let me show you more.”

Images flashed in Dean’s thoughts like reflections in black water — Sam’s hands on his chest, lips parted, breath heavy, his voice a broken whisper begging to be touched, seen, claimed. Dean Squeezed his eyes shut.

“Stop,” he whispered to the voice. But Sam didn’t. He stepped closer — just one small, hesitant movement, but it felt seismic. He reached up, dragging his hand through his hair like he was trying to shake off whatever storm was growing behind his eyes.

“I can’t sleep,” Sam muttered, his voice low, rough. “Every time I close my eyes, I feel it again. Her. That night. You.” He hesitated. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Dean’s stomach twisted. Not just from the words — but from how his body responded to them.

“He’s reaching for you,” Castiel said. “So reach back.”

But Dean stayed still — the war between want and fear coiling hot in his chest. Sam’s hand touched the mattress. Then the sheets. Then—he sat, hesitating on the edge of the bed, facing away like he didn’t trust himself to look at Dean.

“Just… for a minute,” Sam said. “I’ll go. I just— I needed to feel something real.”
Dean swallowed hard. Because nothing about this felt real. Or maybe it was too real.

“You’ve already given yourself to me,” Castiel said, his voice like teeth just beneath the surface. “This is what comes next.”

Dean’s breath caught as he turned slightly, just enough to see it—Sam, sitting near the foot of the bed, hand low, movements slow and distracted. He wasn’t even looking at Dean. His eyes were distant, clouded with half-formed thoughts, his body tense with want. Dean’s throat tightened. It wasn’t the act that startled him. It was the quiet way Sam touched himself—like he couldn’t help it, like it wasn’t even for pleasure, but just a way to ease the ache. His movements were tired. Lonely.

“He’s unraveling, just like you.”
The voice in Dean’s head came smooth and familiar—Castiel.

And then—another sensation. Not quite a vision. More like a memory stitched into the fabric of thought. A glimpse of Castiel, somewhere dark and golden, leaned back in a chair, head tipped, stroking himself lazily. Eyes glowing. Watching.

“You feel that?”
“He wants what you want. And I want you both.”

Dean shuddered. The mark low on his abdomen thrummed in response, reacting to Castiel’s attention like an ember fanned back into flame. His skin buzzed, oversensitive. A pull deep in his gut made him shift, fists clenched into the sheets beneath him.He dared a glance at Sam again. Still turned away. Still lost in whatever fog he was trying to work through. But his mouth had parted slightly now, and his breath was quickening. Dean couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“You could touch him,” Castiel whispered. “He’d let you. Maybe he wouldn’t even ask why it feels so right...or maybe you’d both stop pretending.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening as he tried to quiet the noise in his mind. But the lines were blurring. Sam’s soft sounds. Castiel’s echoing voice. The phantom image of two hands—not his own—pulling him deeper into this moment. It was too much. Too close. And yet…He didn’t move. Not yet. Dean couldn't take it anymore. Sam— so near, so undone — kept stroking himself with slow, aching need, his face turned just slightly away, like he was trying to contain something that had already spilled out hours ago. The dim light caught the lines of his body in just the right way — vulnerable, wanting, completely unaware of how deeply he was pulling Dean in. And all the while, Castiel whispered, teasing, showing Dean flashes — images soaked in heat and want — of what could come next. Of mouths meeting. Hands gripping. That mark glowing bright.

“He’s not just craving release,” Castiel murmured inside him, velvet and ash. “He’s craving you.”

Dean’s body moved before his thoughts caught up. He kicked the sheets down, slowly, breath caught in his throat as the cool air met his sweat-damp skin. Sam shifted slightly, catching the movement — and his gaze landed. Their eyes locked. Sam’s hand stilled. Dean didn’t speak at first. He just let his hands slide down his own chest, tracing the faint outline of the sigil, now dull but tingling. He swallowed, lips parted, and then—barely above a whisper:

“Touch me.”

Sam blinked before he said, “Dean…”

“Please,” Dean whispered, voice ragged. “I don’t want to feel like this alone.”

His hand traveled lower, shivering from the sensitivity, the pent-up desire finally breaking through. His hips shifted. Sam watched — eyes no longer dazed, but drawn. There was a pause. A breath.
And then a decision in his expression.

“Look at him,” Castiel cooed inside Dean’s mind. “He’s just as desperate. Just as lost. Let me take you both.”

