evitably: (Default)
[personal profile] evitably
Title: and you'll still follow
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: ~4,950
Genre/pairings: ultimately, Sam/Dean. The road there is paved with Sam/Castiel. Mild implied Dean/Castiel.
Contents/warnings: Incest; slight breathplay, jealousy
Beta'd by: [livejournal.com profile] dragonspell, [livejournal.com profile] callowyn and [livejournal.com profile] sistabro. All remaining mistakes, and I'm sure there are a lot of those, are definitely of my own doing. Concrit welcome!
A/N: written for [livejournal.com profile] salt_burn_porn, to the prompt "flying lessons". I'll probably edit it further after I get some sleep.
Disclaimer: SPN and its characters do not belong to me.

Summary: It's not Castiel that Sam wants, not really.

Sam sees it. He sees it all, but not because he’s looking for it -- more because it's just so damn obvious that it’s right in his face. He might not know Castiel, but he knows Dean, knows the difference between the looks he gives random people and the looks he gives people he wants to fuck.

The way Dean looks at Castiel definitely puts the guy in the ‘want to fuck’ category: sometimes his smile is just this side of too wide, revealing the tip of his tongue; other times he looks from half-lidded eyes, under his lashes, for just a second before meeting Castiel’s gaze head-on, when Castiel ignores Dean’s personal space just a little too much, Dean’s arm will rise a fraction, almost like he wants to touch him.

And Sam sees all of it, because he usually stands right next to the guy. He sees every twitch, every motion that Dean probably doesn't know he's making, and everytime he does, Sam's breath catches in his throat for a second and his stomach roils. Then he blinks, and the feeling is all but gone, leaving behind the vague notion that he’s disappointed, but even that disappears when Dean looks at him.

He gets a rush when he sees Castiel looking at him. Because Castiel is looking at him, not at Dean -- but the moment when Castiel realizes that he’s been looking at Sam too long, he looks away. Back at Dean.

That look is what gives Sam the courage to raise his hand and clasp Castiel’s shoulder, squeeze it through the trench-coat until he can feel the hard shape of Castiel’s scapula. He leaves his hand there for a moment, clenched around Castiel’s shoulder, catches Castiel’s eyes and says, “Good job.” He lets go, then, but he does allow his fingertips to brush against the trench-coat.

Castiel’s gaze is fixated on Sam. He forgets to look away like usual. Sam smiles at him, sends a smirk in Dean’s direction, and calls dibs on the first shower.

He's under the spray, scrubbing his hair clean. There’s water dripping down his chest and from his elbows, and a mindless quarter step to the right to avoid hitting the showerstall walls angles him such that the water falls directly on his pubic hair, and that’s enough to make him shudder and pause, his arms raised to his head. He thinks, I could do this, and then he does; he grabs himself with his right hand, still covered with shampoo, and strokes himself slowly, more to gauge his interest than to cause friction. He thinks of Castiel’s shoulder under his hand -- his right hand, the one holding his cock -- and squeezing gently, until --

Sam gasps. His hand stills, and yeah -- he’s half hard, and definitely interested. He rubs himself from base to the head, deliberate and slow. The shampoo and the warm water mingle and allows him to squeeze harder without discomfort, and he picks up the pace and thrusts into his own hand, deep and thorough at first, but then quicker and faster and finally even without rhythm, and he completely and utterly loses it when he touches his stomach, his hip, scratching his blunt fingernails against his skin. He parts his legs and leans against the shower wall, his hand moving now more than his hips, his toes flexing and unflexing and then flexing again, and comes, arching himself into the wall.

Sam continues stroking himself through the aftershocks, and holds his cock even after he’s gone soft. He closes his eyes, sighs, and only then lets his arms go lax.

Outside the bathroom, Castiel is nowhere to be seen and Dean’s watching TV. For some reason, Sam can’t bring himself to look at him.


Castiel’s height makes it easy for him to look at Sam’s lips, and he does that every so often. Whenever Sam speaks, in fact. The first chance he gets -- the first chance he gets while Dean is not in the room with them, because that could get pretty awkward pretty damn fast -- Sam says, “Cas, shut up,” and leans in to kiss him.

