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Just a Joke

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Sam could never sleep on nights like this.  Nights when his big brother Dean had a party, the kind he always had when their Dad took off for weeks at a time, when he knew he wouldn’t get caught.  Even when his “friends” left their trailer looking like a tornado hit it. 

The parties are always loud and sometimes last for days, kids with actual curfews drifting in and out, while still others crashed on ancient, stained couches or passed out in the tiny bathtub.  Sam used to think the cops would get called, but that doesn’t happen in this particular trailer park.  Here, people must have reasons to want everyone minding their business. 

Nobody complains, no matter what they hear.

He also used to let Dean order him into pajamas and into bed (keeping with the John Winchester-approved schedule), only to sneak out about an hour after things got going.  It sounded fun, and what kind of preteen would he be, if he didn’t at least try to hang with the big kids.  He knew by then Dean would already be buzzing and mellowed, and even if he tried to send Sam back to bed, his friends usually convinced him to let his little brother stay.  And then Sam got all kinds of attention, and he got to stay up late with these big grown up teens. 

He doesn’t do that anymore. 

It’s not always so great, that attention.  Not once they get used to him, when the novelty wears off.   Sam’s just a kid, but even he realizes when he’s being experimented on, or just being used as the butt of a great joke that he isn’t supposed to get. 

Teenagers are fine.  Drunk teenagers can be real jerks.

Let’s see how much he can drink.  He thought he was going to die that night; even Dean had been afraid.  Kicked everybody out, took care of Sam until it was dark again the next day (which was how long it took before he started feeling better again.)  Sam was too sick to appreciate it at the time, but somehow it’s almost a good memory now.  Sam had been disgusting, running at both ends, but his big brother never left his side.  Red eyed, but alert.  Worried.  Caring.

Or the time they started asking questions about girls, when Sam isn’t even sure he’s so interested in girls.  Sam’s too uncomfortable for much sex talk--even with his best friends, Kevin and Garth, heck, even with Dean.  Yet there was Dean’s friend Gabriel, the funny guy in the crowd, egging on a red-faced Sam to prove he knows what all the bases are.  Teasing him about his first kiss, trying to get him to “practice” on some wasted redhead named Anna.  Who doesn't act disgusted, like she should.  Who drags him close (and didn’t his heart pound—wasn’t he intimidated, grown up painted lips, curves he’s never felt against him.)

But then she  laughed and shoved him away.  And Sam gets the joke, IS the joke.  Just a little boy, too young for kissing and parties where everyone’s years older than him.  “Just you wait, kiddo,” like that’s so funny, how young he is, how innocent.    

The days turn cold, and Dean’s friends only get wilder.  Louder. 


New faces come around more and more, sometimes the kind of kids Sam would cross the street to avoid.  Sam learns that partying doesn’t just make you loud and silly (or downright stupid.)  It doesn’t just make everything seem funny.  It can make a person violent.  Like the time Dean’s dumb jock friend, Nick, thought something—to this day Sam’s not sure what was in the little baggie Meg finally threw in his face—was stolen from his jacket.  A jacket Sam was unknowingly sitting on. 

He’d almost broken Sam’s arm, wrenched it so badly that he couldn’t use it for a week without bolts of pain all the way through his shoulder and back.  Whatever his Dad’s worst, most drunken tempers, whatever Dean’s, Sam had never seen a grown person look at him like that. 

Like it didn’t matter that he was small and young and fragile.  Like Sam was just something to hate, something that he needed to hurt. 

Dean was furious that time, too, jumping to Sam’s defense.

Except Nick still comes around. 

Not every time.


He’s allowed in Sam’s home.

The parties aren’t that fun after all.  Not for him. 

So now Sam stays in his room.

Dean is so different these days anyway.  Even during the day, even when it’s them alone.  It’s so hard to get him to pay attention to anything.  Not just having fun, the way they used to, wrestling or watching Dean’s crappy action movies.  Important things, like trying to finally get a hold of Dad before the landlord comes around again.  Or how there’s no actual food in the house—chips and dip do not count.

