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Them & Us & Laughter

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It took them years. A fucking apocalypse and betrayal. Dying a few times and going insane and Heaven’s brainwashing. And another kind of apocalypse, of the angelic variety.

So much shit, that I'd begun to think it wouldn't happen.

My brother (dumbass) would forever pine and dance around his angel.

And the angel (clueless bastard) would stare at him with his goddamn heart in his eyes and a confused tilt to his head, like, he couldn't quite figure out this strange human he couldn't deny and loved to distraction.

It was fucking depressing.

But then the angels fell and Castiel was broken and Dean could never resist the broken.

My brother, the one who always wanted to make things better, who wanted to fix.

So they came together.

In a hotel room, after a hunt and fucking finally.

Nothing changed, really.

Castiel still lived down the hall. Still missed more than he understood. He still helped us on hunts. He and Dean still fought like cats and dogs, but now, they fucked just a furiously.

It was good, and I was happy for them. Neither of us get the white picket fence apple pie I had dreamed of once, but this thing with Castiel? It was close. As close as we were gonna get.

And if that made me the odd one out, well. I was ok with that. I'd gotten used to being the slightly awkward lurker in the background when Dean and Cas did that epic eye fuck thing they seemed so good at (and god knows that hadn't stopped.) They didn't exclude me--we worked because of all three of us, and that didn't change because two of us were head over heels in love (and they still refused to say that shit. Idiots.)

I wasn't part of them . But I was part of us . And I was good with that. Happy.

But then Dean had to fuck it up.





It was at breakfast. Dean was in a good mood because my brother is always in a good mood when he gets laid and if the screaming from his side of the bunker was any indication, he got laid.

Castiel, on the other hand.

Cas is a grumpy fucker in the morning, especially before coffee.

So Dean is bouncing around the damn kitchen, annoying the fuck out of Cas, who huddles behind his coffee and glares at Dean. (For once I'm glad the angel lost his grace. Pretty sure he'd smite Dean if he still could.)

“You ok, Cas?” I ask, nudging him with my elbow as I settle next to him at the corner table where he prefers to sit. He grumbles low and angry under his breath and Dean huffs a sigh. “C’mon, Cas. I said I was sorry.”

I glance at him, curious as to what the hell could piss Cas off this much and cause Dean to apologize.

A sinking feeling in my gut, just as Castiel shoves away from the table. “You laughed , Dean!” he hisses, and then he’s moving, almost running from the room.

“Shit,” Dean mumbles, chasing him.

(Breakfast is burning. I can smell it, but it’s not really registering.)

I can hear him. A thousand years and a million lifetimes ago. When we were lost kids, wrapped up in each other because that’s all there was.

His voice, breathless and laughing.

“Cas, c’mon,” I hear, and it melds, with memory. C’mon, Sammy.

“You know it wasn’t a bad thing.” Laughter, his green eyes shining.

“You know I loved it.” God, Sammy, yes. Love that.

A muffled noise. A breathless kiss that trails off when he giggles, helpless.

“Best, Cas. The best I’ve ever had.” No one else, Sammy. No one gets me like you.

I shove away from the table and I push past them. He catches me as I fall, pulls me close.

Furious and hurt. Happy and content.




It doesn’t make sense. I shouldn’t be mad. I know I shouldn’t.

The thing is that we never talked about it. After I came back from Stanford, we were both different. Hurting, from things neither was willing to address. So we didn’t. We didn’t talk about the way we grew up, or the comfort we found in each other, or the fact that we broke each other’s hearts, over and over.

We didn’t fall back into each other. (Too much time and change. )

But we didn’t talk about it.

And I was happy for him. For them.


It took almost a year. Almost the entire length of our----thing. Whatever we never labeled.

Dean was gentle. So fucking gentle. When I dream of those long months, when we were so wrapped up in each other the world didn’t touch us, the hunts didn’t touch us--that’s what I remember. I remember how gentle he was. How he was so damn hesitant it would drive me almost crazy, until I finally took control, drove him onto his back, and licked into his mouth, sucked at his tongue, until he was shaking and arching, keening under me, all want and hunger and waiting.

Dean was gentle with the ones he loved. Maybe because we were never allowed to be gentle.

He was generous and fucking amazing, and so. goddamned. gentle.

