Archive of Our Own ^beta

On a night not so far away from the one when friends fell and death rose, Castiel found he was alone and didn't want to be. He had followed the Winchesters at a distance since that night, keeping silent tabs on their progress. Tonight, he stayed in the shadows and watched them burn bones and force a ghost on to its final rest. All the while, his hand clutched the pendant he'd borrowed, the charm that remained cold and lifeless against his chest. It grew heavier every day. He'd strayed so terribly from the God he sought, and yet he could not refocus his attention on the search. The unease sitting in his breast hadn't yet died down. He had to keep watching. Just to make sure they were all right.

When it got this late, and the wind that whipped along the side of the road was cold enough to make his skin stand up into goosebumps, though, Castiel had the sense that all of his worries and premonitions were nothing but loneliness after all.

And it was that late-night realization that drew him to the parking lot of the motel where their car sat, a heavy block of black on the gravel. Castiel traced a hand over it. He'd grown fond of the thing. It protected people that he cared about. Just seeing the low roof and polished bumpers made him feel safer in the world he'd stumbled into.

He followed the brothers' lingering presences to the second floor of rooms. Hand raised, he poised as though to rap at the door. But, nudged by the wind and by more of the unease that had brought him there, Castiel found himself stepping to the side to look in the window. A brown curtain had been pushed half-heartedly across the glass, but when he angled his body just so, he could see through the parted halves into the room.

A bare back. Hands. A leg thrown into midair and wrapping around a waist. Two heads. One tossed back, another leaning forward. So much skin. So much sweat and movement. And he knew both of those bodies. He knew them so well he could trace the movement of one rippling muscle and understand completely the bliss and release shooting through the body it supported. Castiel sharpened his hearing just well enough to listen past the glass and plaster.

"God."
Sharp breaths.
"Dean."
"God, Sammy-- Please, come on, please."
"I'm here. I'm here."
A keen wail.
"You're always so good--"
"Just for you. Oh, oh, my God."
"Yes."

Castiel turned away. His heart and his spirit were both fluttering on the edge of panicked seizure. He clasped a hand over his mouth, afraid he might make a noise that would reveal his presence, or, worse, ring in his own ears long enough that he would know this was real. He had really seen and heard what he had. Dean and Sam. Like that. Together.

It made him want to drop to the ground. To be sick, body and heart. How could this have happened, how could it be happening, and he'd never seen? He must have shut it out, willfully. He hadn't wanted to see it. There had to have been clues, but he never had the courage to piece them together. The knowledge was too poisonous. And now that it had entered his blood, he could do nothing but stagger the length of the hallway, sick unto dying, lost, and still so alone. Always, hopelessly and endlessly alone.

He resumed the hunt for God the next day. Anything, anyone, any place that would take him far away from those voices, those images, and what they'd made him feel. The disgust. The revulsion.

The loneliness. The envy.

The pendant grew heavier and heavier around his neck, like the albatross of old poetry, and finally he could no longer breathe wearing it. That was the night he returned.

*

He called first, of course. He didn't think he could stand seeing it again. Just looking at their faces would be bad enough. So he stared at his feet and held out the pendant when Dean answered the door. "Here."

"What?" Even the sound, that natural-as-anything rich dark voice, made him ache. "Cas, that's-- you need that. Don't you? Or did you find..."

"No. Just take it back. I don't want it."

Silence. Castiel dared to look up. Damn it. Dean's face was still the same relaxed, comfortable, decent face he remembered. How could he reconcile that with the sin, the amoral decadence he'd been witness to?

"Cas, would you come in out of the cold and explain this to me in plain English? Or am I going to have to stand out here until my balls freeze over?"

Castiel was tempted to remark on the choice of words, but he held back. "Fine." He gave a curt nod. Damn it all over again. Dean still had the most trustworthy face.

He stepped inside. There was Sam, sitting at his laptop and typing away. Like normal. Like everything was still sane. Like he hadn't discovered just how twisted they were when they thought nobody was looking.

