Authors: _mournthewicked & obstinatrix
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Sam/Dean/Castiel
Word Count: ~ 13,000
Warnings: Minor drug use. Shotgunning. Plot completely ignored in favor of porn.
Summary: So maybe, when they're both under the influence, the Winchesters like to mess around. It's no big deal, except for the part where they're afraid to mention it in the cold light of day. And then there's weed, and Cas's insane angel logic, and somehow Dean ends the night with all the shame plowed right out of him.
Notes: Once upon a time, _mournthewicked and obstinatrix bonded over their love of shotgunning and threesomes, and thus, an unholy union was formed. This is what became of it. Eternal gratitude to kamikaze_redux for the beta. ♥
Dean gets sort of slutty when he’s stoned.
It’s not something that he does often, smoking weed, but he always has a stash of it hidden in an airtight container at the bottom of his duffel for when the mood strikes him. And now, watching Sam move around their motel room in nothing but a threadbare towel, he’s definitely in the mood.
He and Sam fool around sometimes. It’s not something that they talk about, or make a big deal out of. It just happens, usually after a hunt when adrenaline and relief are running through their veins like an electric current, or when they’re too drunk to remember all the reasons why they shouldn’t.
Or when they’re stoned and Dean craves nothing more than Sammy’s fat cock in his mouth, stretching his lips tight around its girth.
And, well, if Dean sometimes suggests relaxing to Sam with a quirked brow and his thumb and forefinger pinched to his mouth simply because he wants his little brother to get all loose and pliant and fuck him, no one else needs to know.
If he could work up any kind of concern about it, Dean might wonder if Sam knew about his ulterior motives, if they played any part in how easily he tended to fold. As far as Dean's concerned, though, they're both overworked and overstressed, and a couple of joints will take care of that without doing any harm to anybody. And if it so happens that Dean would rather be stuffed full of his brother's cock than the pent-up frustration that's currently twisting itself around his internal organs, that's his own business. They don't have to talk about it for Dean to know that Sam gets rid of his frustrations just as thoroughly by fucking them right out of Dean's ass, which, frankly, is pretty damn lucky. The Winchesters haven't exactly had a lot of luck in their lives, so it seems (Dean reasons) kind of stupid to look a gift horse in the mouth, or however the saying goes.
Okay. So he's reaching. Whatever. The point is that when Sam decides to slut around the room like he's posing for Mr. Universe, there are a lot of things Dean feels like reaching for, starting with his stash and ending with Sam's cock. So, because he's an impulsive kind of guy, he leans across the bed until his groping hand finds his duffel, and says, "Sam."
This part is always hit-or-miss. Dean's working on a 50:50 probability ratio of bitchface to smirk, so he permits himself a little glow of triumph when Sam turns, sees the box in Dean's hand, and smiles.
"God," Sam says, voice fraying with relief at the edges, "I'd ask how the hell you still have that, but after that last one, I don't think I actually care." He holds out a hand like he expects Dean to roll him a joint of his own, but Dean shakes his head, crosses his legs under him on the bed. Sam knows that's not how this works.
"Last one was a son of a bitch," Dean agrees amiably, spreading a paper on his knee and depositing a pinchful of weed onto it. "Hey. C'mere."
Sam stops off at his own duffel to pull a pair of underwear on under his towel, which makes Dean’s mouth twist in annoyance, but if that’s all he’s covering up, Dean can’t really find it in himself to complain. Sam goes to sit on his own bed and Dean clears his throat pointedly, pleased when Sam rolls his eyes but twists his long body, easing himself down next to Dean instead.
Sam’s bare shoulder brushes Dean’s through the thin worn cotton of his tee, and he holds the joint out in front of Sam’s lips expectantly. There’s heat in Sam’s eyes when his tongue flicks out so Dean can wet the paper, like he knows what game Dean’s playing at and he doesn’t really mind.
Dean goes hot all over, twists the ends of the joint and brings it to his lips, plump and pursed around the end as he keeps his eyes on Sam’s face. He’s watching, rapt, tilted eyes flicking from Dean’s eyes to his lips and back again like he just doesn’t know where to land, and he goes still at the flick-hiss of Dean’s lighter. Dean raises the flame between them, lights the end of the joint and inhales, cheeks hollowing and lips pursing out, an obscene exaggeration of a toke.
But Sam, for all his self-proclaimed propriety, doesn’t look away.
