Cas drops the box of tampons twice, but the lovely old lady who’s on her daily quest for the cat food stacks it on top of the pile in his arms, and they exchange a smile, and the world is pretty fucking great.
It’s a Tuesday, crispy-clipped cold outside. His scarf is a rainbow-colored boa constrictor curled five times around his neck, and even though he’s not exactly freezing he is already looking forward to adding that extra chili to tonight’s chili. Meg’s comfort food is spicy and her cravings for Patrick Swayze a secret she’d made him vow on seven of Mr. Bootie’s lives.
She’s a ball of agony, curled up in two blankets and she seamlessly goes from grumpy to sobby. Cas keeps her hugged through it all, pets her hair, kisses her temple, rubs her belly. Things are better ever since she picked up the exercises and tips Cas tickled out of his selection of yogis and herbalists and gurus, but it’s still hell, every four weeks. No, it’s not fair, and no, Cas will never understand, but let it out, let him hear it, no need to be suffering all alone.
Meg shows gratitude differently than most people. Doesn’t mention, doesn’t remind. Neither does Cas. She doesn’t use words and most times her actions, if anything, are sporadic.
But she’s different with Cas, and Cas and her know that. That it scares her. That she wishes she’d never beat him up that one time (way back), that she’s mortified and ashamed.
But she stayed and she stays—shares, listens.
She’s one peculiar cat, and Cas wouldn’t want to change a thing.
The ringing phone brings Cas so far back into the here and now that he remembers he hasn’t showered in four days. Good fucking thing he put his phone on the nightstand and that he’s got about just enough energy and muscle control to reach for it.
“Hey, I’m in town and—wait, is that the sound of...hold on. Do you have a dick down your throat right now or is that your Santa impression?”
Weak laugh. “No. And no.”
“You sound fucked up. You alright over there?”
“M’fine. Merry belated Christmas.”
“Ho ho ho. You even know which year it is?”
“Very funny.” Yawn, scratch. “You good? Why’re you calling?”
“I’m lonely,” groans the other end of the line, and Cas has to chuckle at that. “I know you’re not, but, other people work their asses off out there, and it’s fucking lonely for some’a those asses’ asses.”
“You can come over? But it’s a mess.”
“You free on New Year’s?”
“There’s, actually. A sort of dinner party, or.” Frown. Drugs are bad, kids. “S’a. A buncha guys’ll meet up at Dolly’s for, like, drinks? You can come?”
“Oh, if you’re there I’ll ‘come’ for sure.”
“You are lonely, huh.”
“Told you. Miss you.” Sweeter voice. The kind Balthazar likes to dazzle people with. Or seduce. Sometimes both. “Miss my little princess.”
Yeah. Yeah, definitely seduction. Cas stretches, smiles for the overall soreness in every limb he can feel (as in: one and a half leg and a good third of his torso). “I’ll have to work the day after, but you can spend the night if you want.”
“And if any of the other boys wants to share?”
“Then you can decide which ones it’ll be.” An approving hum from the speaker and Cas smirks still-lazy, has to ask though, “S’that fine by you?”
“We’ll see how the negotiations go.” Sudden traffic noise. Maybe Balt is in a car, opened the door right now. “Can’t wait. Take a shower now, would you, hippie love.”
“If I remember how to use my legs, sure. See you then. Take care.”
The heap under the blankets on the other side of the bed moves just when he hangs up, stirs and groans, frowns against drawn curtains and the little light they failed to keep out.
“Who was that?”
“An old friend.” Cas runs his knuckles over Sam’s calf. “He’ll be at Dolly’s. He’s fun. I think you’ll like him.”
Sam makes that particularly mocking-sweet face that makes Cas want to eat him alive as he states, “All your friends are ‘fun’, dude,” and Cas decides that the shower can wait just another half an hour or so.
Obviously, the best sentence to hear after climbing out of the shower like a newborn into the cold bright world is: there’s pizza left. (This pizza doesn’t taste like it’s the one they ordered on night one, but definitely not like last night’s either.) Obviously, the best view while eating left-over pizza is: Sam, shimmying into his new and fucking breathtaking jeans (maybe a Christmas present from his moms or Dean (who’re all utterly adoring him), commando underneath, meaty dick stuffed and shoved until it’s almost-not obscene anymore; over-shirt, starting to button it up. Momo gets curious and starts climbing a leg until he’s picked up, slung over a shoulder, cradled one-armed like a baby.
“You see my phone somewhere?”
“When’d you last use it?” is all Cas can offer.
Frown, helplessness. “I’ll—ugh, y’know what, I’ll just come back later, I gotta be at work in like ten minutes.”
Quick stomp towards Cas on the couch, smooch on the cheek, gentle drift of hand over face. Momo gets handed over and tongues at the pizza until Cas is present enough to get it out of that greedy reach.