(Dean, shoving a couple dollars at Sam, mumbling about getting some hot dogs and bread from the store.)

Sam’s real tired of hot dogs.  But going to the grocery store at least gets him out of the trailer.

That’s daytime, when Dean is like the walking dead, and the sound of Sam’s voice seems to grate his every last nerve.  Night still belongs to his friends, and Sam can honestly fall off the planet for all that his brother will notice.  Oh, Dean still goes through the motions, getting Sam to put on pajamas and brush his teeth, asking about his homework (as though he would know one way or the other about it.)  He puts him to bed earlier than he should, (getting him out of the way) but Sam appreciates it now.  Would’ve hidden out anyway.

Their double wide is 20 years older than Sam, with permanent mold and rust smells to fight teen BO, spilled beer, and old pizza.  Dean (when he sleeps) uses the slightly larger bedroom, with Sam in a tiny space at the end that just fits his twin bed and one skinny dresser.  It has a sliding door, and Sam shuts it, but…he wishes it were a real door (with a lock).  He has to wrestle it just to get it to shut all the way.  And even though you have to go through Dean’s room to get to his, it’s not unheard of for strangers to come stumbling in at odd hours.

The party sounds are muffled through his closed door--they’re on opposite ends of the trailer--but he can still hear everything that goes on.  Music and laughter.  Screaming and cursing, sometimes crying.   Flesh hitting flesh, bodies hitting walls, shaking the whole place like thunder. 

Faintly, he can smell his brother’s weed.  Daydreams about calling the cops on him for that.  Ever since--

(---sick-sweet smell that he hates, “You wanna try some, Sammy?”

“Dude, your brother's gonna grow up to be a pussy--“

“Let him be, Benny—“

“C’mere, squirt, you’re too uptight”—

--rough hands grabbing him, smoke in his face, he’s choking, sputtering, and they're all laughing, cracking jokes--

My dog does the same thing when I blow it in her face!

“Don’t wanna be a nerd forever, kid, nerds don’t get laid”

--more smoke, more laughter, even Dean, he likes that last joke, the kind of thing he says all the time—and when Sam squirms, squeals—) 

He was so embarrassed.  And he still worries about that person’s dog. 

That’s no way to treat a poor innocent dog, Sam thinks.

It’s really kind of scary, altogether.  These parties, and the way that they get.

So Sam doesn’t try to join, and any sleep he gets is uneasy.  He just doesn’t trust them.  Feels like he has to stay alert.

So he’s awake.  Watching. 

When the door slides open.


The words come out jumbled, all in a rush before he even sees who it is.  But his heart sinks—he was right, it’s not Dean, and worse, it isn’t even someone he knows.  Just some guy even older than Dean--not old like his Dad, but college age, Sam thinks (not unheard of, local frat boys slumming it with Dean’s crowd—bringing much appreciated liquor, buying fairly good quality pot.) 

This guy is clean cut enough for a frat boy.  Black hair and bright blue eyes that crinkle when he smiles at Sam.  Good looking, really good looking, flashy looks like his brother—but a complete stranger.  In his room.  Grinning at him like…like Sam doesn’t know what.

“You must be Sam,” he says, all friendly, but he’s sliding the door shut behind him and he shouldn’t be.  “I’m Castiel, but you can call me Cas, like Dean does.  You don’t mind if I visit for a minute, do you?  It’s just so loud out there.” 

The man—Cas—is still smiling.  He doesn’t seem threatening or aggressive, and his eyes (normal sized pupils, no cloudy, vacant expression) aren’t weird.  Sam relaxes very slightly, but he’s still wary.  The guy has something in his hands.  A jar of Vaseline—Sam thinks it’s the one from their bathroom, and he frowns. 