The energy in the room pulsed — something unseen stirring the air, electric and heavy. Sam moved. And neither of them said another word. Dean barely had time to breathe before Sam was on him—hands warm and unsure, mouth crashing against his like a secret finally spilled. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It was the breaking point. Their bodies collided like two halves of the same ache, breath ragged, lips bruising. Sam’s hands were all over him—grasping, learning, desperate for confirmation that this was real, that Dean was here, and wanted this too.
Dean moaned into the kiss—and deep in his mind, Castiel responded with a sound of his own.

“Yes…” the voice murmured, velvet-slick and breathless. “Let it unravel. Let me feed.”

There was no pain. Only pressure. Heat. A rush of something ancient stirring beneath his skin, like the mark over his abdomen was no longer just a brand but an opening—a gateway through which Castiel could taste everything they gave each other. Sam whimpered as his hands dragged down Dean’s sides, palms trembling against heated skin. His eyes were wide with something more than lust—need, fear, longing, all wrapped together. It made Dean ache in a different way.

“He’s close,” Castiel whispered, his voice thick with hunger. “He wants you, Dean. More than either of you have ever dared to say. Show him how it feels to give in.”

Dean let his head fall back against the pillow, lips parted, his body arching into Sam’s touch. Not leading—but offering. His hips lifted, his chest heaved, and every part of him pulsed in time with the voice inside his head. Castiel didn’t just feed—he pulsed through him. Like smoke rising through his veins, Castiel soaked in every moan, every breath, every tremble between them.

“You’re beautiful when you break,” Castiel moaned, half in Dean’s thoughts, half in his bones. “And he’s breaking too. Don’t stop now.”

And Dean didn’t. He couldn’t. Because somewhere between desire and surrender, something sacred had been rewritten. And they were all burning in it together. Sam trailed kisses from Dean’s collar bone to his chest before his mouth found one of Dean’s nipples. Sam gently twirled his tongue around the hardened peak before he started to suck. Dean gasped and arched his back. Sam hummed and brought his fingers to the other, massaging and pinching. Dean moaned when Castiel revealed another glimpse of himself stroking his cock, teasing the head as his other hand was pinching his nipple.  Dean’s body arched into Sam’s touch, breath stuttering as he sank into the warmth — into the heat — that had been building all night, all week, longer maybe. His skin was hypersensitive, every graze of Sam’s mouth and hands like a current dragging him deeper into something he no longer wanted to resist.

But just as Sam pressed his mouth to Dean’s chest, fingers trailing lower with aching slowness, Dean’s vision blurred. The air flickered—just once.
And there he was.

Castiel.

Not truly there, but not gone either. A vision behind Dean’s eyes, sharp and impossibly intimate. He mirrored Sam’s touch exactly—his mouth a ghost over the same skin, his hands moving with practiced hunger. His eyes locked on Dean’s, burning with dark amusement and bottomless want.

“You’re letting him explore you,” Castiel whispered, voice layered over Sam’s breath. “But what you’re feeling... that pulse under your skin... that’s me.”

Dean gasped as Sam’s hand slid over his hip, grounding him to the moment—while Castiel’s phantom fingers dug in just a little harder, just a little deeper. Heat roared beneath his ribs, sharp and heady.And Castiel moaned. A soft, drawn-out sound of satisfaction, feeding on Dean’s responses, his pleasure, his surrender.

“So generous,” the incubus purred. “You open yourself so willingly. No wonder he can feel you shaking.”

Dean opened his eyes—Sam was above him now, staring down with parted lips, pupils blown wide. His hand pressed low, against Dean’s thigh, brushing close—too close—and he felt it. Sam’s eyes widened.

“You’re… hard.”

His voice trembled with surprise, but not hesitation. And his hand stilled only for a breath before Dean pushed into it with a quiet, desperate sound. 

“Let him feel it all,” Castiel whispered, nearly trembling in Dean’s head. “Let him feel how much you want this—how much you want him.”

In that same moment, Sam’s fingers wraps around Dean’s cock. Dean lets out a strangled moan, Castiel groaning into his ear. Dean glances over and hesitates as he sees Castiel sitting at the desk next to the bed, legs spread, hand stroking his cock. Just seeing how hard and swollen Castiel was made Dean’s own cock twitch. Sam grinds into Dean’s hip as he strokes Dean’s cock, Sam’s own cock already hard and leaking pre cum. Dean bites his bottom lip as he reaches down and begins to stroke Sam. Sam lets out his own moan, matching his thrusts to his strokes. The room was heavy with heat and the rhythm of breath. Sam’s hand was firm, eager, finding the pace they both ached for. Dean matched it—stroking Sam with just as much need, their hips shifting, foreheads brushing, moans slipping between them like secrets too long buried.