“Thank you, okay? This was great. I had a great time. Thank you.”
Another smooch; all the while Sam is toeing his loosely-socked feet into his usual falling-apart sneakers.
“Take care. Be careful outside, don’t slip.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Smile, another kiss. “Okay, gotta run, see you later.”
Cas falls back against the couch after Sam is out of sight, sighs around his mouthful of pizza as the front door opens and closes in a hurry.
Lets Momo—who apparently has got better things to do now that all visitors have left and the chances for treats are down to their usual rates of ‘but you know what the vet said, young man’—slither out of his arm. Lets his eyes sweep over the mess.
Cas’ friends are great guys, seriously, they are, but somehow it’s always Cas who finds dildos dipped into half-finished cups of coffee. And...
When the fuck did they order chicken wings. And who stapled them to the kitchen door frame.
Mr. Bootie hops into his lap and his little belly is bloated, and Cas frowns but pets anyway.
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”
Walking, subway, walking. Two cigs, one johnnie, cup of coffee. The jingle of the doorbell is soothing, and seeing Andy’s face does its part of warming Cas right up.
“Hi! Merry Christmas!”
“The usual.” Cas settles on the couch; considers taking off his coat but that would just end up in holing up here trying samples. He pulls off his hat though. “Or, maybe, double it. The last couple’a days took their toll on my stash.”
Already busy putting together what easily can be called a subscription package, Andy affirms, “It was great.”
Cas frowns. “You were there?”
“You were kinda busy.”
“I apologize. Did I at least say hello to you?”
“You did. With your mouth, on my mouth.”
“Yeah.” Still that smile, sheepish tug of corner of mouth, eyes on Cas. “It’s fine. I told you kissing is fine.”
“Right.” Cas fingerguns at him. Seeing how quickly Andy is with packing up his order, Cas heaves himself to his feet, pit-patters over to the counter, pulls out his wallet and bills from the wallet.
“That’s too much,” chuckles Andy.
“No, no. Take it as a Christmas present.”
“I thought you don’t do Christmas? Also I was kinda gonna give you a Christmas discount.”
“You’re a hard negotiator.” Cas stuffs half of the extra back into his wallet, leaves the rest on the counter. Smiles to himself, the world, his cute (really fucking cute) dealer. “And, actually, I did do Christmas this year.”
“Yes. It was nice, too.”
Andy cocks eyebrow and hip, chin on his hands, peeking up at Cas. “With whom?”
“You’re such a tattletale.”
“The big guy from the party?”
“Yeah, that’s Sam. Him and his boyfriend, actually.”
“And you let them exorcise your Grinch?”
“We had dinner,” confides Cas, pulls his hat back on, scratches his beard, gathers the paper bag Andy filled to the fucking brim. “Exchanged some presents. It was nice.”
“Uh-huh. I bet.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Cas doesn’t leave without putting together what ends up as one pound of tea, then resumes his shopping outside the cozy space of ‘Finest Teas & Herbs’.
With how Dean is staring down at Momo, it’s hard to tell if he is amazed or disgusted by the iguana. He pets him relentlessly, though. The surprise on Cas’ face when he comes back from the kitchen and finds a…what…a rhinestone..collar…around Momo’s neck…
Dean barks, “What?” and Cas decides for, “Nothing, nothing.”
He settles down next to his guest, pets an obviously proud looking Momo.
“He likes it,” Cas says.
“He better.” Frowning. “Sam is late.”
Hm. “Sam actually won’t join us today.”
Deeper frown, short silence. Dean turns to stare at the reptile in his lap. Doesn’t stop brushing his hand over its scales for a second.
“I wanted to talk with you.”
Dean laughs. “With me?”
“You don’t have to feel threatened.”
Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t. Shuffle closer, arm over the backrest of the couch; good. “What I want to discuss with you concerns Sam.”
“A sexy thing?”
Baiting Dean Smith is an easy science.
Dolly’s is as much of a respectable bar as Cas is a Good Son, but it is cozy, and it does sell good beer, and the music is nice and the patrons are colorful and it’s always well-frequented. Since it’s New Year’s Eve, obviously it is packed.
A quick glance across the crowd and, yeah, Cas has slept with approximately half of them.
This is as close as he’ll come to a family get-together this year. Or next year, if he has any say in the matter.
Just shortly after nine, Meg rumbles about beer; good idea. Cas gets one for each of them, settles into a good spot at the bar with Meg, shrugs out of his jacket. As freezing as it was outside with only the top underneath the jacket, he’s damn glad he’s not wearing much more now that they are inside.