“You shouldn’t uh…you can’t come in here.  Okay?”  Sam tries to be firm, though he’s never told an adult what to do in his life, raised to obedience.  “Dean won’t…I’m supposed to be asleep, and—“

“Yeah, but it’s Friday; you don’t have school.  And Dean always says you’re very mature for your age.  He talks about you a lot, you know.  All good things!”  Smiles again, and Sam smiles back, if shyly; he thinks he blushes, too.  He likes the idea of Dean saying good things about him.

He wants to ask more about it, but he guesses he’s still nervous because, “I’ve never seen you before.  I’ve never seen you with Dean,” comes out instead. 

The guy leans against his door (at least he’s not coming closer—although honestly there are maybe two steps between the door and Sam.  Two and a half at best.)  “Yeah, no, we work together sometimes, when your brother needs a quick buck.  I help him out.  Keep the lights on in this place, right?”  Grin.  Wink.

“Oh.”  He feels his own smile slip.  Sam knows Dean does shady things for money; he tells Sam he’s not a nine to five type of guy, quit school as soon as he could.  And their Dad does, too, so who’s to say anything about it?  They leave Sam out of it.  They both want different things for Sam. 

Castiel looks down, laughs a little at his reaction, but gently.  “Hey, nothing bad, just a few games of pool against some rich townie suckers.  We’re unbeatable, me and him.”

And Sam smiles then, relieved, because townie kids are the worst, no matter what age.  To trailer trash like him, anyway.  “I guess that’s okay then,” he snickers.

Cas’s smile widens in response.  “Wow, those are some dimples.  I thought your brother was pretty, but you!”  He whistles.

“Thank you,” Sam mumbles automatically, even as his cheeks grow hot.  Manners, they’re automatic for him when it comes to adults.  Stuff he’d learned in school.  His Dad likes them, too, and Dean.  Proper, nerdy little Sam.

“Mind if I sit?” 

Yes.  But Sam shrugs, as if he isn’t troubled by it.  It puts Cas right where his feet are, and he draws his knees up to his chest before they can touch. 

Cas watches the movement.  “Thanks.  I just need a minute or two.”  A loud thud comes from the other side of the trailer, followed by cheers and cursing and Sam winces.  Cas chuckles. 

“You…you don’t like the noise either?”  Sam says, but it’s more just for something to say, than anything else.  Cas is staring at his face and it’s making him feel jumpy.

Cas smiles, and Sam feels something in the pit of his stomach, because it’s a dark smile, like Cas knows a joke that Sam’s not getting.  And a lot of times that means he is the joke. 

“I just like a quieter party,” Cas says, and then he’s reaching out to stroke Sam’s face.  “How about you, Sam?  Sammy?  That’s what Dean calls you, right?”

"Only Dean calls me that."  Sam turns his head, but the hand just moves over to the other side, even strokes down his neck.  He feels frozen—it’s not hurting.  He’s not touching anywhere private or bad.  But…it’s weird.

Part of this latest joke, Sam realizes.  Making Sam feel uncomfortable, endlessly funny to Dean’s crowd. 

Except this time nobody’s watching. 

Nobody’s there to appreciate it, to laugh at his cleverness, laugh at Sam’s expense. 

“Uh.  Uh, can you not…I don’t really like…”

“You’re so cute, Sammy,” Cas whispers, and now he’s rubbing over Sam’s chest, petting him almost, over his pajama top.  “I just love how cute and little you are.  Dean’s such a big guy…how can he have such a little brother?  Look at these skinny little arms!”  He circles one easily with his hand, squeezes gently…then not so gently.  

Sam winces.  “Ow!  Hey!”  He tugs but his arm doesn't come free, even though Cas stops squeezing.

“Sorry,” Cas laughs.  “I couldn’t help it.  You’re so tiny.  Does Dean feed you?  I bet there’s nothin’ in there.”  He pokes Sam’s stomach—not hard, but it makes him jump.  And that makes Cas grin.  “Gotta fill you up.”