"Now." Dean gave a mighty push against the howling wind to close the door. "Want to tell us why it is you're suddenly giving up?"

Castiel turned stony eyes on him. "No," he said, "I don't."

"Well, tough." Dean crossed his arms and glared at him. "No more secrets, Cas. You're on our side now, remember?"

"I don't want to hear anything from you about secrets." He caught his breath at the sharpness of his own tone.

Sam looked up from his laptop. The dim glow illuminated the high ridges of his cheekbones. "What's this about?"

"He wants me to take back the pendant," Dean said. "He's giving up."

"I am not."

"Then what the hell is going on?" Dean's voice rose. "You're gone for days. Then all of a sudden you show up like a bride who got left at the altar, and you won't explain? Did Lucifer get to you? Is that it?"

"No!"

"Then what?"

Castiel's lips and brows were grim lines. "You've been lying to me," he said shortly.

"About what? Cas, what in the hell are you talking about--"

Sam started to move forward. "Dean."

One look at him and Castiel knew he'd figured it out. He hung his head, unable to say it or to meet his eyes, the transgression so loudly unspoken in the air between them.

Sam laid a hand on Dean's arm, and Castiel watched that movement instead, the movement that not so long ago he would have seen as completely benign. Now he watched heat and attention and information transfer with the contact, understood the context that made Dean's eyes light up with realization and horror. He could see in that most innocent of touches all that it implied, all that it could be and had been before. He bit his lip, and the pain, distant as it was to his angel's consciousness, grounded him.

Dean turned to Castiel, then back to look into Sam's face. "He doesn't. You... You saw?" Castiel nodded wordlessly. "That's-- that's not lying to you! We didn't tell you everything, but that doesn't mean we're lying. Jesus Christ!" He kicked the foot of the bed, and the frame hummed loudly with the vibrations of the bedsprings. "You telling me you would rather we came out and told you that? What was I supposed to do, say hi, nice to meet you, by the way Sam and I aren't just brothers--"

"Don't." Castiel looked at him now, pale and fierce. "Don't say it."

"Cas," Sam said. His voice was the gentle one, the let-me-explain one, against Dean's brash protestations. "Look. I know it's hard to accept. We've never told anyone. Not family, not friends, nobody."

"You should have told me."

"So you could go on and say whatever it is you're dying to say? Great." Dean threw up his hands and paced across the room. "Just... go for it, okay? Tell us we're going to hell and you should have left me there and we're disgusting and unnatural. It's nothing I haven't told myself."

Dean's name fell from Castiel's lips, impotently, a useless sound.

"We've only ever had each other," Sam said. He was looking at Castiel, his eyes open and pleading. He folded one hand over the other and walked forward. Castiel found himself watching the two of them, their differences. Sam's directness, Dean's frustrated movement. Aesthetically, poetically, they were perfect complements. It seemed understandable -- or logical, at least -- that they should fall into a partnership that extended itself to every possible reach.

Sam went on. "How it is with us... we know it's not normal. Or natural. But it works for us. Cas, you have to see that. Our parents were gone. We've never had a normal life. My whole life, all I've had is Dean to lean on. And he's only had me."

Castiel found him much easier to look at than Dean. "You think what you do is right?"

Dean turned. Sam opened his mouth. They spoke in unison.

"Yes," said Sam.

"No," said Dean.

They looked at each other briefly.

"How can you think that?" Sam started.

"What in the hell do you mean?"

Sam moved toward him. "What I mean is, if you think it's wrong, then why do you keep doing it?"

"Why-- because you--" Dean stopped, ran a hand through his hair, looked down at his shoes and then up again at the eyes that met him. "Because I'm weak. Because I can't stop." His brows pinched upward in the middle, and he looked like an old man, all fret lines and confusion. "You really think this is OK, what we're doing?"

"Of course it is," Sam said, and he put a hand on Dean's face. "God, Dean, without you... without you I wouldn't be who I am. I wouldn't have survived any of this. Knowing that I can come back here and you and I can be together-- it's the only thing that--"

He hung his head. Immediately, unthinkingly, Dean pulled him into an embrace. "Sammy," he said, the words muffled in the flannel of Sam's shirt.

