Pairings: Wincestiel (Sam/Dean/Castiel)
Word Count: ~2200
Warnings: language, sex (of the incestuous and blasphemous variety!)
Notes: I AM SO FUCKING HAPPY TO BE POSTING THIS FIC. I lost the flashdrive it was on and thought I would never see it again, but I guess God doesn't hate incesty polyamory as much as you'd think because I found it again and all is well. Okay not really because I'm still not happy with it, but that's alright. Feedback is much appreciated!
The thing is that Dean is just not a healthy, well-adjusted, person. And by that he means he has one very bad-wrong relationship and one that’s just plain weird. Actually, it’s all three of them in a sort of incestuous, cross-species, ménage à trios.
A bit fucked up, yes, but look, okay, he tries. He really does; but when killing the monster under the bed is your day job, you kind of expect a few personal demons. Dean could’ve gone mad and started murdering innocent people, so he thinks he’s doing quite well in perspective.
Anyway, speak of the devil and he shall appear, or whatever, and one of those aforementioned relationships strolls in as Dean is pondering the totally plausible murdering spree he could’ve have very well gone on if he hadn’t started fucking his brother and their angel friend. It’s Cas, face drawn in a full-on pout.
“Dean,” he complains, managing to look both put-upon and tragically brave at the same time, “Sam says we cannot go out to have burgers again.”
“Yeah, well,” says Dean, looking up to meet the man. He slugs an arm over Castiel’s shoulders and turns them both to face the room at large, continuing, “Sam’s just confused. All brawn and no brain, you know.”
“Uh,” says Sam, emerging from the little kitchen of their motel room. “I’m pretty sure I’m actually the brains of this operation. We can’t have burgers every day. It isn’t natural.”
“Okay,” Dean agrees, cheerfully, and then he smirks a bit because these are the two people in the world who will put up with his shit. “We’ll have pizza, then.”
He feels Cas lean into him, laughing softly, and smirks at Sam’s groan.
“I’m sorry, Sam, but I just don’t understand your passion for healthy foods when you hunt monsters for a living. I don’t think your salad is going to increase your life expectancy by that much.” Castiel is twisted around in his seat in a way that is probably not at all safe, hands gripping the headrest, and is eyeing Sam intently.
“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean laughs, throwing a glance over his shoulder at his brother, who’s been banished to the backseat of the Impala for bitching. (And also because they cannot actually all fit in the front. This is not for lack of trying, mind you.)
“Just because you’re an immortal celestial being, Cas, doesn’t mean we all are,” Sam snarks, crossing his arms like a large petulant child.
“Dean is human,” Castiel rightly points out, “and he’s fine.”
“Yeah,” Dean says again, reaching over to squeeze Cas’ knee with a quick smile. “Be quiet and I’ll let you have a diet soda, Sam.”
“Diet sodas are actually worse for your hea—“
Dean groans and cranks up the volume on the cassette player.
Dinner is good. The restaurant-and-bar combo may not be the most high-class, but neither are they, and anyway the pizza has this crazy-delicious layered cheese thing going on that’s freaking magical. Add that to the fact that he gets to watch his two favorite people get into a vigorous match of footsie, and Dean thinks he’s getting a pretty good deal.
“Ow!” yelps Sam, wriggling in his seat, “Cas, that was my knee, what the hell?”
“You started it,” Castiel replies serenely, biting into his pizza primly.
“Kids,” says Dean as Sam opens his mouth to retort, “Break it up. Sammy, eat your carrots.”
Sam gives him a reproachful look, but Dean notes with amusement that he does what he says.
After they’re all done eating (in other words, when Castiel has devoured all of the pizza and is glancing at Dean hopefully) they go into the game room to do a bit of billiards. Hunting is a great gig, but it don’t pay the bills, or at least that’s what John Winchester used to tell his sons.
Cas is actually really useful for this purpose because strangers take one look at his baby blues and ruffled trenchcoat with matching untidy hair and automatically assume that he’s complete shit at the game.