Beers come and go, hugs and kisses and laughter, new hellos and polite ‘no thank you’s. If there should be any hook-ups tonight, Sam and Balt will do the picking. Dean—if he comes at all; he said he’ll be at his company’s party first and join them here later—most probably won’t object to anything or anyone.
Ten twenty: Sam rushes in with cold hands and dry lips, leather jacket and styled hair and smelling of barbecue wings and liquor. Brings a stunning blonde who Meg seems to have instant respect for. Cas gets two rounds of shots for everyone to lighten the mood. It’s a success.
They’re dancing by the time Balthazar arrives, Sam in front of him and there’s a sluggish warmth pressing up into Cas’ back then. Cas recognizes him by the cologne; not that Balt is using an iconic one but he always smells heavy, expensive, and that’s the tell.
Turnaround, kiss, Sam’s hands on Cas’ hips now, dancing slower as if he’s evaluating the new situation. Cas introduces their new dance partner in a shout over his shoulder. Sam eventually remembers.
More dancing. Balt buys the next three rounds. Meg steals one of Sam’s jagerbombs even though she hates those—Sam doesn’t notice, wouldn’t mind even if he did.
Things are good, loose-limbed, warm where it counts. Cas only takes notice of Dean’s arrival because of the serious shift of attention. The element of shock.
Balt has this hyena-style laugh when something is really, really entertaining him. He shrieks with it, holding onto Cas’ top and arm but still sliding from the barstool. Cas joins the laughter because why not but looks for Dean’s face in the crowd. Finds it crumbled, wind-whipped; sour.
So they know each other.
“We work together.”
“Used to,” grunts Dean, orders another two where he hasn’t yet finished his first.
Balt tuts, “Don’t be like that,” and this time Cas grins for real. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell them! We go way back, the two of us, Cassie.”
Dean insists, “There is nothing to tell,” and Sam interrupts, “How far back?”
Balt has one hand on his drink, the other in the back of Cas’ jeans. Next to Dean, he’s officially the only other person who wears suits on the regular and gets to sleep in Cas’ bed. Balthazar drawls, “Oh, you know, college?” and Cas gently elbows him because shut up.
Outside—fresh air, bass now distant—Cas’ head is booming. He lights his smoke on Sam’s, puppy-eyes up to him where he’s frowning at the gutters, nervous blink to his eyes that make Cas put a hand on the small of his back and ask if he’s okay.
They smoke two, each. Cas ends up cradling Sam’s hips through Sam’s third, rubs his thumb over the baby-sliver of skin between jeans and hem of tee.
Again, “Are you okay?”
“Do you want to go back inside?”
Sam nods. “Yeah.”
“You know Balthazar will stay at my place tonight, right?”
“Is that okay? You can leave with Dean, if you would rather.”
“No. No, it’s okay.”
“Yeah.” Grimace. “It’s not his fault.”
Sam lets himself get kissed, but he’s the one holding Cas’ head through it. The one who’s crowding their dicks together on the sidewalk with someone else puking their guts out a few feet to their left.
Back inside, holding hands, they find the Megs dancing with the Suits; kinda awkwardly but not any less handsomely. Dean makes grabby-hands for the two of them and pulls Sam in as soon as he can, belt-loop and mouth and Balt turns that Dad-face at Cas.
Well, Balt never talked about Dean either.
There will be glitter and confetti for months after tonight, stuck in every corner, every little gap and slip, and patrons will romantically swoon for them. All the New Year kisses leave Cas tongue-tied, wake and drug him in equal amounts. He breaks out the one joint he intended to have, the first of the new year, pre-rolled by Andy and so fucking delicious even Balt dares a hit.
Cas is a pillow, at some point. Uses everyone else as one, maybe. Realizes there’s a dick or two, close to his face or something, frowns and has a quick panic moment before recognizing the sheets as his own.
Blurry, little light. Hands, several ones, sliding up his body, making him squirm if he wasn’t so heavy. When they heave him up to sit, he’s positive he’ll throw up for a moment or two, but then he feels rope and just grunts his laughter.
Arms behind his back, open-mouthed slobber into the sheets, constant drum and push and pull. Must be Balthazar, because Sammy wouldn’t pull his hair that much. Wouldn’t pinch his ear like that. (Why not, though? They should talk about that, sometime, soon…ish. Yeah.)
Cas remembers: Sam and Dean, next to them in their own sphere, doing their own thing. Which is okay. It’s nice, having Balt all for himself. It’s been so long. So much traveling. Balt swears he fathered another kid, says he’ll show pictures tomorrow.
Sam’s hair is sticky with product, so Cas settles with his chest instead. Rubs and paints smiley faces. Pinches Dean’s nose when he snores. Likes the way Dean turns over and into Balt, curls his arms around the guy like they’ve been dating forever, and—they really have to enlighten him tomorrow.