"It just can't be wrong," Sam whispered. "I won't believe it."

They'd tuned out Castiel's presence, and he felt like a voyeur. He was witnessing a far more intimate moment even than the one he'd stumbled upon earlier. He could see the press of confused hearts and the jumble of contradictory thoughts behind their movements, and it ached. He wanted this, wanted to feel this way and know that it was all right to want, to need and to take. And to give, completely, trusting in someone to understand and accept. Without judgment. Without fear of failure.

"I should go," he whispered, and he turned to slink to the door, half-convinced his words had been swallowed by the empty air.

"No," Dean said sharply. "No, you shouldn't."

He stepped out of the embrace, reached out, and tugged hard on Castiel's arm. Castiel stumbled to the side and regained his balance just in time to avoid crashing into Dean's shoulder.

Dean's voice was still laced with poison. "You're going to be a jerk and bring this up, you have to stick around to clean up the mess you made. Come on, Cas, let's have it. What are you thinking?"

Castiel wanted to protest that he wasn't involved, it didn't have anything to do with him, but that would be admitting his own failure, and worse, it would preclude him from ever being involved, ever having a say in the actions and choices of these two people he cared about more than he ever thought he'd learn to care about anything. Sam he loved because Dean loved him, and Dean he loved because it was impossible not to. Together, the two of them had taken hold of him in such a profound way that he was having trouble condemning this choice they'd made.

His heart was slamming against his ribs. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, and conscious of the eyes on him, the body heat close to his, the privacy and the immediacy of this setting, he let his eyes shut. "I am jealous," he heard himself say.

A moment of silence gave the words all the time they needed to sink, mistlike, into the air.

Castiel opened his eyes, afraid his confession had melted the world clean away. Sam's hand was curled around Dean's now, and Castiel's gaze was drawn to the connection. Such a simple point of contact, and so solid. So unshakable. He wanted it. Fingers tangled around fingers, two wrists beating steady pulses into each other.

"Did you just say... jealous?" Sam said, squinting at him.

"Yes." Castiel was mumbling, he knew, but he didn't have the courage to speak any clearer. "I envy you."

Dean was giving him a peculiar look. "What does that mean, you envy us? I don't get it."

"I don't know if I can explain." Castiel heard himself talking, but he had no control over the words. Inside he was hollow, shivering, feeling truth pour out of him like blood. "You have had each other all your lives. I have brothers, but our love is tainted. It's not unconditional like yours is. But now I have you. And now I feel... I think I feel that. That connection. And if I don't, I want to. I want to feel what you do."

He was still focused on their hands, but in the upper reaches of his vision he saw Dean glance at Sam, and something indecipherable passed between them. A furrowed brow, a shake of the head, a few mouthed words.

"Umm..." Dean sounded strangely hesitant. "Do you mean you want to feel something like what we feel? Like, you want to have sex? Or you want to love someone, or..."

Sam squeezed his hand gently. Just watching the motion filled Castiel with fascination. It was as if he could feel the jolt of energy that went up Dean's arm, filled his heart with stability, the knowledge that someone was there for him constantly, no matter what, no matter how. Not just someone. Sam. Sam, whom Dean loved. Looking at their hands, Castiel marveled at that borrowed emotion. The answer to Dean's question was there, and all he had to do was reach out and take it.

So he grasped their clasped hands in one of his own.

"Oh, God." Dean muttered it under his breath. Castiel's eyes flew to his. Whatever emotion Castiel's gaze projected, it was so intense that Dean actually stumbled backward. Sam caught him, a warm hand on his shoulder. Castiel wanted to throw himself forward to be caught in the same way. So much trust, so much love, right there. He felt like a man in the desert seeing a mirage of the ocean. So close, so abundant and yet he couldn't touch it.

"Cas." Sam moved toward him. "I don't know if you're asking what it looks like you're asking, but just in case you are-- you have to be sure." He raised a hand to tuck a lock of his hair behind his ear, and Castiel's eyes took in the image hungrily. To touch there. To feel the softness slack under his fingertips.