Dean can't remember a time before he knew the effect his mouth could have on people. On the one hand, there's maybe something sad about that, but on the other, it means he knows just how to work it to catch people's eyes and hold them, steal their breath. The joint tastes green-tea-sweet and earthy in his mouth and he sucks at it, long and smooth, lets the flavor roll over the flat of his tongue. He can't resist inhaling the first couple swallows, needing the sour, warm burn of the drug in his lungs, but Sam is still watching him, his own mouth slightly parted, and Dean knows exactly what he's anticipating. When Sam gets that look on his face, Dean can't deny him anything, and the clench of heat low in his belly says he doesn't want to.
He releases the first mouthful of smoke in a long, narrow cloud that curls up between them, ghosting against the damp inside of Sam's open mouth. It's not what Dean wants to do, not quite, but it never hurts to put on a show, and Sam's duly fixated on the shape of Dean's lips, unhindered now by the spliff, an open invitation. He can hear the way Sam's breathing has gone a little quick, a little shallow, and he allows himself a smirk before he holds out the joint for Sam to take, smoldering between his thumb and forefinger.
Dean doesn’t think that he imagines the flicker of disappointment in Sam’s eyes as he hands the joint over, like maybe he wanted Dean to take a more hands-on approach to getting him stoned. But Dean only watches through heavy eyelids as Sam brings the joint to his own lips, long fingers curled around the egg-white paper as he sucks on the end of it. Dean watches his chest expand as he inhales, nodding impressively at the amount of smoke he takes in. Sam coughs, just like he always does, eyes watering as smoke billows out from between his wet lips.
“Pussy.” Dean smirks and takes the joint back, fingers lingering on Sam’s longer than necessary. “Maybe you shouldn’t be so fuckin’ eager.”
Sam just purses his lips, flicking his hair away from his eyes as he coughs once more. His eyes are already a bit glassy, red and shiny, and Dean’s gaze catches on the tempting swell of his brother’s lower lip as he takes another drag of his own. He wonders how long they’ll have to go on pretending like this, when they’ll both be far gone enough to blame it on the drugs and not the heady curl of want in their bellies, the desire to put their hands and mouths on flesh that shouldn’t be so intimately familiar.
But Sam needs the safety net more than Dean does, needs to cling to those last shreds of normalcy that Dean knows they both abandoned too long ago. So Dean waits, hands Sam the joint after flicking away the ash, lets him go on pretending.
Another slow pull, and Sam doesn't cough this time, shoulders relaxing visibly as he breathes out the smoke again in jagged little puffs. Dean laughs a little, because it's just so Sam to do it that way, his own damn way when everyone else pretty much conforms to type; and also, he's starting to get that dragging feeling at the back of his skull that tends to make everything a little funnier. When Sam holds out his hand again with the joint, the corners of his mouth are turned up, amused, and Dean wants to lick the smile off his face with a sudden fierce urgency.
Dean has ways to make these things happen. Sam's hand is outstretched, long-fingered and loose and close, but Dean shakes his head a little and crosses his arms over his chest to take hold of the hem of his shirt. "Just a second," he says. "It's hotter than hell in here." And he raises his arms over his head in one smooth motion that brings his sweat-damp t-shirt with it.
Sam's breath hitches, immediate and obvious. He tries to cover it up with a cough and a muttered "Here --" as he thrusts the joint into Dean's personal space, but they both know Dean caught that; they have to. Dean throws Sam a dark twist of a smile and breathes in deep, letting his chest expand to its fullest extent with the swell of air, a peacock display of his body that he might be ashamed of if it wasn't for the weed. But there is weed, and Dean wastes no time in sucking in another lungful of it.
By the time he's exhaled it again, they're both breathing tightly, Sam's eyes skipping from Dean's face to his clavicle, to the line of sweat crawling its way down his sternum. Dean's careful not to let his own eyes wander from Sam's face. The spurs of Sam's hips are his undoing at the best of times, and in this state, he wouldn't bet on being able to look at them and not take hold of them immediately. And that isn't what he wants. Right now, he wants Sam to reach out and freaking take it, take matters into his own hands for once. It's not like Dean isn't giving him clear invitation.
"Starting to feel it," Dean remarks, eyes steady on Sam's. "You feeling it, Sam?"
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is rough and he clears his throat, eyes slipping shut for a moment before they snap back open, gaze hot on Dean. “It’s good.”
Dean nods and takes another drag, tipping his head back to blow the smoke up into the air. The curve of his throat is on display, shoulders loosening as he relaxes. When he looks back at his brother, Sam is breathing a little quicker, fingers digging into his own thighs.