This wasn’t soft. It was real—gritty, desperate, and shivering with the kind of closeness only years of unspoken tension could ignite. Dean’s head fell back, chest rising fast. The mark low on his abdomen throbbed, burning from within like something sacred and cursed all at once. And then—He felt it. The shift. The air behind him stirred—cool where everything else was molten. He didn’t have to turn to know. Castiel was there. Not a vision this time. Not a whisper. A presence. Real. Standing just at the edge of the bed, where shadows blurred the floorboards, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. His body was bare—carved from temptation and shadow, gaze locked only on Dean. Sam didn’t flinch. Didn’t turn. He couldn’t see him, but Dean could.

“Look at you,” Castiel said, voice a low hum in Dean’s skull. “Open. Starving. And giving yourself away so freely.”

Dean whimpered as Sam’s grip tightened, both their hands moving in rhythm, bodies slick and desperate.

“Does he know he’s feeding me?” Castiel murmured, stepping closer, silent and magnetic. “Every moan. Every pulse of need. It flows through you—to me.”

Dean’s thighs trembled. His other hand reached back instinctively—trying to touch where Castiel stood—but there was only air, charged and thick.

“Dean?” Sam whispered, nuzzling against his cheek, breath hot. “You okay?” Dean shuddered, nodding, though his gaze never left the shadowed figure looming just out of reach.

“You want me to touch you too,” Castiel teased, tongue gliding over his lower lip. “Say the word. Or… just keep letting him do what he’s doing. I’ll feel everything.”

Sam’s hand moved faster, and Dean’s response—sharp, breathless, involuntary—ripped through the quiet. Castiel smiled. The room throbbed with heat and breath. Dean’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, caught in the space between what he was feeling physically—Sam’s hands, his mouth, his presence—and what he was feeling in his mind. Castiel. Still there. Still watching. Still wanting. Dean’s eyes fluttered shut, lips parting in a silent moan as Sam kissed down his throat. But in the dark beyond his eyelids, he could see another mouth—another tongue—trailing heat just behind Sam’s. Mirroring. Matching. Multiplying.

“You feel me, don’t you?” Castiel whispered, voice molten in his thoughts. “Even now. Even with him inside your arms, you’re calling to me.”

Dean’s fingers twisted into the sheets, hips shifting beneath the weight of Sam’s touch. But it wasn’t enough. Not anymore. He turned his head slightly—his breath ghosting across Sam’s ear, voice low and broken.

“I’m ready,” he whispered. “I want you inside me.”

Sam paused, his body tensing. The silence that followed was hot and heavy, vibrating between them. And behind it all—Castiel moaned. A sound that didn’t belong in the physical world. It moved through Dean’s mind like smoke and fire and silk, feeding on every drop of desire, every surrendered thought.

“He thinks he’s the only one touching you,” Castiel purred. “But I’m inside you already, Dean. I’m the fire beneath your skin. You’re not just giving yourself to him… you’re giving yourself to me.”

Dean’s back arched at the thought. His body trembled with the collision of hunger and surrender, pleasure and possession. He was no longer sure where Sam  ended and Castiel began.He wasn’t sure it mattered, because he wanted them both. And Castiel—burning at the edge of reality—wasn’t going to wait much longer to claim his share. Sam leaned forward, breath warm against Dean’s cheek, and searched his face — eyes filled with something unspoken. A question. A promise. A need. Dean gave the slightest nod. That was all it took. Sam’s hand moved slowly, deliberately — not rushing, not fumbling, but learning Dean in each motion. He pressed his fingers gently to Dean’s lips. And Dean— needing the comfort, needing the contact — parted them without hesitation, letting Sam’s fingers in, his tongue brushing against them. The taste of skin and salt, the press of touch — it grounded him in the moment.

But then came another shift. The flicker. The pulse of air behind his eyes. Castiel. He appeared just beyond Sam’s shoulder — not in shadow, not in dream, but in presence. His body shimmered at the edges, not quite real, not quite imagined. And he was watching. Only Dean could see him. His glowing eyes fixed on the space where Sam’s fingers disappeared between Dean’s lips, and his own mouth parted with a silent exhale of want.

“You’re letting him in,” Castiel murmured, voice echoing in Dean’s ribs. “But I’m already deeper. I’ve been inside you since the moment you begged for me.”

Dean’s breath hitched. Sam didn’t notice — too focused, too lost in the moment as he trailed his fingers down, across Dean’s skin, lower still. Dean’s legs shifted instinctively — opening just enough. Castiel’s form pulsed brighter. Hungrier. He stepped forward, not truly touching, not quite interfering, but present enough to make Dean’s skin burn with awareness.