"I'm sure," he said, a bare rasp that almost didn't make it out.

"Then say it," Sam said. "Say what you want. Because we're not going to take advantage of you."

A beat. Castiel saw Dean swear. His hand was gripping Sam's tightly. He was biting the inside of his lip, trying to keep control. What kind of control was it? Momentarily mystified, Castiel looked at him. And then, the rush of knowledge came in a wave, and there was no more hesitation.

"I want to be with you," he said. "Both of you."

"Yesss," Dean whispered, low and hissing but clear. He pumped his fist.

Sam grinned at him, then turned his gaze to Castiel's. His eyes were full of emotion. "I think he's pleased."

"And you?" Castiel was already calculating all the places he'd touch when the dam had broken. "Are you pleased?"

Sam took his hand from Dean's and raised it to Castiel's face, rubbing his fingerpads briefly over one cheek. "You know," he said, "of all the people who could have found out about us, I'm glad it's you. You're different, Cas, from anyone I've ever met. For the first time it feels like we've found someone who's on our level. I know that's ironic and all, 'cause, well, you're not, but..."

"That means he's pleased." Dean's voice was husky, and his movements were sharp and quick. In an instant he was standing between them, and he carded a hand through Castiel's hair. Castiel shuddered, quick and sharp. He grabbed Dean's shirtsleeve just to keep balance. "You sure you're sure?" Dean asked. Castiel nodded without a moment's hesitation. He was rewarded with a smile.

Sam's hand had trailed from his cheek down to absently caress his neck, and when Castiel turned toward him, Sam just gazed at him with eyes full of patience. "I think you and Dean should," he said, not needing to finish that sentence. Still, he didn't break the contact, didn't halt the caresses. His hand stayed warm and constant on Castiel's neck as Dean slid his free arm around Castiel's waist. Nose to nose, they stood and breathed together. Three hands on him -- hair, neck, and waist. Castiel could feel the energy flowing, strong and steady, among the three of them. It held him together as Dean leaned in to press his lips to Castiel's in a first, tender, soft kiss.

All at once he was flooded with warmth. Making a small sound low in his throat, Castiel held tight to Dean's shoulders and parted his lips, trying to feel the texture and shape of Dean's mouth on his. He was met by an eager tongue darting along that parting seam, and when Dean's tongue found his and began a series of slow strokes, his knees wobbled. Dean groaned into the kiss, his hands clenching into fists.

Sam snaked an arm around Castiel's waist and pressed his chest up against Castiel's back. The temperature rose twenty degrees, and Castiel thought his blood would come to a boil. Dizzy, overwhelmed with all the touches, he made desperate sounds against Dean's mouth, then leaned back onto Sam's shoulder with a groan. Dean followed him, licking from lower lip to jaw and then nipping at his neck, and Castiel lost all control of the noises he was making. Mouth parted, brow furrowed, he gasped as his system lit up like a marquee, all flashing lights and stunning movements. He reached a hand back to finally, gloriously tangle in the chestnut mess of Sam's hair. When he tilted his head, Sam bent him backward, guiding him with a strong body, and leaned to kiss his mouth.

"Oh, God," Dean muttered into his neck. "This is a thousand times hotter than I ever imagined."

"You imagined it," Castiel said in a weak voice.

"Hell, yes, I did," Dean whispered before crushing his lips against Cas' again.

The notion that Dean had thought about him like this lit up a fresh new round of shudders. Castiel was hard now; Sam was, too, against him; and when he boldly drew his hand down the line of Dean's chest Castiel knew from the heat radiating below his palm just what he'd find. He wrapped his hand around the bulge in Dean's pants, knowing he had done that, feeling like the most powerful being in creation. Sam and Dean were sharing this with him. Their secret, their desire, their being. Castiel thought if he melted to ash right this moment he'd be perfectly happy with the choices that led him there.