“Want it?” Dean asks, and the look on Sam’s face tells Dean that he damn well knows that he isn’t talking about the weed. He’ll let Sam take the out if he really wants it, but he’s not giving it up so easily this time. “Do you, Sammy? Wanna feel it?”
“Yeah - Dean.” Sam swallows hard, shifts a bit closer on the bed. “I do.”
“Then you better come and take it.” Dean’s voice is rough, like his throat has been scraped raw by just the thought of Sam stuffing his cock down it. Sam’s eyes flash at Dean’s words, at his tone, but he doesn’t move aside from a not-so-subtle shifting of his hips. He lifts one hand, clenches it into a fist in the air, and Dean knows he’s close to winning. The thought makes his dick stiffen a bit in his jeans, pulse quickening at the thought of Sam grabbing him and just taking for once, just skipping all of Dean’s silent pleading and coaxing.
“C’mon, Sammy.” He takes another drag when he should have passed, spit-slick lips pursing out as he blows a perfect ring of smoke into the air. His tongue flashes out to wet his lips, and that’s it. Sam leans in, one giant hand grabbing the inside of Dean’s thigh and twisting him inward. Sam leans forward, mouth opening mere centimeters from Dean’s, drinking the smoke from his mouth. Dean holds steady, breath caught in his chest as he keeps his eyes on Sam. He blinks once, eyelashes skimming his cheeks before fanning open again. The smoke is gone by now, but Sam remains. His fingers are digging into Dean’s inseam and he lets out a noise, a soft little moan, and Dean bites back on a triumphant grin when Sam’s eyes go even darker.
Their lips crash together almost painfully, Sam biting at the corner of Dean’s mouth before grabbing his chin and kissing him straight on. Sam’s tongue coaxes Dean’s mouth open, the wet tip of it curling slickly against the back of Dean’s teeth.
“Yeah, Sammy.” He grabs Sam’s arm, fingers barely spanning his bicep as he tongues at the dip of Sam’s lower lip. “That’s it.”
Sam makes a dark sound of assent into Dean's mouth, and his hand comes up to cradle the back of Dean's skull, holding him still, relaying a message loud and clear: no more talking. Which, God, Dean is more than okay with, because when Sam gets like this, all firm hands and filthy kisses forcing Dean's mouth open, Dean's powerless under the onslaught. Sam's so big, the smooth, solid mass of him warm against Dean's body, cradling, and usually it takes a lot more coaxing to force him to this point, the point where he'll manhandle and invade and claim. Sam's mouth is hot and urgent on Dean's, tongue stroking over the flat of his with a rough silk rasp of taste-buds, and Dean wants nothing more than to open up and be taken.
"Shit," he manages, slipping the word into a space between kisses, "Sam --"
But Sam cuts him off - "Sshh - " and crowds in closer, jaw going dirty-wide against Dean's. His hands are big and broad, splayed on Dean's shoulder blades, carding through his hair, relearning the dip of his spine, and Dean's skin is alight with it everywhere, the weed and Sam's touch combining to leave him dizzy and stupid. He pushes closer, wanting to feel the hot length of Sam's chest against his, Sam's cock against his own, neither of which things is gonna happen with their crossed legs folded between them. He wrenches his mouth away, and it's an effort.
"Here --" He flattens his hand in the middle of Sam's chest and pushes. Sam, though, is ready for him; catches him easily around the waist and eases him down onto his back and shit, yeah, that's what Dean's talking about.
He wastes no time in spreading his legs, not caring how eager and slutty the action makes him look. He can’t care, not when Sam falls between his thighs and lines up just right. “Yeah, Sammy, shit.”
Sam shudders at the nickname the way he always does when Dean says it against his bare skin, all dirty and wrong and so fucking good. So he says it again, the word heavy and sweet in his mouth, lets his tongue trace the whorls of Sam’s ear as his brother rocks his hips down. Dean hisses, fingernails raking down the wide, sweat-damp expanse of Sam’s back and rocks his hips up like a fucking pro, practically begging for it.
Sam puts his hand on Dean’s forehead, fingers sliding into his hair as he tips his head back to expose his neck. He bites down right at the pulse, hard enough to sting, and Dean’s dick dribbles out a hot burst of precome. “Shit, Sammy. Your goddamn mouth.”
He’s so blissed out, under the influence of good weed and his little brother’s giant dick against his hip that he doesn’t hear the telltale flutter of wings signaling that they’re no longer alone in the room. He grabs Sam’s ass through the thin cotton of his underwear and pulls him down, makes them both cry out, and his eyes open at the soft choking sound from the corner of the room.