Cas slurs, “Can’t sleep,” when Sam wakes from the kissing. Slips into Sam without really asking, without needing to. Sam is loud when drunk. Sounds offended to be robbed of his sleep, but lets Cas work himself out. Dean kicks them, repeatedly, and Cas has a laughing fit over it with his dick still buried in Sam.
Mr. Bootie nibbles at Cas’ toes, and the bedside radio shines one thirty PM.
Cas falls out of bed rather inelegantly.
Feed the pets. Water the plants. Have a smoke. Have a piss. Light a bowl. Eat a sandwich. Bring the bowl to bed, share.
Dean looks devastatingly beautiful with his mouth wrapped around pretty much any object Cas could come up with so far. Dean has wrinkles he hates and creams away, but he’s unwashed and bare and used up and Cas likes him best like that. Which might be some kind of fetish, but. Hey, guilty pleasures.
“He really loves it.”
Dean hmpfs, keeps petting Momo who has settled on his belly, eyes falling closed with his chin on Dean’s sternum. The rhinestone collar hasn’t lost its shine yet. As if Momo is being extra careful.
Balt rises suddenly to a sitting position, clutching the sheets around his chest, frowning as he scans the room.
“Okay,” he groans. “Whose dick do I have to suck to get some breakfast?”
Sam groans in his sleep and turns over.
“I just still can’t believe you two know each other.” Balt waves his egg-loaded fork in between Dean and Cas. “I mean, aren’t you still, like, the most loyal resident of Closet Town?”
Cas considers the accusation before Dean can answer, “What, jus’ cause my boss doesn’t know I suck dick I can’t have some fun?”
“No, just.” Balt shrugs. “You look. Happy? Cas, did you actually manage to pull that stick out of that boy’s ass?”
Cas grins. “Trying.”
“You two think you’re so funny.”
“Eat your eggs, cher.”
(It’s the cliché-usual secret pact between two businessmen with these two—high-class college, high-class expectations, proud parents, conservative surroundings. Pretty much as effective in praying the gay away as sending Cas to Bible Camp, catholic school.)
Sam walks in on Balt riding Dean’s face, and Cas distracts by offering to fry more bacon.
Hand to thigh; Sam is chewing and avoiding the noises from the living room, eyes up to Cas who smiles and feeds and whispers. Sam swallows. Nods that tiny nod, not the choppy one that says he knows his manners, no, but the small, timid, blushing one.
Cas lights another bowl, watches his three guests slowly warming up to one another. Or, Sam, warming up to the idea of double-teaming Dean together with Balt.
Balt, as big as his mouth is, can be thoughtful if he wants to. And he obviously likes Sam (and who wouldn’t?) so he offers space, holds eye contact when he reaches for touches, never truly addresses Sam but talks about him to a Dean who is barely conscious anymore, spit-roasted between two insatiable disasters who love his choking-noises. Sam accepts Balt as a part of this, but they don’t click like Cas thought they might. But they don’t have to.
Balt leaves at five PM sharp, bathed and perfumed and readied for a five-hour flight. Kisses Cas on the cheek like any chaste housewife.
Cas only remembers he wasn’t shown the new Balthazar Junior when his friend is already down the stairs. Well, there’s always another time.
Sam thrones on the sofa, petting a feverishly purring Mr. Bootie. He’s freshly showered (because for obvious reasons and also because Cas had taken him aside and told him to), awake and stretched out, and.
Yeah. It’s time.
“We would like to make a proposal.”
“And feel free to say no, alright? No pressure.”
Sam licks his lips, says, “What?”
God, this is getting to all of them already, isn’t it.
“We play. But, for like a week. Or two.” Dean shifts to stand more bossy. Arms crossed, he looks buffed. Capable. “We thought two weeks, max. Cause we wanna do this right. Like—intense.”
“We are considering a dominant-submissive setting,” says Cas. “With you as the submissive.”
“We takin’ care of you.”
“You doing as we say.”
“We’ve got, like...” Dean shifts again. Cas has to keep from leaning over and putting a soothing hand on him. “We’ve got ideas. Tasks. Some challenges, depending on how it’ll work out. How much you wanna take.”
“We want to tend to you and only you, for as much time as possible. There would be play even for the times you would not be with us.”
“You won’t lift a fucking finger without us telling you to.”
Sam, who has been listening with slower and slower strokes of his hand over the sphynx’s skull, slips a trembling little exhale.
(Cas loves these moments.) “What do you think?”
“Everything is open for discussion, of course,” adds Dean because he’s such a careful soul, and Cas has done shit like that before, he has, but every new go always is new and exciting.
Sam is still six foot four, still able to bench-press one and a half times his body weight. And he says, “Yes,” like he’s barely a breeze of air.