“Let him fill you,” Castiel said, eyes half-lidded. “But know this… it will be me who finishes the bond. Not him. Every time he moves inside you, every gasp, every quake—I will be feeding.”

Dean swallowed hard, body trembling beneath the layers of sensation — Sam’s careful hands, his slow breath, the weight of him above… and Castiel, watching like a god waiting to be worshipped.
And somewhere in the storm of it all, the sigil flared on Dean’s abdomen — not just warm this time, but alive. Sam’s mouth parted as his slick fingers found Dean’s entrance. Dean spread his legs just a bit more, giving Sam more room. He gently massaged Dean before slowly inserting one finger. Dean’s hips jerked at the sensation, his own cock starting to leak pre cum. He was about to reach down to stroke himself until Castiel’s hand reached it first. Sam still can't see Castiel, but Dean can. Sam bit his bottom lip as he watched Dean’s hips move to his ministrations, like they had a mind of their own. Castiel groaned into Dean’s ear as he stroked Dean’s cock. The same, slowly strokes to match Sam’s finger. Dean’s body was hot. 

“I want what’s mine. You’re so hard for us both,” Castiel whispered as he rubbed his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock, rubbing the precum over the sensitive spot, making Dean’s body jerk. 

“Oh god,” moaned Dean. Sam looked down and let his own drool fall to his fingers, adding another to Dean, stretching him just a little more as he slid his fingers in and out, each stroke a little deeper. 

“Please,” begged Dean. His hips moved to the rhythm both Castiel and Sam have set. 

The room pulsed with heat and breath — every sound, every shift of skin against sheets, echoing like thunder in Dean’s body. Sam’s fingers moved slowly but with increasing certainty, guided by want and quiet reverence. Each press made Dean gasp, tremble, open. He didn’t need to guide him anymore — his body was doing it for him, aching forward like a tide being pulled by the moon.
And above the rhythm of their moans, another sound rose — deeper, darker, threaded with hunger. Castiel. Still only visible to Dean. Still tethered to him by that glowing, pulsing mark that now lit the space between his ribs like a second heartbeat.

“You feel us both,” Castiel murmured, eyes dark with need. “One within. One above. I want you to give yourself completely, Dean. No fear. No doubt. Just need.”

Castiel’s body moved in perfect synchrony with Sam’s, his hips ghosting just above Dean’s skin — not touching, not physical… not yet. But his hand moved with Sam’s, mimicking every motion, feeding on every moan that left Dean’s lips. His presence curled around them like smoke, head thrown back, drinking in the moment.

“He’s close,” Castiel groaned, his voice thick with pleasure and power. “But so am I. Let us both take you. Let us both fill what you’ve kept hollow for too long.”

Dean whimpered, the sound involuntary — raw and open and unashamed. His hips moved instinctively, caught between Sam’s body and the unseen pressure of Castiel’s will. His eyes fluttered open, meeting Castiel’s — and in them, he saw hunger, yes, but also devotion. The worship of a demon who wanted not just his body, but his soul. Sam positioned himself with care, fingers trembling against Dean’s hip. Castiel mirrored him exactly — but above, straddling Dean’s waist, his body aglow with ethereal heat, the sigil on his chest burning with anticipation. In that moment, Dean was suspended — between two lovers, two powers, two flames. One physical. One metaphysical. And he didn’t care who touched him first, who took him deeper.

“I belong to you,” he whispered — not sure to which of them he meant it.

But both heard it, and both moved. Dean couldn’t think anymore. His body was caught between rhythm and reverence, Sam between his legs, strong hands and breathless moans guiding him forward… while Castiel straddled Dean’s hips, unseen by anyone but him, glowing with hunger and satisfaction. The world narrowed. All that remained was heat and sound. Sam filled him with steady, trembling purpose — unaware of the shadow that moved just above Dean’s chest, tracing phantom touches along his skin, whispering in his ear. And Dean, open and shaking, gave himself completely. The sigil below his navel blazed. Not warm now — searing, burning like fire and gold etched into flesh. It pulsed in time with his racing heart, with Sam’s thrusts, and with Castiel’s hand, pressed flat against Dean’s chest steadying himself as if commanding a deeper surrender. Dean’s hips moved as if in a rut, whimpering as he matched Sam’s thrusts, also thrusting into Castiel. 

“Yes,” Castiel breathed, lips brushing Dean’s jaw, though no one else could feel him. “You’re mine now. And you’ve brought him with you.”

Dean let out a choked cry — not from pain, but from the overwhelming surge of sensation. It raced through every nerve, shaking him to the core. Sam was panting, murmuring something soft and broken behind him, pressing deeper, closer. And above it all —Castiel moved. Not physically, not exactly. But Dean felt it — the press of energy against him, surrounding him, holding him open as though he were the altar and desire itself the offering.