Castiel’s mouth stays closed, but there’s no objection in his body language. Sam takes his face in his hands, cups it, licks Castiel’s lips until they part slightly, and pushes in to lick his teeth. He draws breath when he can, shallow gasps between reangling himself against Castiel that he later breathes out against Castiel’s mouth. And Castiel gets it, little by little: he moves his head so their noses won’t bump into each other, and relaxes his jaw enough that Sam can slide his tongue into his mouth, stroke it from above and below and from the sides, encouraging it to move against his.

Sam has to break free then to take a proper breath, but he doesn’t let go of Castiel. He leans his forehead against Castiel’s and continues holding his face, rubbing his thumbs over the sharp cheekbones. “Is this okay?” he asks, making sure.

Castiel’s cheeks stretch a little under his fingers in a small smile that soon disappears. Sam feels the vibrations as he says, “Of course,” as if it was obvious.

Considering that Castiel could throw him across the room for even trying, Sam supposes that it had been. He smiles and kisses Castiel again, this time finding his mouth open and inviting, Castiel's tongue moving awkwardly along his own. Sam trails his hands down to Castiel’s neck right as Castiel brings his own up to rest on Sam’s hips. He leans further and higher into the kiss, presses his fingers into Sam’s waist for leverage.

Sam thinks he should say something; stop this somehow, because Dean is going to come back soon and Sam isn’t ready to be caught making out with Castiel.

Not by Dean.

Sam takes off his hands from Castiel’s face, runs his fingertips against the stubbled cheeks, and then moves them to hold Castiel’s arms and push him away. Castiel frowns with confusion; he tilts his head from one side to the other, seeks out Sam’s eyes, says, “This is okay.”

Sam lets out a laugh. ‘’I know, but Dean’s coming back any moment.”

Castiel’s eyebrows draw up. “And?” His lips are pinched together -- wet and red and pressed against each other.

“You … don’t do that around people.”

Castiel is about to ask what he meant, Sam thinks, but he’s saved by Dean opening the door to the motel and holding out two brown paper bags with take-out. Sam has to breathe out before he can use his voice to say, “Hey, man,” and catch the bag Dean throws at him.

Yet he can’t help but sneak a look at Castiel, and smile.


It's nighttime when they're alone and Dean is staring at the TV that Sam realizes that something's off with his brother.

The TV isn't on.

The only thing Sam can hear is his own breathing and Dean's, and the cars outside on the highway. There's a high hum coming from the lamp that makes Sam more anxious than he probably should -- restless. Waiting. But Dean won't say anything, so Sam walks over to the TV with the intent to turn it on.

Dean snaps out of his reverie fast enough to say, "Hey!" sharply. Sam turns to look at him quizzically, and Dean continues, "I'm thinking."

Sam can't help the way his eyebrows rise up to his hairline; it's instinct.

Dean frowns. "What?"

Sam says, "Just turning the TV on, dude. Chill. Don't strain yourself."

Dean glances at the TV, at Sam, and then stands and walks over to the door. When he's near Sam it's like he debates on saying something. Anything. He moves closer to Sam, then jerks himself away once he realizes what he's doing. He glances at the window next to his bed.

Then he leaves the room.

Sam doesn't know what to do.


“He's thinking of saying yes,” says Sam. He feels like punching the wall. He almost does, but Castiel catches his fist before he can, and holds it between his his hands.

Castiel’s palms are soft and cool and grounding. They look at each other and don’t blink.

Sam pulls back his hand and starts pacing.

“You can't know that,” Castiel says.

Sam laughs. “I know my brother. He might.”

He needs to get Dean to think and plan and no matter what, not give up. He needs Dean to get that saying yes would only make matters worse, and he needs to do it now before Dean does something stupid --

“Sam,” says Castiel. Sam stops and turns to him expectantly. He lurches back a step when he finds Castiel in his personal space, looking up at him.

Sam blinks.

Sometimes Sam forgets just how fast Castiel can be, that in the span of time it takes him to close and open his eyes Castiel can get anywhere, do anything, and Sam won’t be able to see him. Because he blinked.