But there was a time. Almost a year after the first time we got drunk and fell into bed and woke up awkward but happy and covered in come.

I was kissing down his body, tracing his abs with my lips, and he was panting, arching, my name a fucking maddening song in my ears, and I finally growled, a low fuck it before I dropped down and took his cock in my mouth--

And the fucker giggled.

High and sweet and so unexpected I jerked off him to stare, appalled and offended.

Dean was laughing. His eyes bright and so happy it almost hurt, and he dragged me up, still laughing, almost soundless against my lips as he kissed me, and took our cocks in his hand. He was giggling when I came, all across his chest with a low groan. Breathless hiccups of laughter when he came a second later.

His laughter followed us down into sleep.

So I get it.

I know exactly how Castiel is feeling. It’s weird as fuck, the first time you hear that little half choked laugh that blurs with a hungry moan.

And for Cas, especially, I get why he’s offended. If I were a little nicer, I’d go explain it.

It’s not you, man. It’s Dean. He does this, when he’s happy. When he’s safe.

Because that’s it. Dean’s never been prone to laugh with any of the girls he’s fucked through the years. I’d bet he didn’t, even when he was with Lisa.

But. There’s that whole awkward, I know this because I fucked my brother aspect to the conversation that I’m pretty sure Cas wouldn’t get and I’m not ready to open that can of worms.

So I grab some lore books to do some research on a Talos, and retreat to my room.

Because there’s something about the whole thing, that’s bothering me.

Best, Cas. The best I’ve ever had.

Once, a thousand years and a million lifetimes ago, that was me. I was the best he’d ever had.




So we settle. Back into a normal. Castiel side eyes me for a few days, after my week of hiding in my room and research. Dean tells him to let me brood, that it’s all Samantha’s time of the month and that sets the angel and Dean off on another fight that ends with them making out on the couch, and it’s not hot, the way Castiel manhandles Dean, the way he growls a little in his throat before he nips, hard enough to make Dean thrust against him, just enough that Castiel purrs.

They fucking feed off each other, and then Dean’s laughing and Castiel withdraws with this offended little pout.


I need to get laid.

“So get this,” I say, the next morning, and Dean, poking sausages in a pan with a discontent kind of expression, perks right the fuck up.

Even Castiel looks interested, when I tell them about the case.

It’s easy. I could handle it on my own--let them stay and figure out Dean’s laughing problem. But I don’t really want to.

We work because we work together, and even now that they are a them , they need me.

So we all go, bunched together in the Impala, Castiel quiet and content in the backseat, Dean singing obnoxiously loud behind the wheel, Baby humming like a queen around us.

And me, twisted up in this memory.

Dad had passed out in the back. Got torn up, hunting a Black Dog. Dean had parked his ass on the hood of the Impala and poured half a bottle of whiskey down the old man’s throat, before using the other half to clean the wounds.

He held Dad while I sewed him up, cuz the old man could get punchy when he was drunkish and in pain.

Then Dean poured the rest of the bottle down Dad’s throat, dumped him in the back of the car and we burned the damn Black Dog. By the time we were down with clean up, and pulling back on the road, Dad had worked his way through another half a bottle of whiskey and he was passed out, snoring in the back over the sound of the radio.

Dean was still covered in blood.

And it made my hands shake, because Dad might have gotten the worst of the damage, but Dean almost died.

I moved before he could stop me, before he really realized what the hell I was doing, lunging across the bench to plaster myself to him.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he hissed, but then his voice drained away, as I kissed his throat, sucking hard on that spot just below his ear that made his entire body go tight and achy under mine. My hand was already working his jeans, jerking the zipper down and pulling his cock out and I whimpered when I felt him.

I needed more.

“Dad,” he protests, arching into my touch as I stroked him hard.

“Black out drunk. Shut the fuck up, and let me do this.” I say against his throat, letting my teeth drag.

He groaned and I kissed him, quick and hard and hungry. Pull back and he’s gasping, all wide eyes and want, and his hard cock in my hand.

“Almost lost you,” I mutter.

Scoot my ass back, so I can drop down and he muffled his scream with his hand, when I take him in my mouth.

Because fuck Dad. I need this. He needs this.

Almost lost him.