“You fill him. And now you fill me,” Castiel moaned, his voice cracked with near-divine hunger. “Your pleasure is my tether. Your cries are my resurrection.”

Dean arched, his body no longer his own. He belonged to the moment. To them. A blinding pulse tore through his body — release, yes, but something far greater. A climax not only of flesh, but of power. His vision whited out. His breath stopped. Castiel’s moan echoed not in his ears, but in his bones. And then—silence. The kind that comes after lightning, when everything has already burned and the sky is still holding its breath. Sam collapsed forward, sweat-slick and gasping, pressing his forehead to Dean’s shoulder.
Dean lay beneath him, eyes half-open, the sigil on his stomach dimming, its edges still glowing like coals after the fire.

And Castiel stood behind his eyes, fed and full—but not done.
“Now,” he whispered, like a promise. “Now we begin.”

Chapter Text

Dean and Sam lay sprawled out on the bed, breath ragged and skin damp, their bodies tangled in the aftermath of indulgence. The room pulsed faintly with residual energy—charged, thick, and warm like smoke clinging to skin.

But beneath the surface, deep in the marrow of the moment, their demons stirred.

Castiel lingered like a shadow behind Dean's eyes, his hunger far from sated. The incubus coiled tighter, whispering sweet, depraved nothings into Dean's subconscious. "He’s right there, pliant and wrecked. He needs you again." The thought bled into Dean like a craving too loud to ignore.

Dean shifted, muscles tense, gaze hazy as he looked at his brother. Sam’s lips were parted, chest rising and falling in shallow waves, the faintest noise—almost a whimper—leaking from his throat.

Across the tether between them, Anael hummed inside Sam’s core, not urging restraint. Instead, she purred. "Let him touch you again. Let Castiel take what he wants through him. We’re still so hungry, Sam."

Dean’s hand found Sam’s bare hip, fingers curling with slow deliberation. Sam stirred, lashes fluttering, but didn’t flinch away. If anything, his body leaned into the touch.

Castiel’s presence surged, nudging Dean forward like a tide. His mouth found Sam’s neck, not to bite, not to mark—just to breathe him in. Every nerve lit up like tinder. Anael responded with an ache that rolled through Sam’s body like a second heartbeat.

The demons fed not on flesh alone, but on the unraveling—of restraint, of guilt, of boundaries. And in that room, with the air growing thick once more, the unraveling had only just begun. Castiel, the incubus, exhaled through Dean’s lungs, savoring the remnants of power siphoned from the tangled knot of desire they had orchestrated. His essence pulsed in Dean’s veins like heat lightning, dormant but hungry. Always hungry. Across the room, Anael’s laughter curled like smoke through Sam’s body, her succubus form curling around his spine, whispering secret cravings into his soul. She didn’t need to speak out loud. Her moans had already been heard through Sam’s mouth all night long.

Sam leaned into Dean’s touch, his body instinctively seeking the heat and weight of his brother’s palm. A soft whimper slipped past his lips, needy and unguarded, and it shot through Dean like lightning.

Dean’s cock twitched in response, the sound setting off something primal beneath his skin. Castiel pushed forward inside him, pressing harder against Dean’s will, flooding him with desire so raw it blurred the lines between want and need.

Sam’s skin burned under Dean’s fingertips, the succubus inside him purring, stretching, making room for more. "Yes", Anael whispered, "touch him. Let him break for you. We can feed together."

Dean’s fingers tightened around Sam’s hip, dragging him closer until their bodies aligned again. His breath ghosted over Sam’s collarbone, lips brushing warm skin. Sam arched into him, the bond between their demons crackling like fire meeting gasoline.

“I need more Sam,” Dean’s voice was thick, half his own and half Castiel’s, laced with a hunger that was no longer just human.

Sam didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. The way he reached for Dean, the way his thighs parted, the way Anael purred like velvet through his veins, it all answered for him.

Dean dipped his head, lips capturing Sam’s with bruising force, letting the demons inside them guide their rhythm. Castiel drank in Dean’s pleasure, igniting every nerve as Anael opened Sam to it, welcoming every wave.

They moved together—desire twisting, demons feeding, brothers lost in each other as the line between possession and passion blurred into nothing.

In the space just beneath the veil of flesh and blood, where spirit and sin entwined, Castiel and Anael emerged—no longer merely whispers in their vessels’ ears, but vivid, radiant forces now swelling with power.