Castiel’s mouth shocks him into a gasp. He sucks in whatever air he can find in Castiel’s breath, and when that's not enough, he brings up his hands to push Castiel away. But for some reason they won’t listen to him: they curl around Castiel’s trench coat and hold on to it so tightly that Sam feels it in his knuckles. They pull Castiel back to him even when Castiel allows him a second to breathe.

Sam puts himself in Dean’s shoes. This is what Dean would want. This is what Dean does want. If he were Dean, he would trace the line of Castiel’s neck, place small butterfly kisses against Castiel’s jawline. Dean would want to stop and forget and make amends before -- before --


Sam brings his hands up to Castiel’s hair, tugging at it and running his fingers through it, fingertips pressing against the scalp. He somehow manages to step even closer to Castiel, until they’re pressed together from knee to chest and then back again at the mouth. He can’t still his hands. He runs them down Castiel’s back, over his shoulder-blades. Slips them into the warm space between the trench-coat and the blazer and pushes it off because peeling off Castiel’s layers is better than standing there and thinking about what Dean might be doing right now.

“Sam--” says Castiel. His voice is even lower than usual and hoarse, and it was Sam who's done it.

Castiel draws in a breath to say something more: Sam can feel his chest expand. He begs, right before Castiel manages to say, “not now.” The world is fucked, Dean is fucking himself up, but Sam still has tonight before Dean does anything drastic.

Sam knows his brother. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t.

He kisses Castiel again, bites his lower lip gently and rolls it between his lips. He strips Castiel of the blazer, untucks his shirt from his pants, and finally he can touch skin, soft and pliant under his hand, warm to the touch and moving with every breath Castiel takes.

Castiel pushes them apart gently. Sam frowns, tilts his head to the side. But his hands are still on Castiel’s waist, and Castiel isn’t moving away from that. Sam digs his fingers slightly into Castiel’s flesh. Castiel doesn’t seem to mind.

“Sam,” Castiel repeats. “Are you sure?”

It’s such an odd question, unexpected and solemn, that it takes Sam a second to kick start his brain enough to realize that what Castiel is really asking is whether they have the time for this.

“Yeah,” says Sam. His voice doesn’t sound much better than Castiel’s. He can live with that.

Castiel’s mouth -- swollen and red and Sam wants to taste him again -- quirks in a tiny smile and he nods. He takes Sam’s wrists in his hands, wraps his fingers around them, and presses them even tighter against him so that Sam’s fingers really do dig into his waist. “Fine, then,” Castiel says, and comes up for another kiss.

It all goes downhill -- or, rather, uphill -- from that point on. Sam takes off Castiel’s blazer and undoes the tie, then tosses it to the side, to the floor. He runs his hands along Castiel’s sides, moans when Castiel runs his own hands across his back experimentally.It isn’t the touch itself that turns Sam on as much as the fact that it’s Castiel who is doing the touching, who is willing to touch and be touched in return, whom Dean would touch had he had the chance.

Sam wants Castiel's touch on him rather than on his clothes, so he takes Castiel's hand and guides it under his shirt. The moment he gets what he's craving he's having second thoughts, and wriggles out of his shirt. He doesn't care where it lands; the moment it's off he lets it go, and when it falls half on his feet he simply kicks it to the side. "Skin on skin," he murmurs in Castiel's ear before taking the lobe in his mouth.

Castiel moans and stretches his neck, baring his throat. "I know how sex works, Sam," he says. His voice is much graver than Sam expects, but not unaffected: it's breathy, almost inaudible, and punctuated by a small gasp at the end of Sam's name.

That's all it takes for Sam to stop being gentle and slow and go for it. He removes Castiel's shirts with both hands, nudging Castiel's arms up. When that's done he leans in for another kiss, teeth nipping and biting Castiel's lips, hands already at Castiel's pants, fingers dipping into his underwear. Sam's quick: unbuttoning, unzipping, sliding both pants and briefs down his thighs, freeing his half-hard cock.