He felt Dean's hand reach beyond his hip and grab the cleft of Sam's ass; Sam shifted and twitched against him. Castiel traded kisses with each of them, leaned in to lick at Dean's neck when the two brothers were kissing, and let himself be guided, slowly, between pairs of shuffling feet, to the bed.

He wasn't afraid of sex, but he'd never really gotten the point of it until now. It had seemed sweaty, uncomfortable, hot and disturbingly addictive. What was it that drove humans to such extremes for a mere temporary physical pleasure? Such stupid questions in the dawning of this new awareness. So this was desire, this crushing feeling that another person was your breath, your warmth, your very life. He felt it now and wondered how he'd ever lived a single second without it. Sam's warmth kept him alive; Dean's hungry kisses were his food and drink. He was alive between them, now, in a way he'd never experienced before. Connected. Safe. Thrilling to every beat.

His world was full of sound. The rustle of clothing being pulled off and away, the soft whump as garments hit the floor. The groan and stretch of voices and muscles and the soft swish of gliding hands skimming over his body. Dean's growls as he bit his way down Castiel's stomach. Sam's groans as Castiel learned how to stroke him just so. Shallow breaths in his ear, at his waist. The sound of his own blood zinging through his veins. The incessant drumbeat of three hearts.

"Need you," he heard himself say. "Need you both so badly."

"Need you too, Cas." Dean's voice, suddenly up near his ear again. Soft lips danced against his earlobe. "Always needed you."

Sam was gentle and firm in opening him up, and Castiel spread himself prone on the bed, allowed Dean to rub his back and whisper encouragements into the nape of his neck as Sam's fingers pushed past obstinate muscles to relax him. When he rolled over, Sam's body was there to warm his, Dean's hands were on his legs pushing them up. Sam lay beside him, cradled his face in long-fingered hands and kissed him as Dean found his stance.

The push in was strange, unfamiliar, but so many of these new feelings were. More important even than the smooth feel of Dean's cock sliding into him (velvet and marble, he thought disjointedly, ancient and so new) was the press of chest against his back, the slow overpowering settle of his weight. He felt heavier than he'd ever felt in his life, dragged down by Sam's deliriously long, languid kisses, by the hot breath on his shoulders and the restrained motion (God, how could he move so slowly) of Dean's hips, steady, focused, like a machine. This experience was crushing him. He moaned loud and long, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other softly curled onto Sam's hip.

Dean's cheek rested against his back briefly at the completion of one thrust, and everything went to stillness. Castiel knew what he was feeling. It was like the moment when a lock's final catch releases, when every part of an intricate machine is at last in perfect synchronization. The three of them together worked. Their breath, their bodies, together, worked. Sam smiled up at Dean, his eyes sparkling. Castiel watched their silent connection, bright as a ray of light.

"Cas," Dean grunted, and it all started back up again.

Growing bolder, even as Dean ground him into a muddle of heat and feeling, Castiel brushed his hand over the small of Sam's back, down onto the swells of his cheeks. When his fingers began to push in a curious, greedy treasure hunt, Sam broke off their kisses to throw his head back and cry out. Castiel caught him looking up at Dean, his eyes full of desperate want and questions. In response, Dean slowed down his thrusts, reached over to caress Sam's face, and mouthed something Castiel couldn't quite make out.

Sam dotted kisses and licks across Castiel's jawline. "I want you to fuck me," he whispered, the obscenity sounding just as earnest and heartfelt as every other word that ever came from his mouth. Castiel's lips parted, but Sam cut off the words with an open-mouthed kiss and a "Please."

Behind him, Dean pulled on his chest, strong arms yanking him up to sit in Dean's lap. His cock slipped out, and weird airy emptiness filled Castiel. He twitched and sank backward into Dean's embrace. "It's all good, Cas," he whispered, the edge of a growl around the words. "We're right here."

That was never in doubt, but the reassurance immersed Castiel in relief anyway. Such a strange world where words were more than their meanings. He whimpered and leaned back to kiss Dean's mouth, his neck, and said, "Show me how."

