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Pictsie Dust

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"You see," Castiel says, eyes wide and fever-brilliant, "You see, Sam, there are actually several separate species that humans refer to as fairies."

"That's— that's really great, Cas," Sam says, trying and failing to push Castiel far enough into the car to close the door. "Do you think you could—?"

"I believe we were set upon by the pictsies," the angel says solemnly, fingers bunching in Sam's shirt and pulling. Sam stifles a yelp as he's yanked violently forward, despite the hand he has braced against the Impala's frame. "Very clannish. Very aggressive," Castiel sighs, nuzzling into Sam's shoulder. "You smell... nice."

"Uh, thanks?" Sam manages. "Little help here, Dean!"

"Hey, Cas," Dean calls, with bright over-enthusiasm. "Lookit this!"

Dean's gone around to the other side of the Impala and opened the opposite door, and when Castiel cranes his head towards him Dean whips out from behind his back—

"A giant rainbow slinky! Wow!" his brother says, brandishing it like a weapon.

"Oooo," Castiel says, without a hint of sarcasm. He lets go with one hand to reach for it.

"Nuh-uh," Dean scolds, pulling back. "Gotta let Sammy go, Cas. You only get one of them."

Castiel looks shocked, then horribly torn, eyes flickering between Sam's face and the colorful plastic with the most wounded expression Sam has ever seen.

"Sli-inky," Dean coaxes, wiggling the toy enticingly. "C'mon, this out-awesomes Sam, like, fifty times over."

"Hey!" Sam feels compelled to protest, but when Castiel turns agonized eyes to him he says hurriedly, "But it's totally okay. We can always, uh, hug more. Later."

The angel still looks unsure, so Sam risks giving the angel's head a single ginger pat. "Later, okay?"

"Okay," Castiel echoes mournfully, and slowly releases Sam. He's so reluctant about it, looks so damn sad that Sam seriously considers just crawling in the back with him and driving to the motel like that.

Then Dean tosses the slinky into the backseat, and suddenly the angel's all ecstatic smiles and joyful noise again. Figures.

"I will call you Squishy," Castiel tells the slinky, stroking it like a pet dog. "And you will be my Squishy, and I will—"

Sam forcefully nudges Castiel's legs the last little bit into the car and as one, he and Dean slam the doors firmly closed on the angel's incoherent babbling.

"Alright, here's how we're doing this. You," Dean says and points at Sam. "Stay. Guard."

"What am I, Lassie?" Sam complains, but Dean shoots him a look and he slumps resentfully back onto the bed.

Dean rolls his eyes and pivots to Castiel. "And you— what the hell, Cas, get out of my bag," he snaps, and Sam looks over his shoulder to see the angel running his hands over flannel with a disturbingly covetous glint in his eye.

"Actually, I think that's mine," Sam says bleakly, and rubs a hand over his face. And the day had been going so well. The research was thorough, the plan was solid, the execution flawless— right up until Castiel mistook a fairy nest for a beehive and stuck his fucking face in it.

"Soft," Castiel mumbles, going glassy-eyed as he strokes the plaid pattern. "Softy soft."

Apparently, one of the deadliest toxins known to hunters is the equivalent of a recreational drug to vessel-bound angels. Who knew? Minuses: Cas was even crazier than he had been. Pluses: at least he was happy-crazy instead of depressed- and suicidally-crazy.

Dean grimaces. "Right. Softy soft. Cas, why don't you just, y'know, chill here for a while? I'm sure Sam is really looking forward to all those hugs."

"Dean!" Sam hisses, but Castiel's eyes have snapped up to stare at him with an intensity that's terrifying. "No, that's fine, Cas, you don't have to—"

But Castiel is already wobbling across the bed on his knees and collapsing over Sam's back, humming happily as his fingers tangle themselves in Sam's bangs.

"Yep, hugs galore. Hugs for everybody," Dean says with an edge of nasty glee. "And I'm gonna go find us enough St. John's Wort to fill a bathtub! Shouldn't be too hard."

They're in the ass end of Nowhere, Iowa. The closest herbalist is probably in Colorado. "Dean," Sam growls, trying to pry Castiel's hands off his head.

"Shiny," Castiel coos, petting him none too gently.

"Back in a couple hours, no sweat!" Dean says cheerfully, and swans out the motel door with a grin that desperately needs punching.