He pauses. Looks Castiel up and down. He sees that Castiel is still wearing his shoes. Sam's not too bothered by that -- he's more concerned with drinking in the sight of the flush that rises from Castiel's chest up to his neck, the way Castiel's cock twitches when he looks at it, the way it stiffens even further when Sam touches it, runs the pad of his thumb over the underside, the way Castiel shivers and thrusts forward.

"Sam," Castiel moans. It's wanting, wanton, urging Sam to do more. It's so easy for Sam to get lost in this.

Sam's not in the mood to tease. He wants to see Castiel losing it hard and fast, wants to see what Dean would see in him, what he does see in him, what he pictures when he's jerking off. Sam squeezes Castiel's cock, putting more pressure around the head, pumping in a rhythm Castiel seems to encourage by holding onto Sam's wrists, blunt fingernails biting into his skin.

It doesn't take Castiel long to come; for all that he knows what sex is, he shudders within minutes, pulsing hotly in Sam's fist, spurting over his skin and jeans, and clenching Sam's wrists until Sam can feel his bones shift. But Castiel is silent when he comes, his orgasm marked only by how still he goes right before, the sharp intake of breath, his stronghold on Sam's wrists. He'll have bruises, tomorrow. He's glad. He looks down into Castiel's face, sees that his eyes are closed and his lips are parted. He looks ethereal, unearthly, flushed and alluring. He makes Sam feel empty.

Sam tries to shake off Castiel's hands, but Castiel snaps his eyes open and maintains his hold on him. "You're still aroused," he says, and it's as if Sam is powerless to stop him from touching his dick through the denim, gauging just how hard he is.

"Cas," Sam starts to protest, but Castiel silences him with a kiss, of all things. Gentle, slow, inexperienced, consuming and heart-breaking and not what Sam wants at all, but he's helpless before it. Then he's groaning into Castiel's mouth when Castiel inserts his hands into Sam's jeans, grasps his dick and mimics Sam's earlier movements.But he's gentler and spreads his fingers so they'd cover as much skin as they can, all the while holding Sam's gaze.

Sam doesn't blink. He knows what might happen if he does, knows that as difficult as it is for him, he'll feel worse if Castiel disappears in that nano-second. So he looks back, lets his eyelids droop half-closed as he shifts his hips with Castiel's hand, the friction of it maddening in contrast to his jeans.

Coming doesn't make him feel any better.


"You're not the only one who's angry," Sam says.

Dean ignores him. Sam knows he's listening. Dean always listens.

"But we have to hold on, find another way. Finding God couldn't have been the only way to stop Lucifer."

Dean hits the brakes suddenly, almost stopping the car before somebody honks behind them and then they keep moving.

"Okay!" Sam says. "I get it. You don't want to talk about it, but Dean--"

"Sam. Shut. Up."

Sam shuts up, then. He shuts his mouth and looks at Dean, at the outside of him, not what's under the surface. His face is drawn, his knuckles are tight around the steering wheel. He's pale, almost sickly-looking in the harsh light of the passing street-lamps.

He wants to touch him, to run his hands over Dean's eyes and wipe away the black circles under them. He clenches his hands into fists, both of them, and presses them into his upper thighs.

Dean glances at him. It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to tell him to watch the road, but he lets the matter drop and looks away.


Hours later, once Sam's out of the motel room by himself, Castiel slams him into the wall. Not hard, not painful, with just enough force to get his attention.

"What?" Sam asks, ignoring the forearm that pins him. He's not in the mood for games, he's pissed and worried and feels -- feels betrayed, and that makes him even angrier. Fuck God, fuck Heaven, fuck Hell, and fuck Castiel for getting their hopes up that God would help them stop the apocalypse.

God's not watching them anymore. Sam takes it as a personal affront.

"What?" he bites out again when Castiel doesn't answer.

Nothing; just Castiel fucking looking at him with narrowed, wild eyes, his lips pinched together, tendons of his neck standing out.

Sam brings his hands up, puts his palms against Castiel's chest, and shoves. He's unprepared for Castiel to push back and hold him against the wall by the arms, for him to step forward and force Sam up on his toes.

"Cas?" Sam asks, suddenly worried. "You okay?"