He crawled away, guided the two brothers to each other with flat palms and encouraging looks. Dean gave a low growl as he melded against Sam, their bodies pressed together from hips to chests, their fingers tangling in knots as they kissed long and wet. Castiel saw that arch of back that he'd seen that first night, and now it wasn't horrific; now it was art. Now he had permission to watch, and that changed everything.

Castiel watched carefully as Dean stretched Sam out, running a soft finger around his rim and widening him. That had happened to him just a few minutes ago; he'd been the one lying on his stomach, groaning with the strangeness of the sensation. But Sam didn't take a moment to get used to it. He was already bucking back into Dean's touches, grunting, saying "more" and "hurry," so enthusiastic that Castiel began to feel impatient for his sake.

"Do it," he said, clapping a hand on the small of Dean's back. "I want to see."

Sam smiled and rolled over, pulling down on Dean's neck. His grin was wide and brilliant right up until their lips joined. Dean sank into him with a heavy jerk of hips; Castiel watched each inch sink in, concentrated on that place of conjunction and marveled at the sight. Dean and Sam were folded around each other, knees and elbows bent and stomachs pressed together. They moved like syrup, or blood, something thick and liquid. After a while it was hard to tell which stretch of pink flesh was whose.

They were so wholly involved in each other. Castiel was starting to feel like a voyeur again. He reached out to stroke the back of Dean's head, rub a thumb against the jut of exposed shoulder. With each contact he earned a moan and a shift; finally, with a flash of skin, Dean reached out to grab him; and Castiel fell atop them both, his hands seeking out anything they could touch, his cock rubbing enticingly against the juncture where their bodies met. Sam let out a delirious sound beneath them, and everything dissolved into a jumble of touches and frantic kisses.

"God."
"There, there."
"Nn, Cas, please."
"Oh, fuck."
"Shit, that's good."
"Oh, God. Oh, God. Harder."
"Dean. Yes."

This time Castiel's voice was joining them, was adding to the chorus of moans. Like the third note that turned a simple fifth to a major chord, his voice made the bare sounds of sex into something truer, something glorious. Two pairs of hands, two eager sets of lips battled for his, and Castiel felt power not unlike the power that flowed through his angelic form, power that came from infinite love and the knowledge of a whole universe there for the giving. He didn't know whom he was kissing right at this moment. He didn't know whose leg that was tangled up with his. He didn't need to tell the difference, because it was right. No matter who, it was right.

Somehow chaos found order again. Castiel pressed down against Sam's willing body, rode his cock up into the crack of Sam's ass and gasped, clutching helplessly at his shoulder, as the warmth and friction flooded his body. Dean stayed behind him, holding him steady, whispering encouraging words in his ear. Castiel's hands fell to Sam's hips, guided them up and back and let out a groan he didn't even know he had the power to utter as he sunk in.

Everything was perfect. Castiel on his knees. Sam on his back. Dean behind Castiel, his own erection hot and insistent against the small of Castiel's back. Castiel went to his hands and knees, hovered over Sam, his shoulders and arms trembling. He looked down into a face that was smiling even between twitches of pain and measured breaths. Sam's hair was matted, sweat-damp, against his forehead. A smile beamed up at him. Castiel belonged here.

"Dean," he whispered heatedly, arching his back to press his ass against the flushed head of Dean's cock, and that was all the teasing and the pleading over and done with now.

Dean sank into him easily, his hips a powerful piston grinding Castiel down onto and into Sam. How they stayed balanced in this careful and intricate interlock was a question for another time. Right now it only mattered that they were in and around each other, that somehow it worked. Sam groaned and arched up, his cock mashing against Cas' stomach. Dean's lips sucked hungry tattoos into Castiel's back. Dean thrust. Castiel groaned and pushed forward. Sam lifted his legs to wrap around the both of them, ankles finding precarious purchase on Dean's hips.