“I need to go, I need to go tell Dean…something,” Sam smiles apologetically, tries not to sound scared.  Maybe if he pretends it’s okay, it will be.  He starts moving, as though to stand, but Cas isn’t letting go.

“Oh, Sammy…I don’t think so,” Cas’s grip tightens again—not enough to hurt this time.  He smiles regretfully, his eyes—such clear blue—seem equally contrite. But Sam's an expert now, and he sees the barely contained amusement for what it is. 

So funny, doing this stuff to Sam.  Embarrassing him, making him nervous.  All Dean’s friends agree on that much.

“Let me go!” Sam panics, but the guy just drags him closer.  “DEE—“

Cas’s meaty palm slams down over his mouth, against his lips, his tongue, uses that heavy hand to slam Sam back on the bed.  He screams anyway, keeps trying to scream, to twist his head, but Cas has no trouble holding him down, pinning him with his body, half on top of him, half hovering over him.  Only now he looks furious.

Stop it!  I said stop!”  He hisses, shoving Sam’s face for emphasis and Sam whimpers, terrified.  He’s trying to lift his face at least a little because the man’s big hand is just about covering his tiny nose, making it hard to breathe.  Cas notices and moves it slightly, allowing him to pull in a breath.

“Now, I told you, Sammy—I came here for quiet.  And I can’t have all that yelling."  Despite his anger, Cas makes it sound reasonable, like any adult that’s ever lectured Sam—moreso than his Dad, his brother, at times.  It makes Sam feel like he should listen.  Like he should be a good boy and obey, even though he knows that’s wrong.  “Now we’re gonna have our own party, you and me.  And nobody’s gonna hear us, not with all that noise.  So you might as well be the good, quiet boy Dean told me all about.  Got it, Sam?  Nod your head.”

Cas is watching him and there it is, something of that violent look, just like Nick.  Like it doesn’t matter that Sam is very small and Cas is very big.  Like he’ll hurt Sam all the same.

Sam really, really doesn’t want to get hurt.  He nods.

“Good boy, good Sammy,” Cas murmurs, and Sam is relieved when he moves his hand.  But he starts unbuttoning Sam’s flannel top.

“What are you doin, why are you—d-don’t--,” Sam whines—he can’t help it.  His stomach is sick with fear, ratcheting up with each button, each bit of bare skin exposed to the cold. 

“Don’t?  Ohh, but you’re so pretty, Sammy…”  Cas’s hands are cold, too, rubbing over his chest, rubbing his nipples, laughing when Sam tries to wince away.  It’s not enough to open the shirt, Cas carefully tugs his arms from the sleeves, rubbing Sam’s back and hushing him as though to comfort him.   

When Cas touches his pants, though, he screams. 

“Shut up, shut up!” Cas growls, gets a hand over his mouth as soon as it starts, and then smacks him in the face.  The shock of it has Sam’s mouth falling open, and then he’s choking, gagging, because Cas has stuck his slimy, huge tongue in his mouth and he’s choking on it, thinks he’s gonna puke.

“Oh, God, you fucking…oh, tiny mouth,” Cas whispers and tries to do it again, but Sam is hacking, turning his face, trying to gulp in air.  “Okay.  Okay, no kissing.  Well.  Time to take our pants off then, Sammy,” Cas says in this weird singsong that makes Sam shudder and feel ill.  He thinks he says no, but his pants are whipped away before he can really comprehend it, underwear, too, just gone.  He just feels stunned, naked and stunned, his hands covering his privates, knees trying to bend.  Cas eyes him violently and smiles.

And then he’s falling, this dropping, fuzzy-around-the-edges feeling inside, like he’s losing his place in his body.  He thinks his mouth is gaping open, his eyes fish wide, he’s not quiet either, breathing loud, making these weird scared sounds.  He doesn’t remember getting there but he’s on his back, legs spread wide around the man’s body, hands curled into fists, pushing the man’s firm chest uselessly.