Interestingly enough, they’re not actually wrong. Castiel is unable (or, more likely, unwilling) to learn the rules, or even the basic concepts of, a game of pool.
It works like this: Cas is the naïve, overeager, and slightly intoxicated tourist that proceeds to play and lose a large number of rounds, and a good bit of money with them, to a sarcastic, homophobic, and much more intoxicated other player. Sam then comes along as the angry, overprotective boyfriend. Boyfriend challenges Douchebag, and then follows an intense battle of wits with a somewhat epic feel, which Boyfriend invariably wins.
Dean’s still a little insulted that he has to play the douchebag (“But you’re so butch, Dean! It practically screams internalized homophobia!” had been Sam’s reasoning) but hey, it works.
He’s in full on piece-of-shit mode, calling Sam a faggot, which makes the bartender suck in a breath through his teeth and Sam get a hurt look in his eyes that Dean really hates because he’s seen it plenty of times before when it wasn’t acting. But Castiel makes a fairly inspiring speech of love triumphing over evil at Sam’s eventual win, so it works out alright. Dean is politely asked to leave the bar, please, and the celebratory couple exits shortly after, presumably to have loads of victory sex.
Dean pushes open the door of their room with a relieved sigh—they made enough to hold them steady for a while, and they’re alone in dim light of the motel where Dean doesn’t have to be careful with whom he touches or call anyone derogatory terms.
“Douchebag was extra nasty this time,” complains Sam from behind him, and Dean can hear his pout. “You guys are teaming up on me today.”
Dean rolls his eyes and hears Castiel make a little amused noise as he shuts the door behind him.
“Yeah, well,” he says, “maybe Douchebag’s internalized homophobia was acting up today,” he says, because he’s never been able to resist Sam’s puppy-dog eyes and Cas’ eyes are all amused-crinkle at the edges, and dammit, Dean’s just spent an hour pretending to be an obnoxious bigot. He deserves to have some nice gay sex to knock it out of his system, and what better than the sort that’s probably specifically outlined against somewhere in the good book? (Thou shalt not lie with thy brother and an angel of the Lord at the same time, ‘cause that’s just fucked, man. It’s probably like, Leviticus 6:66 or something.)
“That is no doubt it,” Cas says, and his fingers fumble into Dean’s because he’s always been so good at reading Dean’s moods.
But then, so has Sam, and when Dean reaches up to slide the jacket from his brother’s shoulders Sam grabs his hand and brings it to his face, tongue sliding over each of the digits.
“Oy,” Dean complains. “No teasing, Sammy.”
“What,” growls Sam. “You gonna spank me, Dean?”
“You may want to remember what followed the last time you dared Dean to do something sex-related, Sam,” Castiel warns quietly.
Which, okay, is a decent point, so maybe tying them all together hadn’t been Dean’s most successful idea. (Though the tangled, sweat-soaked pile they’d ended up in hadn’t been too bad, hadn’t been too bad at all.) But that’s not what he’s going for now, and he makes an annoyed noise at the both of them and pulls Sam’s shirt over his head.
It seriously has to be one of the best feelings in the entire world, being right here, his brother’s hands messing in his hair and around his neck, Castiel reaching from behind to peel back layers of clothing. He’s so warm between them; their little play act from not too long ago is completely forgotten, they’re just Dean and Cas and Sam, no need for excuses or even words.
(Not that words are, you know, a bad thing, at least the ones Sam and Castiel like to whisper.)
They’re standing there, the odd couple—well, trifecta. Shirts discarded, Dean starts to work at Sam’s belt buckle. “Still feeling abused, Sammy?” he asks, laughing.
“Yes,” murmurs Sam, pout back full-force. “Cas was mean to me all day, and he hasn’t even apologized.”
“That so?” Dean replies, voice lazy. He reaches down to where Castiel’s hands are clasped around his waist, frees one and pulls his angel around to him. “Hey Cas, wanna make him jealous?”
Sam makes an offended noise that cuts off into something else entirely as Castiel smiles, presses up against Dean. Dean kisses Cas, deep and obvious and personal, lets Cas move into it, goes open-mouthed against him. Sam’s making little noises that Dean wouldn’t be able to hear but for their proximity, and fuck, this was a great idea.