Sam lists that they can: hit him, degrade him, tie him down any way with any tools. Not: kick him or spit on him, no feces.
Cas would be rubbing those trembling hands if he would have any hope of letting go within the next half an hour or so, so he does as Dean—arms and legs crossed tight.
“Sweetheart,” mutters Dean. “Y’don’t get it, huh? We wanna make you feel good. I’m not gonna fucking spit on you.”
Sam gets teary-eyed.
They expected it to be intense.
“You can do whatever you want. I’ll take it.” Sam is pleading, now. Quiet-shy like a blackmail victim. “Jus’, uhm. Use me. I want to feel like—”
“Like we won’t stop until we get what we want. Whether it pleasures you or not.”
“God.” Dean groans, rubs the bridge of his nose. “First thing, Cas: he really needs to stop talking so fucking much, ’cause I’m about to cream my goddamn pants over here.”
Cas notices the nip of anticipation making Sam flinch, allows his mouth to crawl into a sleek smile. “I’m sure that can be arranged. Which brings us to the basic rules. Dean, would you like to start?”
The table grunts under the shift of Dean’s weight, and now Dean seriously grabs his crotch. Yeah, that’s some approval right there.
Dean got most of the hardware because he’s a hygiene freak like that. And because he doesn’t exactly trust Cas’ home-made equipment. Not on a project like this. It’s part of the fun, for him, to go shopping, to make preparations.
It’s Cas who retrieves the cock cage, who holds it out for Sam to see, but it’s Dean who orders, “You’ll wear this for as long as we play. No time-out. You’re the receiving end of this, and we want you to really feel that part.” A heartbeat. “That you’re ours.”
Such a palpable hit right where it counts, where Cas wanted this to go, and it’s so fucking hard to repress that fat smile in favor of staying in-role.
It’s a race of time. Pulse and ice—Sam’s dick is on a steady rise and fall, dripping with water and soon precome. Cas has to twist those balls pretty hard to finally get the cage on. He pets the now-barred meat with careful fingers, can see and feel it chubbing up to the limits of what it’s given, the sad throb of it.
Dean grumbles, “I’ll really fucking miss that dick,” and Cas leaks into his linen.
“Your phone must be on vibrate at all times, as we will send you texts every now and then.”
“We’ll tell you where to go after work, and you’ll go there right away. No grocery shopping. No chat with the sweet old lady from the deli.”
“If a friend asks you to spend time with them, tell them you are busy. Postpone it to the end of the month, when we are done with you.”
There’s heat in Sam’s cheeks, and he nods as eager as ever.
Cas palms his dick.
“You won’t wear clothes around us. Starting now.”
Sam is as much of an exhibitionist as Cas, but now he’s shaking as he’s stripping his long-sleeved tee over his head. He’s sweating already.
Sam drops to his knees without needing to be told to and God, Cas knew Sam was in need of this, but he didn’t know just how much.
That pulse flutters birdish under Cas’ fingers as he fastens the collar, strokes two palms up that long, long neck, cups that jaw so Sam looks up at Dean. Feels him swallowing, vibrating with anticipation. Can relate; tips his eyes up at Dean as well, allows to be swept away as well.
“Cas,” eyes on Sam, lick of lips, “would you be angel and get me the paddle from my bag, please?”
Cas is practically flying.
It’s been one hard battle to get Uriel to not pick the greens out of his sandwiches. Already a victory, really, that all he flicks back at Cas are the (already baby-thinly sliced) tomatoes.
Cas’ phone goes off with the hourly alarm. He swipes it off, ponders over his upcoming text for a minute before he taps away, still munching.
“What are you doing?”
“It is private.”
Cas tilts his phone away as Uriel scoots closer, ignores the grumbling.
Sam has tiny nipples. Not very sensitive ones either. So, Cas decided, experimenting with nipple clamps is that much more important. He’s got him at the point of looking like he’s about to flinch away once Cas gets the clamps out. Even though they were off during the workday, Sam is still sore from last night and this morning. Cas flicks the clamps once they’re secured on Sam’s tits.
Cas is far from calling himself a sadist but then again that shiver-whine from Sam doesn’t have anything to do with pain; not really. Doesn’t sound like it.
It’s day five and Sam’s locked and leaking like a faucet. Cas is the only one of them sparing a touch or a lick (through the narrow bars, just to taste the soaked skin). Dean outright ignores it, doesn’t even hit or cane it. As if it doesn’t deserve any comment or attention at all. The longer it goes on, the more Cas gets with it.
Sam is exhausted. A tired kind of sore, pleasant and floating and God if they’d known he enjoys it so much they would have done this earlier. Will definitely have to repeat it.