Castiel stood in the void between realms, his form luminous with slick, obsidian skin, wings stretching outward like smoke and shadow edged in flame. His eyes glowed with star fire as he arched his back, inhaling the pleasure coursing through Dean like it was incense offered on an altar.

“More,” he growled, voice rippling like thunder, head tilting as if listening through Dean’s senses. Each brush of Dean’s hand on Sam, each groan and pulse of want—it all fed him. His body shimmered with new strength, muscles flexing as tendrils of lust-colored energy wrapped around his limbs, coiling and tightening like serpents.

Across from him, Anael bloomed like a flame behind Sam’s ribcage—her succubus form stretching with feline grace, hair cascading like molten gold down her bare back, lips parted in pleasure as Sam writhed beneath Dean’s touch. She moaned as if Dean’s mouth were on her own skin, as if each grind and whimper passed through Sam and landed directly on her soul.

“They’re opening,” she purred, licking her fingers clean of invisible sweetness. “Finally giving in.”

“They’re ours,” Castiel replied, stepping closer. His wings curved behind him like a predator ready to strike. “Let them break. Let them burn. We'll rebuild them.”

The space around them pulsed, thick with power, as if the very fabric of their bond to the Winchesters was deepening—twisting into something symbiotic and irreversible.

Anael met Castiel’s gaze, unafraid, amused.

“We’ve only just begun,” she whispered, and leaned forward—her tongue brushing against his, sparks flying as lust met lust, dark and divine.

The echo of Dean’s groan, the choked moan from Sam—it all vibrated through the space, feeding their forms, making them more solid, more present, more dangerous.

They were no longer just demons inhabiting—they were becoming entwined.

And they were still so very, very hungry.

Dean sat upright between Sam’s spread legs, the sheets rumpled beneath his knees, his hand wrapped tightly around his cock, slowly stroking himself as his other hand ghosted teasing circles around Sam’s hole. His thumb pressed just enough to make Sam twitch, just enough to make him whimper.

Sam was a mess beneath him—flushed and panting, curls clinging to his damp forehead, his thighs trembling from being held open for so long. Every inch of him was trembling, sensitive, and raw from the attention, but he craved more—needed more.

“Fuck, Dean,” Sam gasped, his voice wrecked with need, laced with a shy desperation that made Dean’s stomach knot in the best way. “Please… please, just—stop teasing.”

Dean let out a low groan, his cock jerking in his fist. The way Sam begged—soft and breathless, squirming like he didn’t know where he wanted to be touched more—lit something inside him. Something dark. Something hungry.

Castiel growled his approval inside Dean, fanning the flames. "Look at him. He’s yours. Take him. Ruin him for anyone else. Let Anael feel what it’s like when you break her little vessel wide open."

Dean’s hand paused just over Sam’s hole, fingers slick and poised. He leaned in closer, cock still in hand, and rasped against Sam’s ear, “You want it that bad, Sammy? Want your big brother to split you open, right here, while you’re begging like a little bitch?”

Sam bit his lip, the shame painting his cheeks pink even as his hips rolled forward. He nodded quickly—then stammered out a trembling, “Yes—God, yes, Dean—I need it. I c-can’t take it anymore.”

Anael coiled around Sam’s spine like silk and fire, purring like a pleased cat. "Let him in, Sam. Let him break you."

Dean’s grip tightened, just once, before he lined himself up, dragging the thick head of his cock across Sam’s entrance, letting him feel the weight of it. Sam sobbed, thighs quaking, hands fisting the sheets as he writhed under Dean.

Dean smirked, voice low and guttural. “That’s it. Be good for me. Open up.”

And as he pressed in slowly, deliberately, stretching Sam with every inch, their demons surged forward—feeding, fusing, binding the brothers in something deeper than sin.

Dean pushed in inch by inch, groaning low in his throat as Sam’s body stretched around him. He bottomed out slowly, savoring every tight, shivering second. Once he was buried to the hilt, he stilled—just for a moment—to feel it: Sam fluttering around him, breath hitching, eyes fluttering shut, already undone.

Then Dean began to move.

Not rough. Not fast.

Slow.

Deliberate.

He rolled his hips forward, grinding deep, letting his cock drag just enough to press against that spot that made Sam choke on his breath. His rhythm was tortuously slow—hips rocking in and out, grinding in lazy figure-eights against Sam’s entrance like he had all the time in the world.

Sam’s head tossed back against the pillow, mouth falling open as moans tumbled out, each one trembling with need. But not all of them were his.

Anael’s voice laced through the sounds—moans of pure euphoria echoing behind Sam’s gasps, like two tones sung in perfect harmony. Her pleasure bled into his, heightening every pulse, every thrust, every sharp ripple of sensation.