“Shit, Sammy,” he hisses, and his hand is in my hair, as I suck hard, let my tongue trace slow over his cock, tease over the head, play with his slit. All the tricks I know will drive him crazy.

It’s when I relax my throat and take him all the way, gagging just a little, that he comes, his hips moving against my lips, thrusting enough that tears sting my eyes as I fight the feeling of choking, and he groans.

I fucking love the sound of him coming.

Sammy, god.


His voice isn’t a memory, and it jerks me hard, out of the past. Both of them are staring at me, curious and disbelieving by turns.

I force a smile, hope my voice holds steady. “What?”

Dean rolls his eyes and nods at the house we’re in front of. “We’re here, dumbass.”




Simple salt and burn. That's what I told them. A house had gone through six owners in four years and five deaths in the same time.

Research says a Layla Cain died here the night before she was to marry her childhood sweetheart. She's been haunting the place and killing the happy lady of the house ever since.

So it should be easy. A part of me was braced for it to go sideways, because when the fuck do we ever have easy?

But it is. Castiel grumbles quiet while Dean jokes about Layla Cain coming for him and I give them exasperated looks while I dig. It takes, all told, less than twelve hours to interview the families, find the body, dig it up, salt and burn.

Easy. And it makes all of us happy. Castiel hums easy content in the backseat when we leave, sweaty and dirt crusted, hanging over the bench between us, his fingers loose and brushing my arm when we jolt over a bump, his lips against Dean’s throat as my brother laughs and shoves him away, all playful and flirty.

“Food?” he says, and I shake my head.


Them wins this round when Castiel says fervently, “Food.”

We get a few raised eyebrows, stumbling in, the two of them draped over each other (like they didn't fuck before we left, god) and all of us fucking filthy, but Dean grins and winks and I smile, that easy to summon, have pity on me I deal with these idiots hopeful smile that melts the pretty little waitress.

She still tucks us away, in a dark corner booth in the back, away from the other patrons.

Which, turns out, is a good choice.

Dean orders a pitcher of margaritas, and Cas pulls the basket of chips to him, eating in that neat, efficient way of his that shouldn't be hot but it is, because his eyes do this thing when he likes something, brighten like fucking heaven and then go soft and drowsy as he makes a happy little noise in his throat.

It shouldn't be hot.

Neither should the way Dean licks salt from the rim of his glass and drains his margarita and the hooded looks he's giving Castiel.

Should and is are two different things.

I should leave my brother and his angel alone, go find a bar and a girl and fuck out all this tension.

Best, Castiel. Best I ever had.

No one, Sammy. No one else gets me like you.

That keeps me in my seat, watching while they flirt and Cas shoves Dean away while we talk about my research.

Castiel thinks, since it's been quiet, I should write a book. A hunters guide. I expect Dean to laugh, scoff. Dismiss it.

Instead, he looks at me, and fuck.

His gaze is all heat and pride and love.

He hasn't looked at me like that in so long I almost forgot what it feels like.

(And I am not nearly sober enough for this.)




We are, all of us, drunk, when we stumble into our hotel room. Shoulda gotten two, because Dean and Cas are tangled together, all salty lips and dirty hands and half formed words. I shove into the bathroom while they fall into each other and shower cold. Trying to drown out the ache of want and the noise of them.

It's when I'm standing in front of the mirror, dripping and cold and so hard I can't leave the bathroom that I hear it.

Dean is laughing.


God, Cas, so good. You fuck me so good, baby.

I'm not really aware of moving. But the door is open and I'm walking toward them, a towel around my waist.

They're too wrapped up in them to remember me. I've been so happy for them. But now.

“He's wrong,” I murmur and Castiel, draped over Dean and almost naked, jerks upright, blue bright eyes wide and curious.

I smirk at him, and shift my gaze to Dean. My brother is watching me with wary eyes that are too excited.

“He's laughing when you fuck him. Pissed you off, didn't it, angel.”

I’ve always called him that, in my head. But never out loud.

It fits, here.

Cas makes a little noise, Dean arching under him as I crawl up the bed and stretch out next to him and fuck. Jesus fuck it's good, feeling him again.

I forgot how perfectly it feels, stretched out and pressed close. I whisper the words. “He laughs when you fuck him because he's happy.” I watch Dean lick his lips, and flick a glance back at Cas, smirking. “He only does that with the ones he loves.”