It's Cas. Of course it's Cas, current holder of the Angel Most Likely To Show Up In The Wrong Place At The Wrong Time Award, with his arms stiff at his sides and his eyes wide. For a guy whose expressions don't tend to vary all that much, it's a fairly extreme indication of his state of mind, and Dean feels a roll of discontent move through him, even under the weed. "Crap," he mutters, and he means it.
Sam, apparently, is beyond speech, although his fingers have gone still and awkward against Dean's back. Interestingly enough, though, his erection doesn't seem to be showing signs of flagging, although he's canted his hips away. Dean would chastise himself for even thinking about that with an angel of the freaking Lord staring daggers of wrath at them, but...yeah. Sam's cock.
Cas, on the far side of the room, doesn't seem to be appreciating the true glory of Sam's half-naked body pinioning Dean's. He says, in a strained voice, "Um."
They've heard Cas say a lot of things, but never 'um'. Sam makes a sound like he's dying of shame and presses his face against the curve of Dean's throat, muttering what Dean is pretty sure is "we're going to hell, we're going to hell" over and over against his skin. Which, really, is kind of stupid, because it's not like they can be sure nobody upstairs has ever seen them at this before, just because nobody's actually been literally in the room at the time, and --
"Dean." Castiel's voice interrupts his runaway train of thought before it derails off a cliff. "I came to ask you a question, but I see that you're... busy."
Sam moans weakly against Dean's neck. Thing is, though -- if Cas wanted to fill this room full of wrath, he'd have done it by now, and Dean knows him well enough to be able to tell when there's something he wants to know and doesn't quite dare ask. Right now, Cas's eyes are flicking restlessly from the tangle of Winchester limbs on the bed to the joint smoldering in the saucer on the nightstand, where Dean stuck it in a freak second of sanity. The direction of his thoughts, at least, is pretty damn clear, and Dean's all in favour of showing Cas all aspects of the grand arena of human existence, where possible. So he says, "Yeah," and tries a smile, going out on a limb. "Just kicking back, having a smoke, you know." He waves his hand in the vague direction of the saucer.
“Marijuana,” Cas says redundantly, uselessly, and Dean smirks. His head feels heavy, stuffed with cotton in a pleasant way, and he strokes his hand down Sam’s back to soothe him. Cas opens his mouth, closes it, and then tilts his head in that vaguely puppyish way of his.
Dean knows the gleam in Cas’s eye, the need to satisfy his burgeoning curiosity. “You want to try it?” Dean tosses out the question casually, feels Sam stiffen on top of him. He presses a lazy kiss to Sam’s temple even as he keeps his eyes on Castiel. It feels sort of like peer pressure, like Dean’s the boy from the wrong side of the tracks coaxing the nerd into getting high with him under the bleachers. Dean kind of likes that feeling when it comes to Castiel, sort of wants to dirty up that pristine shine a bit.
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.” But Dean sees it, the way Cas’s eyes linger on Sam’s back, gaze traveling down to their entwined legs. Dean traces his thumb along the edge of Sam’s briefs, dipping under the elastic right at the cleft of his ass. Sam shivers, rocks down into Dean purely on instinct. He looks over his shoulder at Castiel and he fucking leaks. Dean can feel it against his bare hip, sticky-wet through worn cotton.
This night just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
Weed has never made Sam do anything he didn’t want to. If anything, it gives him the balls to do the things he really wants - things like push his big brother down and fuck him into the mattress, no matter how much of a non-issue he makes of it in the morning.
And now, well, it’s clear to Dean that his brother might be harboring some not-so-angelic thoughts about the angel currently in their presence. Kinky bastard. Dean grins, dragging his thumb up Sam’s spine in a long, slow movement until Sam turns his head and presses his mouth to Dean’s jaw, hot and open.
Cas swallows hard, eyes wide like they’re back at that whorehouse, but he takes a decisive step forward. To Dean, it feels like a victory.
The once-sizeable joint is down to a tiny stub, but it's smoldering slowly, and when Dean reaches out for it, there's still enough to hold between finger and thumb. He proffers it in Cas's general direction and Cas takes a second step forward, eyes fixed on Dean's hand, but he stops short, face gone tight and hesitant. Dean's just wracking his brains for another method of coaxing him closer when Sam intervenes, his voice a low rumble against Dean's collarbone.
"Come on, Cas," he says, and there's a tone to it that's only ever there when he's somehow under the influence. Evidently, the potent mixture of weed and desire in Sam's system has finally overridden his natural sense of shame. "It's good. Like being drunk, kind of, but..." Sam shrugs. "It's better. It's like you see colors."