Cas’s hands are everywhere, his hands and his mouth, and Sam (barely getting around to touching himself just yet, barely getting around to being interested) doesn’t know what he’s feeling.  He wants to keep his face turned, he knows he does, but it’s like he can’t help but stare, horrified, everywhere Cas touches, kisses.  Licks.


When Cas first touches between his legs, Sam tries to stop him—he doesn’t even mean to, he’s too scared, he doesn’t want Cas to hit him, hurt him, but his hands just moved, grabbing at Cas’s wrists, while his body tried to wriggle from under him, tried to pull out of reach. 

Cas just made an annoyed sound with his tongue and grabbed Sam’s arms, twisted both his wrists hard enough to make him shriek. 

“Knock it off!” Cas sounds, looks annoyed.  How irritating Sam is, fighting this.  Getting in his way of a good time. 

Sam’s arms are pinned behind him, underneath him  And then the flipping feelings again, like his soul is unmoored, a tight pull low in his stomach, dropping further than any roller coaster Dean ever dragged him on in better times. 

Fingers on his penis, up and down, soft.

A mouth, hot and wet. 

Sucking at him, like trying to get something inside to come out

Things happen.  Scary things.  He manages to shut his eyes.  But then Cas is slapping his face.  Not to hurt.  To get his attention.  “Hey, Sammy.  Sam.  Look at me.”

And Sam does.  He can hear his own breathing, it’s all shuddery and hitching.  He’s sniffling, too, his face is wet with tears, though he doesn’t remember starting to cry, though he feels so bad, like he's doing something awful.  He’s actually gripping Cas’s t-shirt at the shoulders, but he can’t seem to make himself let go. 

“There you go,” Cas smiles down at him, stroking his chest, a light touch but Sam’s nerves feel sparked by the dirty-bad-wrong of it, by how much he doesn’t want it.  “You really liked that, huh?  Making all that noise.  Your heart is beating so fast, just like a little bird.”

Sam sobs, he doesn’t mean to, but now he’s making fun of him, and it feels awful; he jerks his face away.

“Hey.”  Another tiny slap.  “Pay attention, sweetheart.” 

A second, stingy-er slap gets Sam looking at him, dragging his eyes to the man’s face, taking in the sick grin.

“That’s a good boy,” Cas says and leans over him, stroking his face, smoothing back his bangs, wiping at his tears.  “My little bitch.  Time for you to make me feel good.”

Sam’s eyes widen, and he shakes his head hard.  “Please, I can’t—,” he tries, but it’s hard to think, he doesn’t know what to say to get this to stop.  “I want to get Dean, I, I need Dean—“

“You can see Dean when we’re done here,” Cas tells him sharply, that same reasonable, lecturing tone, and Sam whines in frustration.  “None of that, Sammy, time to listen.  Did you even know that two boys can have sex together?  Want me to tell you how it works?”

“No!”  Sam shakes his head stubbornly, crying.  “Dean!”

Cas sighs, aggravated once more.   “You know what?  I guess you’ll have to learn as we go.”  He pushes Sam’s legs to his chest, pins them there with one arm.  There is cold Vaseline, greasy, rubbing around his hole, uncomfortable and strange.  “Gotta tell you though, Sammy, this kind of thing—the more you fight, the more you get hurt.” 

Sam whimpers and Cas stops, looking at him with concern (except those sparkling eyes, amused, does he think Sam can’t see it, they always think--) “I’m serious, Sam.  This little hole will be fine if you cooperate.  But if you fight.”  He scrapes the edge of his nail over the rim of Sam’s hole, making the boy wince.  “All this soft pink right here rips reaaaaaaaaaaaal easily.”

Rips?!  Sam is still trying process this (his mind filled with terrifying images of his bottom half tearing in two like a sheet of paper) when Cas’s thick, greasy finger is suddenly pushing inside him. 