“Dean—f-fuck,” Sam sobbed, hips rocking to meet the drag of Dean’s cock, his voice caught between shame and bliss. “Feels—feels so good, I—ahh—”

Dean’s hand slid over Sam’s hip, gripping tight enough to bruise. His other wrapped around Sam’s leaking cock, stroking in time with the grind of his hips—long, slow pulls that made Sam buck and squirm beneath him.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Dean growled, lips brushing over Sam’s cheek, voice thick and dark with Castiel’s undertones. “Taking me so fucking well. You love it, don’t you? Being filled like this. Begging for it.”

Sam whimpered—eyes glassy, lips bitten red, completely lost.

Anael arched inside him, her form flickering through his aura like golden fire, basking in the flood of lust, drinking it down like holy wine. More, she gasped, deeper. Let him ruin us, Sam. Let him own us.

Dean’s strokes matched the rhythm of his hips—press, grind, pump. Over and over. Slow and filthy. Each motion sent Sam higher, closer to the edge, trembling and sobbing under the weight of it.

Dean never looked away—his eyes locked on Sam’s face, on the way it twisted with overwhelmed pleasure. Possession wasn’t enough anymore. Dean wanted to imprint this into him. Burn it into his bones.

And with every grind, every moan, every demon-fed ripple of pleasure, that bond grew stronger—more carnal, more consuming.

They were becoming one.

And neither of them was fighting it anymore.

Dean’s pace stayed tortuously slow—hips grinding deep, cock dragging along every sensitive inch inside Sam like it was his only purpose. His strokes over Sam’s cock were timed perfectly, syncing with the rhythm of each push, each press, each grind that left Sam trembling and gasping beneath him.

But Dean wasn’t the only one losing control.

Castiel writhed inside him, clawing forward, his need burning hotter with every pass of Dean’s cock into Sam’s soaked, pulsing heat. His moans echoed through Dean’s chest—low, guttural sounds vibrating in Dean’s throat like a second voice trying to claw its way out.

“Dean,” Sam sobbed, hands clutching at Dean’s arms, his nails digging in. “Something’s—f-fuck—it’s burning. I—I can see her—”

Dean saw it too.

Between one thrust and the next, Sam’s face flickered—gold light blooming behind his eyes, Anael’s outline slipping through like fire under skin. Her mouth opened in a silent cry as Sam moaned out loud, their sounds overlapping, harmonizing. Her pleasure became his, amplified, electric.

Dean’s own vision blurred—Castiel’s wings unfurling in flashes behind his shoulders, shadowy and enormous, coiling with barely restrained hunger. Dean’s eyes flicked black for a split second, Castiel’s need snarling in his gut.

More, Castiel rasped through him. Let me have him. Let me feel him. I want to drown in this.

Dean slammed his hips forward just a little harder—still slow, still steady—but deeper, grinding down until Sam arched off the bed, crying out as Anael screamed inside him with pleasure.

Dean’s breath came ragged, sweat rolling down his spine as he leaned in and rasped against Sam’s ear, “You feel that? That’s not just me in you, Sammy. That’s him. That’s us.”

Sam let out a wrecked sob, his body shuddering under Dean, his cock twitching in Dean’s hand. “I c-can’t—Dean, I’m gonna—fuck, I—”

Their demons cried out with them, Anael’s shrieks of ecstasy curling around Sam’s every nerve as Castiel’s deep growl surged through Dean’s throat, vibrating into Sam’s skin.

The rhythm unraveled—Dean’s hips speeding up now, grinding rougher, deeper, the strokes of his hand over Sam’s cock tightening with urgency. The room felt like it was pulsing, the veil between them and the demons no longer just thin—it was nearly gone.

Dean’s jaw clenched, his voice barely his own as he groaned, “Come for me, Sammy. Come while I’m inside you.”

And with a final cry—choked, broken, worshipful—Sam shattered, spilling hot over Dean’s fist, his body clenching tight around his brother’s cock, drawing a ragged, guttural moan from Dean.

Castiel howled through Dean as he came, spilling deep inside Sam with grinding, pulsing thrusts, his climax drawn out by the echo of Anael’s pleasure rippling through them both.

The air felt electric. Tangible. Sacred in its corruption.

As they collapsed into each other—panting, twitching, completely wrecked—their demons lingered just behind their skin, satisfied… for now.

But the bond they’d forged?

That was permanent. 

The void between realms was quiet now.

Not empty—never empty—but still. Heavy with satisfaction, humming with the aftershocks of everything their vessels had just surrendered.

