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“He can’t keep going like this,” Sam said.

He shivered, rubbing his arms through his shirt; the upstairs garage seemed to lose heat first when the weather turned, but it was less likely Dean would suddenly appear here and catch them.

Cas reached out and put his hand on Sam’s shoulder; warmth bloomed, tingling through him, and he huffed out a grateful laugh at the sensation.

“Thanks, Cas.”

Cas nodded, but his expression remained troubled.

“I tried to speak to him. He made it clear my opinion wasn’t wanted or needed.”

The angel winced, and Sam wondered just how forcefully Dean had got that message across.

He’d tried himself, probably not as directly as Cas, since they’d both agreed to adopt a different tack with Dean.

He’d been about as successful; Dean had finally just stopped acknowledging him, even ignoring the food and coffee Sam left at his elbow.

“We’ve got to do something,” Sam said. Michael might not have left any physical injuries on Dean, but he’d messed him up all the same; Sam found himself wishing the opposite, that there were broken bones and open wounds because those…. Those they could deal with, and Dean could deal with.

This was a very different thing, and just sitting and hoping Dean could pull himself through it wasn’t an option.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Cas said, his voice tight. “He doesn’t seem to want to be helped.”

Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a tension headache coming on. Dean probably didn’t want help, or more likely felt he didn’t deserve it. Because he was the one to let Michael in, and everything that happened after he would be blaming himself for.

It didn’t matter that saying yes to Michael had been Dean’s only option, just like saying yes to Lucifer had been the only option for Sam and, later, for Cas.

But trying to tell Dean that the only person at fault here was that bastard of an archangel felt like trying to talk someone out of their most heartfelt conviction.

Dean had converted himself to one, unassailable truth, and there was no changing his mind on it.

So maybe they had to accept that, and work instead on how Dean was dealing with it.

“Cas,” Sam said, and now he was the one reaching out for the angel, letting his fingers stroke gently down the back of his neck. “Do you trust me?”

++

Dean hadn’t been the most approachable since it happened, and the atmosphere in the bunker had become so oppressive that everybody mostly found someplace else to be.

Mary had been taking Jack on more hunts with her and Bobby, and the other refugees had been off doing the same.

Sam was grateful, because it left Dean to them, and meant they could also focus on him and not having to save others while Dean buried himself in guilt.

He was especially grateful now, because this wasn’t something they could do if anybody could walk into the room.

They’d come in separately, to the library, and Dean was where they’d left him. There was a stack of books at his side, and a legal pad in front of him, with a few squiggled sentences, a couple of the words underlined.

Next to him there was a heap of crumpled up sheets, and it didn’t take a psychic to pick up on the frustration emanating from him.

Cas was seated to Dean’s left, at the head of the table, and Sam took a position near him, and reached for the top book from Dean’s pile.

Dean stopped what he was doing, registering Sam’s action, but he said nothing, and then went back to reading.

Sam opened the book. He already knew they’d find nothing of use in here. The same was true of most of the books Dean had piled beside him, because he and Cas had raced through all of these, every book in their collections that even touched on the subject of angels or possession.

They’d tried to tell Dean that, but it hadn’t made much difference.

It was hard, sitting there, pretending to read, waiting for the right moment (in truth, waiting for the courage to go ahead) but then Dean finished the book he was reading, slammed it aside, and pulled the next down in front of him.

He tore the last sheet of paper from the pad, crunched it up, and tossed it aside.

No moment to rest, to gather himself. It was like he was on the hunt, and Sam knew for sure, then, that unless they distracted Dean somehow, he would run himself to death on this.

He got up, approaching Cas slowly, finally getting the angel’s attention off of Dean.

Rested his hand on Cas’s shoulder, fingers gently curling around it, thumb slipping under Cas’s shirt to find skin.

Cas looked up at him, and once again Sam had to ask.

Do you trust me, Cas?

Cas gave him one tight nod, and Sam figured this would go really well or really badly, but they had to try.

He pulled Cas onto his feet, and kissed him.

The thing that probably got Sam the most about Cas like this was how receptive he was. He seemed to relish sensation, and Sam had turned him into a quivering wreck once just by kissing as many sensitive parts of the angel’s body as he could find.

Which, as it turned out, was a lot.

Anything, being kissed, hugged, held, stroked, Cas loved it all.

Sam supposed millennia of being touch deprived would do that for you, but that led him to thinking how did angels even touch in their true forms, was touch even a thing, and there he went.

But he shut his inner geek down fast, because now was not the time to be composing a Wikipedia entry (that he’d never post) on the familial issues of angels.