Dean makes a choked noise in his throat at that and I don't know if it's because I'm pressed against him or because of the love dropped so casual and easy into everything or maybe it's just because I've practically spilled the dirty secret we've kept for years, right here.

(At the feet of a fallen angel of all fucking things.)

“But he’s wrong. I don’t care how good you fuck him, angel,” I turn, and roll my hips into Dean and he does that moan, the one I’ve heard in my dreams for years, even when I tried to forget it. (Never tried as hard as I should.) “I can fuck him better.”

Dean’s eyes fly up to mine and I grin. Drop my head so my lips are whispering against his ear. “You remember, Dean? Remember me fucking you, so good. The way I’d hold you down and lick you open and fuck you slow until you were begging for it?”

He whimpers, “Sammy.”

Turns his head, searching. I pull back and tsk , low in my throat.

“Does he fuck you hard, Dean? Leave bruises on you that make you ache when we hunt?”

He gasps, and I have a split second to wonder what the fuck Castiel is doing to him, before he shudders, this full body thing that was always the clue he was right at the edge.

“No,” Castiel snarls, and Dean wails, this agonized noise that has me so fucking hot I can’t keep from grinding against him.

Strong hands fist in my hair, yank me up and I can taste them .

My brother. The angel. Salt and sweet and sex and his tongue is fucking everywhere, his teeth rough on my lip, demanding and furious and wanting.

Castiel is fucking ruining me, and what the actual hell?

I’m panting when he pushes me away, almost throws me from him, his motions jerky and angry, and the question rears through the alcohol. Maybe not a good idea?


“Show me.”

Oh fucking hell .

The words are growled, all thunder and fury, grit and gravel. And completely unmistakable.

I throw one searching look at Castiel, but he doesn’t flinch. And I have seen him, over the past year. Lazy from orgasm, turned on, furious, hungry, frustrated by my brother’s teasing. I’ve seen him in every state of sexual want. A year and close quarters and Dean’s lack of any sense boundaries means I’ve seen everything but them actually fucking (almost, once. On a hunt, when I came back to the room too soon.)

But this. God, I’ve never seen this.

So I turn back to my brother, and give him the same questioning look and Dean.

Dean laughs.

Shoves his hands into my hair and breathes my name as he draws me down. Sammy .

Kissing Dean is like coming home.

Familiar and comfortable and just as good as I remember. His hands are digging into my hair, holding me close, his tongue licking into my mouth, hungry and wanting and he’s making these noises, god these fucking noises, tiny whimpers and breathy little moans that don’t sound like my brother.

Like this, he’s weak and wanting, and if that isn’t a turn on, nothing is. I pull back and smile, dark and dirty. “Love you like this. So fucking weak. I could do anything to you, and you’d take it if it meant I’d fuck you. Isn’t that right, honey,” I straddle him and slide down, press the words to his throat, lick a path.

He groans, and I bite down, that spot below his ear. “Answer me, Dean,” I growl.

“Yeah, baby. Anything you want.”

Behind me, I hear Castiel groan and I laugh. Slide further down. “Hot isn’t it, Cas. How hungry he is for it?”

“For you,” Dean babbles, “For both of you.”

I pause. “You want the angel too, don’t you, honey.”

Sam ,” Dean almost sobs, as I finally, finally, settle between his legs.


Castiel stirs, and lays across the bed, near but not touching.

Not near enough. I smirk at him. “Give him something to do with his mouth.”

Hunger wars with hesitation and I crane up. Castiel meets me halfway, and it’s easy.

It’s so fucking easy, it almost breaks me. He’s not furious now. Now, his lips are gentle and caressing, all careful worship and anxious want and my dick twitches because jesus, this is fucking happening.

I nip at his lip, just to shove the emotion down and the angel purrs, that hot as fuck noise that drove me wild when I watched him and Dean on the couch and I break away from him, gasping.

“God, that’s hot,” Dean breaths, and Cas slaps him, a glancing blow across his nipple that has my brother arching like a damn bow off the bed, so hard and sudden it almost tosses me off him.

“Don’t blaspheme,” Castiel says, severely. Then he shifts and Dean moans, and takes the angel’s cock in his mouth, so greedy I almost come, just watching.