Cas has sworn off making big plans but this is something else. The waiting, anticipation. Dean is gonna come home in an hour and this feels an embarrassingly lot like playing house.
Cas is the wife, kinda.
“You’ll ride this while I prepare dinner. You gonna do that for me?”
Sam’s nostrils flutter wide and there’s some hesitation, eyes going up-down-up together with Cas’ hand on the dildo, but he nods, of course he does.
Cas doesn’t have to ask him to raise up from the bench. Just corrects that arch a little into uber-perfection with the flat of his palm, no pressure, just a reminder.
“That’s a good boy.”
He doesn’t lecture Sam for his groan as the fat plug they’ve worked him up to gets pulled free. Actually, he’s not exactly expecting Sam to get all of the Bumblehooves up inside himself—they haven’t been focusing on ass play enough to get him there. It’s just a game, to pass the time, to keep him busy.
Also, Sam riding a horse cock is one spectacular view.
Cas greases both the toy and Sam’s ass, helps steadying the cock that might be solid but too long to have any chance not to flop away from pressure. The head gets thumbed in unceremoniously. Sam breathes steadily through the first inches.
Cas withdraws his hand, smears the lube over Sam’s lower back. Steps back to take him in, how he’s holding himself with his elbows on the table, mouth hanging open and eyes closed.
“Can you take more?”
Sam’s hips sink. And sink.
Cas’ eyes follow, and he puts a hand on Sam’s ass when the descent halts, when Sam is starting to huff.
He presses down, through a first resistance. Can feel Sam clenching, that short protest before he surrenders, just like that. Would let them do anything to him, and it’s still a weird concept for Cas to really wrap his mind around.
“I said ’ride’, not ’sit’.”
Sam’s hips rise back up, all slow, but it’s a start. Cas removes his hand for good, more than pleased with the result.
Sam’s kitchen space is of claustrophobic proportions. Whipping up a meal here is a struggle in itself. Doing it with a beautiful boyfriend fucking himself on a unicorn cock in the background...not exactly helping.
Cas rolls up his sleeves and sighs.
Dean’s telling Sam to eat while sitting on it, and Sam does just that.
Sam doesn’t complain when Dean changes his mind during the second helping, rearranging him and the toy so he’s kneeling, eating from his bowl hands-free while sliding back on the fake cock.
Dean’s already a slow eater, but tonight he’s barely getting any food into his mouth at all by the time it’s cold.
“How long’s it been since either of us fucked you, huh?”
Sam’s got sweat in his eyes and his lip is trembling, just a bit. He blinks at Dean, Cas, Dean, and when he croaks, “Last week?” Cas remembers it’s been days since they let him speak.
Dean hums, brows furrowed, and has to grab-pull Sam’s ass to remind him of his task.
“Well, doesn’t look like you need it.”
Sam shudders, drops his head; lets Dean move him with his fingers deeply hooked into his no-fat-buttock.
If Cas had known Dean was so fascinated with horse cock, he’d introduced the toy earlier (and not necessarily to Sam).
After dinner (and yeah Cas is definitely feeling the wife part), they move Sam to the living room. They had him clean the entire place a few days ago and Dean is pleased enough with the result that he kneels. He adds weights to the nipple clamps before he slaps Sam’s tits, once each, and yeah, no, fuck the dishes. Sam can do that, later.
Dean barely leans back into Cas’ hand petting through his hair.
“What do you have in mind?”
Dean hums. “He’s gonna eat my ass. While you keep fucking him with that.”
“I like that.”
Towels are a smart choice. By the time Cas is back with them, Dean is already naked. His clothes lie neatly folded over Sam’s couch. If he thinks Sam licked that clean too he’s delusional, but Cas won’t mention it.
They’re pushing borders enough as it is.
Dean has spit foaming on his fat lower lip for Cas to lick away. He groans and sits back all the way, smothering Sam completely and slapping his clamped tits so hard he’s jostling all three participants of this pile.
Cas isn’t sure if Dean means him or Sam but ultimately it doesn’t matter much.
There’s so much liquids going on down here that he’s pretty sure he’s milked Sam already but that, too, is no matter to be considered.
Cas is thrumming, hasn’t touched his dick once; his arm hurts from slamming the dildo up Sam’s guts and he feels like he’s gonna do violence if there’s no relief, soon.
“Let me fuck you.”
Dean grunts, shifts his weight again; closer to Cas and Sam gasps for air underneath him.
Cas has to grab Dean’s hair to get his attention. Unfocused eyes and it’s not clear he’s really getting it but he nods, groans, “Yeah,” and Cas thinks he can do them both, like this.