"Cas." Sam's voice. "More. Harder." His lips and brows were pressed together. Dean was the one who complied, pushing Cas down and forcing him deeper inside. Sam arched and yowled. Castiel memorized the position, the expression, for the next time they did this. He wouldn't be able to stop after this one encounter, not now that they'd finally gotten here. He'd need them more. Maybe next time with Sam inside him. With him inside Dean. With his mouth wrapped around Sam's cock, with Dean's hands cupping his balls, with a hand on his chest and another inside him. In the shower. Up against the walls. He was flooded with thousands of years of fantasies he'd never allowed himself to enjoy. Now every erotic image he'd ever seen came back and demanded his participation. With these men. Him. There. In every possible arrangement. There wasn't enough time left in the world to satisfy all that he wanted to do and be a part of.

He could feel Dean's eyes above and behind him, boring down into Sam's barely open slits. "Love you, Sammy," Dean grunted. "Love you both so much."

His hips were grinding, solid and strong, in small circles against Castiel. They demanded answer. Castiel's voice came in unison with Sam's. "Love you," they both whispered. Sam's mouth popped open in a round O of surprise, and then he smiled. "You, too," he said, raising a hand to touch Castiel's face.

Sam loved him. Dean loved him. He loved them both. Castiel bit hard on his lip and tried in vain to keep from coming. But the rush of sensation was on him; he flailed, his arms and legs clutched. Dean was driving sweet hot waves into him and Sam was warmth and liquid below him, and he couldn't hold back. He roared, mouth bruising Sam's collarbone, hips rising hard and high and slamming down again as he came in sword-stab bursts of pleasure and intense emotion. He cried out. His hips moved too fast. Dean gasped and held onto him tight. Sam threw his head back. Heat whited out the world.

When it all came back, Dean was convulsing and clutching his shoulders, shouting names and swears. A torrent of heat and need emptied into Castiel. He felt bad that he'd been so high, so far gone, that he couldn't fully experience Dean's ascent to climax. Too late now. But Sam was still sweating and pushing up against him, his face contorted with need, and Castiel focused on him as Dean ground himself into oblivion above them, watching his face inflect.

"Tell me what you want, Sam," he said in a low, tremulous voice.

Sam's eyes, still barely open, searched his. A smile twitched on the corner of his mouth. "Want you," he murmured. "Want this."

Frustrated, Castiel bit his lip. He wanted to see Sam come, wanted to know what would bring him there, right now. And then Dean slid out of him and Castiel's back was cold, his world half-dead. He was softening now, still buried in Sam, and for an instant he was panicking. He didn't want to leave Sam unsatisfied. This had all been too good. What if he was the weak link? What if Sam decided he was inadequate? What if he'd never get to be here again?

But then Dean's hand was wedged in between them and Dean was beside Sam, growling in his ear, "Next time," he said, "next time, Sammy, Cas and I are both going to fuck you. At the same time. You'll have both of us inside you, splitting you open, making you ours. Our hands all over you. You'll be so full of both of us. It'll be so good."

And before he was even done, Sam was jerking up and coming into Dean's hand and all over Castiel's stomach, plastery white come spattering all three of them, and his mouth turned anxiously upward for kisses from Castiel, from Dean, one hand threaded anxiously into Castiel's hair, another around Dean's neck. It was an amazing sight. And Dean's narration had Castiel's blood singing. Maybe it was just dirty talk, designed to make Sam come, but Castiel wanted it. Badly. He'd just witnessed the intersection of fantasy and reality, and he didn't think he'd be able to skirt that line any longer.

"Thank you," he found himself whispering as he pulled out, leaving Sam empty and twitching and falling beside him in a breathless, sweaty heap.

"Nng," Sam said, and then, "Oh, God, Cas, thank you."

"Yeah," Dean assented from the other side, and he stretched an arm over Sam's stomach to slowly stroke the length of Castiel's thigh. "Thanks."

Castiel still thought he should be the one giving thanks. But he smiled and remained silent.

They showered, slowly, sleepily, together, and when they fell asleep it was on top of the sheets, Sam and Castiel curled around Dean's body. The pendant was back where it belonged, around Dean's neck, and at last Castiel was where he belonged too.