Dean scrunches his nose -- seriously, it's like you see colors? -- but when he catches the look on Cas's face, the pensive expression of concentration, he bites back his sarcastic retort and waits, wanting to see how Cas reacts. Something in Cas's eyes makes him think maybe the colors part convinced him, and sure enough, five seconds later Cas is moving again, holding out a hand and tentatively taking the joint from Dean's fingers.
Dean mentally congratulates himself, Sam, and everything that's helped make them the geniuses they both so patently are. Then Cas says, dubiously, "What do I...?" He squints down at the spliff caught awkwardly between his fingers as if it's something from another world -- which, Dean reminds himself, to Cas, it is. When Cas looks up again, he's appealing to both of them when he says helplessly, "I don't know what to do with it."
Dean purses his lips, eyes stuck on the way the tiny nub of a joint looks pinched between Castiel’s fingers - fucking perfect hands. The smoke trails up in a wispy cloud and Cas sniffs at it, nose wrinkling as he looks back at Dean. There’s something in his eyes - trust, Dean realizes belatedly, and that makes something else twist deep down low in his gut.
He rolls Sam off of him gently, sliding a hand down his side and giving him a meaningful look that lets him know that he isn’t being abandoned. He goes so far as to toss him a wink and Sam’s eyes brighten delightedly, swollen lips dragging up into a lazy smile.
He stands up, feet tickling against the old shag carpeting on the floor. His jeans slip down a little, and when had Sam even unbuttoned them, anyway? Cas looks him up and down, a quick little flash, but Dean catches it and sticks his chest out proudly. He comes to a slow stop right in front of Castiel, reaching out to take the joint from his fingers and tugging on the lapel of his trench coat with his free hand. “Lose it,” Dean says brusquely. Cas swallows and removes his coat along with the jacket underneath. The top two buttons of his shirt are popped open, chest pale underneath his rumpled tie.
“Breathe in when I breathe out,” Dean instructs. He taught Sam how to do this, way back when, and that might have been what started all this between them. Dean isn’t sure anymore. But he steps right up to Cas, nearly nose to nose, and wraps his free hand around the back of Cas’s neck. His skin is soft, hair tickling Dean’s fingertips. He catches Cas’s blue eyes and holds them firm as he takes a drag from the joint, heat teasing at his fingertips. “Open up,” he commands, voice tight from smoke.
“Dean,” Cas says roughly, and Dean takes advantage of his parted lips to press his own against them. He hears a soft noise that must have come from Sam, must have been his approval, because there’s a hand on the flat of his lower back. He exhales into Cas’s mouth, damp lips clinging just so, one more little push and it’d be a kiss.
Cas, for his credit, is a quick study. The tiniest wisps of smoke escape between their mouths, but most of it goes right down Cas’s throat, chest expanding until crisp white cotton brushes the tight buds of Dean’s nipples.
He hisses and pulls away, licking his lips as Cas slowly opens his eyes. “Exhale,” Dean says, belatedly realizing that Castiel, unlike humans, would have to be told. Cas’s lips form a small ring, shiny with saliva, and Dean feels arousal hit him like a fist to the gut. Sam’s fingertips curl around the waistband of Dean’s jeans, both of them enthralled as Cas blows a steady stream of smoke into the air.
“Again,” Cas breathes, and his tone leaves no room for discussion.
Dean doesn't need to be told twice. The joint's burned so close to his fingers that in a moment, it'll be painful, but there's enough for one last drag, and the faint rustling of paper over the sound of shallow breathing tells Dean that Sam is rolling another. He sucks in a mouthful of smoke and drops the joint onto the floor, knowing it can hardly hurt the dingy brown carpet that countless stubs have burned before, and also that Sam is too occupied to protest. When he looks up, the darkness in Cas's eyes says that he certainly isn't about to waste his breath protesting, either, and Dean throws him a smile, tight-lipped around the toke, as he cups the back of Cas's skull in his hand, leans in.
This time, there's no hesitation in the way Cas angles his head, lips parting to meet Dean's, to receive his gift. His mouth is unexpectedly soft, yielding under Dean's, and when Dean exhales, Cas swallows it greedily, tiny sound of contentment escaping his throat. The taste of it is sour-sweet between them, like wet earth scorching, and Dean closes his eyes, feeling the precision of his heartbeat in his chest, pounding under his ribs. Sam is quiet behind him, the paper gone still, but Dean can feel the weight of his gaze all the same, prickling down his spine like a rash, like magic.