Blind nodding. Dean lets Cas shuffle around, lets him manipulate his body until he hovers over Sam on all fours. He drops to one forearm to get the angle right and fuck Bumblehooves in all the way to the suction cup base, and Dean makes the cutest shocked noise when Cas slams into him, no preamble, just Sam’s glorious mouth work and enough lube to drip down on Sam’s face, and it’s perfect.
“Get his balls, Sam. Fucking do it.”
Judging by Dean’s voice, Sam complied.
Cas ends up pulling out in the last second to cream Sam’s face up good. He’s back to eating Dean’s ass and Cas is too exhausted to get it up again without medication at this point of their 'project', but God, Dean coming loud and heavy all over Sam’s clamped chest is one sight to behold.
They don’t let him clean himself up. Make him sit, arms behind his back, Bumblehooves stuck to the floor and pushing so far into him Cas is surprised they can’t see his belly bulging out.
Sam does look destroyed. Still riding that high, but destroyed.
Dean is rocking him back and forth on the toy, just a little, just gently, to make the weights pull on his nipples and to worsen that whole-body tremble of almost-too-much.
“Kinda want him to sleep with it in.”
Both Cas and Sam groan, but it’s only Sam who gets backhanded for it.
“Did I ask you a question.”
“Then why’d you make noise.”
“Yeah he’s definitely gonna sleep with that horse cock up his ass.”
“Technically, it’s a unicorn.”
Dean slow-blinks up at him. “Cas,” he says, “shut your mouth and get me the harness.”
They fasten it tightly, forcing Sam to take the entire length. The fake balls are pressed up against his taint, and his chest is heaving.
Cas keeps a hand on Sam’s back, one on his shoulder, near his nape.
Sam splutters, “Ghostbusters,” and Dean is the faster one, practically rips the harness back off. They ease the toy out as carefully but quickly as possible.
Dean’s muttering, “Sorry, sorry,” and Sam, God bless him, is trying to calm Dean instead of himself.
These two. Jesus.
Cas leaves them by themselves for as long as it takes to dash into the bedroom and raid the bed for all the blankets and pillows he can carry. No way they’re moving their Sasquatch anytime soon, and the floor is cold.
They’ve cuddled up with Sam in the middle, blankets pulled tight and no words for now. Just holding, stroking hair, catching breath. A tight bundle; BO and lube and cumin.
Sam and Dean switch position once Dean won’t stop sniffling. Won’t let them woo him as much as they see fit; he’s obviously embarrassed on top of taken by surprise. Says he wasn’t even the one getting fucked by a horse.
Sam whispers, “It’s a unicorn,” and that’s what gets them laughing again, in the end.
Weaver and Starling had a hard time warming up to Mr. Bootie when they should have worried about Momo, probably (but as long as he doesn’t figure out how to jump vertically like he jumps horizontally, everyone should be fine). They’re responsible for the majority of scars on Cas’ hands—and Cas is known at work for his pantherinae handling skills. But, then again, he wouldn’t insist on petting those.
It’s hard to tell if Mr. Bootie experiences something like jealousy. Cas feels like he is really quite fair with them all. The birds don’t accept any knitted accessories though. (Yet. It’s a work in progress.)
Everyone is a little weird, and shy. Like Cas. If they were like that before him, he cannot say. He always makes sure to open enough windows, not smoke with any of them in direct exposure. He's trying his best, really.
“Dad isn't doing so well.”
“Did the doctors say anything?”
“No.” Samandriel sighs, sharply. “He's just...I dunno. I'm sorry. You probably don't wanna hear this.”
“Keep talking. You can tell me, if it makes you feel better.”
Cas' little brother turned seventeen the other week. It's easier to stay in contact now that he's got a job in some food joint where he has access to an actual phone.
Cas' little brother often tells him he doesn't know what to do, and Cas can't offer any help. If he had an answer, they wouldn't be making cross-country phone calls.
It never gets easier ending with some kind of invitation, come over, stay forever, I wouldn't mind, just get out of there for a hot minute and be alive, and always hearing, “Yeah, I would love to,” both of them very well aware that Samandriel won't go anywhere Dad isn't approving of. That 'anywhere' definitely not being anywhere close to Cas.
After idling by the phone for a while, lost in thought, Cas shrugs his coat on, slips boots and hat on, and heads outside.
The Roadhouse isn't far, and Ash is always in for some day-drinking. Usually ahead of Cas in that department, just like today. Glares up at Cas knocking but not waiting for an answer before stepping into his room, but holds out a can of beer for him nevertheless.
Cas sits down next to his stark naked friend, pops the can open, eyes the laptop screen together with him (even though not as determined).
A heavy sip. “What is going on?”
Ash puts his forefinger against his lips. Stares, intently, at the program running in front of them.