Castiel blinks up at him, lets him go, and steps back. Then he is gone. The next time Sam sees him, Castiel is drunk and bleak and hopeless, and dragging Dean down.


Even though Sam knew Dean would yes, the day it finally happens guts him. Dean gets up, gets out, and leaves to say yes. Sam could be petty and think that he's known for days, weeks even, but it's all he can do to hold himself together and figure out where Dean's gone.

Castiel is standing next to him stiffly with his shoulders hunched. Still drunk, Sam thinks. He thinks: Cas shouldn't have gotten drunk. Not now.

As if Castiel knew what Dean would be pulling off.

Maybe Sam is petty.

He finds he doesn't care.

Sam knows his brother -- thank fuck for that -- and knows that Dean doesn't do loose ends. Saying yes will take him time. Sam simply has to figure out which ends Dean thinks are loose.

It doesn't take him long to figure out where to go. Castiel takes him to Cicero, holding him by the elbow. Sam glances at him. Castiel doesn't glance back.

He isn't Dean, Sam remembers, and starts walking straight ahead.

Dean doesn't want to come with them, which isn't exactly okay, but still something that Sam and Castiel can work around.


Dean tells Sam he doesn't believe in him. It hurts, even more than the angels pulling another trick that they haven't anticipated. And then he runs away, and when he comes back he's bleeding.

"What happened?" he asks Castiel.

Castiel says, "Me."

It doesn't matter that Adam's just disappeared, willingly snatched away from them. In that moment he grits his teeth and reminds himself that Dean's had it coming, that he would've probably done the same. Sam's done worse to him in the past, but that's Sam, normal, human Sam (more or less, at the time) rather than an angel with some strange superpowers.

He takes Dean downstairs to the panic room. "Tie him to the bed," Bobby says. "That way he won't move."

Dean's face is a mess, bleeding and swollen. Sam washes the blood off, careful not to let the wet cloth catch on the cuts. Dean doesn't wake up for a long time. Sam has enough time to watch him, make sure he's all right. When he sees the bruises on Dean's chest and back, he swears and tries to check if anything is broken. He doesn't think there are any fractures, and so he simply watches Dean sleep, the rise and fall of his abdomen.

He's disappointed in Dean, but he still trusts his brother more than anybody else in the world.

Sam presses his palm against Dean's forehead, mindful of the broken skin. He rests it there for a moment until he realizes what he's doing, and then he pulls away until his back is to the opposite side of the room.

That's when Dean wakes up.

Sam does manage to talk to Castiel before they leave to get Adam. He catches him by the arm and turns him around, hissing, "What the hell?"

Because this isn't like Castiel. That's not the Castiel that Sam knows.

Castiel takes his arm back, slides it out of Sam's hold, and says, "We should hurry."


In the end, they're too late. They're sitting in the car, driving back to Bobby's, only the two of them.

They stop for the night at a nondescript motel, the likes of which they've seen many times already. They don't talk about it.

They don't talk about a lot of things. They don't talk of Adam, or John, or Castiel, or how funny it is that the silence between them isn't strained anymore. Sam's blood is rushing in his ears, adrenaline and excitement and victory, because Dean's done the right thing. That's all that matters to him: he and Dean are alive and together, and it's the two of them united against everybody else.

It feels damn good, for once.


Sam won't let go of Dean. It's more figurative than literal, but no matter what he calls it, his eyes are glued to every single one of Dean's movements. His brother's still walking gingerly, a memento from Castiel (whom Sam refuses to think about, because what the hell was that, and where is he, and what's next?), but he's walking on his own, with no passengers attached, and that's something Sam appreciates.

Dean can't raise his arms above a certain point. He whines. Then he looks Sam straight in the face and says, "You do it."

"Want me to put you in PJs too?" Sam asks, but he's already on his feet coming over, grabbing hold of Dean's shirt and helping him manipulate it over his hurting arms.

"Don't ruin it," Dean warns him.

"What are you, a girl? It's just a shirt," he says, and takes extra care in removing the shirt. Under his clothes, Dean is bruised, torso covered with purple bruises that stretch all the way to the back, which they cover entirely. "What did he do to you?" Sam asks. He runs his fingertips on the most prominent bruise on Dean's chest, right by his solar plexus.