It’s a nightmare—burning, strange, wrong.  So wrong.  Especially when Cas starts moving his finger in and out. 

Sam knows what sex is, even if mostly he’s embarrassed by the subject.  He’s peeked at Dean’s porn when his brother passes out without shutting his laptop down.  So he knows that’s what Cas is doing, with his finger (fingers, now, a second thick finger and it’s so much, too much, doesn’t feel good at all, it hurts!) 

Cas is treating him like one of Dean’s porn girls, only using his butt.  He wants to shut tight against it, but Cas has him curled up small, his legs pinned up, and even clenching his butt just somehow makes the fingers go even deeper.  “Please, please stop—“

Cas yanks the fingers out painfully and slaps his ass hard.  “Don’t you tell me to stop.”  His blue eyes are fierce and Sam trembles.

“It hurts,” he tries, and Cas glares.

“It does not.  I mean I could.  Hurt you,” he warns, jabbing at his guts, or that’s how it feels.  "You don't know the things I could do to you, Sammy.  I could inflict...pain like you can't even imagine...such delicious...perfect...pain."

Cas's voice sounds like it comes behind gritted teeth, and it shuts terrified Sam up completely, but he can’t stop fighting.  Scared as he is, he can't help it, his body doing things without checking at all with his brain first.  But Cas's hold might as well be steel.

"But I'm not gonna hurt ya, Sammy," Cas murmurs then, all rage gone, affectionate again like flipping a switch.  "No, I...I'm just gonna show you much you need me inside you."

And Sam doesn’t know what he would say to that insanity, except the fingers inside him brush something that takes his breath away. 

It’s a lot like when Cas’s mouth was (don’t think about it, don’t think about it) on the head of his penis, unexpected, overwhelming sensation low inside him.  Too much for his untouched, little boy body to process, and he tries to squirm from it, to pull from it.

“There you are,” Cas smiles, that nasty grin again, and he's rubbing, digging mercilessly into Sam, making him pant and whimper.  “Mmm, look so good like that, Sammy.  How does Dean ever leave you alone?”

Sam can’t focus, but he hears that, jerks in response, shaking his head, the thought of Dean hurting him.  Then the fingers stretch wide and he squeals in pain.

“Gotta relax, kiddo,” Cas murmurs, all his attention on Sam’s hole.  “How bout we get this first orgasm outta the way, hmm?”  Then he lowers his mouth and Sam is suddenly nothing but sensation. 

He’s not aware, the way he’s moaning, the way his hips jerk, moving between Cas’s fingers and his mouth, chasing it, running from it, he can’t tell.  He doesn’t know how his fingernails dig into Cas’s shoulders, pinching his skin through his t-shirt.  There is a feeling like he’s going to piss right down Cas’s throat, and then his vision whites out, his body twitching involuntarily.

When he comes back to himself, his legs are spread wide without Cas holding them.  Cas’s fingers are still stuffed inside him, but the pain is noticeably less—or different, anyway.  Like there was less room for them a moment ago.  But whatever felt…odd before, just feels like too much now, that place Cas is still brushing over, and Sam whines, twisting his hips to lose the contact, or trying. 

Cas’s eyes are locked on his face.  “That was hot, kiddo.  And I'm done waiting.”

Easily he flips Sam to his stomach.  Sam whimpers, grips his ninja turtle sheets.  He hears Cas lowering his zipper and turns, he can’t help it.  He has to see, and when Cas takes his full grown dick out (massive next to Sam’s, red and veined and terrifying), he panics.  Makes it to his hands and knees, scrambles to the top of the bed before he’s dragged back, lifted.  He screams, but it cuts off when he’s slammed down on his stomach hard enough to make him grunt, Cas dropping over him, his weight making it hard to breathe.  He can feel Cas’s wet heavy dick against his ass, and he struggles uselessly, tiny muffled sounds lost in the mattress.