"I love everything," the angel sighs blissfully.

"I hate everyone," Sam says darkly.

Sam is keeping close mental tab on things that angels high on fairy stings find irresistible. It seems prudent, as most of the things on the list involve him at least peripherally. In general order of discovery, they are as follows:

1. the way Sam smells,

2. slinkies,

3. flannel,

4. Sam's hair,

5. popcorn ceilings ("Crunchy!"),

6. spiders,

7. minifridges ("It's so small..."),

8. Dean's precious stash of marshmallow spread,

9. the musty motel sofa,

10. Barney the purple dinosaur ("He loves me too," said almost crying),

11. Sam's shoulder,

12. Sam's throat,

13. Sam's...

"Uh, Cas?" Sam asks, warily. "What are you doing?"

On the television, Barney and friends are extolling the virtues of sharing. On the sofa, Castiel has discarded the virtues of personal space and sits facing Sam, one leg hooked over his knee, one hand curved around the back of his neck, face turned into Sam's so that they're breathing the same air. The pose is disconcertingly loverlike in a way Sam has been manfully ignoring, ever since he managed to lure Castiel away from the marshmallow spread with the promise of more awkward hugs and his shiny, shiny hair.

The angel doesn't appear to hear Sam's question. Lips run over the curve under Sam's eyebrow and he closes his eye reflexively, flinching away when the tip of a tongue flicks out to taste the fragile skin. "Cas!"

"Yes?" The word is breathed out against Sam's cheek, open mouth dragging wetly over his jaw.

Sam tries to get an arm between them and ends up only pushing himself deeper into the cushions; it's like trying to shove a brick wall off his lap. "Cas, come—on—" he squeezes out as the angel's arms tighten.

"You have marshmellow on you," Castiel husks, and licks across Sam's parted lips.

"Not going to happen," he says as he claps a hand over Castiel's mouth. He can write off a little hugging, especially if the hugger is stoned out of his mind on pictsie poison, but kissing is something he is not prepared to tolerate. "That's absolutely— hey!"

Apparently Sam doesn't get a vote, because Castiel is gripping his wrist and simply moving his hand aside. Sam fights him the entire way, which does nothing except make him pant and swear, and then Castiel's other hand is forcing his head inexorably forward.

"I've been practicing," Castiel murmurs, tongue darting out to trace the inside of Sam's lower lip. Sam shies away but he's well and truly caught as Cas shifts over to straddle his hips. "I hope you like it."

Oh, God. "Cas, remember Squishy? Why don't we go play with mmph!"

Castiel has been practicing. Exactly who he's been practicing with is something that doesn't bear thinking about (Christ, was it Daphne? Or, holy fuck, Meg?), but his mouth is hot and eager and a little wild, and it feels surprisingly good. Sam is driven to kiss back in pure self-defense, and still Castiel overwhelms him. In this position the angel is slightly taller, and when he tugs insistently at Sam's hair Sam lets his head fall back, sharp inhale turning into a gasp when Cas fastens his mouth over the racing pulsepoint under his ear.

"Cas," he says faintly, shuddering as the angel's moan breaks deep and warm over his collar. "Cas," and then he can't get anything else out but a throaty moan of his own when teeth sink lightly into the meat of his shoulder.

Castiel eases away, hands slowly loosening and sliding down over Sam's flank. Sam stares dazedly at the ceiling and has a moment to flex his bruised wrist and wonder, before two fingers tuck themselves under his belt and he straightens with a jerk.

"Cas, no, what are you doing," he pants, because there's kissing and then there's the glazed, hungry gleam in Castiel's eyes as he fumbles with the buckle. "Cas—"

The button is next, and Sam squirms back from the curious fingers that prod and stroke over the length of him through his jeans. "Please, can't we just—" The zipper jams and Sam can only thank God, cupping a hand protectively over himself as Castiel pouts at his crotch. "Okay, this is stopping right now," he says forcibly. In response, Castiel takes two handfuls of cotton and denim and pulls.

"Holy shit," Sam says in a strained, strangled voice, suddenly less fifty percent of his clothing. His hand's still there but Castiel is sliding his tongue between Sam's fingers, mouthing at his loosening grip before sucking in the head of his cock and the pad of his thumb. The sound Sam makes is hardly human.