Dean winces, but he doesn't jerk back.

He's standing there, in a cramped motel room that will pretend to be 'home' for tonight, with Sam's palm right against his bare chest, and he doesn't budge. Sam looks down at him sharply. His hand tingles where it touches Dean, bruised skin warm to the touch.

"Thanks," Dean says. Sam shivers, feeling the vibrations of it going straight down to his dick, and this is a bad fucking idea. He tries to pull his hand away from Dean, but Dean catches it and holds it in place.


"I mean it, you know."

Sam swallows, feels his Adam's apple bob. Dean's fingers clench around his wrist, pad of his thumb rubbing over the inside of it. Sam doesn't struggle. He shivers. He has Dean in his personal space, touching him, and he's torn between wanting to flee and wanting to step closer until there's not even an inch of space between them. Dean seems to expect him to say something, so he croaks out, "I know."

Dean says, "Come on, Sam, do I have to spell everything out for you?"

Sam frowns at him. Licks his lips. His heart's hammering in his chest, loud and drowning everything that isn't Dean.

"It's us against the world," Dean elaborates. Which is correct and something Sam's thought as well, but explains absolutely nothing. Dean sighs, and mutters, "Whatever," and pulls Sam over to him until they're sharing breath and standing hip to crotch.

Dean's hard against Sam's thigh.

The knowledge strikes Sam fast and hard and makes him flinch away, only to be drawn back against Dean. He searches Dean's face, sees the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones. Not as high as Castiel's, not as defined, but he still wants to touch his brother so bad that he's frozen to the spot.

Dean brings up his hand to Sam's face, but then grimaces in pain. "You've gotta help me out here," he says. "I can't do everything on my own."

Sam works his mouth. No sound's coming out, so he clears his throat and tries again, and this time he manages to ask, just to make sure because he's never once in his entire life thought this would happen, "Are you serious?"

Dean's silent for a moment, then shifts slightly -- but not away from Sam.

"Dean," Sam says, this time clearly. "You're -- I've got to know. Are you serious?"

Dean rolls his eyes nonchalantly, but Sam can read it in the bunching of his shoulders that he's nervous. Nervous, but looking Sam straight in the eye without blinking, and Sam can't really hear what he's saying but he can see his mouth shaping the word 'yes'.

Dean's breath is slightly sour and Sam knows that his is as well, but it hardly matters, because this is Dean he has right here in front of him, not somebody Dean wants, and he can touch him and see his face rather than imagine what he would do. Sam can do this on his own, this time, be himself, open up as much as he dares, because Dean is right: it's only them, and that's the only way things can stay.

Sam leans in shakily, slots his mouth over Dean's, parts his lips and traces Dean's with his tongue. They're cracked and dry, but wholly Dean, and Sam can't believe this. The moment Dean opens his mouth, Sam sucks in a breath stealing it right out of Dean, and then chuckles slightly in his chest when he feels Dean doing the same to him. They start to breathe in turns, light-headed and dizzy and almost high from it, never once parting for breath.

Sam thrusts against Dean's hip, moves a thigh between Dean's, feels Dean thrust back, move against him, thrust for thrust, their hands between their bodies trying to get their pants down for more skin-on-skin contact. When they've reached that point Sam takes Dean's hand, wraps it against both their dicks, and they move like that while Sam's other hand wanders all over Dean's neck, back, under his shirt, his ass.

He comes first, but he keeps his hand over Dean's, squeezing with each pulse and shudder that goes through him, giving Dean light butterfly kisses against his jaw, nipping at the stubble. He does that right until he feels Dean stiffen, shudder and come in their joined hands, feels Dean mouthing nonsense against his neck, and for some reason he doesn't want to consider too closely, feels that there's nothing that can get them.

Not yet.

Date: 2011-09-06 02:50 pm (UTC)
From: (Anonymous)
Very late finding this fic, wanted to give kudos as this is simply gorgeous. Heartbreaking, but gorgeous.


evitably: (Default)
a more profound pond

September 2012


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