Beers and beers and beers end up next to the rest of filth covering the floor. Time passes. Numbers run. Cas doesn't pretend to be interested, just like Ash doesn't pretend to care for human interaction. Cas watches him flinch eventually. Is laid back at this point, elbow deep in something he doesn't wanna face with the lights on. Ash closes the laptop, leaves for a piss just next door. Cas helps himself with the beer. Still has his pants and hat on, the long-sleeved tee just for hygienic reasons.
Back in the room, Ash gestures for another can of beer. Cas hands it to him, and Ash downs it in one go. He belches, loudly. “My man,” he says, and throws the can across the room. Claps his chest. “What can I do for you, huh?”
Cas shrugs. “Beer's good. I'm good.”
Ash gathers his headphones, his laptop, and settles into another corner of the room.
It's one of those days. Slow, and dark, and best spent with a friend.
Unlocking Sam is just about as fun as putting the cage on him in the first place. Especially for Dean. Who doesn’t let him get it up all the way before he’s all over it. Sam hisses for the beyond-heightened sensitivity but feels flattered enough to let him do his do.
They spend some good, long hours in Dean’s gigantic bed. There’s wine and a late-night Jacuzzi session involved. As much as Cas despises the show-off nature of these things (who buys wine that’s more than four dollars, pfsh), he must admit they do have their perks. On occasion. In moderation. The jets are really, really nice.
Dean is only half-conscious, face buried in Sam’s lap. Snuggled close, cheek on Sam’s chest, Cas is making heart-eyes at their favorite puppy.
“What was your favorite?”
Sam chuckles. Rubs his face with his free hand, smiles with the joy coming with a row of real spectacular orgasms.
“Where do I even begin to answer that.”
“Mine was when you pissed yourself.”
“The first time, or...?”
“First,” Cas grins.
“You were so exhausted. I almost felt sorry.”
Sam grins, “’Almost’,” and Cas’ smile flashes his teeth.
“Hm. My favorite... Probably all the edging. But also the impact stuff.”
Dean makes an approving noise between a drowning bear and a very, very broken vacuum cleaner.
Sam pets him, beams at Cas, all honest. “I enjoyed every moment.”
“It might be hard on him. I’m just saying.”
Dean shrugs, takes another hit. Squints, like Cas is one of those annoying adults. “He’ll live.”
“Yeah, but. The transition from all this attention to...how it was before...” Cas leans in. “You do realize it will hurt him. Right?”
Dean sprawls some more, pulls an unwilling Mr. Bootie into his lap to pet him into submissiveness. He rolls his eyes when Cas won’t change his body language.
“It was a game. He knew the expiration date. We all had our fun, but I’m not gonna pamper him to death, man.”
“You are aware he’s in love with you, right?”
Dean snorts, loudly.
“He knows that’s how I am! You don’t hear him complaining, do you?”
“Yes—because he doesn’t want to put you off!”
Cas groans, gets to his unsure feet. So, okay. Sam hasn’t shared those parts of his past with Dean yet. At this point, Cas cannot blame him. He stumbles over to the sink, the watering cans. Because if he doesn’t walk this here off, this talk will get uncomfortable soon.
Mumbles, “Look,” half of his current joint wedged between his lips, “I’m not talking chocolate and Valentine’s Day cards here. I just think you should consider showing him some kind of appreciation. This boy played your punching bag for two weeks, Dean.”
No reaction but a deeper frown, an offended pout.
Cas spills considerable amounts of water in the course of wild gestures. “Can’t you, like—’I enjoy our time together’? Or ’you’re special to me’?”
Dean makes gagging noises.
“Can you not be a child for one second?”
“I like him, okay?! I don’t know how to make it more obvious than dedicating, like, every free minute of my fifty hour work week! Do you know how many dicks I’ve sucked these past two weeks?!”
Cas frowns. In confusion.
“One!” Dean bellows. “Yours! Like, five times! That, dude, is an amount I’d suck in, like, half a day! On a bad day! Before I met him! And you! I’m like, basically MARRIED.”
Both Cas and Mr. Bootie startle at the climax of Dean’s voice, but only the cat has the balls to make a run for it. Dean glares after him for a second before whipping his attention back to Cas. Has his finger raised and all.
“I’m MARRIED and I DON’T HATE IT. So he can SUCK IT UP, okay?!”
Under other circumstances, if this wasn’t Dean Smith, Cas would have thrown anyone out who’d scare any of the animals. But as it is, he feels happy tears welling up in his eyes.
Smith’s eyes widen in terror. Or, even more anger. Hard to say.
“Don’t. Cas, I swear to God. Don’t. I’ll punch you right in the face. I’m not kidding.”
Only Dean would threaten someone dressed in nothing but wool socks, carrying a half-empty watering can in the shape of a frog, crying, high as a kite, in their own living room.
You certainly get too soft with age.