If Cas' mouth was wild on Sam's it's savage here, teeth scraping along the long vein and catching at the ridge, tongue digging into the slit hard enough to have Sam's knees snap instinctively in, too much too fast. Castiel gives a low purring groan and his hands come up, stroking over the outside of Sam's shaking thighs before they grip just under his knees and push.

"Cas," Sam all but whimpers as his legs are forced apart. "Ah, ah, too far—" His hips protest the wide angle, and then Castiel gives a rough wet slurp and Sam is trying to spread them wider all on his own.

Whatever else Castiel has been practicing, cocksucking isn't one of them, but there's something to be said for enthusiasm and Sam's brains are leaking out his ears at the dirtynastyJesusChrist sight of Castiel's eyes fluttering, moaning with his lips stretched wide over Sam, suction just this side of painful before he pulls off with an obscene pop and begins lapping his way down, covering Sam's balls in long, suckling licks. When his tongue twists briefly further Sam arches back against the couch like he's been shot, startled cry barely caught and swallowed back behind his teeth.

"Oh," Castiel whispers, "oh, yes," and his hair a crazy mess under Sam's grasping fingers, eyes blown so wide he looks possessed. Fuck, Sam doesn't fucking care if he's possessed, he's bringing Sam's knees up a fraction more, changing the angle of Sam's hips so that his mouth can reach every part of him, and Sam is reduced to urgent, breathy pleas that get sharper and higher the closer Castiel strains, the deeper his tongue probes. Fuck, fuck, Cas' tongue, it should be outlawed, canonized, something, anything. Sam's hands are fisted tight and under them Castiel's head tilts up. The angel's burning eyes are on Sam's face as he gives an experimental wriggle, and Sam's shout is definitely audible this time.

Sam's body falls apart around the slow slick thrusts of Castiel's tongue, the pull of lips and blunt edge of teeth, but just when he's drawing tight and rigid, riding the very verge, the angel starts to pull back. Sam pulls weakly at his hair, makes a despairing noise as his hips give an aborted twitch that smears precome across Castiel's neck.

Cas works unhurriedly upwards, mouth almost cool on the trembling, overheated wreck that is Sam Winchester. His hands are still curled under Sam's knees, and as he rises he tugs them up until they're all but pinned to Sam's shoulders, and holy God the angel is still fully dressed, a barely-banked furnace under thin cotton scrubs that cling sticky and damp where he begins to build a hard rolling rhythm against Sam.

"Sam, Sam," is bitten into the exposed line of Sam's throat, up to his open, gasping mouth, and Castiel's kiss is all desperation and violent need. Another filthy-hot grind and Sam is gone, just gone, orgasm roaring up and tearing through him before he can brace for it, blind and deaf to his own scream and Castiel locking up against him, coming in small, nearly silent spasms with his arms vised tight around Sam, his face buried in Sam's hair.

Someone's cell phone is ringing, tuneless generic ditty trilling up and down the scales until Sam slaps it off, and brings it reluctantly to his ear. "'llo?"

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam sighs.

"Let me guess. No St. John's Wort to be had, best to wait it out, you'll be back sometime in the morning?" At a bar, most likely. He recognizes the low music and laughter in the background from dozens of other phone calls just like this one.

"Well, crap," Dean says. "Am I really that predictable?"

"It's one of your good points," Sam assures him, getting an elbow under himself and sitting up against the headboard.

Dean snorts. "Glad we got that out of the way, then. How's Cas doing?"

"Cas? He's... he's fine," Sam says. Curled against his side, Castiel stirs, making a sleepy questioning sound as Sam brushes stray hair from his forehead.

"Still talking to the slinky?"

"Nope. Done with the slinky." Sam gives the angel a little smile as Cas blinks drowsily up at him. "Although he did finish off your marshmallow crap."

"What? Aw, man—"

Sam's starting to wonder if marshmallows are the real culprit here, because Castiel takes their mere mention as invitation to lean up and kiss Sam stupid, moving slow and languid in the late afternoon sun streaming through the blinds.

In Sam's ear, Dean says, "Dude, are you letting the angel watch porn again?"

Castiel's lips break from Sam's with a lewd smack and when he catches his breath, Sam laughs hoarsely. "Trust me, he doesn't need it."