By the time he broke away, Cas looked shaken; he was a trembling bundle in Sam’s arms, but he also looked more than ready to move on.

Sam slowly undid Cas’s tie, and then his belt, and set them aside. He reached up and slipped Cas’s coat down off his shoulders, and put it on the table, nearer to Dean than the other items.

If Dean noticed, he didn’t say anything.

But Sam was about to break his focus.

He guided Cas to sit back down in the chair, and then knelt in front of him. He took hold of each of Cas’s hands in turn, and got him to rest his wrists on the each of the chair arms.

Picking up the tie first, Sam whispered a few words of Enochian against it, and felt the responding tingle of energy. He used it to bind Cas’s wrist to the chair, making sure it wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but that Cas wouldn’t be able to pull free.

He did the same with the belt, and watched Cas test the restraints and nod.

Sam straightened up, but he wasn’t about to be stupid over this.

Are they uncomfortable?

Cas shook his head.

Your safeword’s impala, okay? Use it if you need to, Cas, I mean it..

He got one tight nod in return and then he went around the back of Cas’s chair.

Cas drew in a sharp breath as Sam slipped his hand down beneath his shirt, stroking the skin there, and gently gripped one of his nipples.

He alternated between pinching and gently rolling it between his fingers, and when Cas squirmed, Sam placed gentle kisses across his shoulder, up his neck, and nuzzled behind his ear to settle him.

He risked a glance at Dean (not a long one - Cas was in his charge here, had surrendered himself to Sam’s safekeeping, and Sam would never, never betray that trust) and found his brother focused on the books with even more determination than before.

Progress.

He switched to the other nipple, pinching a little harder, and Cas moaned and let his head fall back, his hair brushing Sam’s shirt.

Sam leaned down to kiss him properly, the angle making it difficult, but he persevered and spent the next few moments owning Cas’s mouth and feeling himself harden at the lewd, desperate sounds he was swallowing.

When he let up, Cas stayed in that position, eyes tight shut, and Sam paused, waiting to see if he’d safeword.

They’d done some things with Cas, that were borderline intense, but this was probably a step over that line.

Cas stayed very still, very quiet, and then he opened his eyes and looked up at Sam.

He didn’t look like he wanted to stop, but that wasn’t enough. Sam stroked his face, carefully, and whispered, “Okay to keep going?”

For you, Cas, he added. Don’t say yes if you need to stop, you can’t help Dean by doing something you don’t want to.

Cas strained a little, trying to reach him, and Sam could only interpret that as the consent that it so clearly was; he came down, again, and this time Cas was kissing him, and he whined when Sam finally pulled back.

He came back around to kneel in front of Cas, and fully opened his shirt. Then he very carefully undid his pants. Cas helped, kicking off his shoes, and then raising his hips enough to let Sam tug both them and his underwear down, and off. He put them on the table, and then rested his hands on Cas’s hips.

There weren’t words to describe what seeing Cas like that did to him; tied to the chair, wearing only his shirt, lying open, and nothing else.

The angel was hard, cock curved and leaking, and he looked so aching for it, that Sam almost forgot why they were doing this.

He glanced once more at Dean, and his brother’s head suddenly dropped back down to the book in front of him.

Sam glared at him a little. He was willing to bet Dean hadn’t read a single damn line for ten minutes, and that if he pulled his brother to his feet, Dean’s interest in the proceedings would be obvious.

But, fine.

He leaned down, and gently took Cas into his mouth.

Cas shuddered, and jerked forward, an unbidden reaction, and Sam used his grip on Cas’s hips to push him back and hold him there.

He was a little merciless, driven on by the pants and tiny desperate sounds Cas was making, the way he was trembling under Sam’s touch.

And then, just when he was sure Cas was going to come, he pulled off.

Cas slumped in the chair, and shot Sam a betrayed look. Sam reached up to cup his cheek, and risked a glance at Dean.

He wasn’t pretending to research now; he was staring at them, open mouthed, and he didn’t look away when Sam’s eyes met his.

“Problem?” Sam asked.

Dean grunted, face turning annoyed. “I’m trying to read.”

Sure, Dean. Sure.

“We’ll try to keep it down, then. Right, Cas?”

Cas looked at him like he was out of his mind, but he risked glancing over at Dean. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

Dean went back to the book, but Sam didn’t miss the fact that the last time he’d looked over, both of Dean’s hands were on the table.

That wasn’t the case now.

You still alright?

Cas wasn’t breathing as hard, the respite having helped him settle, but he was still shaking.

Sam waited, ready to just untie Cas and think of something else, but then Cas nodded.