By the time Sam speaks -- "Dean --" the smoke is long gone, Cas's mouth still and damp against Dean's, and their lips cling incrementally when he pulls away, wet insides catching. The drag of it skips like static along the nerves in his lips, sensitized already from kissing Sam, and there's a new twist of want in Dean's stomach by the time he turns to his brother, intending to take the new joint off his hands.
Sam, though, turns out to be well ahead of him. The tip of the joint is already glowing faintly, and Sam taps the end of it against the underside of his lip as Dean watches, mouth curving up into a smile. There's a wet shine of saliva in the dip of his lower lip where Dean sucked on it, where Sam's tongue has touched it, and the cigarette paper catches briefly on the dampness.
"Sam," Dean tries, levelly, but Sam only smirks a little more pointedly and closes his lips around the joint.
"Wait your turn." Sam's voice is a low growl, unexpected, making Dean's belly dip hotly. Sam is still mostly on the bed, cock thrusting fat and obscene against the fabric of his underwear, but he uncoils even as Dean watches, getting to his feet. Dean's just trying to wrench his eyes away from Sam's crotch in order to formulate a snappy retort when Sam says, "Cas?" all gentle, encouraging, and Dean's brain promptly liquefies entirely at the implications.
Turns out that Cas still has the powers of speech and movement, and apparently, he's pretty fond of either weed or Sam or both. At any rate, he wastes no time in stepping across the beat-up carpet in the direction of Sam's voice, letting Sam's fingers close around his wrist. Sam smiles at him, sucks on the joint, and shit, he's going to fucking do it; going to press his mouth to Cas's and funnel the toke into his mouth, heedless of the sinful state of his shorts, unconcealed in front of an angel. Sam is going to do it, and Dean thinks he's never been gladder of the liberating effects of weed than he is at this moment.
And then Sam leans in, opens his mouth over Cas's, and it's more, hotter, more perfect than Dean ever imagined. Shit.
Sam lets go of Cas’s wrist to palm his cheek instead, thumb brushing the swell of his lower lip as Cas drinks in the smoke that Sam’s offering. Cas tips his head back to release it and Sam’s lips drag down his chin with the motion, wet insides of them catching on stubble-rough skin. His mouth closes over Castiel’s pulse, sucking hard enough to make his eyes clench shut.
Sam holds the joint out towards Dean blindly, cherry-red tip of it dangerously close to his fingers. Dean takes it, shoves it between his lips and inhales like he’ll never again get the chance, thick smoke scorching the insides of his lungs.
“Sam,” Castiel breathes, and then Sam is grabbing him by the hips and pushing, knocking him backwards onto the unmade bed. Sam follows, shoving his way between Castiel’s thighs, gripping the narrow span of his hips as he presses their mouths together.
Dean coughs then, too surprised and too fucking turned on to do anything else. His eyes water with the force of it, head spinning dizzily as he catches his breath. His dick is so hard that the head’s pushing damp cotton through his unzipped fly. The pants and underwear get kicked off with little thought to where they’ll land, and he’s pulling another toke into his mouth even as his chest continues to burn.
He climbs onto the bed on his knees, thighs spread to balance himself as he leans over his brother. He slides his fingers up the back of Sam’s neck, curling in sweat-damp hair as he pulls. There’s an audible sound when Sam breaks away from Castiel’s mouth, a wet sort of squelch that makes Dean twitch.
“Dean, Dean-” He’s breathing hard, can barely get the word out, and then Dean’s pressing their mouths together. He blows smoke into his little brother’s lungs, holds him steady and reaches between them to rub his palm over the bulge of his dick, tip of the joint edging dangerously close to skin.
Sam takes the smoke, pressing a kiss to Dean’s mouth as he holds it in, and then pulls away to lean back down over Castiel. He breathes in as Sam breathes out, hand flying out to grab Dean’s thigh like he knew exactly where it was.
“Tastes so good,” Sam mumbles, hot and slick against Cas’s open mouth, and Dean sways forward.
It's not like he isn't aware that Cas is overdressed, but forcibly undressing an angel seemed kind of rude, even for Dean, so he'd been hoping Cas would just naturally overheat or something and shuck his shirt himself. When he catches Cas's mouth, though, tongue teasing the curve of his lower lip, the first downward sweep of his hand brings him into contact with Sam's, working Cas's buttons, making their deft way down the front of his shirt. His brother is stripping his angel while Dean kisses him, and the thought sets Dean's hips pulsing forward jaggedly, cock dragging against Sam's bare skin.