Castiel floated in that space, his form glowing dimly now, wings relaxed at his back like draped velvet. He looked less like a demon and more like something ancient—formed not from sin, but from purpose. His body still pulsed faintly with Dean’s pleasure, a phantom echo that refused to fade.

Across from him, Anael reclined on nothing, her golden limbs stretched like a cat in sunlight. She radiated smug contentment, her skin shimmering with the essence she’d drawn from Sam—deep, intimate, and willingly given.

“You’ve had your fill, haven’t you?” Castiel asked, voice low, still gravel-rough from shared moans and power exchanged.

Anael’s lips curved into a soft, lazy smile. “For now,” she purred. “He always gives so sweetly. He doesn’t even realize how much of himself he offers.”

Castiel’s eyes flickered—silver and smoke. “They’ve stopped fighting.”

“No,” Anael corrected gently, “they chose not to fight.”

Silence settled again, but this time it was thoughtful. Weighted.

Castiel looked down, through the veil, where Dean lay beside Sam—both of them dazed, bodies tangled, breaths slowing into a shared rhythm. “This was supposed to be temporary. A feeding. A game.”

Anael nodded slowly, her lashes lowering as her smile faded into something more solemn. “We were never meant to stay, were we?”

“No,” Castiel murmured. “And yet… here we are.”

Anael turned toward him, her voice softer now, a hint of something like vulnerability threading through. “Do you feel it too? When he aches, when he doubts—do you want to soothe him?”

Castiel’s gaze darkened. “I do. Against my nature, I do.”

Anael inhaled sharply, the breath catching in her throat. “They’re not just vessels anymore.”

“No,” Castiel agreed. “They never were. But now… they’re ours.”

Anael tilted her head, golden eyes sharp but pained. “So what happens now? Do we keep feeding until there’s nothing left? Or do we stay? Grow roots in their bones and call it devotion instead of damnation?”

For the first time, Castiel looked unsure. “I don’t know.”

He looked toward Dean again, softer now. “But I don’t think I can let him go.”

Anael followed his gaze, and for once, didn’t hide the sadness in hers. “Neither can I.”

They sat in that silence a while longer—two demons fully fed, fully aware, and more deeply entangled than they’d ever intended.

Not just parasites. Not just puppeteers, but something dangerously close to bonded.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of their breath—slow, uneven, and ragged with exhaustion. The air still felt heavy, thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and something deeper. Something not human.

Dean lay on his back, one arm draped across his eyes, the other resting beside Sam, fingers twitching with phantom memory. His skin was cooling, but his insides still burned—throbbed with the echo of Castiel’s presence, with the weight of what he’d just done.

Sam lay curled slightly toward him, his chest rising in shallow pulls, one hand clutching the sheet near his lips like a lifeline. He hadn’t spoken yet. Hadn’t looked at Dean.

Until now.

“Dean…” Sam’s voice was raw, cracked open and quiet. “That wasn’t just us, was it?”

Dean let out a long exhale and dragged his hand down his face, finally turning his head to look at Sam. “No. Not just us.”

Sam’s eyes met his—uncertain, clouded with guilt and confusion. “It felt like… they were inside us. Not just controlling—feeling. Wanting. I could hear her, Dean. I could feel what she wanted.”

Dean swallowed hard. “I know.”

Sam shifted, just barely. “Then how do we know it was us? That we weren’t just being used?”

Dean was silent for a beat. Then another.

He rolled onto his side to face Sam fully, voice quiet but sure.

“Because I’ve wanted you for a long time, Sam. Before Castiel. Before Anael. Before all this demon shit.” His eyes searched Sam’s face—tired, flushed, conflicted. “They didn’t make us do anything. They just took the brakes off.”

Sam blinked, throat bobbing as he swallowed. “But it’s not right.”

Dean gave a small, bitter laugh. “Since when has anything we do ever been right?”

Sam flinched a little at that, but Dean reached out, fingers brushing against Sam’s bare arm—soft, grounding. “I know it’s messed up. Hell, I know it’s insane. But it’s real. And I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen.”

Sam’s lips parted, but nothing came out.

Dean’s voice dropped lower, rougher. “I don’t regret it, Sam. Not a second of it. And I’m not gonna stop.”

That landed heavy between them.

Sam looked away, breath catching as his mind scrambled for something to hold on to. “What if they’re changing us? What if we lose ourselves?”

Dean’s fingers curled around Sam’s wrist, holding gently, but firm. “Then we go down together.”

Sam didn’t answer right away. But he didn’t pull away either.

The silence between them wasn’t hollow now. It was full—of questions, of heat, of truth.

And in that moment, both of them knew—

They’d already crossed the line.

And neither of them was turning back.