Sam reached into the pocket of his pants, and removed a small bottle of lubricant. He slicked his hand up, and then took a firm hold of the angel.

Cas had his bottom lip between his teeth, now, biting down hard, and Sam had to reach up and stroke his thumb there to get him to let go.

“Nuh-uh,” he said. “Don’t do that, angel.”

He started to move, sliding his hand up and down, Cas growing hard again in his hand, and come starting to dribble more freely across their skin.

Cas was writhing now, but he couldn’t go anywhere; he looked in torment, but Sam kept praying to him, reminding him even now to forget the safeword and just tell him to stop, but Cas didn’t, and Sam could see he was almost, almost ready to come….

He let go, and sat back on his heels, and Cas actually cried out his name.

There was a terrible thump from the table, and Sam looked up to see Dean on his feet, his brother looking pissed.

Sam stared him out.

“Don’t do that,” Dean snapped. “Just let him fucking come.”

Sam held up his hands. “You got a problem with that, maybe you should come over here and take care of it.”

Cas looked at Dean, eyes wide, so broken, and yet he seemed scared to speak as if the wrong word would just make Dean sit down and abandon him.

But it must have been enough.

Dean came around the table (and Sam could see the tent in his jeans, and had to fight down a smug grin) and waved him away. He snapped his fingers, and Sam passed over the lube, and Dean came to kneel in front of Cas.

“It’s okay,” he said, and it seemed like a year since Dean had spoken to either of them like that, voice gentle but with that edge to it, that assurance that he would take care of them and make sure nothing, nothing, ever hurt them. “I got you, Cas. Just slide forward for me, okay?”

Cas did, his ass barely on the seat, feet dug into the floor so he could hold up his position.

Dean squeezed some lubricant into his hand, and squished it along and between his fingers.

He dribbled some more around Cas’s dick, and then trailed it downwards to the cleft, and rubbed it slowly around there.

Cas was breathing hard again, but trying so much to not move, and Dean whispered low endearments and reassurances to him, telling him how good he was, how good he, Dean, was about to make him feel.

He worked Cas slowly, one fingertip then moving on until he had two digits in him, finding the spot he needed to give Cas what he’d promised.

Sam had to remind himself to keep breathing as he watched, and he added his own commentary, telling Cas how good he looked like this, how good he was being for them, how much they loved him.

He was drawn back when Dean snapped his name.

“You started this,” he said. “You’re gonna help finish it. Get your hand on him.”

Sam scooted down at the side of the chair, and went back to what he’d been doing before, matching Dean’s rhythm.

Cas actually wailed, and then he was coming hard, jerking against the chair, head thrown back.

The glassware in the room, the lights, the carafe on the table, started to sing and Sam quickly reached up to soothe Cas and prevent them being bombarded with shards if the angel let rip.

He started to settle, panting hard, and looking at them both like they were the only things of worth in the entire universe.

That he was maybe a little pissed at right then, regardless.

Dean untied him, rubbing each wrist carefully, and then pulled Cas onto his feet. He held him, and then set him back so he could look him over.

“You okay?”

Cas nodded, as if not yet trusting himself to speak.

Sam watched, a little guiltily. That had been more intense than he’d planned; it had worked, and Sam knew Cas would be as relieved as him, but maybe, maybe he’d pushed things a little too far.

Dean seemed to think the same. He guided Cas to lean against the table, and the look he shot Sam suggested he knew very well what his little brother’s plan had been.

“Turn around.”

Sam stared at him. “Uh, what?”

Dean picked up Cas’s tie. “Turn. Around. Cross your wrists.”

Sam swallowed at the look on Dean’s face, and did as told. He wasn’t surprised when Dean quickly tied his wrists together, then turned him around and shoved him into the chair Cas had just vacated.

“I know you can slip that,” he said. “And I’ll know if you do.” He picked up Cas’s belt, and folded it over threateningly, then put it down again, a little closer than Sam liked.

But that was all he did with it; Dean took Cas’s hand, and the lube, and went to sit back down in his chair.

He gave Cas the job of slicking him up, and then he was pulling the angel down, carefully, into his lap, and held Cas up as the angel sank down onto him.

He was Cas’s solid support as the angel started to ride him, letting Cas set the pace, and only occasionally glancing over to where Sam was sitting bound.

And squirming.

Sam watched them, wishing his hands were free so he could take care of himself, but he figured later, once Dean decided he’d been tormented enough, Cas would be allowed to take care of him.

And, since it had worked, and they’d pulled Dean back to them, he honestly couldn’t complain.