Cas’s breath is hot in his ear.  “Oh, no, no, you’re not going anywhere, Sammy.  You’re stuck here.  With me.”  Sing song voice again, laughing at Sam's failure to escape.

Just when Sam thinks he’ll lose consciousness, Cas lifts off him, but before Sam can catch his breath, a heavy hand lands on his ass, startling him.  Sam yelps, and Cas smacks him again, making a satisfied hum.  “Bad boy, Sammy,” his voice is soft, heated, and the smacks keep coming, hands stopping to rub and grope him painfully, too.  “Gonna be good for me?  Gonna be my little bitch now?”

“I can’t,” Sam cries.  “Please!” 

“No!” Cas starts to spank harder, and Sam screams, but Cas shoves his face down, so it’s muffled.

“Okay, okay!” Sam tries to give in, feeling his body go limp.  Vision going dark, he needs to breathe. 

Cas stops, holding Sam in place.  “Gonna be good?  Huh?”

“Y-yeah,” Sam sobs miserably, trying to at least turn his face, the humiliation, the burning pain, he just wants to be done.

“Gonna let me fuck you like a good boy?”

Sam whines again, but when Cas starts to shove his face down again, he cries out, “Yes!”

“Say ‘I’ll let you fuck me.’”

“I’ll,” Sam gulps, takes another hitching breath.  He doesn’t even curse, not like Dean does.  “I’ll let you f-fuck me,” the word feels weird, awful, shameful, and Cas groans to hear it. 

“Oh, fuck, you good boy, my…my fucking little bitch,” Cas murmurs, and then he’s leaning over Sam, pressing kisses to his tear-streaked face. 

He feels Cas spreading his legs, and this time there is no fight.  Cas is pushing into him, and it hurts more than anything yet.  This will rip him, is ripping him, must be.  It feels huge, wrong, impossible. Cas’s fingers stroking his sides.  Cas’s wet mouth near his ear, telling him to relax, to breathe.  Calling him kiddo.  Sammy.  Bitch.  "Made for me...fucking...feel that, Sammy, feel me in you?  Yeah...made just for this."

“Dean,” Sam whimpers, pleads one last time, staring hard at the door. 

The door opens.

And it is Dean. 

Staring at them in shock.  In horror.  His brain seeming to take a moment to come online, to process the picture.  His little brother, naked.  Impaled.  Blood drains from his face.  “Sammy!”

Sam tries to lift up but Cas’s hand on his back stops him.  “Dean!” A rush of emotion just when he'd given up, like lightning in his chest.  Big brother is here after all, big brother will save him.  Like last time.  Like every time.

“Get out,” Cas snaps—that same annoyance, directed at Dean now.  Still holding Sam down.  Still inside Sam.  Thrusting, if slower.

“Cas—my brother—“ Outrage sparks late in Dean’s muddled green eyes, shock turning to fury, hand tightening to a fist.  “Get the fuck off him!  I’ll fucking kill you, you son of a—“

“Dean,” Cas barks at him and sits up—dragging painfully from Sam, making him cry out.  Sam can’t tell what he’s doing, but then he tosses something at Dean, who catches it, stopped dead in his tracks.  Another small baggie, the same thing that stopped Nick, right when he was about to kill Sam.  Instant, a light switch, only this time not in Sam’s favor. 

Dean,” Sam begs again, tries to get up.  But Dean doesn’t look at him again.  His hand closes around his prize, as Cas drags Sam back against him, laughs, presses kisses to his neck.

“Shut the fucking door,” Cas snaps, mouth still against baby brother skin, but Dean doesn’t. 

Because he doesn’t remember about the door.  He’s mumbling something, he’s…he’s leaving. 

Cas shuts the door.

“Now,” he climbs back on top of Sam.  Who hasn’t moved.  Since there’s no longer any reason to move. 

“Where were we?”