Cas makes a soft sound, one hand coming up to cradle Dean's skull, and his mouth goes immediately wide under Dean's, tongue curling out to stroke over his. There's something familiar about the way he moves, but it takes Dean a moment to recognize why -- to recognize that Cas is kissing like Sam, who kisses like Dean, who taught him how. Between them, Sam's hands are working with ruthless efficiency, opening Cas's shirt and pushing it down his arms, and Dean wastes no time in letting his hands roam uninterrupted over the new-revealed skin. His thumb brushes the taut little nub of a nipple, half-unconscious on an upward sweep, and a moan swells up out of the depths of Cas's throat, sets Dean and Sam both breathing quicker in sympathy.
"Shit," Sam murmurs, and his voice is wrecked, gravel-rough and low. His hips are still pushing reflexively into Dean's palm, and his mouth is only the barest breath from Dean's; the slightest turn of his head is enough to bring it flush into contact with the vulnerable bolt of Dean's jaw. It opens hotly, wet against the pulse point, and Dean flattens his palm a little harder against the thrust of Sam's dick; fumbles the joint back onto its saucer and lets his other hand slide down, down over the muscles of Cas's pale stomach.
Dean feels feverish, frenzied as he can be with the weed fogging up his mind. It mutes all of his other senses, lets him focus on the pool of saliva under his tongue. He wants - oh shit he wants - so he pushes Sam backwards, making him break his hold on Dean's jaw and land ass and elbows on the bed.
“Watch me,” Dean murmurs against Cas’s mouth, tugging his lower lip with his teeth before sliding away. He slinks down onto his knees, eyeing the bulge in Cas’s slacks appreciatively before tearing his gaze away and turning towards his brother.
Cas will get his turn, Dean will make sure of it.
“Mm, Sammy.” He curls his fingers in the waistband of Sam’s underwear, pulls them down over his ass and swallows when Sam’s perfect dick slaps up against his belly, red and leaking. Dean presses his thumbs into the hipbones that have often been his undoing, leaning in to sink his teeth into the meat of Sam’s inner thigh.
He can’t resist the pleading tone in Sam’s voice, sending want down his spine like an electric current. Sam’s cock feels so good in his mouth, stretching his lips wide as he pushes the tight ring of them down, down until the fat head of it is bruising the back of his throat. Sam groans, hips thrusting up against Dean's loose grip.
This is what he wanted, Sam’s cock leaking against the flat of his tongue. It’s even better with someone else, fucking Castiel no less, watching him on his knees. There’s precome bubbling up from his slit and it pulses out when Cas makes a soft, wondering noise from somewhere behind Sam. A cautious hand touches his shoulder, fingertips tripping around to the top of his spine, and Dean hums hungrily around Sam’s dick.
"Look at him." Sam's voice is ragged, shaking with his breaths, but there's a ferocity in it that makes Dean's stomach clench, precome drooling from the head of his cock in a sudden fierce rush. "God, Cas, I've always loved him like this, you have no idea." Sam's hips buck up, once, sharply, and Dean's eyes water at the jolt for a second before he gets with the program, opening his throat to accommodate the head, muscles fluttering gently around it.
Cas's reply, when it comes, is close to Dean's ear, the timbre of it sparking down the length of Dean's spine. "How long?" It's an honest inquiry, but Dean hears the hitch in Sam's breath echoing the stutter of his own, Sam's fingers curling against the top of Dean's head.
"Shit, I don't know. Wanted -- " Dean pulls up, flattens his tongue against the slit where Sam's leaking, but Sam recovers himself with an effort. "Must have been fourteen, first time I thought about it. Big brother on his knees, that fucking -- shit -- fucking perfect mouth stuffed full of my cock, Jesus. Made for it, isn't he, Cas?"
"Yes," Cas murmurs, low and tight and entranced, and shit, that's about all Dean can take.
He pulls off wetly, closes his eyes against the thick pulse of heat welling up in him like blood. "Shit, Sam." He gropes blindly, finds Cas's thigh, hot through the fabric of his pants, and grips it for support. "Sam --"
But Sam is relentless, dick so hard it's twitching against his stomach, the whole long spine of it shiny with Dean's spit. "He loves this. Loves dick, don't you, Dean?" And his big hand slides around to cradle the crown of Dean's head, encompassing the whole of it easily. "C'mon, Cas, get your dick out. He wants it. Loves taking it."