No. Not yet. Shove it down. Think of anything but how much I want this.

Cas is watching me, his blue eyes electric and I smirk, slow. Pump Dean’s cock once.

No time, tonight, to blow him. No. We’re both too damn close to the edge. I sink lower, and nudge his legs wide. Cas tosses me a bottle and I smear lube on my fingers as he begins to talk.

And Jesus.

I had thought, before, that we were good. And we were. But this.


It adds something to the old us .

Dean groans around him when I press a finger deep, his body shivering and Cas murmurs soft, “Shh, you’re doing so good, Dean. So good for Sammy. So beautiful, taking my cock. You love this. On your knees for me.”

I shift Dean up and around, and he whimpers as I slide in behind him, slide two fingers deep as I lick a slow path down his crease, around his rim and he shudders, thrusting back against me, and Castiel laughs, low and erotic. “You like that. You should see him, Dean. He belongs there. Just like this. Driving into you, breaking you to pieces.”

My eyes flick up, over the long line of Dean’s back and bobbing head and snag on Cas’s brilliant eyes. I add another finger and Dean’s rhythm falters and he’s sobbing, his head pressed into Cas’s stomach as he pushes back.

I hook my fingers, just enough, and he screams , scrambling for purchase as I rub over his prostate.

“Enough,” Castiel snaps. “Now, Sammy. Fuck him now .”

“Please, please please, Sammy, please, ” Dean babbles, almost sobbing. Castiel catches his hands, and pulls him into a kiss.

“Shh, love. Shh. We’ll take care of you.” the angel promises, and I rock up. Lube my dick and catch the back of Dean’s neck in one hand, and he shudders. He arches into the touch, going almost boneless as Castiel kisses him and I hold him still.

I groan when I slide into him, pushing past the tight ring of muscles, and deep. Castiel hisses--my thrust is shoving Dean against his dick, and the angel breaks the kiss with a low growl. “ Sam.”

“Not gonna last,” I warn and he nods once, flailing for the lube and then taking his and Dean’s dick in his hand, stroking hard as I fuck Dean, my hands hard on his hips.

And then he’s laughing.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s laughing, spilling out my name and Cas’s as he does, moaning and laughing and I come like that, growling as I slam into him one last time and come, filling him up and his laughter chokes. Stutters and he groans as he falls.

As we both fall.

Castiel catches us and I can feel his gasp, his tension as he comes, all wet and white and messy under us.

I lean the inch it takes, to kiss him. Dean is still laughing like a fucking idiot, but it dies a little, as he watches me kissing the angel, my tongue licking into his mouth, so hungry and wanting . Still.

“Get off, you fucking giant,” Dean grumbles, when I let the angel drop against the pillows, lips pink and pouty, and eyes dazed.

I slap his ass, hard enough that he yelps as I pull out. Retreat to the bathroom and come back with a wet washcloth.

They’re whispering, too soft for me to hear.

And it’s them again.

Which hurts. God it hurts, more than I expect, even though part of me knew this would happen.

I toss the washcloth to them and grab some sweatpants. Slide them on before I crash out on the empty bed.

And silence descends around the room.

They are silent, while I shift, trying to get comfortable.

I’m teetering on the edge of sleep and wake and have shove the hurt aside for  long enough that I can sleep.

Then a warm body slides in behind me, and curls close. Stubble rubs against my back and I go tense.

He rubs my arm, soft and soothing and hums sleepy in my ear.

“Bed’s one big fucking wet spot,” Dean complains, snuggling into my throat, his legs tangling with mine and his lips pressed against my skin.

“Seriously, Dean?” I huff. He growls a low complaint, wordless, and drags my arm over his hip.

Dean always was a fucking octopus when he was sleepy and cuddling.

“What the idiotic man is trying to say,” Cas rumbles into my ear, and I can feel him glaring, over my head, “Is that you aren’t sleeping alone. Not anymore.”

I make a wordless question in my throat.

Castiel kisses the nape of my neck. “You sleep with us, Sammy.” The name fits. Here, from him, it fits. And I.

I go boneless. Dean laughs, this happy noise against my throat, and we sleep like that. Dean wrapped around me, Cas pressed against me.