Cas arches against him, slides his fingers underneath the hem of Dean’s pants and Dean gasps into the unbroken kiss, which is apparently when Sam’s had enough.
“It worked, okay?” he moans, whine rising in his voice. “I’m definitely jealous. Can you stop ignoring me now?”
“Okay,” Dean says amiably, attempting to ignore the press of Cas’ thigh between his legs, which is no easy feat. “Cas, what d’you say? You were kind of a dick to Sam.”
“I was,” says Castiel, smile arching. “I think I should apologize.”
“And I was a little harsh at the billiards game,” Dean simpers. “We really should make it up to him.”
“Indeed,” and Castiel’s voice is getting that low, rough, edge that Dean’s learned means arousal, and the angel kneels in front of Sam, pulls his jeans down over his hips in one quick moment.
Sam grits his teeth at the sudden open air, his hands going to his own straining cock. Castiel bats his hands away, eyes gleaming, runs his thumb down Sam’s length and Dean grins as his brother’s knees go weak.
He gets behind Sam, braces his hips with his arms. “Gotcha,” he whispers into the small of Sam’s back, only to have Sam jerk back with a whimper as Cas closes his mouth over his cock.
Dean moves his hands to cup Sam’s ass, feels his brother shifting forward, harsher, until he’s fucking into Cas’ mouth. Castiel’s throat works, eyes growing wider and brighter as he sucks, and Dean relishes the shudders as they ripple through Sam’s body. Castiel shifts so Dean can catch a glimpse of the white gleam of his teeth, and Dean knows the angel’s tongue is sweeping swirls around Sam’s cock because Sam jerks his head back, throat exposed, and Dean knows that movement.
Dean is struck suddenly by the need to make Sam move like that, runs a finger down the crack of his ass. “Christ,” he hears Sam gasp, and replaces his hands with his lips, smoothing kisses over the curves of Sam’s cheeks. He finds his little brother’s hole with his tongue, licks across and around and then dips in.
Sam gives a little yelp and Dean can feel him straining against Cas and himself, his own hands wet with Sam’s sweat. He moans, lightly, and the vibration must reach Sam as well because he arches forward and tangles a hand in Castiel’s hair. Cas makes a little noise in his throat and Dean sees his jaw shift; nipping Sam, because that’s what Castiel does, he punishes. It’s strangely erotic, the thought that Cas’ lips have closed around Dean as well, that they all know each other so completely in even these ways.
Dean works into Sam from behind with his fingers and tongue and Cas doesn’t let up in front, and Sam comes with a strangled squeak and a shake that runs through his body like electricity. Dean moves away from his brother’s ass in time to see Castiel pull off not soon enough, cum glistening in his hair, sliding between his eyes. Dean thinks he might be humiliated by that position, but Castiel is not, stands at his full height and pulls Sam down with a hand to the back of his head and kisses him, forceful.
Dean rises to meet him, reaches his arms around Sam’s shoulders. Castiel lets go of Sam to entwine his fingers with Dean’s, the two of them encircling Sam.
“That work as an apology, Sammy?” Dean asks, head leaned up against his brother’s. “’Cause I’m sure Cas could do even more with his tongue,” he says, and Castiel’s mouth quirks in a way that promises an answer in the affirmative.
Sam splutters for a moment, before, “You teamed up on me! Again!”
“I think that means he accepts my sincere regret,” Castiel, murmurs, forehead pressing into Sam’s jaw.
“It—it does not! You’re both terrible—go pick on someone else. Like each other, for once!”
“About that,” Dean says, feeling the press of his erection against Sam’s thigh. “Cas, you up for another go?”
“Of course,” Castiel says cheerfully, voice still all low and jagged. He lifts their clasped hands up and over Sam’s head. “Would you like to make your brother jealous again?”
“Fuck yes,” Dean grins, and Castiel kisses him, sloppy and wet and already wrecked. Sam makes a pained noise from behind them and Dean lets his head dip back, and laughs.