Dean doesn't know what he expects, but it isn't the frantic fumble of Cas's fingers at the fastenings of his pants, the blind obedience of this being of grace as he falls prey to the cravings of the flesh. "Cas," Dean breathes, and a shudder rolls through Cas's body as he shoves pants and underwear together over his hips, jerks them down his thighs spasmodically.
"God, look at you." Sam's dark-dirty voice is an echo of Dean's own thoughts as his hand drifts over to curl around the length of Cas's cock, squeezing the base of it. On his knees like this, Dean's close enough to smell him, the raw, sweaty scent of him partly like Sam, partly entirely his own. "Look at him, Dean. Not gonna leave him like that, are you? You know you want this shoved down your throat." And he angles Cas's cock away from the shallow dip of his belly, ignoring Cas's low moan, the stuttered thrust of his hips. "Come on. Suck it."
If Dean were in a calmer, more rational, and frankly less stoned state of mind, he might stop to think for a second. But not here, not with him on his knees with two leaking cocks in his face. Sam’s right, he does love dick, but he very rarely trusts anyone that isn’t Sam to shove their cock down his throat.
Cas, though, being of light and heaven, the one who trusts Dean enough to do all that he’s done for him, ranks pretty high up there as well. And he just can’t resist the picture they make, Sam’s slender fingers wrapped around Cas’s shaft, pearly precome leaking from the slit. Dean surges forward on his knees and licks it up, tongue swirling around the head. Cas jerks up and moans, something breathy that punches out of him so desperately that Dean’s dick twitches. Cas is hot and big in his mouth and Dean sinks down, taking him in until his lips touch Sam’s fingers.
“Yeah, Dean, you want it so bad.” Sam’s other hand cups the back of Dean’s head, pushing him down onto Cas’s dick until he’s nearly gagging on it. Tears prickle in his eyes and his lungs burn, and then Sam is releasing him.
Dean pulls off with a gasp, looking at up Cas’s scorching blue eyes with a filthy grin, lips swollen and shining with spit. “How’s that feel, Cas?”
“More,” Cas breathes, hips lifting and thighs clenching. He looks at Sam and then back at Dean, swallowing hard as sweat breaks out along his sternum, cooling in the hollow of his throat. “I want, Dean.”
Sam smiles wolfishly at Dean and he raises a hand to wrap around his brother’s cock, squeezing just this side of rough and thumbing at the head as he goes back down on on Cas. He’s stroking one and sucking the other and it’s so fucking good that he moans, unable to stop the sounds from spilling out of his mouth, garbled around Cas’s leaking dick.
Sam is sliding easy in his hand, hot and wet, his slickness smearing between Dean's fingers as he opens and closes them. Beneath the head of Sam's cock is a bundle of nerves that never fails to make Sam break, and Dean searches it out with the pad of his thumb with the ease of long practise. One press, and sure enough, Sam's groaning, gasping out a half-vocalised sound that might have been Dean's name. Beside him, Cas is far louder still, his fingers fluttering weakly against Dean's temple as he hitches up into his mouth, chanting a litany of nonsense.
Dean feels - shit. He feels powerful, which isn't something usually associated with this, with sucking cock on his knees, but this isn't Dean in front of a stranger in an alley. This is Dean taking apart an angel with his mouth, holding his brother together with his fingers and his moans, and the heat of it rushes up inside him like a hurricane, makes him pull off just to drink in the scene.
Above him, they're both of them pink-mouthed and panting, Sam's eyes gone fever-green with want, Cas fixing Dean with a dark, desperate stare. Sam's cock in his hand is almost purpling with need, swollen impossibly further under his ministrations, and Dean is fucking covered in both of them, Sam's precome smeared halfway down his wrists, the thick taste of Cas all over his mouth and chin. "Shit," Dean hisses, and Sam makes a breathless sound of assent.
"Dean," he says, "Dean," and recklessly, suddenly, Dean wishes he had two freaking mouths so he could taste them both at once, suck them down together inside himself.
And then Sam's hand tightens on Cas's hip, and realization hits Dean like a freight-train. Fuck.
Sam's not expecting it when Dean presses a kiss to the head of him, and Cas, too, cries out breathily as Dean's fingers wrap around his shaft, tugging. A deep, hard suck at the head of Sam's cock, and he's pulling off, shifting back to Cas; swirling his tongue through the slickness at his slit and then back again to Sam until their tastes mingle in his mouth. It's hell on his neck, on his shoulders and his breathing pattern, but the two of them are making sounds like dying, and Dean feels like a genius. He feels like freaking God, and he never wants to stop remaking the world.